The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  “I looked up Scott Manson, Lizzie. The guy looks like he doesn’t know his dick from his elbow.”

  Teeth biting on her lower lip, she muttered, “I should not find that funny.”

  “Because it’s true?”

  “Maybe.” A drawn-out pause. “Not that it means I haven’t been kissed before. I have, for the record.”

  “Obviously not by someone who knows what they’re doin’.”

  Incredulous laughter spilled from her lips. “If this is you trying to be romantic . . .”

  “This is me realizing I’m going to blow your mind, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.” Gage cracked a grin at her dropped jaw. Yeah, he’d gone there. But he had a feeling she liked it, a lot. Mentally rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he dropped a hand to the curve of her ass and gave a soft thwap.

  “Gage!”

  God, she was beautiful when her cheeks burned red with a natural blush. Raising his hands, he wiggled his fingers. “Did I do that?”

  Her lips quivered as they fruitlessly tried to stay in a straight line. “I hate you.”

  They both knew that was a lie. “You can hate me even more in two minutes, I promise. I’ll give you every opportunity to hate me, but first . . . up against the wall.”

  “I’m not getting my mug shot taken, Officer. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed, the sort of laughter that hurt your cheeks and teared up your eyes and genuinely felt like gray clouds parting way for the sun. Fuck, this girl . . . she made even the darkest days feel brighter. “The mugshot and handcuffs will come later,” he said, dragging his thumb beneath his eyes, “for now . . . up against the wall, Miz Danvers. You’re about to be properly kissed.”

  One brow arched high as she considered him. “The wall’s a necessity?”

  “If we had rain, we could reenact the scene from Spiderman, but we’ll have to make do with the wall.”

  “Like in every romance novel ever.”

  “Only trying to meet the expectations you’d originally set out in your bad boy video.” Gage jerked his chin to their right. “The wall, princess. Hop to it.”

  Without even a hint of hesitation, she took one step in the right direction, then two, then drew to a sudden halt. Slowly, so slowly that the hackles rose on his back, and Gage suddenly understood what it meant to fear a woman, he watched as his soon-to-be one-night-stand planted a hand on her hip, turned around, and flicked back her hair.

  “On one condition.”

  “Yeah?”

  Blue eyes darted down his chest, settling on his crotch. Mouth hitching up with humor, she announced, “I get the chance to return the favor and slap your butt, too. Bend over, Harvey, there’s a new officer in town.”

  20

  “You want to what?”

  Oh God, his expression. Beyond priceless.

  It took everything in Lizzie’s power not to clutch her belly and laugh hysterically. Striving for a straight face, she oh-so-woodenly replied, “Slap your butt, Gage. You heard me.”

  She’d never seen him look quite so flabbergasted before. His Adam’s apple dipped down twice, as though he couldn’t quite swallow his shock correctly. “I . . . Jesus, I—”

  Oh, this more than made up for the little spank he’d given her—a spank which had widened her eyes . . . but one that she’d liked anyway. Because it’d been playful, teasing, and because the hand behind the spanking belonged to Gage, and she—

  Well, Lizzie had a crush.

  It was small.

  Okay, it wasn’t that small. But she was a far step away from Valentine’s Day gifts and internet stalking, so she figured she was still in the black.

  So, harmless crush and all.

  Unfortunately, she’d pulled a complete high school move when his lips had landed on hers. Years of kissing knowledge had gone straight out the window, zipping into nonexistence, until all she could do was stand there. Awkwardly. Stiffly. Secretly panting inside for more, more, more.

  Yeah, she’d made a muck of it all, as was generally her way when it came to the opposite sex . . . until now.

  “Turnabout’s fair play, don’t you think?” Lizzie teased, sidling up next to him, placing a hand just above the waistband of his work pants. “One little love-tap, Officer. I promise you that you’ll like it.”

  Too preoccupied with feeling up his abs, it wasn’t until she was up and over his bare shoulder, hanging upside down as her hair tangled in her face, that she realized he’d caught her again—just like at the Barataria Preserve.

  She didn’t give him the satisfaction of squeaking or squealing or yipping or shouting his name. Instead, Lizzie proclaimed, “I like the way you think!” and then proceeded to play the drums on his firm ass.

  His rich laughter was muffled by the curtain of her hair, but it was no more than twenty seconds later that she found herself flat on her back, antique sofa beneath her, legs spread with his lean hips settled in between.

  Gage turned her emotions inside out.

  Then add in the glimmer in his black eyes? No wonder she’d taken one look at him at Inked on Bourbon and thought him. It’s what her heart said now, too, however reckless it was: him, him, him.

  “Decided that you didn’t feel like kissing me against the wall?” she teased, scooting down on the sofa so that he rested over her completely, and so that the telltale bulge in his pants pressed . . . right . . . there. They both groaned at the contact, and heat swept over Lizzie’s chest.

  Was it the wrong time to hope that he had better skills than Scott?

  Gage’s warm breath over her neck sent a shiver skittering down her spine. “I figured I’d rather have you under me, in case you get out of hand.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Kiss me and I’ll forgive you for pulling a stereotypical dick, upper handed mo—”

  Firm, masculine lips slipped over hers, swallowing the rest of her words, and possibly taking her heart right along with it. It was silly to think such a thing—it was just infatuation—but when he shifted his weight to brush back her hair with his fingers, treating her like finely spun gold silk . . . Lizzie trembled under the weight of lust and emotion and the almost desperate wish that they would last longer than one night.

  The kiss was everything a kiss should be: barely-there caresses, a hint of tongue, noses brushing as angles switched to find the perfect fit.

  If every kiss in her life up until this moment had simply been preparation, then she was dreadfully far behind in her kissing education.

  Because this was a kiss.

  Gage’s calloused hand cupping her jaw.

  The nip of his teeth as he demanded entrance into her mouth.

  The nudge of his cock against the apex of her thighs.

  A gentle rolling of his hips that dug her nails into his back, and had her chest pushing against his.

  Everything about him was tightly leashed, as though he thought she might need the time to adjust to everything that he was.

  Raw.

  Hard.

  Dominant.

  Lizzie didn’t need time, and she certainly didn’t need him thinking that he might break her.

  She sank her hand beneath the waistband of his pants, cupping his butt, tugging him tighter against her.

  “Jesus.” His curse echoed in the studio, and not for the first time did Lizzie stop to admire his contrast to the space. Light walls, furniture, flooring, were a sharp juxtaposition to his black ink, inky hair, hair as dark as his onyx eyes. When he looked down at her, there was an almost unholy light to his gaze, matched only by his roughly uttered, “I’m running the show here, princess.”

  Propping up on her elbow, she nipped his left earlobe. “My studio,” she whispered, touching her tongue to the same spot to soothe the sting, “my rules. Pants off, Officer.”

  He offered only a moment’s hesitation before lifting to his feet. Blunt-tipped fingers went to the button of his pants. Flicked it open. Drew the zipper down to half
-mast. “Might be the time to tell you that I’m not wearing underwear.”

  Lizzie bent an arm behind her head and watched him steadily. Most guys probably wouldn’t appreciate being called beautiful, but Gage Harvey was just that. Darkly beautiful. Ruined beautiful. And for tonight, all hers.

  It’d have to be enough.

  With a little finger wave at his crotch, she said, “I suspected that when I had my hand down your pants. Don’t worry, I’m prepared.”

  “Trust me, you’re not.”

  And then down his pants went, circling his ankles before he toed off his shoes and kicked the cargo material away.

  Oh.

  This time she squeaked, and there was nothing she could do to keep the sound from emerging. His cock was thick and long, a dusty pink that thrust forward like a compass.

  Him, center point.

  Her, north.

  A giggle slipped out, and the cocky grin on Gage’s face inched downward. “It’s bad form to laugh at a guy when he’s naked, Lizzie.”

  “I wasn’t . . .” Her free hand soared through the air, trying to find the words to explain that she was, certifiably, nervous. And when she was nervous, ridiculous things tended to pop out of her mouth.

  He dropped to his haunches in front of her. “Only one way to reaffirm my masculinity.”

  Words fled as his nimble fingers hooked under the waistband of her leggings. With a tug at the knees, the fabric slipped down her thighs. A moment later, they were off completely—tossed into the pile along with his.

  “Pretty,” he said, dark eyes on her boring pink underwear. They were a few fabric squares away from being granny panties, which proved that maybe Gage was off his rocker too. In no world would the fabric around Lizzie’s waist ever be deemed “pretty.”

  His thumbs slipped under the elastic band as he drawled, “But they’ll be prettier off.”

  Then they too were gone, thrown over his shoulder like yesterday’s trash. He sat back on his heels, his palms pushing her knees apart, exposing her to his hungry gaze.

  Excited nerves spun in her belly, and Lizzie draped a palm between her legs like a shield.

  “Don’t.” A small shake of his handsome head, and then, “Unless those fingers are going to show me exactly what you like, put them away.”

  A breath shuddered out of her. “Where?”

  “In my hair.”

  And then he was fitting those broad, inked shoulders of his between her legs.

  His fingers traced the sensitive spot along her bikini line, sending her pulse fluttering wildly. His breath against her core made her thighs clench and her fingers tighten against his scalp. His tongue brushing her clit for the very first time?

  Oh my God.

  “Oh my God.”

  Husky laughter wrapped around her as he flicked his tongue against the most sensitive part of her, slow and sensually, as though he had all the time in the world to worship her. Softly, so softly, in barely-there strokes that teased more than they satisfied. But from the blazing heat in his black eyes as he watched her, that was exactly what he wanted, the jerk.

  To drive her mindless with lust. To make her call out his name over and over again until she grew hoarse. To strip her defenses down and leave her very heart unguarded.

  “Faster,” she urged, gripping his hair, churning her hips up against his mouth, “more.”

  “Not yet.”

  Two words that promised he wouldn’t be done with her until he was good and ready.

  More, more, more.

  It was the single chant running on repeat in her head, and then he gave it to her—fully. The tip of one finger breached her entrance, then drove inside, curling to hit her just there. Her heels dug into the sofa, hips kicking up, fingers finding purchase on his shoulders as he quickened his pace and pushed her over the edge with nothing more than a low-seated groan in his chest and a second finger joining the first.

  “You’re the evil one,” she whispered weakly as her body trembled, staring down at him.

  He gave one final lap against her clit, as though to prove her point, and then smoothly planted his hands on either side of her hips and skimmed up her body for a deep kiss.

  Against her neck, he rasped, “Tell me how you taste.”

  “Like unicorns,” she quipped, dragging his mouth back to hers, “unique and magical, and a flavor you’ll only find between my legs.”

  Black eyes met blue.

  “How is that you make me want to laugh just as much as you make me want to turn you over and take you from behind?” A kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Sex isn’t supposed to be funny.”

  “Lies,” she said, delighting in his next kiss to her brow bone, “sex is supposed to be fun. It can be sexy and fun all at once—the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” His cock pressed against her stomach, and Lizzie hissed, her fingers clenching his forearms. “You know, if you’d like to put my theory to the test, I’d happily oblige.”

  Dark brows drew together. “I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but are you sure you want that tonight? Christ, I sound like a—”

  “Good person?” she finished for him, stroking a hand down his chest and then around his hard-on. “A gentleman?”

  Muscles bunching, ink rippling, he thrust into her hand. “Fuck, Lizzie.”

  “Mhmm?” Maybe she shouldn’t find so much delight in the tables reversing, but screw it. She did. In fact, she loved it.

  “More,” he said. A single grunt. Another sharp thrust into the tight squeeze of her hand. “Please.”

  Her hand dropped to the thick base. “Not yet, Gage,” she murmured in a sugary tone, “not yet.”

  Black eyes blinked at his own words being thrown back at him, his nostrils flaring, and Lizzie did everything in her power not to gloat when she released him, pushed him away, and then dropped to her knees.

  “Just so you know, I love to hear a man beg.”

  At the first touch of her lips to his cock, his hands fell to her shoulders.

  At the second touch, he wrapped one hand in her long brown hair and tugged, hard, encouraging her to take him deeper within her mouth.

  At the third, when she took him in nearly to the base, his knees visibly trembled and his fist in her hair shook with want, and the words that escaped him were ripped from deep within him.

  “Get on the sofa, princess. On your hands and knees, just like you’ve always wanted.”

  One last pass of her tongue along the underside of his shaft, and then she was moving back, doing as he said, positioning her hands on the armrest of the couch, and her knees spread for him. There was the telltale sound of foil crinkling, and then he stepped up behind her, his left knee sinking into the couch cushions, his right foot planted on the ground.

  “Your sweater,” he muttered. “Take it off.”

  He didn’t need to say so twice. Off it went, mussing her hair up further, landing somewhere on the floor out of her periphery.

  His big hand came around, cupping her small breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers as he aligned himself with her entrance.

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  He thrust inside her body.

  She whimpered his name.

  He groaned hers like a prayer. “You’re so fucking tight,” he said, voice low, “so tight and hot and, Jesus, you feel amazing.”

  Better than all the others?

  She bit back the question, shoving it down deep where it could stay a secret. “Don’t stop,” she told him instead, “don’t ever stop.”

  Tell me I mean more than just one night.

  Her hands curled into fists against the armrest, head dropped low. The way he moved his hips . . . It felt so good, so, so good. His corded forearm circled her stomach while the other pressed into the cushion beside her knee. She stared at that hand: long fingers that brought her so much pleasure. Cuts marred the skin, old scars that were a dusty white against his otherwise tan skin. Black ink stopped short of his wrist, and the words t
here sent her brain spinning: when death knocks, there are no survivors.

  But then he changed his angle, hips pistoning against her backside, and all thoughts of death and life and survival scattered like confetti in the wind.

  “Gage,” she cried out, “oh my God, oh right there, please.”

  In that dirty voice of his, he demanded, “Are you going to come for me, Lizzie?”

  Yes. The word never left her lips, but it didn’t matter. With his chest against her back, his clean scent in her nose, Lizzie came with a cry and a shudder that left her gasping for air. He followed her over the edge, arm tightening around her belly, his breath hot and heavy against her neck, heart pounding against her shoulder blades.

  “I . . .”

  At her failed attempt to speak, Gage shifted behind her and said, “Yes to whatever you were about to say.”

  Unexpected laughter climbed her throat. “What if I wanted a new camera?”

  “Done. By the way, your tattoo? Man who did it, did a great job. He deserves high praise.” His lips stamped a seal of a promise on her back. “Next request.”

  Will you come back to my place tonight? Shaking her head, Lizzie steadied her breath. “Reverse cowgirl for the next round. Always wanted to try it.”

  “Fuck yeah” escaped him on a masculine sigh.

  Did that mean there’d be a next time?

  “Gage?”

  Another kiss to her back, a little farther up her shoulder than the last. “Yeah, princess?”

  “I can’t help but wonder . . . while we were getting hot and heavy, did the couch remind you of Carli Simpson’s nipples?”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  And then, “My eyes are now burning with the memory.”

  “Mine too. I didn’t want to suffer alone.”

  “Evil,” he rumbled, “but fuck me if you don’t taste just like heaven.”

  21

  In New Orleans, Bourbon Street was king.

  Well, for tourists anyway.

  It was only four in the afternoon, mid-week no less, and the street was packed as Lizzie wound her way through the throngs of people. Party-goers danced on the balconies, hurling down multi-colored beads as they fisted beer bottles. The French Quarter’s lone hot dog stand had set up shop directly outside of Bourbon’s most popular karaoke bar. Heavy rap floated out of the clubs, swallowing the sounds of the steamboats sailing down the mighty Mississippi River, as well as the notes of one street musician’s throaty trombone.