“Yeah,” I agree. “And we need to work on a timeline for everything that happened in ‘69. That way, if they’re planning the same ritual, we’ll know what to expect.”
He slides the medallion on his leather cord back and forth and drops it. “This is crazy,” he says. “When the people who actually have information on the Bondye Saints refuse to get involved, we’re idiots for doing it ourselves.”
My body leans forward, needing to touch him, to feel him wrap his arms around me and tell me we’ve got this. But I’m a chicken and can’t bear the thought of rejection, so I stay firmly planted to the heated sidewalk.
“Can we go somewhere with A/C and discuss this? I’m melting.”
Finally, I get a smile from him as he jerks his head toward the street where his car is parked. “Let’s get you inside, you delicate little snowflake.”
_______________
After a few hours of shopping, replacing my bag and purchasing a new computer, I’m exhausted and feeling a bit defeated. We meander through a quiet neighborhood and I let out a little yelp when we hit an enormous bump in the road.
“Sorry,” King says. “That’s just the infamous New Orleans streets. They get so messed up with tree roots and underground water leaks, the city just can’t keep up.”
He pulls into a short driveway and parks. When he shuts off the rumbling engine, the silence surrounds us in an awkward embrace. I wait on King to say something, but seconds tick by and we’re both staring at the fence in front of us.
“Come on,” King finally says, climbing out of the car. “Your apartment is no longer safe. Not that it ever was.”
“This is your place?” I ask, as he leads me up the sidewalk to a cute shotgun house with blue shutters. I don’t know what part of town we’re in, but it’s a lot more suburban looking than the French Quarter. The streets are quiet and there are tons of trees providing a canopy over the sidewalks. A few neighbors sit on their porches, but other than that, there’s no activity on the block.
“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t have people over very often. It’s kind of my refuge,” King unlocks the deadbolt and pushes the door open.
“Lucky me,” I say, stepping past him into the space. When I imagined King’s home, I never could have imagined this. A single man, living alone, surely it would be a mess with bachelor-type decor, if any. This was just one more surprising layer of Valentine King that I never saw coming.
The decor is minimal, but somehow manly and beautiful. There are antiques mixed with modern pieces, a patchwork of local artwork covers a brick wall. Light fixtures look original to the home, the brass and crystal throwing prisms of light in every direction.
“What are you in school for?” I ask, scanning the room.
“Architectural Design.”
I don’t realize I’m frozen in place until King slides past me to the kitchen. “You want something to drink?” he asks. I join him there to find stainless appliances and concrete countertops. “I’ve got water, tea, or beer.”
“Water please.” I take a seat on a metal barstool and place my newly purchased bag on the counter between us. “Your house is amazing,” I say. He sets the glass down in front of me and looks around as if seeing the place for the first time.
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s a work in progress. I’m always finding little projects to do, things to change.”
“Do you have a job?” King chuckles. “Sorry, I just realized how much I actually don’t know about you.”
“No. I don’t have a job. I go to school and volunteer at the community center. I’m what you upper class folks call a ‘trust fund baby.’
“Is that what we say?” I challenge.
“It is,” King teases. “My dad was from a very wealthy family. Long story short, he met my mom while on vacation here. Of course, his family didn’t approve. So he left it all behind and married her anyway. Turns out, whether your family shuns you or not, you still inherit the money grandpa left you. He never did anything with the money. He and my mom lived a simple life. We were happy.”
“And then?” I ask.
“I was running with a bad crowd when I was younger. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. Such a thug. And then, my dad died. It kind of jarred me out of the dumb shit I was doing. The money came to me because my mom wanted nothing to do with it.” He looks down at my bag, a brand new computer tucked inside. “You need to set that up?”
I glance down and back to his face. King obviously wants to change the subject and I’ll grant him that—for now. “I’ll get started on it and tell you about my visit with Emma.”
King pulls a barstool around so that he sits across the counter from me. I power up the laptop and start setting it up while telling him everything Emma shared with me. He holds my gaze, listening intensely and it makes me wonder what’s going on in that head of his. Is he processing the new information? Or is he distracted by the curve of my neck, the memory of his hands on my body, the way my tongue slides over my lips after a drink of water?
After I finish my story, he is silent for a full minute, his eyes still on me. It gives me hope that his thoughts were distracted, as I’m always distracted by him.
“King?” I ask, waving a hand in front of his stoic face. He blinks a few times and sits up taller, squaring his shoulders.
“That’s some story,” he says, finishing off his glass of water.
I trail my fingers up my neck and slide them into my hair, pretending to tighten my ponytail. King’s eyes follow my movements and as cool as he tries to remain, he clears his throat and looks away.
“I’ve set up a timeline here, if you want to take a look,” I say.
While I know I could just slide the computer over to him, I keep it right where it is. King doesn’t protest. He walks around the counter and stands directly behind me. First, I feel the warmth radiating off his body. It prickles across my skin, making chills spread across my shoulders. The tiny hairs at the base of my neck seem to electrify.
“Uh, right here,” I try to say, but my words are too breathy and carry no weight.
When King presses his chest to my back, I am lost. I exhale and lean into him. Our connection, though it’s only a tiny gesture, makes me feel whole again. King sighs, his breath fanning over my shoulder and across my collar bones. I feel the ghost of that breath continue down my body, a sensation that I want again. His hands grip my hips as he pulls us even closer together. King’s lips press a kiss just below my ear as I reach back and slide my hand into his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he says. His words just a whisper.
“I’m damaged and probably no good for you, but King, I need you.”
“I want you in my bed, Laney.”
King spins my barstool so that I face him now. He slides his hands under my thighs and picks me up. I lock my ankles behind his back and hold on to his shoulders. As King moves us toward his bedroom, I place a kiss on his medallion, then his shoulder, finally biting down on his neck. He lets out a low growl that vibrates through his chest and pushes into my own. He cradles one hand behind my head and slams me against a wall. His lips attack mine and when his tongue teases mine, I am all too willing to let him in. We consume each other there, in a dim hallway between framed photos of his family.
King shifts his hips forward and I feel his hardness begging for me. I let out a whimper when he grinds against me again. I slide my hands into his hair and pull just hard enough to get his attention. He lifts his face now, just inches away from mine. We exchange panting breaths. The ache in my center is unbearable.
“Bed,” he says, before pulling me off the wall and carrying me into his room.
He sets me down on the low platform bed, and stands near the edge. I try to catch my breath as I watch him kick off his shoes. King reaches behind his head and pulls his t-shirt off. An involuntary hum slips from my lips at the sight of all that beautiful skin and carved muscle. He unbutt
ons his jeans, but suddenly stops.
“Delaney Mills, if you don’t take your clothes off I promise I’m going to tear them from your body,” King says, looking down at me.
“You promise?” I tease, raising one eyebrow.
“Cross my heart, girl.”
I am barely out of my shirt and shorts before he is on top of me, naked. His hands move over every inch of my body, followed by his worshipping mouth. It’s a frantic dance between the two of us. I am a wanton mess squirming beneath him, but King does not let me escape.
He rolls me over onto my stomach and repeats his motions—hands followed by lips and I am begging for more. King chuckles against my back, amused by my need. Finally, he unhooks my bra and I push up enough to pull out of it. I try to turn back over, but a firm hand keeps me pressed to the bed.
I feel a kiss at the base of my spine while his hands hold my waist. Another kiss follows, lower this time, and his hands slide down too. His movements are so fast, so desperate, I feel at ease knowing he needs this as much as I do. King’s fingers hook around my panties. The thin material digs into my hips before giving way and snapping as he rips them from my body.
“I promised, didn’t I?” he says.
“King,” I whine, needing him, needing more. “Please.”
“I need a condom,” he says.
“No. I’m on birth control. I just want you.”
I twist in his sheets so that I’m on my back, looking up at his beautiful face. King’s strong arms push up on each side of me. I run my hands up them, just to feel the tight muscle beneath my touch. My knees spread and King lowers himself between them. He slides against me a few times, coating himself in my wetness. My head is dizzy with need and I just want to scream.
When he finally slides inside me, my body stretches tight around his thick cock, pulling him further in. My nails dig into his back as he fills me, pushing all the way in and holding there. It is our first quiet, motionless moment since this frenzy began. It feels reverent and healing. King’s face is lowered to mine, his eyes closed, lips pursed. After a few seconds, I shift beneath him and he moans.
Finally, his eyes open, connect with mine and he plants a kiss on my parted lips.
“Don’t let go,” he says.
With that, King begins a quick rhythm, pumping in and out, pushing and pulling me apart at the seams. My legs wrap around his body, heels digging into the hard working muscles there, needing to get even closer. With every thrust, my hands grip harder, my nails raking pink lines over his shoulders.
“Don’t ever let go,” King repeats, his smooth voice washing over me in a request that I’m happy to oblige.
King raises himself up, still keeping up with his hard and fast thrusts and I whimper at the loss of his body on mine. My hands stay on him, sliding down his arms. I lace our fingers together as he fills me over and over. A tingling sensation builds in my fingers and toes. It travels slowly toward my core, like a feather trailing over skin. I bring our joined hands to my tits and cover them. King groans and squeezes the flesh with me.
“King,” I whimper when he increases his pace even more. Sweat beads around his hairline as he works me over and I just want more of him. I am left speechless by his motions, the pleasure and mania swirls like a raging fire inside. My eyes roll back when I get lightheaded and overwhelmed, like I’m floating away.
“Stay with me,” King grunts out between thrusts. He releases one of my hands and presses his thumb to my clit. The combination of his cock inside me and the surprise of his touch, sends me flying over the edge. “Come for me.”
My breath is held captive as my whole body bares down, riding out the hardest orgasm of my life. My teeth grind together and my back arches off of the bed. King pushes into me and holds there, reaching his own release. His eyes squeeze shut as his teeth scrape over his bottom lip. We are locked together—arms and legs and other parts—and I don’t ever want this to end.
Finally, King and I exhale at the same time, our exhausted bodies melting into each other on top of his cool sheets. He pulls out and tucks his body behind mine, curling around me. One arm drapes over my waist as his chest heaves against my back.
“You are always beautiful,” he says with his chin resting on my shoulder. “But when you fall apart like that, you are everything, all at once. The light, the dark, the regret and pain, the love you have inside—all of that is so evident the moment you give yourself over to me. It’s magic, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Tears fill my eyes and I blink them away quickly, not wanting to be the girl who cries after sex. But his words touch me, they seek out the deepest cuts and heal them over like they never existed.
_______________
“So, here’s what we know so far,” I say, while King moves around the kitchen cooking us dinner. After a short nap, I woke up to his head between my thighs. His tongue worked me over until I couldn’t take anymore, until I begged him to stop while fisting his hair in my hands. After that, he carried my shaky-leg, sticky-thigh body to the shower where we took time cleaning each other until the water ran cold.
King looks up at me, pausing his onion chopping. The look he gives me tells me he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking about. It’s the look that makes me squirm in my seat. I uncross my legs and cross them in the other direction. The sensation of not wearing panties—because he destroyed them—is new, but empowering. My nipples harden and King takes notice.
“You were saying,” he teases, resuming his chopping. The air smells like garlic and onion, and that warm, spicy scent that settles on your tongue any time you’re in a Louisiana kitchen.
I remove the band from my wrist and pull my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head. Looking to my laptop, I decide that if we’re going to get anything accomplished, I’ve got to keep my eyes on that screen.
“The Bondye Saints were part of the local Voodoo community, but broke off into their own subgroup,” I say, reading through my notes. “We know they had possession of the ritual book from Africa. They believed that something they wanted could be gained by performing one of those rituals. We’ll assume that a few leaders recruited people, like Cas’s husband, under false pretenses.”
“But that’s just a guess,” King says.
“True. What we do know for sure, is someone in the Bondye Saints kidnapped Emma Green on St. John’s Eve. They held her for a week before bringing her to a wooded area on Lake Pontchartrain.”
King stands over the stove, stirring. “I wonder if that place even exists anymore,” he says. “It’s probably been bulldozed and developed by now.”
“Probably,” I say. “But we don’t know if the location is even important to the ritual.” He nods and continues pushing his ingredients around the sauté pan. “The last thing we know is that the ritual began, but couldn’t be completed because Emma escaped.”
“Supposedly, the group was banned from practice,” King chimes in. “I think most of them moved away.”
I shake my head and fold my laptop closed. “If they did, then they’re back—or a new group has formed under the name, because they are definitely up to something. My god, that smells so good. What are you cooking?”
“A quick jambalaya,” he says, before covering his pan and turning down the heat. King walks toward me, always like a lion on the prowl. That strut is built into his DNA and it makes me weak. He leans over the counter, resting on his elbows.
“A quick jambalaya?” I ask. “Is there a slow jambalaya?”
“There is.”
“Hmm. What’s the difference?”
“Time and effort,” King says with a crooked grin.
“Time and effort,” I repeat, matching his smile.
“Come on. We’ve got about 20 minutes until that’s done. I want to show you something.”
King grabs my hand and leads me to a room at the opposite end of the hall from his bedroom. It’s an office, tidy and tasteful like the rest of the house, but this room feel
s different. There are drawings everywhere. Blueprints, sketches, and watercolor prints cover every wall surface. It’s a hodgepodge wallpaper look that, when you examine closer, breaks up into scenes of houses, skyscrapers, and colorful landscaping.
“Are these all yours?” I ask, stepping to the closest wall and looking over the drawings.
“Yeah,” King answers. I look over in time to see him rub the back of his neck and look down at the floor. Timid is not something I’ve seen him wear, but—like everything else—it looks good.
“They’re amazing. You have such talent.”
“Thank you. My dad was an architect too. He designed the community center I volunteer at. He was very passionate about helping anyone who needed it.”
He takes me around the room, pointing out his favorite projects. His passion is evident and it energizes the both of us. We’re pulled from the room when a timer dings in the kitchen.
“Time to eat,” he says.
Plates of delicious food sit before us at King’s small table. He cracks open a beer for each of us and holds his up. I raise mine, clinking them together and take a long pull from the icy bottle.
“What are we toasting?” I ask.
“Light and dark, magic and mystery, love and lust.”
“Here, here,” I say, taking another sip.
We’re both hungry, and dive into dinner without much conversation. There are a few shared glances and a bit of teasing when he tries to steal a shrimp off my plate, but other than that, dinner is quiet.
“How much longer do you have in school?” I ask, stacking our plates together.
“One more semester, then a three-year internship before a final exam to become licensed.”
“Wow,” I say, carrying our dishes to his sink and rinsing them off. My brain starts doing the math and I snap to attention. “So wait, how old are you?”
I turn to find King behind me. He traps me between the sink and his hard body.
“Why do you look so panicked right now?” he asks, placing a feather light kiss on my lips.
King Me Page 15
