Oh, why did those words constrict her chest like that? Maybe it was the image of Luc as a little boy, lost and alone with nothing but his grandfather’s music to comfort him. Nothing to do with him cherishing her gift.
“I will be back,” he said and went outside. A few minutes later, he returned with more electronics, all of which took him some time to set up and turn on before he pushed every stick of furniture away from the center of the room. “First of all, there are things I want, but if you don’t want them, then you don’t have to say yes.”
“What kind of things?”
“I want you in my tasting room, selling the wine.”
She suppressed the wave of hope that worked its giddy way out of her heart.
“But first…” When he dropped the needle onto one of the disks, it let out a funny tearing sound, which made her jump slightly, before the notes emerged from two speakers he’d put on the counter.
The music started. Violins swelled, and a man’s voice, melodic and crackly, started singing.
Luc looked her in the eye. “May I please have this dance, Abby?”
“What are you—”
“May I have your first dance?”
Letting out a hot whoosh of air, she nodded. One of his arms circled her, while his other hand grasped hers—warm and firm—and he twirled her into the center of the room.
It was an entirely different sensation from what she’d experienced with those men encroaching on her downstairs. That had been sexual, sweaty and frenzied in a way she hadn’t been comfortable with. This, while still sensual, was…beautiful.
As he led her around the room with nothing but the palm of one hand and the length of his body, Abby felt herself getting more than swept away.
“I danced once before.”
“Oh?”
“Downstairs, one night, with George and another friend.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was freeing, I suppose.”
He smiled.
With a hard sigh that he had to have felt through her chest, she said, “But this, this is better.”
“Good.” After a few more turns, he asked against her ear, “Do you know what else I want, Abby?”
She shook her head.
“I want to be your first again. From now on, I want to be the one you do new things with. Forever. Always.”
She was breathless. “That’s…that’s sweet, but—”
“I also want to be the last. The last one to touch you and make love to you. I want to be the first and the last. The only one for you. Will you let me? Will you let me be that?”
Abby looked away, her eyes alighting on that mountain through the window before he turned them and it disappeared from view. Goodness, she wanted him. Only him.
A smile lit her face, and she whispered, “Yes.”
* * *
They danced for another three songs before the heat between them got to be too much. A different heat than what they’d had before. All the shame, the fear, and the doubt was gone, and in its place was a hot, hot tenderness.
Abby felt it in the touch of his lips when he kissed her, in the stroke of his fingers. It was in the brush of his face against hers, his mouth at the crook of her neck, his eyes scorching nerve endings she’d never even realized existed.
“I’m not innocent,” she said.
She felt his smile against her skin. “No?”
“I’m a sinner, Luc. I’m a sinner at heart. Isaiah knew it. God’s in on it. And now that I’ve come to terms with it, I want to enjoy it. Can you help me do that?”
“Oh, ma belle,” he muttered close to the side of her face, his hands moving all the while, stroking, pressing. Good Lord, the man’s hands were amazing. Rough and hard, but gentle. Somehow, her shirt was twisted up and away, a bra cup shoved to the side as one of his blunt fingers rasped against her tight nipple. “Je vais te baiser.” He smirked. “I want you so badly.” His other hand was in her hair, wrapped in it, tugging so she could watch him do these things to her.
No, not to her—with her.
She leaned back to shove up his sweater and got lost while admiring the muscles and hair and glorious skin of his chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it? It wasn’t touching yourself with soap, wrapped in decades of shame, accepting the bad that came crashing in right behind the good.
This was none of the things she’d left behind. This—in this place, with Luc against her—was her choice.
My choice.
The thought sent her forward, pulling down his chin to bite his lip. And he liked that. She could tell he liked it by the grunt that puffed out. Another bite, lower, before drifting to the side, where his skin was soft but smelled so male. How did I not know what a real man smelled like before Luc? And why does this one smell so damned good?
Freedom had taken on its own smell: woodsmoke and man. Bittersweet until just this minute. It smelled like the mountain, which she’d never expected. No, in her mind, freedom had smelled like sea salt and the unknown of the world’s teeming cities. Boat exhaust and city buses. Not this. Not home right here, with him.
“You’re my freedom,” she said, meaning it.
“And you mine, mon amour.”
Another bite as his rough fingers caressed her flesh, left marks she’d have to examine in depth later—marks that would eventually fade and disappear. Nothing like the marks God had left her with.
Isaiah, whispered the voice in her head. Not God.
She tugged at his sweater.
“I can’t… This keeps sliding down. Can you take it off?” she asked, and he complied. Immediately, gratifyingly.
“You, too. Come on.” Oh, his impatience did things to her. To be wanted. Was that what this was? No. No, because the men she’d danced with, the ones who’d touched her, they’d wanted her, too. But she hadn’t wanted them this way.
He struggled with his sweater, and she watched him for a moment, enjoyed the way he stepped back, unabashed, ready. He’s undressing for me. Again, without a doubt, this was what she wanted. And to undress for him, to give herself.
“What’s that mean?”
“What?”
“Mon amour. What you said a second ago.”
He stopped moving, his eyes meeting hers, so sweet and blue. So different from the day they’d met. “It means my love,” he whispered, drawing close once his sweater fell to the floor. He spoke against her ear. “I love you, Abby. More than the vines or the grapes or the dirt or wine. You’re my everything. My raison d’être.” He swallowed, the sound dry. “You are home. My home.”
She hiccupped at those words and the pressure they built in her chest—in her heart, where she’d never expected to feel so full. “And you’re mine, Luc.”
His lips curved against her ear, smiling what she knew was a handsome, warm smile. Tilting back, she took him in. Happy. He looked happy.
I did that, she thought, with the most powerful thrill of her life. I made this broken man whole.
And goodness, that did things to her body. She dipped to work at the laces of her boots and the buttons of her shirt, and the thoughts in her head turned to sensations in her body. Heavy and warm, the need settled between her legs. She brimmed with energy. Like syrup or fire or…or wine. Like a bright, thick, strong red wine.
Feeling more blessed than she had ever been, Abby sank into the arms of the man she’d had the pleasure of making whole again and gave thanks.
She must have made a noise as she watched him undress, because he stopped to look at her. She drank him in, knowing with absolute certainty, for the first time since she’d left the Church—maybe the first time in her life—that there was, indeed, something divine smiling down upon her.
Read on for an excerpt from the first book in
the Blank Canvas series by Adriana Anders
1
Old hag in need of live-in helper to abuse. Nothing kinky.
Uma read the ad again.
Jesus. Was she really going to do this?
Yes. Yes, she was. She’d come all the way back to Virginia for the hope its free clinic offered, and if this was the only job she could get while she was in town, she should consider herself lucky to have found it. Especially, she thought with a wry smile, since it’s one for which I’m so qualified.
The smile fell almost immediately. Everything was moving so fast. Not even in town for a day, and here she was, standing on a stranger’s front porch. The house, thankfully, wasn’t even close to the haunted manor she’d imagined. Then again, who knew what waited behind that chipped red door?
Taking a big, bolstering breath, Uma slipped the newspaper clipping back into her pocket and knocked.
There was a light thunk on the other side, followed by what sounded like footsteps, a scuffling, and then nothing. She waited, trying to hear more over the drone of a nearby lawn mower, and thought of all the reasons this was a horrible idea.
Abuse? Abuse? How could she possibly take this job in the shape she was in?
But as usual, the desperate reality of her situation pushed all arguments aside. Food, shelter, money. There was no arguing with necessity, even if this place felt off.
And the situation was perfect. No one could find her here. In theory. She was pretty sure her new employer wouldn’t be phoning up any references or doing a background check. The woman must be desperate too. She’d practically hired Uma over the phone, for goodness’ sake.
Someone should have answered by now.
Uma knocked again. Hard, her hand starting to tremble.
Something moved in her peripheral vision, startling Uma into a gasp. The curtain in the front window?
The cloth twitched a second time. The woman was watching. Making Uma wait out here, overdressed in the unseasonable heat, sweat gathering along her hairline. Okay, fine. She could see how it made sense to check out a stranger before letting her in. She’d give the lady a few more minutes to finish her perusal. If only she could get some air. Just a little air in this stifling heat.
When there was no response to her third knock, Uma panicked. According to the oversize watch on her arm, three minutes had passed. Three minutes spent standing on a porch, enduring the scrutiny of a self-proclaimed abuser who represented her only chance at a job. Not the auspicious beginning she had hoped for.
It was all so familiar too. Maybe not the exact circumstances, but the feelings she lived with on a daily basis—insecurity, worry, fear clawing at her chest, crowding her throat so each inhale was a struggle. Before they could overwhelm her, she shoved them away and walked down the rickety porch stairs and around to the side of the house, where she could gather herself unseen beneath the first-floor windows. She needed to breathe.
Uma took a shaky breath in, then out, another in, before biting into the meaty pad of her thumb. The ritual was safe, easy to sink back into, the shape of her teeth already worn into her hand. Just a little while, she thought. Until I sort myself out, and then… Then she had no idea what. She had nowhere to go, nothing left to aspire to.
One step at a time. That was her life now. No planning, no future.
She was vaguely aware that the lawn mower drew near, no longer background noise, buzzing close and echoing the beat of her heart. She’d have to push off this wall sooner or later, but the warm clapboard was solid against her back, and along with the sharp smell of freshly clipped grass, it kept her right here, present, in her body. A few more breaths and she’d move. Time to decide whether she’d head up to the house to give it another try or cut her losses and take off, find something else.
Yeah, right.
The problem was she wouldn’t be cutting her losses by leaving—she’d be compounding them. How on earth could she go back on the road with the gas gauge on E and ten bucks to her name?
Strike that. After this morning’s breakfast, she had only $6.54.
Uma sank down onto her haunches, the ground squelching under her heels, and squeezed her eyes shut so hard that black dots floated behind the lids.
She had nothing left—no home, no job, no way of making money, no skills but one…and Joey had destroyed any chance of pursuing her true livelihood when he’d smashed her cameras. Doing that, he’d destroyed her. Six months later, she was still trapped.
If she let herself feel it, there’d be no shortage of pain, inside and out. As usual, her wrist under the watch was raw, and her skin itched everywhere. It must be psychosomatic. It couldn’t still itch after all this time, could it?
Visualizing his marks on her skin was enough to make her hyperventilate again. And the tightness was there, that constriction that had left her constantly out of breath these past several months. She’d thought the miles would clear the airways, but they hadn’t.
And now she was back. Back in Virginia. Shallow breaths succeeded one another, pinching her nostrils and rasping noisily through her throat. Joey was close. Two hours away by car. Way too close for comfort. She swore she could feel him looking for her, closing in on her.
Something cold and wet swiped Uma’s hand, snapping her back to the present. She opened her eyes with a start, only to come face-to-face with a dog. A black one with a tan face, floppy ears, and pretty brown eyes rimmed in black, like eyeliner. It smiled at her.
It was something else, that dog, with that sweet look on its face. Like it gave a crap. Weird. The expression was so basically human, it pulled back the tunnel vision and let some light seep in. The dog nudged her chest, hard, and pushed its way into her arms in a big, warm tackle-hug. Uma had no choice but to hug back.
Its cold nose against her neck shocked a giggle out of her. “Oh, all right. You got moves, dog.”
“She does,” said a deep voice from above.
Uma’s head snapped back in surprise, sounding a dull thunk against the clapboard. Oh God. Where had he come from?
“She’s a barnacle.”
Uma nodded dully, throat clogged with fear. Stop it, she berated herself. You’ve got to stop freaking out at every guy who says two words to you. She tried for a friendly smile. It felt like a grimace.
The man just stood there, a few feet away, looking at her. She waited. He waited. He looked like a big, creepy yard worker or something. Tall. Really, really tall.
“Gorilla,” he said.
“What?”
“My dog, Squeak. She’s a guerrilla fighter. Thought about callin’ her Shock ’n’ Awe.”
“Squeak?” She stared up at him, craning her neck with the effort. She was wrong before. To say he was tall was an understatement. The man blocked out the sun. With the light behind him, it was hard to see much, aside from the big, black beard covering half his face and the shaggy mane around it. His voice was deep, gravelly. Burly. It went with the hair and the lumberjack shirt. You didn’t see guys like him where she came from.
“Wasn’t her name originally. She earned it.” When he talked, the words emerged as if they hurt, purling out one slow syllable at a time. As if being sociable was an effort. Yet, for some reason—for her—he was trying.
He waited, probably for her to say something in response, but she’d been running too long to be any good at repartee. She’d turned into more of a watch-and-wait kind of girl.
The man finally continued, tilting his chin toward the house she was leaning on. “You her next victim?”
Uma winced, embarrassed. “Guess so.”
He lifted his brows in semi-surprise before turning to the side and stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of jeans that had seen better days. They were stained and ratty and littered with what looked like burn holes.
Backlit by the sun, his profile was interesting, despite the bushy lower half of his face. Or maybe because of it. He looked like something
you’d see stamped into an ancient coin—hard and noble. The scene came easily into focus: clad in something stained and torn, wading into the thick of battle with his men, sword in hand, face smeared with enemy blood, and teeth bared in a primal war cry. Her hands came to life, itching for a camera.
She blinked and emerged to see him as he was: a filthy redneck with a rug on his face. He was intimidating, to say the least. Not the kind of guy she’d choose to work in her yard—not looking all roughed up like he did.
But this new phase of life was about taking back what Joey had stolen. It was about courage, and because this guy was so intimidating, Uma decided to face him head-on. Show no fear. Another rule for this new self that she was constantly reinventing: no more letting men intimidate her.
“Help me up?” she asked.
After a brief hesitation, he complied. His grasp was rough and solid, ridged with calluses in places and polished smooth in others. For a moment, after pulling her up to stand, he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he turned it over and eyed the crescent her teeth had left behind.
She fought the urge to snatch it away.
He raised his brows but finally let her go without a word. Burning with the need to put some distance between them, she took a hurried step back.
“Thanks,” she said as he squatted down to scratch Squeak roughly under the chin. The dog’s eyes closed in ecstasy.
Forcing herself to steady her nerves, Uma caught his gaze and held it. He was even scarier without the sun behind him, skin marred by a shiny, white scar along his hairline and a dark bruise on a cheek already peppered with errant beard hairs. His nose was crooked and thick, no doubt broken in a barroom brawl or something equally disreputable. She envisioned him in a smoky basement, duking it out for some seedy underground boxing title. Carved squint lines surrounded eyes that were a cool blue.
Or…oh. No. She realized with a start that his left eye was blue and the right was dark gold. She was instantly thrown off-kilter. Which one was she supposed to focus on? She blinked and turned aside, uncomfortable with the way he so effortlessly unsettled her.
In His Hands Page 33
