Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  After a while, she said, “You’re very tall.”

  I blurted, “I’ll buy you platform boots.”

  Her laugh was muffled in my neck. Her perfume was in my nose. A soft curl of her hair was caught at the corner of my mouth, and I was in heaven.

  She lifted her head and looked into my eyes. Could she see the stars there?

  She teased, “I see someone in the family enjoys hugs.”

  There was a good possibility she was referring to the ten-inch steel pipe in my pants, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment by mentioning it. Instead I said, “Lucky me.”

  My voice was so rough it sounded like I’d spent the last few days screaming.

  She swallowed. Her lashes lowered, and then she was looking at my mouth. Her arms were still tight around my neck. She was so close I could see the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat, inviting me to touch it, kiss it, lick it gently with my tongue.

  “What are you thinking right now?” she asked softly.

  I closed my eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

  “It’s that dirty, huh?”

  Fuck. Was she flirting with me or joking? I really needed to adjust my crotch but didn’t risk moving my arms. I whispered, “Filthy.”

  Her breathing changed. I turned my head slightly, and the tip of my nose was touching her neck. My lips were so close to her skin, so fucking close . . .

  In a voice so faint it was almost inaudible, she said, “Two years.”

  I was too far under her spell to speak, so I just gave a little shake of my head to indicate I didn’t know what she meant.

  She tucked her head down closer to my chest, like she was hiding again. “You asked me how long it had been since the last time . . . I had sex. The answer is two years.”

  My exhalation shuddered out of me. I fought with every ounce of self-control I had not to crush my mouth against hers, to stand motionless while the heat and tension built between us, while her heart pounded so jaggedly against my chest.

  I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. I wasn’t going to push myself on her. If—if—she wanted me, I had to let her come to that realization herself. Though I ached to throw her on the bed and bury myself in her, I had to let her be in control.

  I couldn’t live with myself if she ever felt obligated.

  “That’s nothing,” I said, my voice faint. “I’ve got you beat by a mile.”

  When her arms loosened, I almost broke and kissed her, but I forced myself to stand still and allow her to pull away. She looked up at me with bright eyes and clasped her hands behind her back.

  “Why don’t you pick out what you’d like me to wear for dinner. Let’s see what kind of taste you’ve got, Boudreaux. I’m going to fix my hair.”

  She went into the bathroom and gently closed the door behind her, leaving me standing alone, wishing there was something I could do to save myself from falling in love with another woman who would never love me back, but knowing it was already too late.

  CREOLE OKRA GUMBO

  Makes 6 servings

  4 tablespoons butter

  kosher salt

  1 tablespoon cayenne pepper

  1½ pounds boneless chicken thighs, skin removed, cut into pieces

  4 ounces tasso ham, cut into 1² cubes

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  2 teaspoons thyme, minced

  1 bay leaf

  1 yellow onion, minced

  1 red bell pepper, minced

  1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced

  6 large fresh tomatoes, skin, core, and seeds removed

  2 tablespoons tomato paste

  6 cups chicken stock

  1 pound okra, trimmed, sliced ½ inch thick

  6 cups cooked white rice

  Preparation

  Melt butter in Dutch oven.

  Season chicken with salt and cayenne on both sides, cook for 10 minutes or until browned.

  Add tasso and garlic, cook for 5 minutes.

  Add thyme, bay leaf, onion, and bell pepper. Cook until browned, 5–10 minutes.

  Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened.

  Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour.

  Melt remaining butter in a nonstick skillet. Cook okra until slightly crisp, 8–10 minutes, then add to gumbo. Cook gumbo additional 15 minutes. Discard bay leaf.

  Serve over hot white rice.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  BIANCA

  When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left.

  A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk.

  Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband.

  Husband. My nerves went all catawampus.

  “Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well.

  My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color flattered my complexion. I was glad I’d worn strappy nude sandals instead of flats, because they were elegant enough to make the whole ensemble sing.

  “Hair down.”

  I jumped. Jackson stood in the open doorway, eating me up with his eyes. He made a gesture to indicate my updo held in place with its usual clip.

  “Oh. Um. Okay.” I released the clip and shook my hair out. It fell around my shoulders in a swirling cloud.

  Jackson looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut.

  “Are you wearing that?” I asked, ignoring my thundering heartbeat.

  “Yes.” He didn’t even glance at himself, he just kept staring at me with wild caveman eyes that did all sorts of unusual things to my body.

  An idea started to gnaw at my brain, but I pushed it aside to concentrate on the situation at hand.

  “Okay, I’m saying this only to be helpful, not judgy, but I think your old leather jacket and jeans might not be the most appropriate thing to wear to dinner with the parents you haven’t seen in years. Who live in a castle. And probably dine on solid-gold plates.”

  When he didn’t respond, I added, “Also you clash with my outfit. Which I love, by the way. It’s beautiful. So . . .”

  His gaze drifted slowly down my body, then back up again—one long, lingering sweep that was unabashedly lustful. I had to put a hand on the counter to steady myself.

  He said, “Sure, I’ll change.”

  Without moving from the doorway, he shrugged off the jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. Both slithered to the floor in a rustle of fabric and sat there, leaking air.

  I sucked in a breath so loud it was almost a snort.

  If I thought my silk dress was beautiful, it was a rag in a sewer compared to Jackson’s body. The fine trail of down I’d found so bewitching led up from his abdomen to his chest, where it flared out between his nipples, a dusting of dark hair that was both erotic and exquisitely masculine. I was so used to seeing male models in magazines and online who were waxed to a neutered, eye-watering shine that this almost looked pornographic.

  Then there were the muscles. Lord, the muscles. He had them in places I didn’t know a person could have muscles, all sculpted and stacked and bulging, a pair of them shaped like a V from his hips to his crotch, like a neon sign advertising the way to his baby maker.

  And don’t get me started on his skin. Men should not be allowed to have skin that glows. Skin so golden and perfect it looks sprayed on, lik
e something out of an artist’s airbrush.

  He was big, he was beautiful, and he was giving me a look like he was about to pull my dress up and bend me over the sink, and it was all too much for my poor little ovaries, who did the sensible thing and fainted.

  “So this is what you do with all your free time,” I said, my voice a kitchen mouse’s squeak. “Work out.”

  His eyes burning blue fire, Jackson said softly, “Would you like to pick out my clothes for me? Since you’re in the mood to be helpful?”

  I tried to laugh but ended up sounding like I was attempting to expel a hairball from my throat. So attractive. “I’m sure you can manage.” I turned away, not trusting myself to walk past him into the room, and started fussing over my hair like the giant coward that I was.

  Our eyes met in the mirror. He didn’t smile, but I got the sense he wanted to. I got the sense that he was pleased as punch with himself, so I sent him a frown.

  He moved out of view. A moment later he returned holding one of the bags the driver had placed to the side of the wardrobe. He flipped it onto the bed, unzipped it, and rummaged around for a shirt, while I stared helplessly at all those spectacular muscles of his going to work.

  Seriously, was it necessary to have so many hard, bulging places on a body?

  Yes! roared my ovaries. Yes, it absolutely is!

  “What was that great big sigh for?” Jackson looked over his shoulder, caught me ogling him, and smirked.

  “Just a little gas,” I said, and smirked back.

  The smug bastard. He knew exactly what was going on. I bet my ovaries were on speed dial to his brain.

  Jackson chuckled. He pulled a dark-blue dress shirt from the bag, tossed it over his shoulders, and turned to face me as he slowly buttoned it up, staring at me with bedroom eyes the whole time, like a striptease in reverse.

  “Better,” I said once the last button had been done. “Now tuck.”

  “You sound like a wife already,” he protested mildly, but did as I said and tucked the ends of his shirt into his jeans. Of course this necessitated an unbuttoning of his fly, which revealed he was wearing white cotton briefs whose front seams were being tested by a muscle of a different kind, which looked huge and ready for business.

  I made a peep like a startled baby bird and whipped my head around so fast I nearly broke my own neck. Confronted with my reflection in the mirror, there was no denying the obvious: I was turned on as all get-out. My pupils were huge, my color was high, and my bosom was heaving like a bodice-ripper cover model’s.

  Dear Lord. I was sexually attracted to my fake fiancé.

  “Everything all right in there, Bianca?”

  I heard the laughter in his tone and wondered where in the room that heavy bronze obelisk was. I kept my voice even by a miracle of self-control. “Peachy keen.”

  He rapped on the doorframe. I glanced over to find him leaning against it with one shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest, his shirt buttoned and tucked in, the picture of casual confidence. “Ready?” he said, his voice husky.

  “For dinner,” I clarified.

  “Of course. What else would I be talking about?”

  He blinked at me, innocent as a lamb, and I knew I was in serious trouble.

  It’s only a business deal, I told myself as he held out his hand in invitation. Only a business deal, I kept repeating as we walked hand in hand from the room. Business, business, business.

  My lady bits were chiming in with some ideas of their own that were decidedly unbusinesslike, but after two years of practice it was easy to ignore them.

  By the time we entered the dining room, Jackson’s mood had gone from light to black as the bottom of the ocean during a hurricane.

  The room was dominated by a double-sided fireplace and a chandelier so large it had its own atmosphere. The table looked exactly like what I imagined Count Dracula’s dining table would be like. A long, coffin-black slab of wood dotted with silver candelabras, surrounded by black, elaborately carved chairs. Blood-red wine goblets lurked beside bone china place settings rimmed in gold. It was oddly terrifying.

  The grandfather clock on the wall gonged solemnly eight times, and the haunted castle vibe was complete.

  Maybe growing up here wasn’t all sunshine and roses after all.

  “Madam,” said the droopy-eyed manservant, materializing from nowhere so soundlessly I jumped. At my startled little exclamation, he bowed. “Aperitif?” he inquired with a flourish.

  My “Yes!” was so forceful he was taken aback. He blinked at me for a moment, then snapped his gloved fingers. Another servant glided soundlessly forward with a glass of champagne, which is when I realized the room was lined with uniformed servants, standing straight-backed and silent against the walls, gazing with blank expressions into space.

  It was the creepiest thing I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Sir?” said the head manservant to Jackson, who only scowled at him in response. The manservant bowed away and went to skulk in the corner.

  Under my breath I said to Jackson, “What the unholy Christmas miracle is this?”

  “My parents like to keep a full staff,” he said, looking around in distaste.

  I shrank a little closer to him. “I bet they’re single-handedly propping up the state’s unemployment rate.”

  “Bianca!”

  At the sound of my name booming through the room, I nearly screamed. But it was only Jackson’s father, appearing from the adjacent hallway with a big grin and his arms open wide like he was an emcee at a nightclub introducing the next act.

  “Oh! Hello, Mr. Boudreaux. I mean Brig.”

  He stood in front of me and clasped my shoulders. Still grinning, he gave me a friendly little shake. “You look wonderful. Wonderful!”

  Okay. This was really starting to get weird. I consoled myself that at least he hadn’t set the dogs on me.

  As if my thought had summoned them, Zeus and Apollo appeared in the doorway, then flopped on the floor in a mass of black fur, muscular limbs, and lolling tongues, effectively blocking that exit.

  “Thank you.” I smiled tentatively at Brig. He turned to Jackson, and his smile faltered exactly as it had when we’d first arrived.

  “Jackson.”

  “Brig.”

  Brig’s eyelid twitched at hearing his son using his first name. He struggled for a moment to find a topic of conversation. Jackson watched him do it with a ruthless slant to his lips.

  Brig decided on, “Thank you for changing out of that dreadful leather jacket.”

  Jackson went stiff. “That was Christian’s jacket,” he snarled.

  My ears perked up. Christian? His dead friend Christian? Cody’s father Christian? I had a terrible suspicion that jacket might mean a lot more to Jackson than an item of clothing normally would and suffered a bout of guilt that I’d asked him to take it off. I thought of all the times I’d seen him wear it, thinking what a crappy old thing it was, and my heart sank.

  “I made him put on a dress shirt for dinner,” I said into the thundering silence. “But I think that jacket looks great on him. Not everyone can pull off the vintage look.”

  Brig stared at me for a hair longer than was comfortable. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat.

  Oozing fury, Jackson stood beside me, a plank of wood bristling with rusty nails. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back so hard I thought he’d crush my bones.

  “So. Bianca. Jackson tells me you’re a chef?”

  “That’s right. I recently opened my first restaurant in New Orleans.”

  “How marvelous. I understand your mother was also in the restaurant business?”

  I glanced at Jackson, wondering exactly how much he’d told his father about me, and nodded. “She had a spot in the Ninth Ward for about twenty years before Hurricane Katrina wiped it out. She retired after that.”

  Brig looked distressed. “I’m sorry to hear that. She didn’t want to rebuild?”

  “We didn’t have the mon
ey to rebuild.”

  At the mention of money, Brig’s eyes glazed over. “Well. It’s wonderful that you’re carrying on the family tradition. Your mother must be very proud.”

  If I thought Jackson was stiff before, now he became an icicle. But he didn’t say a word. It was like he’d shut down all cylinders except the outrage one.

  I knew I was in the middle of an ancient family drama and was ticked at Jackson for not giving me a compass to navigate my way. Judging by his silent performance so far, I’d have to float the conversation for the rest of the night.

  But no matter how ticked at Jackson I was, I’d be damned if I’d let him get picked on. Especially by his own father. And there was no mistaking that last comment was a pointed jab.

  I looked Brig dead in the eye. “Oh, she is. But she’d be proud of me even if I were unemployed and living on food stamps. She’s not the kind of person who only loves her child unless she’s following her own definition of success.”

  I know I didn’t imagine the low intake of breath from the gathered servants or the way the room went electric. But I pretended I did, and so did Brig.

  He said quietly, “Of course not. Parents always love their children, even when they make it hard for us to do so.”

  He and Jackson locked eyes.

  Hello, giant squirming can of worms, please sit down and make yourself comfortable. If things got any more tense, I might shatter.

  With a squeak of wheels, Jackson’s mother rolled into the room.

  She was pale, blonde, and fragile looking, with the exception of her blue eyes, which were lioness fierce. One side of her mouth pulled into a grimace, one hand curled to a claw on her lap. Her hair was scraped severely off her face into a low bun. Around her neck she wore a triple strand of pearls so tight it was probably cutting off her circulation. Pushing her wheelchair was a stout, middle-aged woman in a starched white nurse’s uniform and rubber-soled shoes who looked like someone had threatened that everyone she ever knew would be murdered if she smiled.