Jewelry designer, Vivienne West suffers from career suicide. Every time her big break comes along, she does something to sabotage it. In an effort to revive her floundering career she pays the back taxes on a mineral rich piece of property out West. But instead of finding turquoise to start her new fall jewelry line, she meets the man of her dreams.
Only hitch…he's cursed.
Zeke stretched his long legs out in front him and leaned back against the wall, making sure he remained in the shadows. For unbeknownst to the woman hard at work in the shallow canyon below, she was his daily ritual.
For how long, Zeke didn’t know. He’d ceased to count time a half a century ago. But he did know one thing, watching her caused his blood to boil.
Zeke’s eyes dropped to the generous bulge tenting the front of his Confederate-issued wool trousers. “You just have to raise your curious head at the most inopportune moments don’t you?” he grumbled. Yet deep down, Zeke wasn’t surprised. His nature rising to attention had become a regular occurrence, while watching her but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Zeke reached down and ran his fingers over the scratchy fabric. His fingertips brushed the crude stitching running the length of the bulge begging to be released. He gripped himself and groaned loudly, he was already hard as a rock.
“Easy, boy. You’re going to receive your due soon.” Zeke’s fingers backtracked, unbuttoning the wood buttons as they went. When the placard lay open, he hissed at the delicious sensation of his cock being exposed to the mine’s cool interior. Licking his lips in anticipation, he dipped his fingers inside and wrapped his fingers around himself.
But before removing the ponderous weight, he paused. He looked over his shoulder and searched the shadows. Satisfied his company had not been intruded upon, he pulled out his cock. He lifted his other hand, spit in the open palm, and then smeared the spittle down his hard shaft. The last time he’d forgotten to use lubricant, he had been unable to wear his flannel drawers for almost a week.
Zeke positioned his hand over the stiff pole, standing straighter than an Army private on his first detail. Still he hesitated. Like he always did anytime he sought relief.
Raised to believe that self-pleasuring was wrong and a sure ticket to Hell, the Southern boy inside the empty shell he’d become never failed to appear whenever the issue of his morality was at stake.
Zeke snorted at the irony. Funny how such a notion could still cross his mind when he was already in Hell. Shaking the cobwebs of guilt from the vestiges of his conscience, he allowed his hand to slide slowly down his thick shaft as his eyes rose to focus on her.