by Alison Kent
She didn’t ever want to relive those hours of waiting to find out if she’d see him again. Watching Della get out of Jack’s SUV had started a roller coaster of emotions. The up at finding her aunt unharmed. And then, the big lunge over the summit and down. Down, down, down.
She’d thought she would never stop falling at the news of Jack being gone, had wondered if she would ever be able to eat or breathe or sleep again. And then, realizing she’d hung up the phone on his call…if there had been another more panic-filled moment in her life, her memory had long since filed it out of reach.
Looking up now into his eyes, she realized how close she’d come to losing him—a realization that made her want to hold on to him forever, to hold on to him as hard as she could.
Without smothering him, of course. Or causing him to choke. Or making him feel as if she’d stolen his will and his freedom.
“Jack?”
“Perry?”
“Do you want to be here? With me?”
She asked the question softly, because suddenly she wasn’t sure of the answer, and she had to know. They’d been through an unbelievable experience. And in so many ways, they were nothing alike.
She still didn’t think he believed in Sugar, though Della was a different matter. Yet both were so much a part of Perry’s existence it was hard to accept that her reality wasn’t the same as Jack’s.
But she would. Just as she would accept that he wouldn’t talk to her about what had happened in his past. At least not yet. At least not for a while. And probably never about all of it.
He waited so long to answer, her fears grew to astronomical proportions. And she thought she would die when he finally came back with, “Do you want the truth?”
She nodded. She couldn’t deal with anything less.
“No,” he said, taking a deep breath.
“No?” she squeaked out. Oh, no. This was not what she wanted to happen. Not what she wanted to hear. She started to sit up.
He pushed her back down, shook his head. “No. This couch is way too small for the sort of night you’re talking about. It’s the bedroom, or you can forget it.”
What a silly, silly man. How would she ever get enough of him? She looked down, smoothed her rumpled skirt. “Then I suppose we should just forget it.”
He barked out a laugh. “As if that’s going to happen.”
And then she was the one laughing because he surged off the couch, swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom as if she weighed no more than a pillow and he wasn’t hurting from head to toe.
She wasn’t about to spoil her caveman, hair-dragging fantasy by telling him he needed to put her down. Instead, she laced her fingers behind his neck and held on, loving the feel of his muscles flexing, his arms, his chest, even his abs that tightened as he walked.
She remembered the first day she’d seen him, the day he’d walked into Sugar Blues and approached the counter, all long legs and delicious motion. Closing her eyes and seeing him move while her body enjoyed the fruits of his long-legged labors, well, it just wasn’t enough.
She wanted more. She wanted him all. And so she raised her head and nipped at his earlobe before whispering, “Hurry.”
He chuckled. “Aren’t you the one who just said we don’t have to be anywhere for hours?”
“Yes, and I don’t want to waste a minute between now and then,” she said, barely getting it out before he came to a stop. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “What? Why aren’t we moving here?”
“Close your eyes.”
She did, but still she asked, “Why?”
“Close your mouth.”
She did, and this time asked nothing.
“Now, I’m going to prove to you that we could stand here all night and we still wouldn’t be wasting our time.”
She knew that. Truly she did. But she was thirty years old, and she’d never expected to feel for anyone what she felt for Jack, and it just seemed as if they would run out of time before she got half her fill of having him.
His words, when he spoke, came out on a gruff whisper, a raspy sandpaper sound. “Did you know that with your arms around my neck like that I can feel your heart beating against my chest? That I can feel the curve of your breast?”
When she started to open her mouth, he leaned down and silenced her with a quick kiss. “I can feel the strength in your hands and your arms, and all I can think about is having you stroke me the way you did that morning in bed before I took you in the shower.”
His voice was low, a heated vibration against her shoulder and the breast she pressed against him. Her nipples hardened, and her skin began to sing from the rush of blood just beneath. She thought about stroking him, about tasting him. She thought about taking him deep into her body.
Her impatience returned, and she murmured, “Jack.”
He chuckled again, but he did start walking, pushing open the door of her bedroom with one foot, stopping once they’d made it inside. He lowered her slowly until her feet touched the floor, letting her body slide the length of his and holding her close all the while.
He moved his hands to her bottom and squeezed, pulling her belly to his. His thick erection throbbed between them, sending arousal twisting through her in a heady, burning rush. She stood on tiptoe, opened her mouth over his throat, and drew on his skin until he groaned.
But it wasn’t enough. And as much as she understood that none of this was wasting time, she couldn’t curb her impatience to have him naked above her, to open her legs and welcome his body into hers.
It was all about being alive and having him safe. It was a reminder of how empty her life had been before he’d walked through the door of Sugar Blues and filled her hours and days with the wonder of his company.
She grabbed the fabric of his T-shirt and tugged the hem from his jeans, sliding her hands up the bare skin of his back and soaking him in. He was warm and smooth, his muscles sculpted to the curve of her palms.
She walked her fingers the length of his spine, still kissing him there beneath his chin, rubbing her nose over his Adam’s apple, lapping her tongue through the dip in his throat, until finally he joined her, rushing to remove the barriers of their clothes.
He jerked his way out of his shirt, tossed it to the floor, had her sweater over her head and off in a flash. She reached for the hooks of her bra. He pushed her hands away and did it himself.
Seconds passed and then she was as bare as he was. She pressed her breasts to his rib cage, her hands to his abs, her nose to the center of his chest. She nuzzled him there, breathed him in, worked her way side to side, blowing through his hair, searching out his nipples to kiss.
He held her by the shoulders, his chin up, his head back, the tendons in his neck straining. And he groaned when she tongued him, when she kneaded his pectorals with the motion of her chin. Her fingers drifted lower, popping the buttons of his fly one at a time.
He found the back zipper of her skirt and eased it down. She shimmied; her skirt fell. He stepped back and shucked off his jeans. She stood in her bikini panties. He stood in his Lone Star State boxers.
When she smiled and rolled her eyes, he scooped her up again and dumped her on the bed. She was laughing when she crab-crawled her way up to the pillows. He followed, and he wasn’t laughing at all. He was so serious, his expression pained, and it frightened her.
She reached up with one hand, placed it against his cheek. “Jack? You’re scaring me, here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It just suddenly hit me that I love you.”
She swore in that moment her heart stopped beating. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All she could do was whisper, “You do?” and when he nodded she burst into tears.
“Oh, that is so not fair,” she sobbed, waving her fingers in front of her face, a stupid effort at keeping her eyes dry. “The man I love more than anything in the world says he feels the same, and I’m supposed to swoon. N
ot blubber.”
“You’re very cute when you blubber,” Jack said, leaning down to kiss away her tears.
“I’m not. I’m horrible. I get splotchy and red-nosed.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing it’s dark and I can’t see you, isn’t it?”
And that, of course, made her giggle, and the sobs started up again, and she couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, and whatever it was she couldn’t stop. All she could do was throw her arms around his neck and hold him tight.
He put up with it for about a minute. After that, he pried her hands away and sat back to get her out of her panties. His boxers were the next to hit the floor, and then he lowered himself between her spread legs, hips to hips, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, and kissed her.
It was a kiss of two souls, a mating that happened with nothing but lips that came together, and eyes that met, held, and couldn’t look away. It was a kiss that lifted her up, that showed her that the rest of her life was filled with possibilities.
And when she pulled up her knees and hooked her heels in the small of his back, he entered her, pushing deep and settling there. His mouth never left hers. He laced their fingers together and pressed their hands against the bed on either side of her head.
He consumed her. He possessed her. He became the only thing she knew. His body moved over hers, the slow in-and-out motion of his cock creating a wicked friction between her legs. She pulled her mouth from his, tossed her head to one side and moaned.
He drove harder, buried his face in the crook of her neck, sucked the skin there into his mouth and swirled his tongue over the bruise he drew. She flexed her hips, lifting to meet the rhythm of his strokes.
And then she turned back, seeking his mouth, sucking his tongue inside to mimic the mating of their bodies. It was a primal connection, a sweet sensation of hope, of sharing, of knowing this was only the beginning, of anticipating how far they had to go.
She loved him. Days and hours and minutes didn’t matter. She loved him. And she told him so with her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, her legs tightly encircling his back.
He shoved forward, and she caught him, holding him to her heart as he came. She followed, breathing in his air, reveling in his release, losing herself in the spiraling emotion consuming her body and soul.
THE NEXT MORNING, JACK moaned and groaned his way into his jeans and the long-sleeved Henley T-shirt Perry had laid out before she’d stashed his duffel bag who knew where, and run out of the townhouse telling him to hurry.
He started to skip his shoes, but didn’t want to end up running after her barefoot on icy sidewalks through Jackson Square, so he hopped from foot to foot as he pulled on his socks and his Reeboks.
He had no idea what she had up her clever little skirt; he might be wild and crazy about her, but he didn’t always trust her any farther than he could throw her. Which wasn’t far at all considering how easily—and how often—she squirmed out of his reach.
Still, he wasn’t about to deny that he was amazingly, incredibly, over the moon for her. He couldn’t believe how one person—one little gypsy woman—could make such a profound difference in his life.
Yeah, he had a lot to go through to explain what had gone down with the case. And all that breaking and entering stuff meant he might end up losing his PI licenses. Plural.
But the good of the few was all that mattered in the end. Della was safe. Eckhardt was a mess, but he would recover. Detective Franklin had finally figured out his priorities. And Jack had done the same.
He stopped at the front door, finding a red envelope stuck to the door with a thumbtack. Frowning, he left the envelope hanging, pulling out the note she’d left him inside.
There once was a man from Nantucket…okay, from Texas. I’ve just always liked saying that. Anyway. This man had a thing for music, and a voice that could actually carry a tune. And if he’s smart, this man, he’ll bring his voice and meet me in the courtyard because I want to hear him sing.
God, what a woman, he mused, his chest so tight he ached with it. He had no idea what she was talking about; he couldn’t care less. And he didn’t even bother to lock the door when he pulled it shut behind him.
Perry was standing next to the fountain in the center of Court du Chaud, waving his sweatshirt like a flag and looking as if exploiting his weather weakness was her favorite pastime.
She turned a circle where she stood, her skirt flowing around her, her hair a cloud of corkscrew curls that were as soft as skeins of yarn. She laughed as she twirled, nearly losing her balance, stumbling back and catching herself against the edge of the fountain.
And he swore right then that he’d never had anything hit him so hard as his love for her. Right in the solar plexus. A big fat fist driving it home. She was exactly what he’d been needing to make his life complete. And wherever they went from here, he knew to expect a hell of a trip.
And then he heard it. Chasing Perry down the alley between the courtyard and Café Eros, he heard it.
The unbelievable sound of what had to be Heidi Malone—er, Heidi Tannen—wringing everything she could out of the Star Spangled Banner with her sax. Just like she’d done the day she’d walked into the band hall all those years before and blown him and the other guys right out of their shorts.
“Perry?” he asked, grabbing hold of her biceps, hauling her to a stop, backing her up against the alley’s brick wall. “What have you been doing behind my back? And where the hell did you find the time?”
“What?” she asked, flipping her hair over her shoulders and fighting a losing battle with a smile. “You think a shop clerk who works for a psychic doesn’t have it in her to do a little bit of private investigation on her own?”
A grin that felt like it belonged to the man in the moon brought up both corners of his mouth. “Are they all here?”
“Yep,” she said, adding a great big nod. “And with their significant others. Ben and Heidi drove over from Austin. Quentin came in from New York with his fiancée Shandi.”
“And Randy?”
Her eyes widened. “That one you’re not going to believe.”
“After all we’ve gone through the last few days, and you still think I’m some doubting Thomas? Hit me, sister,” he said, and hooked his arm around her neck. “I can believe anything.”
“Okay. How about the fact that Randy’s been living right here for about four months?”
“In New Orleans? You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Not just in New Orleans. Here. At Court du Chaud.”
“Well,” he said, feeling the press of emotion in the center of his chest. “There’s only one thing to say to that.”
“You love me?”
“I do love you.” He leaned over, smacked her on the lips. “And it’s going to take a while before I get tired of telling you so.”
“You’d better not ever get tired,” she said, and smacked him right back. “But what were you going to say?”
“Just the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“That truth is always stranger than fiction.”
SINGING THE BLUES for the rest of all time wasn’t such a bad gig. The digs were okay, if a bit humdrum. And it would have been nice to reach a bigger audience, but at least the regulars were learning their lessons.
Mmm-mmm-mmm. So distinguished, that older man. So sophisticated. He would know about wine and about flowers. About the feel of nylons. And silk lingerie.
Ooh. The younger one, now, he was about all kinds of kissing. And, oh, the ways he could touch. Those hands. Those fingers. Made a woman weep with longing.
The dark-haired woman. Did she know how lucky she was? How much that man loved her. And her love for him was no little thing. It was big and beautiful.
A kindred spirit. A friend she wished she’d had back in the day. Such contentment. Such purely perfect peace. Sugar gave the older woman a wink. And the older woman winked back.
ISBN: 978-1-4
268-5432-3
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Copyright © 2006 by Mica Stone.
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