by Alison Kent
And when he came, when he tossed back his head and cried out his release, when he returned to her, wrapped her in his arms and held her until she felt she would break, that’s when she gave him her love.
THEY LAY together afterwards in the utility room’s twin bed. It was a tight fit, but neither minded. They’d shed all of their clothes, and the nearness allowed them to experience the pleasures of intimacy with nothing in the way.
It was what Perry had been wanting forever. And the idea that she’d known Jack less than four days didn’t even make sense. What made sense was this. Being here with him. Skin to skin. Touching him and never saying a word.
She couldn’t even talk about what had happened outside. Words failed her, as did understanding. The loss of her parents had been a horrific event, but it was one she had learned to live with.
Whether or not he believed in ghosts, Jack was haunted. And she knew this wasn’t about his family. What he fought against, what he fended off, what he hid from, she didn’t know. She might never know. She only knew that was his truth.
All she could do was be what he needed. He was here and he was with her. For now, maybe for longer, that was enough.
She rolled toward him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her knee flung over his. He lay with his elbow beneath his head, and used the fingers of his other hand to play between her legs.
She pulled in a sharp breath, wishing the room wasn’t so dark, wanting to see his eyes. She supposed he didn’t want anything of the sort, not after the breakdown she’d witnessed outside.
His index finger was long and thick, and she loved how he used his hands, loved the way he teased her, stroking and circling and dipping in and out until she was panting and so very close to coming undone.
Shuddering, she kissed his chest, scrunching up her nose when his hair tickled. She found his nipple, swirled her tongue around the flat disc, used her fingertips to massage the muscle there.
He groaned, and his erection prodded her belly, bobbing against her as if knocking to come in. Smiling to herself, she pushed him onto his back and climbed over him, straddling his hips, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts swinging above his mouth.
He pressed them together, sucked at one nipple then at the other until moisture began to trickle down her thighs. She reached down and wrapped her hand around his shaft, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds.
He moved his hands to her hips, guiding her as she took him inside. She lowered herself slowly, leaning back and bracing her palms just above his knees for the ride.
It was a sweet grinding pressure, the up and down motion, the fullness of his erection spreading her wide. She pushed up on her knees. He followed, lifting his hips off the bed.
They came down together, and then he held her still, sliding his hands up her thighs, capturing her clit between his thumbs.
She strained against the sensations that seized her. She wasn’t ready. She wanted to wait. She hadn’t yet had enough of him, his mouth, his fingers, his cock.
And so she leaned over him, her palms flat on the bed above his shoulders, and took what she wanted from his mouth. She kissed him with a fierceness that surprised her. She hadn’t known how deeply her hunger ran, how very deeply her love did.
His return kiss matched her fever, his tongue sliding over hers, his lips bruising. He lifted one knee and bumped her sideways. She fell to the mattress; still buried inside her body, he followed her over.
And then he was above her, looming, hovering, groaning when he couldn’t wait anymore. He hooked her knees over his forearms and drove forward, again and again.
Since there wasn’t a headboard to keep her there, the pounding nearly drove her off the bed. The springs creaked and the frame shook until she finally planted her palms overhead to keep from bouncing against the wall.
And then she closed her eyes and rode out the storm, letting Jack take her where he wanted to go. He dropped his head to his chest, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his arms straining to bear the weight of his motion, his hips shaking as he came.
She followed him seconds later, the vibrating pressure between her legs the push that sent her over. She cried out, slapped her hands against the mattress, flexed her fingers into the sheet on either side of her hips and held on.
He ground down against her, and she straightened her legs, pushing her clit up against the base of his shaft. It was almost too much, the sharp bursts of pleasure bordering on pain, and she whimpered as he rolled them both to their sides.
“You okay?” he whispered, and she nodded.
“A bit too much of a good thing, is all,” she said, feeling the burn of raw skin.
He reached up, brushed her hair from her eyes. “You should’ve said something.”
“No. It was a good thing, remember?” She rubbed her face against his palm and purred.
“Yeah, well, let me…do this.” He eased his body from hers, then reached for the blanket they’d kicked to the end of the bed and pulled it over them both. “There. That’s better, yes?”
“Yes, much,” she said, nodding rapidly as if the movement would keep unexpected tears from spilling. After-sex hormonal overload, that was all it was. Tight-wire emotions finally set free.
“Perry?”
She sniffed. “Jack?”
“You’re not crying, are you?”
“Not really.” This was so embarrassing. “Just sort of…leaking.”
“If I scared you outside earlier, or hurt you—”
“No, it’s not that. Not really.” She wasn’t even sure she could explain it to herself.
And then she felt him tense. “If you don’t want to be here—”
“Oh, no. Don’t even think that for a minute.” She found his hand, cradled it between both of hers, lacing all of their fingers together. “There’s no place I want to be more.”
“Including your own bed?”
“Right now? No. It’s too big.”
“And this one’s not too small?”
“Size isn’t everything, you know.”
“Hmm. And here I’d been under the impression that it was the only thing that mattered.”
She sighed, loving how easy he was to be with, to tease with. “I suppose in some cases it does matter.”
“Such as?”
“Like when buying in bulk.”
He snorted. “Does anyone really need that much of anything? Think about it. You buy it, don’t use it, it goes bad. Then you’re out a lot of money on all those ruined condoms.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “So, less is more, then?”
“Less is at least worth considering,” he said.
“Sorta like quality versus quantity?”
He pulled his hand from hers, draped it over her hip and pulled her close, caressing her back and her bottom and the length of her thigh. She closed her eyes and tucked both of her hands beneath her cheek as if in prayer.
Because, in a way, that’s exactly what she was doing. Praying that he wasn’t going to walk out of her life. She knew so very little about him. She wasn’t ready to let him go.
“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here. It’s going to depend on where the case takes me.”
“Have you decided what to do next?”
“Beyond talking to Della in the morning?” He shook his head. “I’ll do that, find out exactly what drove her away from the warehouse, then I’ll decide.”
Perry asked the question she knew had to be asked, the question that had been eating at her all night. “Does that mean you believe in her now?”
He didn’t answer, and his hand stilled just long enough that Perry began to worry that he was thinking about leaving her alone in the bed.
But then his fingers began rubbing tight little circles on her hip, and his voice was dark when he said, “I’m not going to talk about it. About the reading. But, yeah. Whatever she can tell me about seeing Eckhardt? I’ll pay attention.”
JACK WOKE feel
ing beat instead of rested. Beat and cramped and uncomfortable, due to more than the bed. He was uncomfortable with the situation—being here with Perry and her aunt being upstairs, and her aunt knowing a lot more than he wanted anyone to know about his past.
It had been an off-the-books operation, an undercover assignment to infiltrate a human trafficking ring moving laborers from rural Thailand to L.A. He’d been taken on as a crew member on the cargo ship, and assigned to the galley, peeling potatoes, washing dishes, carting loaves of bread and buckets of broth to the men chained in the hold.
They had no clue that once they reached their destination they’d be working eighteen-hour days and have their contact with the outside world restricted. That they’d be subjected to slave-like labor conditions, held by induced indebtedness, and suffer non-payment of wages and the threat of deportation.
And what he’d done—freeing the men who’d been unaware they’d sold their souls to the devil when they’d paid for illegal transport to the States—had pretty much been the mission’s end.
It had pretty much been the end of his military career as well. Part of him regretted that it had gone down the way it had. But he’d considered his options, and found the good of the few to outweigh the good of the many.
Obviously, his superiors hadn’t agreed. When his choices came down to desk work or a discharge, he’d whipped out a quick “Hasta la vista, baby,” and gone into business for himself.
That business had now brought him Perry Brazille, and he was at his wit’s end. What the hell was he supposed to do when his work took him everywhere, and he had no idea when he’d get back to New Orleans? He didn’t even know her middle name.
He lay on his back, one arm hooked beneath his head, the other hooked around Perry where she’d backed up to him and was using his biceps for a pillow.
He wanted to wake her up slowly, to make love to her while she was still half asleep. No more of this power banging to rid himself of demons. He wanted to take his time with her, to learn and explore and enjoy.
But it was too late for any of that this morning, because in the next second he saw the light from the kitchen beaming down the hall and heard running water. Della filling the coffeemaker, he figured, easing out of the bed and slipping into his clothes.
He left his shoes for later and padded toward the only aroma guaranteed to get him moving. He found Della standing in the open back doorway, staring out at the rising sun.
He shivered, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached up into the cabinet for two mugs and set them next to the pot. Then he crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the counter, waiting for whatever she’d been saving up to say.
And since he’d expected something of the sort, her words didn’t surprise him. “I never was much of a parent to Perry,” she began. “I’m much too self-involved to take care of anything but myself. So realize that this is as disconcerting for me to ask as it is for you to hear, but what are your intentions toward my niece?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. The question was so traditional, and Della was anything but. Still, with the way she was staring toward the courtyard fountain…
Jack felt his face heat. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
“And it’s absolutely none of my business.” Della sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Perry is all I have and I don’t want to see her hurt.”
Which made her a pretty good parent in his book. “I don’t want to hurt her. I’m just not sure these circumstances are the best for starting up anything with anyone.”
She turned from the doorway and faced him. “You don’t believe in trial by fire?”
What was he supposed to say to that? “I believe it happens. I don’t believe it’s always a healthy situation.”
“You don’t believe strong relationships can be forged under trying conditions?”
He didn’t want to be having this conversation. Not when the subject of last night’s reading was sure to come up, and Perry would be waking any minute.
And so he said, “Is that how it happened with you and Franklin? The murder and break-in and all?”
She smiled, the emotion more personal than a response to what he’d said. Except then she surprised him by saying, “Yes. And because of our circumstances, my circumstances, I’ve been afraid to believe.”
He shook his head. “I’ll never get that. How you can believe in things that can’t be explained, but not in things staring you in the face.”
“When it comes to looking inside ourselves, blindness seems to be more common than insight.”
She closed the back door and came toward him, pouring the coffee into both cups. He sipped, she sipped, neither of them speaking further of the last several hours, the truth of what had passed between them a strangely solid bond.
Moments later, Della set her cup on the counter. “He’s drowning, Jack. I don’t know if he’s literally in water, or if he’s ill, but he can’t breathe. He’s gasping and struggling.”
Jack’s pulse exploded. “Eckhardt?”
“Yes.”
“You tell this to Franklin?”
She nodded. “I called Book when I got up to my room last night. I saw orange. Rust or mud, I can’t be sure. It could have been dried blood.” She shook her head, let it droop on her shoulders. “Or it could be that drowning was how he died.”
“Then what about the warehouse? What you saw there? The way it hit you? If he was already dead—”
“I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know.” Della reached over, wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed. “What I do know is that this is where you take what I’ve given you and run.”
And that would mean doing it his way, the feds, the NOPD and Detective Book Franklin be damned.
A BROKEN HEART. She’d never known how the shattered shards could cut like the blade of a knife. Her two men, they were so very different. And she loved each so very very much.
Drake was an artist. A sensitive soul who knew life was best lived in bright colors, that chances not taken were fortunes not made. She talked with him about dreams and desires.
Bruiser was a protector. A man of authority who understood black and white, right and wrong. She talked with him about wanting new curtains for the bedroom.
She slept with them both. Sang to them both. And when she loved one, she never considered she was betraying the other. She was the only one naive enough not to see the truth.
For the truth was that all Drake wanted was his music. He was moody, and he took to drink. He often forgot that she was in the same room, or even that she was in the same bed.
And Bruiser wanted respect. He wielded his power as a knight of old wielded a lance, a Greek god a lightning bolt. She’d felt the sting of both.
She couldn’t live with the one man. She couldn’t give up the other. Her only choice was to start over. To make a new life on her own. If she fell in love again, then she would know this decision was the one she’d had to make.
Bags packed, she looked over her shoulder one last time. She even blew a kiss at the room she’d loved so much. Smiling, she turned to go…tripping over the vase Bruiser had bought her, Drake’s flowers falling with her as she tumbled down the stairs.
13
GROANING, Perry climbed onto the stool behind the counter in Sugar Blues, swearing she would never be able to walk right again. Who knew that thirty daily—if rather lazy—minutes on the treadmill wasn’t enough to keep her thigh muscles in shape?
Her next round of celibacy was definitely going to include a whole lot of leg lifts and cycling. Of course, she would prefer sleeping with Jack to sleeping alone, but she wasn’t just anyone’s fool.
He could stay in New Orleans for her, but why would he? He had a life, a career that took him places, one that didn’t involve inventory and stocking and customer satisfaction, not to mention spreadsheets so accurately detailed, grown accountants wept with joy.
And really, she loved what she did. Her complaints wer
en’t so much complaints as they were a comparison between his life of following leads left by kidnappers and hers, of filing. His background of shivs and bullets and traveling the world, and hers, of being unable to stick out four years for a degree at Loyola.
Not that she had anyone to blame but herself, if she was going to be dishing it out. She’d chosen the safety of this life, the comfort of the familiar, her own version of hearth and home and live-in ghost.
Yet after the sheltered life she’d lived, how could she have anticipated meeting a man like Jack? A man so utterly unique that she’d found herself falling for him in a matter of hours, falling into bed with him in a matter of days?
She couldn’t have known. She couldn’t have guessed. She was still reeling that it had happened.
When she’d finally woken this morning, he’d been long gone, the sun had long been up and Della had been standing at the foot of the utility room’s bed with a cup of coffee for who knew how long. Not one of Perry’s finer moments, in the face of the woman who’d raised her.
But Della had stayed, and they’d talked, they’d bonded, they’d shared an honest heart-to-heart about Perry’s life. About Della’s life. About choices they’d both made. About Book. About Jack. Mostly about Jack, though nothing about the midnight reading.
By the time Perry had climbed from bed, made her way upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes, all she’d wanted was to see him. Last night had not been an easy one, this morning equally troubled. They needed to talk. But he was gone, and she had work to do.
Della’s first appointment was scheduled for ten. So when the bell on the door chimed fifteen minutes later, Perry glanced up expecting to see Mrs. Nielsen. The woman walking through the door, however—her designer heels clicking on the hardwood floor—was no one Perry knew.
A younger woman wearing baggy black jeans and a tight black turtleneck, her hair an unnatural red, followed. She stopped to browse the bookshelves, while the first woman headed straight to the counter at the rear of the shop, flashing a business card the moment she arrived.
