by Maria Luis
Tugging a shirt over my head, I said, “We’re going on a little drive. Something to perk you up.”
“Oh, really?” She jumped out of the bed, then yanked her skirt up her legs and settled it around her hips. A second later, she had a top on and was ready to go.
Christ, she could be fast when she wanted to be.
On the drive, she propped her chin on her hand and stared out the front window. “Are we going to our picnic spot?” she mused, reaching forward to turn down the volume of the radio. “Or maybe we’re going to satisfy one of your late-night frozen yogurt cravings?”
She knew me way too well. When I wanted to play Mr. Romantic, I brought her to the same spot on the side of the levee with the view of downtown New Orleans. And when I wanted to make her laugh at me for having the same food cravings as a kid, I took her to the frozen-yogurt joint over on Magazine Street, where we could watch the traffic pass us by from the floor to ceiling windows.
Avery Washington Asher wasn’t just my wife, she was my favorite person in this world.
I squeezed her thigh, then left my hand there. “Wrong,” I said as I took us on the 1-10 and headed east. “Try again, ma’am.”
She settled her hand over mine, overlapping our fingers. “All right . . . not a picnic, not frozen yogurt. Are we heading to the Quarter? You know how I feel about going down there on my nights off from the square.”
“Are you saying that you don’t like convincing tourists to give you more money now that you fully believe in the cards?”
“I always believed in the cards.”
“That’s because I taught you the best way to do it—pick the card you want and then tell everyone around that you’re about to make the magic happen.”
She snorted, fingers squeezing mine. “Guess it’s going to be a surprise then.”
Hell yeah it was.
Sliding my hand out from hers, I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of her scarves that she bought every other week from her friends in the French Market. “Put this on.”
“Are we going to do something scandalous?” Her tone was playful, but she slipped the scarf around her head anyway, blindfolding herself, trusting me explicitly.
Maybe. Yes. One-hundred-percent.
With her sight blocked, I gunned the gas pedal and brought us into the Bywater. A few minutes later, we were parked, and I was walking around to Avery’s side of the SUV. “Don’t peek.” I wrapped my hands around hers and pulled her from the car, careful to make sure she didn’t tumble out. “It’ll ruin the fun.”
I led her up to the large brick building, ignoring the front entrance and choosing instead the new side door that led club members to the recently renovated second floor. Whiskey Bay wasn’t Whiskey Bay anymore, and the Basement was a thing of the past—Nat had fled the state, taking with her my old coworker Josiah Templeton, and a few other folks like Kevan.
Quinn took bets that his old boss was living it up in Vegas.
Avery tossed in her vote for California-dreaming.
And I knew exactly where she was, thanks to Zak Benson trailing her out there and leaving crumbs wherever he went—but some shit was better to just keep to myself. So long as she stayed out of Louisiana, I didn’t give a damn where she went.
“Watch your step,” I told Ave, my hand on her lower back.
We climbed the steep staircase. Only when we were fully upstairs, the door locked behind us, the club-member key in my pocket, did I pull the scarf off Avery’s head. Her delighted gasp was like fireworks in July, and I stepped behind her. Lowered my mouth to her ear, and murmured, “Like what you see?”
The new owner of the building had changed things up.
The old stage lights had been exchanged with fairy lights, strung up to create a romantic glow over the myriad couples that were positioned throughout the room. A four-string quartet—yes, a quartet—was seated in the far-left corner, playing a song that made the space less about the kink and more about the romance.
The sex was still the sex.
That would never change, no matter who owned the building.
“I feel like I should say no,” Avery said, falling into me.
“Because we’re married?” I nuzzled her ear, nipped the lobe. “You like what you like, but if you ever think someone else will touch you . . . that shit’s not happening. You’re mine, and I don’t share.”
“You don’t even share your frozen yogurt.”
“Damn right I don’t.” Squeezing her hips, I gave her a little push. “Find the stage you want, and I’ll meet you there after I buy us cocktails.”
She twisted to stare up at me. “How will you find me?”
Another nudge, this one to her ass. “I’ll always find you, sweetheart. Always.”
And I did.
Stage One wasn’t the same—the couple up there weren’t fitted with ball-gags—but I’d known she’d come back here out of memory’s sake. She’d selected the same position on the sofa, though the furniture was all new. I sat next to her, handing her one of those frozen margaritas she liked so much.
Our cheeks grazed as we both leaned in.
“What’s on the lineup?” I asked at the same time she said, “I don’t think he knows what he’s doing. I mean, he’s slapped her ass so many times I think I’m . . . I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I might be bored.”
I glanced up at the couple on the stage with the fairy lights hanging so low that they were almost swimming in the cords. Sure enough, the dude was slap-happy. My brows arched when I counted ten in as many seconds.
“She’s not going to be able to sit down for a week,” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.
“I know!” Avery shifted in her seat as if she were experiencing sympathy slaps to her ass. A second later: “My butt hurts just looking at them.”
I set my beer on the small table to my left. “Don’t worry, Captain America is here to save the day.”
Avery snorted with laughter. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to pull out the hammer and show the poor guy on the stage exactly how it’s done. You’ll embarrass him while he’s on the clock.”
My fingers went to her skirt, and I pulled the fabric up, up, up until it was around her waist and she was thrusting her hips forward, no matter the protests that fell from her lips. And, no matter who owned the Basement now, and no matter what name it was called, Stage One would always be just about the same.
I got down on my knees before my wife, the soles of my shoes rubbing up against the stage, the sound of incessant slapping behind me. And for memory’s sake, I ripped her underwear straight from her hips and jerked her close, so that my tongue could run along her slit.
“Don’t worry,” I said, just before I put every other man to shame in this room, “I won’t make you jump out of any fire escapes tonight.”
And then my mouth was on her clit, my hand clutching her quivering leg, and all I heard was her gasp and the throaty way she whispered, “God, I love you.”
I swallowed my laugh and set about making my wife come so loud she’d have an encore after. I probably would never know what I did to deserve her, but I would never give her up.
I love you, too, sweetheart. So damn much.
The End.
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Dear Fabulous Reader
Hi there! Thank you so much for reading DEFIED, and I so hope that you enjoyed the wild ride that Lincoln & Avery found themselves on.
If you are new to my books, I always love to include a behind-the-scenes glance at the back—where did some of my inspiration come from? And are there any locations mentioned in the book that can be found in real life? All of that and more is below! (I like to think of it as the Extras section on DVDs, LOL).
As always, we’re hitting it up bullet-point style! Enjoy!
I hardly know where to begin! But I suppose I can begin with one of the names from the book… Pershing University, anyone? Some who know New Orleans may have noticed that it is seated on St. Charles Avenue (think: gorgeous, gorgeous mansions) alongside Loyola University. Loyola is my alma mater, and Pershing (in my head) is Tulane University next door. There’s always been a longstanding competition between the two schools, so it was fun to play on that! “Pershing,” however, comes from General Pershing, the street I lived on once upon a time in the city.
Flambeaux, the corner store that Pete and Sal own: did you know that “flambeaux” in New Orleans actually refers to the people who hold the lanterns during Mardi Gras parades? In much earlier years/centuries, these “flambeauxs” (as they were called) tended to be inmates who were allowed to come out and help and also earn a coin or two for providing light (and heat) along the route. Nowadays, parades still have “flambeauxs” but they aren’t inmates - although tips are still appreciated! Pete’s store is my little nod to this little part of New Orleans culture that is so firmly rooted in history.
Captain America & Thor: Yes, I have an obsession. Yes, Mr. Luis knows. Yes, he also has man-crushes! Therefore, it had to be involved ;)
The story Nat tells Avery: Do you remember the small anecdote that Nat tells Avery at the Basement? When she mentions the policemen who tried to cover up a murder? Yes, that is a true story, dating to the early 2000’s. For many years, it was very hush-hush because of the gravity of the crime they committed, but the police involved were eventually caught and sentenced to jail. When I asked Mr. Luis for a story that would rattle our souls and show us just why Avery would have a hard time trusting anyone, that is the one he gave me. It’s heartbreaking, terrible, but goes to show the nature of humanity, both the good and the bad.
Algiers Point: Fun Fact (and get ready to learn how naive I was to Louisiana geography when I moved here a decade ago), Algiers is actually located just across the river from the French Quarter! Yes, I once fully believed that New Orleans was the farthest south you could go. Yes, I was promptly corrected multiple times by friends. No, you can’t swim across the river, LOL. Since moving to this area of the city, I’ve found that it’s actually one of the most romantic - especially at night when the city glitters across the river - and I couldn’t resist staging a moonlight picnic with lots of steam and heat because…why not? LOL.
As always, there are many more but here is just a sampling! If you’re thinking…that seems rather fascinating and I want to know more, you are always so welcome to reach out! Pretty much, nothing makes me happier :)
Much love,
Maria
Preview of Say You’ll Be Mine: A NOLA Heart Novel
The NOLA Heart series is now complete! Keep reading for a sneak peek of Say You’ll Be Mine, the first book in the series—featuring a hot cop and his high school sweetheart. This is a second chance romance that will heat up your kindles and keep you up at night reading.
“Need help with those?”
Shaelyn jerked at the familiar masculine voice and nearly pantsed herself. Picking a wedgie in public, while sometimes necessary, was embarrassing, but losing her shorts in front of Brady Taylor, strangers, and the all-seeing eyes of her parish church might actually spell the end of her.
Then again, problem solved. Meme Elaine would have to find someone else to inherit their ancestral home, of course, but Shaelyn could work some serious magic from Upstairs.
“Nope, I’ve got it,” she bit out. She didn’t look at him. One glance and there was a decent chance of her good sense going MIA.
“You sure?” Black Nike tennis shoes entered her peripheral vision. “Looks like you might need a hand.”
His toned calves were dusted with short, black hairs. It was a sign of weakness, she knew, but Shaelyn couldn’t stop the upward progression of her gaze. Settled low on his hips were maroon basketball shorts with cracked-gold lettering running up the side. The first and second O’s were missing, so that instead of Loyola, it read “L Y LA.” She wondered why he wasn’t wearing his alma mater, Tulane University, and then reminded herself that she didn’t care. Her gaze traveled up to a faded-blue NOPD T-shirt that—
Shaelyn inhaled sharply as she realized just how awful she must look. Boob sweat was the least of her worries when her underwear had officially integrated itself between her butt cheeks. She reached up to smooth her short, curly hair, which she’d tamed with a headband straight out of the ’90s. Her bedroom was proving to be a treasure trove of forgotten goodies.
“You’ve got something . . . ” Brady reached out a hand toward her butt.
“Hey!” She swatted at his long-tapered fingers. He wasn’t wearing his hat today, and she finally had her first glimpse of his blue-on-blue eyes. She’d once compared them to the crystal blue waters of Destin (where their families once vacationed together in Florida every summer), and she was annoyed to find that time had not dampened their appeal. Straightening her spine, she snapped, “Hands off.”
Holding both hands up, he dipped his chin. “You might wanna check out your behind then.” Those blue eyes crinkled as he grinned, with small laugh lines fanning out from the corners.
Shaelyn twisted at the waist. Three leaves were stuck to her butt, suctioned to the fabric of her shorts as though hanging on for dear life. Sweat, apparently, was the proper glue foliage needed for attachment.
She was never working out again.
“You got it?” Brady asked, humor lacing his husky drawl. “I’m good with my hands, if you need help.”
An image of Brady’s large hands cupping her butt snapped her into action. She swiped at the offending leaves, sending them fluttering to the ground. “I’m good. Thanks.”
His sweeping glance, one that traveled from her tennis shoes all the way up to her face, left her wondering if he liked what he saw or if he was glad he’d dumped her years ago. Finally, he murmured, “I can see that.”
The key ring came loose from her belt loop with an extra hard tug of desperation, and she started for her car. “Right. Well, nice to see you.”
Brady effectively ruined her escape by leaning against her car door with his arms crossed over his hard chest. Hadn’t she suffered enough today without having to deal with him, too? Boob sweat, wedgies, and leaves suctioned to her ass were all a woman could take, thank you very much.
She gestured at him. “Do you mind?”
His answering smile was slow and easy. “Not at all.”
Her fingers curled tightly around the car keys. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Yeah?” His tone suggested that he didn’t believe her. “Where are you going?”
She toyed with the idea of blowing off his question, but if there was one thing she knew about Brady Taylor, it was that he was annoyingly persistent. “I’ve got a bachelorette party tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?” He said it differently this time, as if intrigued, perhaps even despite himself. “Didn’t realize you had many friends left in N’Orleans?”
She scowled, placed a hand on her hip, and then realized that she must look about five seconds away from throwing a good ol’ Southern princess tantrum. Hastily she folded her arms over her chest to mimic his stance. With determination she ignored the way her sweat-coated skin fused together.
“For the record, I do have friends.” She didn’t, not really, but he didn’t know that. “And secondly, my job is hosting a bachelorette party.�
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He seemed to digest that, his full mouth momentarily flattening before quirking up in a nonchalant smile. “Where do you work nowadays, Shae?”
The bells of Holy Name chimed again. She really had to be going, but something stopped her from walking around the hood of her car, climbing in, and speeding away. She didn’t want to think about what that something might be.
“I work at La Parisienne in the French Quarter. On Chartres.”
One of his black brows arched up in surprise. “The lingerie joint?”
Only a man would call a business that sold women’s underwear a “joint.” Rolling her eyes, Shaelyn let her weight rest on her right leg. She bit back another moan of pain. “It has a name, but yes, I work at the ‘lingerie joint.’”
“And they host bachelorette parties?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. Tonight we’re cohosting it with The Dirty Crescent.”
“The sex toy shop?”
“Yes.”
His blue eyes glittered, and when he asked, “Can I come?” his voice slid through her like that first shot of whiskey she’d downed in his grandfather’s office years earlier. Shocking at first, and then hot and tingly as it heated her core.
Then he ruined everything by laughing.
Nothing ever changed with him.
“You’re such a jerk,” she snapped. She stepped forward and pushed at his chest to urge him away from her car. He didn’t budge, which only infuriated her. How dare he tease her like he hadn’t broken her heart? So what if she’d been young, naïve, and fifty shades of stupid? Being a gentleman was not overrated.
He was still laughing when he caught her by the shoulders. “I could arrest you for harassment.” His hands were warm on her exposed skin, hotter, maybe, than the late afternoon sun toasting the back of her neck.
