Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  I winced at the memory. “Not my best moment, for sure. But he deserved it. I’ve never met a more asinine, self-important, son of a—”

  “Keep it up and I’ll cancel your birth certificate!” my mother warned.

  “—rabid crawdad in my life,” I finished, smiling.

  Even at thirty-one, I wasn’t allowed to curse in her presence. Some things never changed.

  The Colonel chuckled. “You didn’t think the boy got the nickname ‘the Beast’ by bein’ all rainbows and butterflies, did you?”

  A beast he is, but a boy he most certainly is not. I remembered the breadth of Jackson’s shoulders, the deep rumble of his voice, that hard, burning stare. The thought of it made me squirm in my seat.

  Because I hated him, not because I found him attractive. Obviously.

  My cheeks burning again, I stuffed another forkful of eggs into my mouth.

  “Snapped his head off?” Mama pushed her glasses up her nose, took a seat opposite me, and leaned over the table, all ears.

  I told a shortened version of the events at the restaurant last night. When I was finished, she took her glasses off, tsked, and patted my hand.

  “Just goes to show that money is no substitute for class, chère. The true measure of a man is how he treats those less fortunate than him, make no mistake.”

  That was a reference to my late father, a Harvard-educated attorney who disappointed his wealthy parents when he decided to dedicate his life to helping minorities in the poorest communities of Louisiana instead of following in his father’s footsteps and pursuing corporate law, and then a spot on the judicial bench. His parents’ disappointment turned to outrage when he married my mother. Marrying “down” simply wasn’t done by a Hardwick, especially when “down” included brown.

  My mother was the first woman of color to marry into the Hardwick family tree.

  Soon after I was born, my father was cut from his parents’ wills. I’d never met my paternal grandparents, and God help them if I ever did. The tongue-lashing I gave Jackson Boudreaux would sound like a love song in comparison.

  “Anyway it doesn’t matter because I’ll never see him again,” I said, finishing my food. “Now I really need to get a move on or I’ll be late for the produce shipment—”

  Mama started to cough. Violent, dry, hacking coughs that racked her body and made her eyes water and her face turn scarlet.

  “Mama!” I jumped to my feet and went to her. Gripping her shoulder, I was surprised by how frail the bones felt under my hand.

  “I’m fine,” she rasped, waving me away. “I’m just a little dry, chère, I need a glass of—”

  A second round of coughing stole her words and bent her in half at the waist.

  As I started to panic, the Colonel went to her other side and gently rubbed her back. “Easy, now, Davina, just take it easy, girl,” he said softly. He glanced up and met my gaze.

  I knew from his look that this coughing fit wasn’t the first she’d had today. My body went cold. What was she hiding from me?

  I rushed to the sink and poured water from the tap into a glass. My hand shook when I offered it to her.

  “Thank you, baby,” she said weakly after she’d swallowed it. “That’s better.”

  I sat across from her again. Her skin had taken on an unhealthy ashen hue, and little beads of perspiration glistened at her hairline. Like mine, her hands were trembling.

  I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but something about this smelled bad enough to gag a maggot.

  I looked my mother straight in the eye and said firmly, “Mama. You better spit out the truth right now or I’m gonna cream your corn, as Daddy used to say. What did Doc Halloran really tell you about that cough?”

  Something crossed her face. It was an expression I’d never seen my vibrant, carefree, and confident mother wear—an awful mix of resignation, sadness, and, worst of all, fear.

  When she said quietly, “Owen, would you please give us a moment?” all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  The Colonel gently kissed my mother’s head. “Of course, Davina.” He squeezed her shoulders, shot me a worried look, and left, quiet as a kitchen mouse.

  Then my mother gathered my hands in hers and started to talk, but I only heard a single word. A word that made my heart stop beating and my soul bleed.

  Cancer.

  CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS

  Makes 4 servings

  4 cups water

  1 cup stone-ground grits

  3 tablespoons butter

  2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese

  1 pound raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

  6 slices bacon, chopped

  4 teaspoons lemon juice

  2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped

  1 cup scallions, sliced

  1 clove garlic, minced

  kosher salt

  freshly ground pepper

  Preparation

  In stockpot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, add grits, salt, and pepper, and cook until water is absorbed, about 20 minutes.

  Remove from heat and stir in butter and cheese.

  Fry the bacon in a large skillet until browned. Remove to paper towels, drain well, and chop.

  Rinse shrimp and pat dry. Add into bacon grease and cook until shrimp turn pink. Do not overcook.

  Add lemon juice, chopped bacon, parsley, scallions, and garlic, and sauté for 3 minutes.

  Spoon cooked grits into serving bowls. Add shrimp mixture on top. Serve immediately.

  FIVE

  JACKSON

  The feel of her warm, full lips around the head of my cock made me moan.

  “Fuck yes,” I whispered, looking down at her. “Don’t stop.”

  Beautiful, dark eyes stared up at me as she opened her lips wider and took me down her throat. My pelvis flexed of its own will, sending my hard cock even deeper into the wet heat of her mouth.

  So fucking good. Christ. So good.

  Naked, on her knees between my legs on the bed, she wrapped one hand around my shaft while the other gently fondled my balls.

  I was out of my mind with pleasure.

  Moaning again, I cupped her head in my hands and started to slowly fuck her mouth, careful not to go too fast, timing my thrusts with the stroke of her hand, the bob of her head. When she squeezed just under the engorged crown and lingered there, sucking and licking like a kitten with a bowl of cream, a shudder ran through my body.

  “Oh, you like that,” she whispered playfully. “Let’s find out what else you like.”

  Releasing my cock, she rose and straddled my hips, smiling down at me. My hands encircled her small waist. She reached down and grabbed my stiff cock again, and then began to slide it slowly between her legs, over and around her wet folds, rolling her hips, teasing me. I let her play and slid my hands up to her breasts.

  She gasped when I pinched her nipples.

  She had perfect tits, round and full but not too big, the weight of them lush and feminine in my hands. I sat up and sucked a rosebud nipple into my mouth, loving the sound of her soft groan as my tongue circled the hard bud. She arched into my mouth, her fingers still lazily stroking my erection.

  I bit down gently on her nipple, and she gasped again.

  Something about that sound made me feel like an animal. Like a powerful, hungry animal. Suddenly I desperately needed to be inside her.

  With a low snarl, I flipped her onto her back. She lay there, blinking up at me with wide eyes, her lips parted, panting softly, a beautiful flush all over her chest. Her dark hair spread wild over the pillow. Her bare skin gleamed in the low light, a rich golden hue like poured honey.

  I’d never seen anything as fucking perfect in my entire life.

  “Jax,” she breathed.

  Her thighs were clasped around my hips, slightly trembling. I pressed forward, flexing my pelvis, finding her soft and open, ready for me. She arched her back and slid her arms around my shoulders. Her e
yelids drifted closed as I pushed slowly into the heaven of her tight, wet pussy.

  I gave her my weight. With one hand under her incredible heart-shaped ass and the other fisted in her hair, I started to fuck her, kissing her neck, instinctively biting her when she cried out in pleasure as I thrust deeper inside. She met my every thrust with an upward cant of her hips, her breasts bouncing against my chest, her soft moans of pleasure ringing in my ears.

  “Oh God,” she moaned. “God, yes. Please—Jax—”

  “You’re so beautiful,” I said hoarsely, staring down at her. A shockwave of heat surged outward from my spine, engulfing my pelvis and cock, making me throb deep inside her.

  Her moans turned broken. On the edge of orgasm, she stiffened beneath me.

  With the first hard clench of her pussy around my pulsing dick, I lost myself. I was a man no more. I was only blood and bone and sinew, a mindless thing striving toward the end that ached inside me. I became the thing I’d heard people call me behind my back, the nickname whispered as I passed them on the street.

  I became a beast, fucking this beautiful woman with a savagery that terrified me.

  “Bianca!” I shouted, my entire body jerking as I spilled inside her.

  She clawed her fingernails into my back and, with her thighs and hands and whispered words of love, urged me on.

  My own moans and the jerking of my body woke me from the dream.

  Panting, sweating, my aching cock gripped in my fist, I stared up at the ceiling, blood roaring through my veins. For a long, disoriented moment, I lay in bed, trying to get my bearings. Finally I began to weakly laugh.

  I hadn’t had a wet dream since I was a teenager.

  I sat up. The sticky sheets pooled around my waist. “Jesus, Jackson,” I muttered, looking at the mess I’d made all over my hand, stomach, and poor, unsuspecting bedsheets. “You need to get out more.”

  I rose and padded into the bathroom, the marble floor cold as a mausoleum’s under my bare feet. Why the hell I’d done the entire house in marble was a question I’d asked myself many times since moving into this echoing maze of a mansion four years ago. Every footstep could be heard throughout the place. Every pin drop sounded like a gunshot. Even acres of Turkish rugs did little to muffle the echoes. It was like living inside the loudest tomb in the world.

  Still distracted by thoughts of the dream, I quickly showered and dressed.

  It was so unlike me to have that kind of vivid, visceral dream. I found it unsettling. I never remembered my dreams. Sleep for me was always like stepping off a cliff and falling into an endless black hole of nothingness.

  Thanks to Bianca Hardwick, last night was not a black hole of nothingness. She was as snappy as an alligator, but damn that woman was hot. In fact, that smart mouth of hers only added to her heat.

  Looking at myself in the mirror above the dresser, I ran a hand over my face. I wonder if she likes beards.

  A rap on the doorframe pulled me abruptly out of my thoughts.

  “Mornin’, sir,” said Rayford, standing in the doorway.

  As usual, he was dressed impeccably in black suit and tie, his jaw freshly shaved, his bearing upright and elegant despite his age.

  Not that I actually knew his age. That was a carefully guarded secret, something perhaps my own parents didn’t know. He’d worked for them for over forty years as their butler, among other things, before relocating with me to New Orleans. At the time he’d said he wanted to be closer to his family, as he grew up here, but we both knew the truth.

  He was afraid what would happen if he left me alone.

  “Rayford,” I said, nodding. “Good morning. Is he up?”

  “Yes, sir, Charlie’s just gettin’ him cleaned up now. They should both be down for breakfast in a few minutes. Will you be dinin’ at home this mornin’?”

  His benign expression revealed nothing, but I knew he was wondering how the hell I was going to manage without a chef. Thanks to an upbringing that included an army of cooks, housekeepers, and other household staff, I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life.

  “I don’t know yet.” I paused. “Does Charlie—?”

  “She does, sir,” he said, knowing I’d been about to ask if the nanny could cook. “I asked her yesterday if she’d be able to fill in for a day or two until we could find a new chef. I already rang the service, so we should have a few applicants to interview by tomorrow.” A hint of a smile crossed his face. “I doubt Charlie has Bianca Hardwick’s talent, but she can probably make a sandwich for you and somethin’ appropriate for Cody.”

  He disappeared with a murmured good-bye, leaving me wondering just what he meant by bringing up Bianca Hardwick.

  Oh fuck. Did I yell out her name in my sleep?

  Picturing my orgasmic shout echoing all over the house, I went red in the face.

  When my cell phone rang, I answered it more abruptly than usual. “What?” I snapped, cheeks burning.

  “Good morning, Mr. Boudreaux!” chirped a young male voice.

  It was Matthew Clark, the event coordinator from the Wounded Warrior Project. He’d been working with me for months on the upcoming benefit dinner and fortunately was one of those people who took nothing personally. I could’ve told him I thought there was a tree stump in a Louisiana swamp that had a higher IQ than he did, and he would’ve heartily laughed and agreed.

  He said, “I’m just calling to go over some last-minute details for the event on the fifteenth. Most importantly, I’d like to speak with your chef so we can finalize the menu and have the menu cards printed up. Is now a good time?”

  Shit. The menu. My chef.

  “No,” I growled, “it isn’t. I’ll . . .” Think of something, genius! “I’ll fax the menu over to you no later than tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, great!” said Matthew, with the enthusiasm of a man with zero interests outside of work. “Looking forward to it! The donors are always so keen to see what’s on the menu. You wouldn’t believe how seriously this group takes food. The better the food, the better the donations!” He gasped. “Oh—and the wine list! I completely forgot!”

  Wine list? There’s supposed to be a fucking wine list? I was really beginning to regret that comment about the runny eggs.

  “I’ll have it all over to you tomorrow!” I barked, and hung up the phone.

  I strode from my bedroom, took the elevator to the first floor, and found Rayford in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper at the big white marble island.

  I said, “Where do you think Gregory would’ve left his notes about the benefit dinner?”

  Ever tranquil, Rayford calmly sipped his coffee and looked at me over the rims of his reading glasses. “He didn’t leave any notes, sir,” he said. “He packed up everything he had—recipe books, notebooks, them fancy Japanese knives—and cleared outta here like a scalded cat. Don’t expect he’ll be takin’ your calls, either,” Rayford added serenely, “seein’ as how he said you were colder than a penguin’s balls and he wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

  Wonderful.

  I had three hundred people arriving for a benefit dinner at my home in two weeks, and I had no menu, no wine list, and no one to put any of it together.

  “Fuck,” I said, making Rayford snort with laughter.

  Then I had a brilliant idea.

  SIX

  BIANCA

  The rest of the day passed with all my senses dulled like I was underwater. Shock, I suppose. And denial. I just couldn’t believe things were as bad as they apparently were.

  Stage three. It sounded more like a movie set than a diagnosis.

  “You all right, boo?” asked Eeny with concern when she caught me staring into space over a big pot bubbling with jambalaya at the stove. It was my mother’s recipe, the comfort food I always turned to in times of stress. The waitstaff had just eaten, as usual before the restaurant opened for dinner, and first service would soon begin, but I had no idea how I was going to make it th
rough tonight.

  “I’m . . .”

  What? What was I? There wasn’t a word. Finally I settled on, “Fine. Just tired is all. Couldn’t sleep last night.”

  Chuckling, Eeny patted me on the shoulder. “That explains those bags under your eyes.”

  From across the kitchen, Hoyt called, “Looks like you been et by a wolf and shit over a cliff, dawlin’.”

  When I turned to glare at him, Eeny said, “Somebody had to say it!”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Really? Somebody had to say I look like I was eaten by a wolf and shit over a cliff? That’s something someone really needed to tell me?”

  My aggravated tone made Hoyt whistle. “Aw, now c’mon, Miss Bianca, I’m only teasin’.” He paused, squinting in my direction. “Y’all actually look like somebody died.”

  My throat closed. I turned back to the pot and stared down into it, stirring furiously with the wooden spoon while blinking back tears.

  “I’m just tired,” I repeated forcefully, feeling Eeny’s gaze on my face. “Now could everyone please get to work?”

  For a moment her colorful bulk didn’t move from my peripheral vision. Then she walked off, the skirts of her yellow-and-orange-striped caftan swinging. “Make you a gris-gris,” she said as she went, “for protection against whatever’s ailin’ you.”

  Eeny was always making someone one of her good luck voodoo amulets for whatever was ailing them. She had at least ten of her own hidden in small burlap bags in her pockets or strung around her neck at any time. You always knew when she was approaching by the tinkling.

  But it wasn’t me who needed protection. It was Mama. Mama who had stage three lung cancer, no health insurance, and no savings, because like me she’d plowed all her money into the restaurant. We were both so broke we didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Though the restaurant was busy, we’d only been open six months, and I was up to my neck in debt and operating expenses. She wouldn’t qualify for Medicare until she turned sixty-five next year, and by then she might be—