Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2)

by Nina Bruhns

  But he couldn't help himself. She was so sweet, so right, and he was so hungry for one last taste of her. Rest and reason could come later … after.

  He pulled her close. He could feel the hard tips of her breasts poke into his chest, the soft mounds around them pillowing against him erotically. Her mouth opened, and he sank his tongue into its waiting velvet. Wanting. Tasting. Savoring.

  "Maybe you could help me take them off?" she murmured when they broke for air.

  "Quoi?" What? He struggled for thought, his mind empty of all save the spice and the feel of her.

  She licked her lips. "My clothes."

  With a groan he stripped off her shirt and reached for her bra, then halted in uncertainty.

  "Please." She unfastened the wisp of silk herself, took his hand and placed it on her breast. "Don't stop."

  Her breasts were warm and wet, her nipples puckered to tight buds. He smoothed his hands over them, caressing her gently. "Sure?"

  "Sure."

  She reached up, her hand hovering next to his cheek. Without thinking, he leaned into it, craving the feel of her touch on his skin. How he would miss her!

  "Take me to your bed, Grace. Let me make love to you."

  Her answering smile was all he needed.

  "Can you stand?"

  He helped her up, and they stumbled to their feet, looking askance at their wet clothes. With a shake of her head she kicked off her shoes and grabbed her skirt waistband.

  "Wait! Let me." Wrestling with the zipper, he went down on a knee and dragged her long, brown skirt over her hips, taking her panties and hose with it. And then she was gloriously naked. The sight of her smooth, welcoming flesh sent a surge of pure need winging through his veins. Need, and temptation.

  She leaned back against the ceramic tile and regarded him through half-lidded eyes. "Now you."

  Excitement purled through his loins, swelling him, electrifying him. And he obeyed.

  * * *

  Grace waited eagerly as Creole made short work of his clothes. Her heart sang that he was giving her this one last chance to experience the rapture of his body. She didn't think she'd ever be able to make love again, not after being with this extraordinary man, and she wanted a lifetime of memories to remember him by.

  She reached for him, but he lifted her in his arms. "Bed."

  His legs ate up the short distance to the iron bed. Her brain registered the dull thunk of his holster landing on the nightstand, and then he was over her, inside her.

  She sucked in her breath at the feeling as he hilted, stretching her, filling her with his sumptuous male presence.

  "Damn!" he cursed. "Don' move. Don' move!"

  "Why?" she asked breathlessly.

  "I don' want to get you pregnant."

  The hasty, graphic words hung between them, thick and burning. Their eyes collided. Her heart hitched. "No. Of course not. That would be…"

  That would be … what?

  What would it be like to have his baby? To carry a part of him back to Charleston with her, to nurture and cherish forever? A poignant wanting lanced through the core of her innermost being, sharp, almost painful.

  "A disaster," he said, completing her dangling sentence. Her want turned into a barren ache. Clearly, it was not what he wanted. She shouldn't, either. God knew it would change her life irrevocably. And he'd want no part of it.

  "Yes, a disaster," she agreed.

  She shifted slightly, pulling him in deeper, cradling him more fully within her body, the action unconscious, not deliberate. Or was it?

  "Chère—"

  She was playing with fire. She knew that. But she couldn't help herself. "You feel so good," she whispered, and looped her arms around his neck, barely resisting the urge to run her fingers up his neck and through his hair. "So very good."

  His heart thudded powerfully against her breast. "You do, too." He didn't move. Not a millimeter.

  She brushed her lips over his, and his breath grew harsh. She could feel the strain of his corded forearm muscles along her back, the dig of his fingers into her shoulders. His stubbled jaw scraped over her cheek, sending shivers of delight straight to the tips of her breasts. She didn't dare so much as breathe, for fear he would withdraw and end the sizzling contact.

  She closed her eyes and heard him swallow heavily, his rasping breath hot in her ear. The tension climbed, along with her arousal. Her body cried out to receive the thrust of his maleness deep into her, over and over until she exploded.

  With a potent oath he rolled off her. The instant chill of missing him swept through her body, cold and empty.

  "A pure disaster," he repeated in a voice sharded with emotion. Could it be regret?

  No. It had to be simple lust. The word disaster said it all. He had no interest in a family. None. She knew that. Had known from the first moment she'd met him.

  She took a deep breath, fighting her own regrets, shoving them back to the realm of true madness, where they belonged. He sheathed and returned to her, and all was right again when he slid home.

  "Touch me," he said.

  Startled, she looked up.

  "You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you."

  It was more of a statement than a question, said on a sigh. She wasn't sure what it had to do with touching him, but she briefly considered tomorrow's options and realized there were none. She had to go, away from him. Staying on, delaying, even for another day, would be too painful. And there were also Frank and Nikki to consider.

  Filled with heartache, she nodded. "Yes."

  He nodded, too, avoiding her gaze. "Then I'd like you to touch me."

  "I don't understand."

  He chewed the inside of his cheek, the first sign of uncertainty she'd ever seen him display.

  "Just once," he said, and cleared his throat. "Just once I'd like to make love like an ordinary man. This might be the last time—" he closed his eyes and exhaled "—the last time I trust someone enough to try."

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and her mouth opened on a soundless cry. "No," she whispered. "Don't say that. Someday the right woman will come along and make you wonder why touching ever bothered you. You'll be ready, and it will be wonderful."

  He looked at her a long time before he murmured, "Yeah, it will." He gathered her in his arms, sinking deeper into her. "Touch me now, Grace. Make it wonderful."

  So she did. Gently. Cautiously. Mindful of his intense reactions the whole while. Awed by his faith and his trust.

  Hesitantly at first, she ran her hands over his broad shoulders, fingering each intricate line of his beautiful tattoo, following its graceful blue curves, tracing her fingers over its mouth and tail and its dangling claws.

  Gaining confidence, she trailed down to browse Creole's black-furred chest, circling the dark knots of his male nipples, all the while watching, watching his tight-squeezed eyes and jaw-clenched pleasure for a sign of protest.

  None came. Instead, he started moving, just a little at first, nudging in and out of her. She wrapped her legs around his flanks, urging him to increase his slow, sensual glide. His ride grew harder as she became bolder in her explorations, certain now he wouldn't balk or restrain her because it was too much to take. She caressed his lips, his cheeks, his sweat-damp brow, receiving kisses and urgent little licks to the pads of her fingers and powerful thrusts between her thighs.

  When she slipped her hands around to his back, she feared he'd grab her wrists and put a stop to her trespass. But after sucking in an initial gasping breath, he just held it. And gazed at her with stormy, impassioned eyes. She brushed first one, then another of his angry scars, until she'd paused over each and every one. Until his jaw trembled, and he let his breath out slowly.

  "You okay?" she whispered. She slid her hands lower, to the small of his back, and then his waist.

  "Wonderful," he said, his voice ragged with a potent mixture of strain and elation.

  "Shall I stop?"

  In answer, he scythed into her. She sucked
in a gasp of her own.

  His eyes twinkled mercilessly, turning the tables. Joy permeated his whole expression. "You okay?"

  "Wonderful," she echoed, and moved her hands lower still.

  "Shall I stop?"

  Under her hands, hard muscles clenched tightly. "Not in a million years."

  "Good," he whispered. He plunged into her, making her squirm and writhe with unsated need. Need to be close to him, to be a part of him. Need to hold him to her heart and let him fill her body, her life.

  He thrust in and out, in and out, building up speed and urgency in both of them. She moaned, her head tossing to and fro, unable to do more than hang on. He was killing her. Killing her with desire. And with the knowledge that he would never be hers.

  His lips crashed onto hers, halting her feverish movements, drowning her in the succulence of his taste. His savory muskiness swirled through her senses clear to her toes, filling her with the longing to belong to this man and no other. She moaned again.

  His answering groan vibrated through her very soul. The rumbling started there, physical, earthy, deep inside her, triggered by the urgency in his voice, in her heart. It swelled bigger and bigger with each silken thrust, peaking with an unendurable yearning, until she shook with the need to shatter in his embrace. Only his.

  The blazing need overtook her and she tumbled over the edge. She screamed. She heard her name called out in a ragged, guttural, male cry. And she came apart in the arms of her love.

  Chapter 17

  For a long time Grace just lay there, soaking in the feel of Creole's weight on her, testing the sensation of his body resting in and around hers. She held him tight, rejoicing in his trust, in the fact that she could reduce this hard, intense man to the state of complete dissolution he was so obviously enjoying at the moment.

  After his labored breathing slowed, he even slept. And she must have, too, because the next thing she knew, she woke wrapped in his arms, back to front, as she had from her dream two days ago.

  Again she lay for a long time, unable to go back to sleep, her mind pulling her inexorably toward their parting in the morning.

  She had known it would be bad, the heartache she was destined to endure if she became involved with Creole Levalois. But this was far, far worse than anything she'd ever imagined. Almost unbearable. She went over every detail of their short time together, searching for a logical reason for her feelings for him, why this man—of all the men on earth—pulled at her heart in a way no other ever had or ever would.

  She wanted to blame it on raging hormones or the lure of the forbidden or his sexy Cajun accent—on anything but the truth. A truth so vivid and clear it shone through her dismal excuses like a blinding beam of light.

  Under the abused, devil-may-care, bad-boy exterior, Auri Levalois carried a goodness, a sensitivity, a loyalty to those he cared about, and an ability to convey love, deeper and stronger than any other person she'd ever met. It put her own meager attempts to shame. And she loved him for those worthy traits, those and a hundred more, good and bad, which she'd discovered in their brief hours together.

  A crack of thunder jolted through the room, and she was sure it was the sound of her own heart breaking in two. How would she ever be able to leave him?

  For the hundredth time she reminded herself of the type of man he was. Despite his loyalty and sensitivity, he was not interested in bestowing those qualities upon her alone. He didn't want a wife or kids or a settled life.

  Frank Morina was loyal and sensitive, too, in his way, and just look at how he'd reacted to the first sign of threatened familial responsibility.

  She sighed, letting the memory of her own father's desertion sift through her heartache, adding another layer of hurt. She'd need all the bad examples she could get to bolster her courage to leave Creole in the morning.

  Unable to bear the comfort of his arms around her, she eased from his embrace, and from the bed, making her way to the French door.

  The weather seemed to amplify her melancholy mood. A soft summer rain pitter-pattered onto the balcony floor and dropped from the silhouetted hanging plants. The dark, sultry smell of wet soil and cobblestones drifted up from the courtyard below. Above, a dim yellow outline of a crescent moon barely glowed through the thick, close blanket of gray clouds enveloping the Quarter.

  Still naked, she stepped outside into the warm rain and stood, lifting her face to its cleansing caress. If only the rain could wash away her memories. Rinse away her hurt. Let her simply enjoy this amazing man, and then be able to walk away with no regrets in the morning. As he would.

  "Grace?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then turned to face him with a smile. "Hi."

  His gaze roamed over her, saturating her from head to foot as thoroughly as the rain had already done. Her body reacted instantly, attuned by two nights of passion to his every mood and nuance. Her mind may be looking to tomorrow's sad parting, but her body was still in the here and now, eager to please and be pleased.

  "What are you doing out there?"

  He was still naked, too. Rumpled and bedroom-eyed, he was a dark, powerful statement of masculinity at its most virile. Her knees grew weak just looking at him.

  "Couldn't sleep."

  "There are better ways to cure insomnia than standing in the rain." His lips curved.

  The erotic invitation in his sleepy smile took her breath away. "Oh?"

  He took a step toward her, onto the balcony, into the rain. "Mais, yeah."

  Rivulets trickled down his face and shoulders, dripping onto his broad chest, jeweling in the crisp, black hair. Her gaze snagged there, as the raindrops gathered together, cascading into the hollow of his belly button. Fascinated, she watched the pool of moisture spill over, flowing down the arrow of dark hair toward—

  She caught her breath, once again awed by his thickening arousal. What a magnificent man he was!

  "See anythin' you like?"

  She let her eyes adore him, all of him, and she answered truthfully, "Everything. I like everything I see."

  Her hushed statement seemed to catch him by surprise for a moment, and she remembered how recently he'd been unable to take off his clothes in front of her. Then he came to her and pulled her into his arms. His kiss was sweet and tender.

  "You're too good for me," he whispered, and her heart broke all over again, for it wasn't the first time he'd said it, and it was so very untrue.

  "No," she refuted, but could say no more because he kissed her again, long and thoroughly, holding her naked there in the rolling thunder and the steamy rain. How she wished it could go on forever just like this.

  "What were you thinking about?" he asked when she sighed.

  "Nothing," she murmured, marshaling her wits so she wouldn't break down.

  "Earlier. When I first came out."

  She compelled a smile to her lips, nestling deeper into his arms. "What do you think?"

  He smiled back, a bit wistfully. "Non. Before that."

  She pushed out a breath, and lied. "Muse. Just wondering what's going on. Why they had to leave so soon." She shrugged. "If she'll be okay."

  "She'll be fine," he assured her. "Remi'll see to that."

  "I know. I just…" She looked up into his serious eyes and saw that he knew she'd lied. That he knew she'd been thinking about them all along, not Muse. Because he was, too.

  "Come with me," she said. The words were out of her mouth before the thought had even formed.

  His eyes softened. "Bed?"

  "Charleston."

  His brow lifted. "Charleston?"

  She nodded, pulling him closer. "Come back with me. So we can always be together."

  Wariness flitted through his eyes, then he chuckled in skeptical amusement. "You asking me to marry you, Grace Summerville?"

  She swallowed, and again her tongue just took over before her brain got involved. "I guess I am. Will you?" No one was more surprised than she at those words.

  Well, exce
pt for Creole. His face completely drained of color as it filled with undisguised shock. His mouth dropped open, and he stared at her in stark disbelief, streams of rain running down his cheeks and off his wobbling chin.

  The moment dragged out interminably, and still he said nothing, until she realized he was probably silent because he couldn't think of a polite way to tell her she was out of her ever-lovin' mind.

  And he was absolutely right. What on earth had possessed her?

  She forced a laugh past the huge lump that suddenly blocked her throat. "Had you worried, didn't I?" She laughed again for good measure. "Just kidding."

  His mouth closed, then opened. "Grace—"

  "Bed. Of course I meant bed."

  She pulled his ghost-white face to hers and kissed him. Squeezed her eyes shut and kissed him as if there'd be no tomorrow.

  Because there wouldn't be. Not for her. Not without him. But she'd never let him guess how serious she'd been. She wouldn't let it show how much she hurt. How it was killing her to let him go.

  "Jolie—"

  "Shut up and kiss me."

  She'd had her heart broken before. She'd gotten over it. And she would this time, too. One day at a time. Then one week at a time. Eventually, she'd forget him.

  "Darlin'—"

  "Shhh, I said I was kidding."

  Creole Levalois was not the right man for her. She'd known it all along. She needed someone stable, someone she could build a family and a secure future with, knowing he'd never walk away from her or their children. Someone safe, that's what she needed.

  Safe.

  Not dark and dangerous and sexy and volatile.

  Thankfully, Creole must have decided she really was kidding, because after a last searching look, he relented and let her pull him into a searing kiss. As his mouth covered hers, she sank into it, into his heated embrace, determined to take advantage of every last solitary second with him that she possibly could…

  Before she left him and her world crumbled.

  * * *

  Hands jammed in his pockets, Creole stood at the huge plate-glass window at New Orleans International Airport and watched Grace's plane roll down the runway and lift off, taking her away from him.