by Metsy Hingle
Nine
Liza darted her gaze to Jacques. Feigning indifference had cost her dearly. She could feel the threads of control beginning to fray. So she forced herself to keep her eyes on his face and not ogle his body—his beautiful half-naked body. Long and rangy with just the right amount of muscle, chest and legs that had been kissed by some tropical sun and dusted with dark blond hair. Judging by the way that rich bronze color stretched across his stomach and disappeared beneath the towel, not even a sliver of pale skin broke the line of that tan.
Liza swallowed. Five minutes ago she had been chilled to the bone. Now her. skin felt like it was on fire. And it had nothing to do with the water, and everything to do with Jacques and the way he was looking at her—like a leopard that had just cornered his prey. She tipped up her chin, refusing to be intimidated. “What do you mean they’re not coming?” she asked, struggling for a cool she was nowhere near feeling.
“It seems it is snowing in New Orleans, and apparently since snow is a rarity down south, it is not something the city knows how to deal with. The airport has been shut down, and all flights have been canceled.”
As the full implication of Jacques’s words sank in—that the two of them were alone, that they would be alone tonight in the apartment—Liza’s grip tightened on the bar of soap in her hand. The soap slipped from her fingers, and it went flying across the room. It landed on the floor at Jacques’s bare feet.
Then everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Slowly Jacques stooped to pick up the soap. He looked up at her from his crouched position, his golden eyes darkening to amber as they skimmed over the tops of her breasts, her throat, before zeroing in on her mouth.
Liza trembled. She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, feeling trapped in the heat of his gaze. Then he was rising, moving toward her like the beautiful powerful leopard he reminded her of. She stared at him, watched the muscles ripple across his wide shoulders and chest, down the taut, flat belly, to where it disappeared beneath the precarious knot of his towel. Desire pooled in her stomach, spread between her thighs as she noted the bulge in that towel.
When he stopped in front of the tub, Liza dragged her gaze back up to his face. The cheekbones in that lean face of crevasses and angles suddenly seemed more pronounced. That mouth of his—so quick to smile, to charm, to seduce a woman—was pulled into a stern line. The muscle ticking in his jaw told Liza just how tightly he was fighting for control. She looked into his eyes, and another stab of desire sliced through her at the savage gleam in those golden eyes. There was temper there, and violence. There was also desire.
It should have scared her. It thrilled her instead.
“Do not look at me like that,” he commanded, his voice as harsh as his expression.
“Like what?” Liza asked.
“Like you want me. The same way that I want you.”
Liza knew she should tell him he was wrong, say something smart about his high opinion of himself, but the words were a tangled jumble on her tongue that refused to form on her lips. All she could do was stare at him, stare at him and remember, stare at him and want.
Afraid he would see just how she was feeling, how badly she did want him, Liza tore her gaze away from his face. She looked down at his palm, now clenching the bar of soap. It was a strong hand, a man’s hand, roughened and callused from working with marble and clay.
And heaven help her, she remembered the feel of those hands on her body. She remembered the skill and heat of his touch. His fingers stroking her breasts, her hips, dipping between her thighs, slipping inside her. Gentle and coaxing one moment, hot and urgent the next.
Trembling under the deluge of memories, Liza reached for the soap. She swallowed a whimper as her fingers accidentally scraped his palm.
Jacques groaned, the sound an animal cry of pain or anger. Liza wasn’t sure which. She didn’t have time to decide or to snatch her fingers away before he captured her hand. His fingers closed around her wrist like a vise, sending the soap splashing into the water. He knelt down on the step leading to the tub.
The breath rushed in and out of her lungs. Her heart pummeled in her chest. With fear. With anticipation. With desire.
“Look at me, Liza.”
She looked up. Desire sliced through her again at the wild fever in his eyes.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he snarled.
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Yes, you are, dammit!” His eyes were dark with anger. He swore in French, then seized her other wrist. “I promised myself a few days ago that I would do something honorable for once in my life. That I would leave you alone, let you go and make a life for yourself with someone who can give you what you want.”
He eased the shackle hold on her wrists, only to slide his fingers up her wet arms, to her shoulders, her neck. Liza quivered under his touch.
“But I am not going to keep that promise.” He fisted one hand in the hair at her nape and pulled her closer, bringing her face within inches of his. “I guess there is just no changing the fact that I do not come from honorable stock.”
Liza heard the anger and derision in his voice, saw it in his eyes and knew it was directed at himself. “Don’t say that, Jacques. It’s not true.”
“But it is the truth. I cannot escape it. Just as I cannot escape wanting you. And I do want you, Liza. God help me, I cannot stop wanting you.”
The jets of the tub continued to hum. The water swirled around her naked body, spinning the scent of flowers around her like a web. Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, meaning to push him away, knowing she should tell him to stop.
“Tell me your eyes lie to me, Liza.” She felt a breath shudder through him as he struggled for control. “Tell me you do not want me. Tell me, and this time make me believe it.”
“I—I don’t want you,” she lied. “I told you before, I love Jack,” she whispered in desperation.
He stiffened as though she had slapped him. Anger flashed in his eyes. His fingers tightened in her hair. He tugged, causing her body to arch slightly, exposing her neck. He took advantage, pressed his mouth to her throat, to her chin, to the line of her jaw. When his teeth closed on her bottom lip, Liza gasped.
Jacques captured her lips, swallowed the sound with his mouth. He kissed her passionately, thoroughly, with a skill that bespoke his knowledge of women, his knowledge of her. Every nerve in her body seemed to have shifted, centered in her lips and the feel of his mouth on hers.
She wanted him to stop. She was terrified that he would. Her body shuddered from the onslaught to her senses, making her knees weak, her body tremble. She clung to his shoulders. She whimpered when he lifted his head.
“You may love him,” he said, his voice triumphant. “But it is me you want. Me, Liza. Not him.”
And then he was seizing her lips again, invading her with his mouth, his taste, sliding his tongue between her teeth. Liza’s heart raced faster, making her head spin. She couldn’t think. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to breathe. She curled her fingers, digging her nails into his chest.
Then it was her arms sliding over his powerful shoulders, twining themselves around his neck. It was her fingers spearing through his damp hair, fisting, pulling his mouth back to hers. She kissed him deeply, hotly, with all the longing and love she’d held inside for the past three years.
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he dragged his mouth from hers. “Tell me now that you do not want me,” he challenged.
“I—I can’t. Jack and me, it’s not what you think. We’re not lovers. He and I—”
“I do not want to hear about him. I want you to admit that it is me that you want. Me. Say it!”
“I want you, Jacques. I love you.”
There was victory in his eyes as he reached for her, pulled her to her feet. Water spilled over, streamed down the sides of the jade tub as he touched her first with his eyes and then with his hands. “Sav
e your love, chérie. I have no use for it. All I want is your passion.”
And all he would offer her was desire. The realization cut, slashed her heart into tiny pieces. She loved Jacques, had always loved him, and knew now she could never love anyone else. She closed her eyes as he kissed her neck, her throat, her breasts.
If she could have nothing else but his passion, then she would settle for passion. For this one night, this last night, she would take the passion he offered her and then she would let him go. And when it was over, she would still have the memories of this last night with him. That, and the child he had already given her, would be enough. It had to be.
Liza’s breath hitched in her chest as his mouth moved to her navel. She fisted her hands in his hair, pulled his face back to hers. “If passion’s all you want from me, then take it, Jacques. Take it now... before I come to my senses.”
He growled. Snagging her by the waist, he pulled her to him and lifted her into his arms. Water dripped from her body onto him, onto the tile floor, onto the thick mosscolored carpet as he carried her into the bedroom. He kissed her hard. She kissed him back, biting, driving her tongue between his lips.
Moaning, he stripped away the comforter and tossed it to the floor. He laid her onto the bed. The mint and ivory satin sheets were cool on her damp skin, but her body seemed to be on fire. Those strong hands of his molded her breasts, stroked her hips, caressed her thighs. And that hot mouth—it seemed to be everywhere, lighting new fires of sensation with each kiss, launching new bullets of desire with each nibble and stroke of his tongue.
It was too much. It wasn’t enough. He was going too fast. He wasn’t going fast enough. He parted her thighs, inserted a finger inside her, and Liza cried out.
He swallowed her moans with his mouth. When he lifted his head, she arched her body beneath him, feeling as though she would die if she couldn’t feel him inside her. “Hurry, Jacques. Hurry,” she demanded.
“Not yet. You’re not ready.”
“Yes, I am,” she countered. Wild with need, she snatched the towel covering his hips and reached out to touch him.
“No,” he spit out the word as he captured her hand. Breath rushed in and out of his lungs as though he’d just run a long race. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Do not touch me yet. Give me a minute. I want you too badly. If you touch me now, I won’t be able to wait.”
A surge of feminine power rushed through her, that he could want her so much. Desire kicked up another notch, making her dizzy with anticipation. “I don’t want you to wait,” she told him, tugging her fingers free. She stroked the velvety tip of his manhood and was thrilled to see him quiver. Then she closed her fist around him, alternately squeezing and stroking his thick hard flesh.
Jacques yelled out something in French, a curse or a prayer, she wasn’t sure which. Then he was tumbling her onto her back, spreading her legs apart. He drove into her in one powerful thrust.
Liza caught her breath as he filled her, stretched her. She saw the shock and regret in his eyes. When he started to withdraw, she wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeper, deeper inside her, filling the emptiness. She clenched her muscles around him.
“Sorcière!”
Witch.
His eyes darkened to the burning gold of flames. He grabbed her hips and slammed into her. Again and again. She met each thrust, demanded more.
He feasted on her with his hands, his mouth, his teeth. He took. So did she. She could hear the slap of flesh against flesh, the rasp of quickened breaths. She could smell the scent of gardenias, of soap, of sex.
She wanted, no she needed, to capture it all, she told herself. Record each sensation, each touch, each sound so she could savor them over and over again when he was gone.
Then Jacques lifted her hips, and began to move inside her again. Faster and faster until she could no longer think. She could no longer reason. All she could do was feel. He pushed her higher and higher still, driving her closer to that ball of heat. Suddenly her body exploded in a burst of fire that sent her flying headfirst into the bright flames. Then Jacques was calling her name, clutching her to him as he followed her into the blaze.
Slowly sanity returned to him. And with it came guilt. He’d pushed her too hard, too fast. She’d been so tight, so hot and tight. And he’d spent damn little time drawing out the pleasure for her, making sure she was ready for him. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. When she’d wrapped her legs around him, clutched him inside her warmth...
Damn, he was getting hard again just thinking about it. Sucking in a deep breath, Jacques pushed himself up on his elbows to look at her. Her eyes were closed, and she had a silly grin on her face. But her lips were swollen and there were whisker bums along her chin and neck. He stroked her cheek. “I’m sorry, chérie.”
“Hmm?”
“For hurting you,’ he said, noticing now that those whisker burns extended to her breasts.
“Hurt me?”
He frowned at the distracted note in her voice. “Look at me, Liza.”
Her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes. They were a sorceress’s eyes, dark and dreamy, the deep rich green of shamrocks. He wondered how he could ever have thought they were cool. “I’m sorry if I was too rough.”
“Seems to me, I was the one who got rough.” She grinned at him and drew her fingertip to a tender spot on his shoulder where she had sunk her teeth into him.
He ignored her attempt to lighten his guilt. He had never been like that with any woman before—so out of control of his own passion—not even with her. “I did not mean to rush things. I wanted it to be special for you. I wanted to drive you crazy with pleasure. Instead you were the one who drove me insane.”
“I did?”
“You demolished me, Liza.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled at him. “Before, when we were together, I always felt so...so helpless. You’d take me to peak after peak even when I told myself I wouldn’t let you. But I could never do the same to you. You could hold yourself back until you decided to let go. It didn’t do much for my ego.”
When he started to protest, she pressed her fingers to his lips. “Tonight I liked knowing that I could make you lose control for a change.”
“Believe me, you did.” He had been so wild for her he hadn’t even remembered to use protection. The realization sent a shiver of panic through him. That was something he was always careful about. But before he could ask her, she started moving beneath him.
Jacques groaned, forgetting the question as his body reacted to being inside Liza. He nipped her fingers and stared into her eyes. “If you do not stop wiggling that delectable bottom of yours, you are going to see me lose control again,” he warned.
“Really?” she replied huskily, then tightened her feminine muscles around him again.
“Really.” His laugh turned into a groan and he rolled over onto his back, leaving her atop him.
“We shouldn’t do this. We’ll probably be late for the gala,” she said, even as she moved astride him and began to rock. She looked like a pagan goddess, he thought, with her head thrown back, golden hair tumbling about her shoulders, her eyes closed to half slits and those long pale legs straddling him.
“No probably about it. We are definitely going to be late,” he informed her. Reaching for her breasts, he lifted his hips to move deeper inside her.
“How late?” she asked as she rocked her body forward and backward and then repeated the movements.
Jacques groaned. “Very late,” he said, his breath coming hard and fast now. Cupping her bottom, he anchored her to him and lost control again.
They had been very late, Jacques conceded, once they were at the gala. The problem was he couldn’t wait to leave and have Liza all to himself again. That realization annoyed him, almost as much as it scared him.
So he’d deliberately made himself sit through the meal and make flirtatious conversation with the women at his table just to prove to himself that he could. He l
iked women, had yet to meet a woman he didn’t like, he reminded himself. He didn’t need to be with any one woman in order to have a good time. He could certainly spend a few hours at this party without Liza and enjoy himself.
But he’d be damned if he was enjoying himself. He watched Liza at the table across from him. She looked so beautiful she stole his breath away. She’d pinned her hair up with some kind of clip to where only little pieces trailed down her neck. The midnight blue dress she wore covered her from the neck down like a nun’s habit. Of course, no nun’s habit was made of fabric that gently hugged firm breasts, a narrow waist and nicely rounded hips. And certainly no nun’s habit had a cutaway back that dipped dangerously close to that waist. Jacques tugged at the collar of his tux shirt, breaking out in a sweat just thinking about all that baby-smooth skin exposed by the back of that dress.
She tilted her head and laughed at something Dan Something-or-other said to her at the next table. Unable to bear another minute of being able to look at her and not touch her, Jacques excused himself and went to reclaim Liza.
Moments later he stood behind her. Touching the back of her chair, he asked, “Would you like to dance?”
She looked up at him over her shoulder. A smile curved her lips. “Excuse me,” she told the gentlemen seated on either side of her. Taking her hand, Jacques led her out to the dance floor. Fortunately for him the band had accommodated his urge to hold her by providing a slow, dreamy tune.
“Really, Jacques,” she told him as he drew her into his arms. There was laughter in her eyes and in her voice. “That’s the fifth time you’ve asked me to dance. What are people going to think?”
“That I like having you in my arms.” He spun her slowly in a circle and pulled her body a little closer. Taking advantage of the fact that they were dancing, he slid his fingers down the bare skin exposed by the open back of her gown.
