Hot Nights, Dark Desires

by Eden Bradley

  “So?” Crystal prompted, more quietly this time. “What was that? What happened to you back there?”

  “I don’t know. It was…it was amazing.” Sophie stopped, pulled on her friend’s arm. “I want to do it again.”

  Crystal looked at her, her dark brows drawn together. “Getting this tattoo really affected you, didn’t it? I mean, you weren’t kidding when you told me how big a deal it was going to be for you. Should I be sorry I pushed you into this?”

  “What? No. And you didn’t push. Well, maybe a little nudge. But I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m glad I did it.” Her blood was pumping through her veins, fast and hot. “Except, how do you know how to stop?”

  Crystal shook her head and grinned. “You are in deep, girlfriend. One tattoo and you’re obsessed.”

  “Oh, I was obsessed long before now,” Sophie muttered as they began to walk again.

  Crystal was quiet for another two blocks. Then, “So, what is it? What about it made you so…whatever you were? Hot. Right? Because you looked pretty damn heated up to me.”

  “Yeah…”

  What was it? Had she ever really questioned it before? She’d simply accepted this strange fascination. But she’d never understood how far that fascination went until today. Not until that climax had rocked her body, her mind.

  “I think it started when I was a kid. And I mean ten or eleven. I had this neighbor, Jenna, and she had an older brother. He was maybe five, six years older than we were. He rode a motorcycle, had this long, dark hair. A real bad boy. I remember when he got his first tattoo. He couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. My parents used to say he was no good, that kid. But I thought he was beautiful. My first sexual fantasies were about him. Rory.”

  “He sounds hot.”

  “He was. One of those tall guys, kind of thin and wiry. I used to watch him when he worked on his bike in the driveway. Every summer he’d get more tattoos. He had full sleeves by the time he turned eighteen and left home. The artwork wasn’t even very good, looking back. Biker stuff. Skulls, daggers and roses, that kind of thing. But it didn’t matter. He was exotic to me. And the more my parents and my brother put him down, the more attractive he became.”

  “So that was it? Your first crush was an older guy with tattoos?”

  Sophie shrugged, walked a little faster.

  Crystal caught up with her. “Hey. What else?”

  She took a minute before answering. “I lost my virginity to him.”

  “Wow. How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  That old mixture of lust and shame rushed through her, making her hot all over. So good. So bad. Irresistible. And yet she still paid for it.

  Getting the tattoo today had been even better.

  And even worse.

  She had a sudden urge to go to confession. And just as strong was the urge to go back to Tristan, to have him tattoo her again. To fuck him.

  God, she was messed up.

  “So what happened?” Crystal asked.

  “He must have been twenty, twenty-one by then. It only happened once, which was okay. He’d been my fantasy for so long.”

  “And how was it?”

  Sophie turned to her friend and smiled. “To this day, it was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

  Crystal grinned. “You slut!”

  Sophie laughed. “Yeah.”

  They linked arms and walked the last block laughing together.

  But the image of Tristan, the burn of the new tattoo on her skin, didn’t leave Sophie’s mind for a moment.

  Oh, yes, she was going back. She would get more tattoos. She’d meant what she’d said. No matter what it meant for her to do it. It was too late now, anyway. She already knew she’d burn in hell. She may as well make it a roaring bonfire.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  She was on her knees, the stone floor biting into her bones, hard and cold. Hands on her shoulders, raising her to her feet. The rough fabric of her tunic rubbed harshly against her skin, her bare feet numb as she followed a long line of girls. All she could see was their feet, row upon row of bare legs, numbed toes. She knew she was meant to keep her head bowed, an act of respect, of contrition, of humility.

  Into a large room, the floors and walls all the same gray stone. She was told to stand still while they raised an enormous pair of gleaming scissors and cut off her hair. It fell in soft hanks to the floor; she heard the whisper of it as it hit the stone.

  Yes, the necessary sacrifice, washing me clean.

  Her head felt cold and bare. Vulnerable. Empty. But she would be pure, finally.

  Moving down the long hall again, and into the chapel itself, row upon row, down between the long wooden pews. The scent of incense in the air. She glanced to the right, and they were there, smiling at her. Her parents, her brother. Proud, finally.

  Yes, wash me clean.

  She followed the others and knelt before the altar. Hard, icy stone beneath her knees once more.

  Pray for redemption.

  Pressing her hands together, she asked for mercy, asked to believe. Her tunic shifted, slipped off her shoulder.

  “Whore!”

  Shame washed over her, hot and seething. She lifted a hand to cover the tattoo, felt the ink-raised skin beneath her fingers, but it was too late.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Lust surged through her body. Lust and shame and fear.

  Then, turning to look behind her, she saw her brother, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. Her parents were next to him, expressions of absolute horror on their faces.

  She wanted to get up, to run, but the cold stone beneath her knees kept her frozen there. Trapped. Until she began to sink right into it, through it. Down and down and down…

  Sophie bolted upright, the dark night like a blanket around her, smothering and hot. She reached to turn on the bedside lamp, her fingers slippery on the tiny knob. Finally, it worked. A dim amber glow illuminated her small bedroom.

  “Just a dream,” she murmured. But her hand went to the raised skin on the back of her shoulder.

  Desire pulsed in her body simply from the light touch of her own fingertips. Simply knowing it was there. That she had done it. That Tristan had done this to her. Too good, yes. And so bad.

  Why was she so fucked up?

  She got up and went to the paned windows overlooking the tiny courtyard, moved the old lace curtains aside. Two stories below her, she could see by the blue-washed moonlight the small stone fountain burbling, the ancient, worn angel in the center covered with dark moss. That angel had always looked to her like the angels on headstones in a graveyard. The tiny, overgrown courtyard was what she’d first fallen in love with about this place, why she’d decided immediately to live here.

  The fountain, the angel, were shadowed now, only that faint glow from the moon and the stars overhead making them visible. She loved the way it looked; that mysterious play of light and dark.

  What had Tristan said about that? Something about light and shadow. About the old graveyards being a shadow place.

  She shivered, remembering his smoky voice. Remembering his touch. Between her thighs a low pulsing began, fevered, insistent. She touched her fingertips to the smooth glass of the window. So cool beneath her heated skin.

  She peered down into the garden, into the darkness, the shadows. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine him standing there, on the uneven paving stones, the fallen petals of the crepe myrtle crushed beneath his heavy black boots. Oh, yes, he’d worn those black boots she loved so much. Those boots alone were enough to draw her to him. But it only started there.

  Tristan had one of those faces that spoke of absolute masculinity. That strong jaw, carved features, those dark gray eyes, like two pieces of smoky quartz. And that impossibly lush mouth set against his evil-looking goatee. What would it be like to kiss a man like him? To kiss that lovely mouth?

  Her own lips twitched, and she bit down, hard, onto her lower lip, needing tha
t little bit of pain somehow.

  He was enormous, well over six feet tall, and built like a solid wall of muscle, dwarfing her. And yet his touch was gentle, delicate, even.

  A hot shiver ran through her, and she squeezed her thighs together at the ache that lay heavy between them. She let out a sigh, spread her palm against the cool glass, needing to draw it in, to calm the lust raging in her system. It didn’t help.

  All she could see was his face, those incredible eyes, the way he’d looked at her, into her. She couldn’t get the scent of him, of the ink, out of her mind. When she let her eyes flutter closed, she could feel again the buzz of the tattoo gun on her skin.

  Yes, so good…

  Her hand went to the hem of the cotton tank top she slept in, her fingers creeping under the edge, smoothing over her naked skin to cup her breast. She brushed her nipple, and it came up hard beneath her touch.

  Yes.

  She slipped her hand down, lower, beneath the band of the cotton panties she wore. She brushed at her curls, slid two fingers over her damp cleft. Hot and slippery and aching with need. Her own hand working between her legs became his hand in her mind as she pressed against her clit, circled it, then paused to dip inside.

  She leaned into the window, her legs growing weak. Moving faster, rubbing, pinching, plunging, she opened her eyes, looked out into the garden of shadows below her, and came. Shuddering with the pleasure that shafted deep inside her, curling and twisting through her system.

  The window glass was cold now against her skin, cold yet lovely. The heat in her body was retreating finally as the last trembling surges moved through her. She took a step back, her gaze still on the darkness below.

  “Who are you, Tristan Batiste?” she whispered. “And what have you done to me?”

  The next few days went by in a blur. She tried to write, but was constantly distracted by small noises outside, by the muffled sounds of other people in the building, by her own wandering thoughts.

  She sat at the tiny wrought-iron table in her kitchen, her laptop open and waiting. She’d been working on this story since she’d first arrived in New Orleans, a dark story of haunted houses, of old mysteries, of sensuality. She’d come to this city, inspired by the lush and decadent beauty of the place, knowing she could write here. And she had. She’d written like mad every day. Until she met Tristan. Until she’d gotten the tattoo that burned on her shoulder in a way that was somehow different from any mere physical sensation. There was no actual pain, and yet she was acutely aware of it every waking moment.

  She wanted to do it again, as she’d told Crystal. She wanted to be tattooed everywhere. Always. Strange and ridiculous thoughts, but she could barely think about anything else. Just the tattoos, and him. Tristan.

  She got up and opened her refrigerator, poured herself a glass of the sweet Southern tea she’d come to love. She drank it quickly, the cold tea giving her a rush of pain in her head as she sat down in front of her computer again. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she tried to clear her mind, to concentrate on the task before her. But her characters seemed vague to her, the story meandering and dull. Only a few days ago she’d loved this story, been excited about it. But now, nothing.

  She couldn’t stand to be there any longer, to sit in her apartment, alone in the serene, sunlit kitchen she normally loved. The old white tiles, her refrigerator covered in art she’d cut from magazines and band posters, postcards she’d collected in her travels, everything warm and familiar, and yet suddenly she couldn’t bear it.

  Standing, she went into the bedroom and slipped off the loose cotton pajamas she always wore when she was writing, and exchanged them for a pair of jeans that sat low on her hips and a tight vintage T-shirt in black, the Ramones logo in white lettering across the front. She added a small pair of silver hoop earrings, picked up the ornate silver cross she always wore in some perverse act of contrition, and slipped the long chain over her head. Grabbing her purse, she slid her feet into her favorite sandals, then pulled on the rickety front door. It stuck, as usual, and she had to lift it a little and pull hard before it swung open.

  Down the stairs, through the papery scent of damp plaster and the countless people who had passed by these walls that lingered there: someone’s perfume, stale cigarette smoke. Then she was out on the sidewalk. She didn’t want to think too much about where she was going, or why, as she made her way down Dauphine and headed toward Canal Street.

  It was a quiet day. The sky was gray with clouds, even though the air was warm and damp, as always, and soft on her skin. The walking itself felt good, helped to clear her head a little.

  Soon she stood before the door of Beneath the Skin. She paused for a moment on the sidewalk, unsure of herself now that she was there. What, really, was she doing there? What did she want from him?

  Instead of allowing herself to linger on that thought, she pulled a breath in, swung the door open and stepped through.

  A cool blast from the air-conditioning as she walked into the front room. The same tall guy was behind the carved desk.

  “Hi. Um, is Tristan here?”

  He looked up, nodded at her. “Yeah. You have an appointment?”

  “Well, no, but I—”

  “It’s okay, Henry. I’ll see her.”

  God that deep voice, like wood smoke, like sex. She looked up, and Tristan stood framed in the curtained doorway as he had the first time she’d seen him. All dressed in black again, and as powerfully attractive as before. But now she knew what he could do to her. She shivered. When he smiled at her, that shiver drove deep into her body, lit her up with need inside, and a strange craving she couldn’t describe even to herself.

  “Sophie. You’re back so soon. Is there a problem with your tattoo?”

  “What? No, it’s fine. It’s perfect. I just…”

  She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m glad you came.” Tristan’s smile widened, and she saw again that flickering dimple in his cheek.

  Relief washed over her, along with another surge of desire. She smiled back.

  He took a step toward her. “Do you want to go get some coffee?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” Her heart beat a little faster.

  “Café du Monde isn’t far from here. You’ve been there?”

  “Oh, yes. It was one of my first stops when I came to New Orleans.”

  “Good. Let’s go, then.” Tristan turned to the man behind the counter, gestured with a tilt of his chin. “I’ll be back, Henry.”

  Tristan moved closer, laid a hand at the small of her back. His hand was warm and so big it spanned her entire waist. He guided her through the door as her mind emptied out and sensation moved through her body. A small part of her wondered how this man could have such an effect on her. But it didn’t matter really, did it? It was happening, and she had no control over it, didn’t even want to.

  She was a little better outside as they walked down Canal Street and made their way to Decatur. They walked in silence. There was tension between them, but it was purely sexual, and the silence was lovely and excruciating all at the same time.

  They were still a block away when she caught the first scent of hot pastry in the air, then the coffee itself as they drew closer to the green-and-white-striped awnings that spread over the crowd of tables on the terrace. All around the café, powdered sugar was scattered on the sidewalk, like a faint drift of snow.

  Tristan turned to her. “When I was a kid growing up here, I always thought the sugar was something magical. Like Christmas.”

  “It seems that way to me now. Like fairy dust on the sidewalks. Like something that could only happen in this city.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He smiled a little, curled her fingers in his, and his gaze caught hers. “You understand me, Sophie.”

  She nodded, stunned, yet she knew just what he meant.

  He led her under the awning and they found a table right away, facing Jackso
n Square across the street. Immediately, a wizened old waiter approached, and Tristan told him, “Two café au laits and an order of beignets.” He turned to Sophie, leaned in and took her hand in his once more. “You do like chicory coffee and beignets?”

  “Better than almost anything.”

  Except, perhaps, his large, warm hand holding on to hers.

  The waiter returned in moments, setting two steaming mugs before them, along with a plate of the delicate, hot pastries Café du Monde was famous for, covered in fine, white powdered sugar.

  Tristan let her hand go to pick one up. “Damn, it’s hot. Why are they better when they burn your fingers?”

  Sophie laughed. “I don’t know why, but they are.” She picked one up herself, let her teeth sink in. The sugar melted on her lips, on her tongue.

  When she looked up Tristan was watching her closely. A shiver ran over her skin.

  “What?” she asked him.

  “You eat that beignet like it’s…a small treasure.”

  “It is, don’t you think?” She took another lovely bite.

  He smiled, then reached out and used his thumb to wipe some sugar from her lip. She wanted to let her tongue dart out, to taste the sweetness of his skin. But she didn’t do it.

  “Who are you, Sophie?” he asked, his voice low.

  “What do you mean?”

  He was quiet a moment. “You’re very beautiful.”

  Her cheeks heated. She didn’t know what to say. She only knew that she was pleased he thought so. Hell, she was thrilled.

  “You’re blushing,” he said. “But you are beautiful, you know. I want to draw you, all those delicate bones. Like a bird, you are.” He reached out again, and this time his fingertips grazed her cheek. Her skin was immediately on fire. “Tell me something about you.”

  Yes, touch me.

  “What…what do you want to know?”

  “Anything. Everything. Where do you come from? How did you end up here, in my city, in my shop?”

  “I come from…everywhere, I guess. I’ve traveled a lot.” She took a sip of the strong, rich coffee, buying time. She wasn’t sure what to tell him. Did he really want to hear this? But he watched her so intently, she realized he did, or he wouldn’t have asked. He was that kind of man. “I grew up in Barstow, a small town in Southern California.”