Taylor had never seen such an explicit show. Not live and onstage. It might have shocked her if she hadn't been captivated by the sensual currents that Jules awakened in her body with his hands and lips.
He nipped at the side of her neck, pressing his teeth to her pulsing artery as his hands inched downward, stroking over her belly, then her thighs. Again he teased her, trailing his fingers inward, almost touching her throbbing center before moving outward again, leaving her panting for more.
Her neck arched, giving him better access, and his mouth did hot, sexy things to her flesh. In some part of her mind, she was thinking he was a magician who had learned just the right tricks to bring her under his spell.
A sensual fog wafted through her brain. When his finger traced along her lips, she opened to his touch, moving her head restlessly as his hand dipped inside, stroking over sensitive tissue and then along the serrated line of her teeth.
He was swamping her senses. But she had never been a passive lover. With a small sound, she went from submissive to aggressive—trapping his finger between her teeth, nibbling on him, playing with the skin, elated when she heard his breath catch.
Chapter Four
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Some time later, Taylor heard people stirring around them. Somewhere along the line she had forgotten where she was and had closed her eyes against the distraction on the lighted stage. Her eyes flew open now, and she saw that the dancers had left the room. She had missed the end of their performance, whatever it had been.
But she had been too wrapped up with Jules to care.
"Do you want to explore some more? Shall we try another club?" he asked.
She wanted to stay with him. She wanted to take him to her house where they could be alone. But some small part of her mind was still warning her that she had just met him.
"Another club," she said, her voice sounding high and a little breathy.
"My pleasure," he murmured, leading her downstairs. This time they got into one of the cabs outside.
"Where are we going?"
"The Warehouse District. To another very eclectic private establishment."
Minutes later, they were getting out in front of what looked like an old factory building. Only some clever person had renamed it THE DEN OF INIQUITY.
This time she insisted on paying the admission fee, then followed Jules into a space where an elaborate crystal chandelier hung on a thick chain from a high ceiling.
To the right was a room where the designers had gone for an industrial look. Guys sat at metal tables and chairs watching girls twist sensuously around chrome poles or dance inside mesh cages.
"Not my taste," Taylor murmured.
"I think you'll like the garden better."
"Okay."
Jules led her toward the back of the building, where they passed through an arched doorway into what looked like an alfresco setting. But she could tell it was actually a large room, laid out like a romantic garden, with the scent of flowers in the air and pathways wandering through the greenery.
He stopped at a bar and bought two glasses of champagne from a dainty little hostess wearing a low-cut white tunic, then led Taylor down one of the brick paths. As they turned a corner into a walkway lined with violet and orange bougainvillea, he was grinning.
"What's so funny? Are you going to let me in on the joke?"
"Soon."
They strolled down the path, taking small sips of champagne, then turned another corner and came to a small bower displaying a Greek sculpture. On the pedestal were a naked man and a woman, entwined in a very intimate pose. He was sitting, and she straddled his lap so that their genitals were pressed together while his hands covered her breasts.
Taylor stared at the tableau, then made a small sound when she realized that they weren't statues at all. They were living people whose skin had been dusted with white powder to make them look like they had been carved from stone.
"How interesting," she murmured, a little embarrassed and yet turned on.
"Just like the people playing statue on the street down by Jackson Square," Jules answered with a note of amusement in his voice.
"Not quite!"
"Let's see what other surprises are hidden among the greenery."
He knit his hand with hers, and they soon came to another display area. This time a woman sat on a chair-height Doric column in a very erotic pose. One of her hands was on her breast, the other stroking between her legs, and her face was suffused with a look of ecstasy. Taylor wondered how anyone could hold that pose, until she realized the figure truly was carved out of marble.
"So the trick is to figure out which are real and which are stone," she murmured.
"Or just enjoy the cultural experience," he said.
She laughed, and he grinned back as they came to a section of the room where the bowers were walled off with trellises and covered by roofs, making them into small summer houses. Inside, she glimpsed couples reclining on wide couches.
"Do you want to be more private?" he asked.
"Yes. But not here," she said.
He arched an eyebrow.
"I wanted to meet you in public. But I'm wondering if you'd show me your house now."
"You mean, you've decided I'm not going to… do anything you wouldn't approve of?"
Her mouth was dry, but she managed to answer, "I'm finding this place a distraction. And I'd rather not be distracted."
He considered her words, finally giving a little nod. They put down their drinks on a small table before leaving the garden and heading for the front door, where he quickly found another cab. Inside, he leaned forward to give the driver an address, then settled beside her, pulling her close.
"Why do you want to come to my house?" he asked.
"To know you better."
He stroked her shoulder, then trailed his hand down her arm, setting up a buzz in her head. This man was sexier than any show a club could put on.
They got out at a town house in the French Quarter. Stepping under a wrought-iron balcony, he unlocked a carved wooden door. As they stepped into a wide front hall, he turned on a sparkling crystal chandelier.
In the soft light, she looked around with pleasure.
A fine Oriental rug lay on the marble floor. Tall brass candlesticks adorned a French sideboard, and a suit of armor stood in one corner. Wandering farther into the house, she saw Victorian sofas and chairs, beautifully carved cabinet pieces and an exquisite Chippendale dining set. It was an eclectic mix, beautifully arranged.
"This is charming. You love antiques," she murmured.
"Yes. I like keeping in touch with the past. I hate the mass-produced furnishings you see today."
"Your decorator must have loved working with you."
"I did the house myself."
Her eyes widened. "Speaking as an artist, I'd say you have an extraordinary eye."
"I had the time to study the subject and indulge my tastes."
He led her into a small conservatory with wicker furniture and orange trees perfuming the air.
Moving to the side of the room, he slid aside a panel and shuffled through a rack of CDs. When he'd loaded the player, slow dance music came from hidden speakers. After dimming the lighting, he held out his arms to her.
She was usually cautious about new relationships. But she had impulsively asked him to take her to his house. Now she felt a spurt of nerves as she let him gather her against him.
The moment they touched, she was instantly as aroused as she had been in the first club.
Jules nibbled at her ear. To her shock, his next words mirrored her thoughts. "I'm thinking it was a mistake to bring you home."
"Why?" she managed.
"Because we could make love right here." He moved his hand between them, cupping her breast, teasing her pebble-hard nipple. "We both want to."
"Yes," she admitted. Why deny the obvious?
"But we won't. Not tonight."
"Why not?" she asked, half disapp
ointed and half relieved.
"I'm not going to rush you into anything. I want you to be sure before we go any further." He gathered her close again, swaying with her, gliding her body against his, and she found it hard to breathe. When he wrapped her in a tight embrace, it was like being folded into a cloak of sensuality as they danced together in the plant-filled room. While his hands moved over her back, his mouth made small forays over the side of her face, her ear.
When he spoke, his voice was gravelly. "I find it very hard to resist you."
She could have said the same thing about him, but he must know what she was feeling from the way she clung to him.
When he moved her upper body away from his, she made a small sound of protest. He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled up her knit top, then tugged her bra up and out of the way so that her breasts were bared.
Lowering his head, he stroked his cheeks against her, the stubble of his beard abrading her sensitive flesh.
She moaned as he took one nipple into his mouth, delicately worrying it with his teeth before sucking strongly. When he took its mate between his thumb and finger, pulling and twisting, she moaned again.
Some part of her was standing back, watching in amazement at what she was doing with a man she barely knew.
"If I asked you to stop, would you?" she managed.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. "Of course. You are in complete control of this situation."
"I don't think so. I think you're too good at what you're doing now."
He laughed softly. "What am I doing?"
"Arousing me beyond the point of no return."
"Am I?"
His hand slid down her body, pressing against her clit, while he lowered his head again and began to suckle on her once more. Helpless to hold back her reaction, she moved frantically against his hand, feeling as if he was anchoring her to the earth and at the same time sending her into the stratosphere.
He built her need, carrying her up and up until orgasm took her. Her whole body shook with the force of her pleasure. And when she called out something incoherent, he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the sound. She had lost the ability to stand on her own, and he gathered her into his arms. Sitting down on a wicker sofa in a nest of pillows, he pulled her clothing back into place, then held her against him, stroking her hair and shoulders and softly kissing the side of her face.
She kept her head against his chest for several moments, embarrassed. She had never behaved quite so wantonly on a first date. Well, not exactly a date.
And there was something more. She had never been a selfish lover.
That thought made her raise her head. "What about you?" she murmured.
"I'm fine."
"You weren't exactly a disinterested participant—and you didn't come, did you?" she asked.
His voice was firm. "No. But I told you we weren't going to make love tonight."
"Then why did you bring me to climax?" she pressed.
"I couldn't resist the temptation. But I think I should take you home."
She knew he was right, because if she stayed any longer, she was going to end up naked in his bed.
He pulled a sleek, low-slung Jaguar out of the garage attached to the house, then asked for her address.
"Will you come in?" she murmured, when he pulled up in front of her door.
"Tomorrow night."
"Are you going to leave without kissing me?" she asked, hearing the wistful sound of her voice.
He gave her a small grin. "We both know that if I do, I'll come inside and ravish you. So I'll come back at nine, tomorrow."
"You're going to make me wait that long?"
"I'm giving you time to think about us. If you change your mind about seeing me again, leave me a message. I won't be available during the day."
Then he was gone, leaving her with a breathless feeling of anticipation.
Chapter Five
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It was only a few hours before dawn when Jules reached home. In an agony of need, he prowled the back alleys of the French Quarter looking for his usual prey. Although two drunks slaked his need for blood, his body's demand for sexual gratification threatened to consume him. And he understood that no prostitute would satisfy him now.
Yet he knew he had done the right thing. Taylor must come to him willingly. And he must give her a little time to think about their liaison, even if he knew in his secret heart that he wasn't giving her all the facts.
He had never wanted a woman more. Never been more restless. Once in his light-sealed room, he paced the floor, trying to find the calm center of his being.
But peace eluded him. And even when exhaustion forced him into bed, he lay staring into the darkness.
Usually—pardon the expression—he slept like the dead. Today he didn't doze off until afternoon. And his rest was fitful. The first thing he did when he got up was rush to the phone and check for messages, then thanked God that there was no call from Taylor telling him she had changed her mind. So he was able to relax again—until the craving for her threatened to drive him insane.
He was on her doorstep only seconds after nine. And when he saw her through the sidelight, he breathed out a sigh of profound relief.
"Come in," she said, in the voice he had been hearing in his head for hours.
"You look lovely," he answered, because it was the truth.
Last night she had worn slacks and a casual top. Tonight she was magnificent in a royal blue silk blouse that flowed around her upper body and dark blue silk slacks. Her eyes were bright, and the little bit of makeup she wore enhanced her beauty.
He had to press his hands against his thighs to keep from reaching for her.
"You're renting this house?" he asked as she ushered him into the sitting room. The accoutrements were only a background blur. All he could focus on was Taylor. Above the buzzing in his brain, he heard her speaking.
"Yes, I was lucky to get it furnished."
"What did you do all day?" he heard himself asking.
"First I tried looking you up. You're a very elusive mart."
"By choice."
"I found a few references to your charitable donations. And a few references to financial holdings."
"Am I rich?" he asked.
"Very."
He managed a laugh. "That's good to know."
"Why are you so secretive?"
"An old habit. My stepfather got into some trouble back in England. I found it was safer to keep myself as private as possible."
"You were adopted?"
"Yes, but I don't want to talk about myself," he said quickly, hoping that she'd accept his decision. "Did you set up a studio when you came here?"
"Yes. But until last night, I hated the work I was turning out."
"And something changed last night?" he asked, feeling his throat tighten.
"Yes. The studio is upstairs. Come see."
She led him up to a room at the back of the house, and he walked into a room that was full of artwork. Some were her own magnificent paintings. On one wall, she had also taped sketches done with a soft pencil. All of them were scenes from the night before. He saw pictures of a man standing behind a woman, his hands in intimate places. He saw other sketches of a couple dancing, their bodies glued together.
All conveyed a scorching sensuality that robbed him of breath. But they were nothing compared to the unfinished acrylic painting on the easel. She had chosen the scene on the balcony outside the bar where they had first met. A man and woman stood by the railing, looking out over the river at night. She had given herself blond hair. And he was shorter than the man in the picture. But he knew who the people were. They weren't touching, yet the scene was alive with sexual tension.
"You did all that? Since last night."
"Yes," she said simply.
"Did you get any sleep?"
"Not much."
"I didn't either."
"Why not?"
"
I couldn't stop thinking about you."
"Do you like the painting?" she asked, her voice not quite steady.
"You know I do. I like the sketches, too. And your other paintings. You're very talented."
"I was beginning to think I'd lost that."
"Never!"
"I was depressed. You brought me back to life, I think."
They both took a step forward. Then she was in his arms, and he was clasping her to him, all the needs he had suppressed the night before welling up.
She made a small sound as her body molded itself to his. When she pressed her face to his shoulder and inhaled deeply, a shiver swept across his skin.
"I was afraid you might not come back," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Last night was so intense. That would scare some men off."
"Not me." He managed a gentle laugh. "The first thing I did when I got up was make sure you hadn't called and told me to forget it."
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. "Not a chance."
Her lips were only inches from his. They trembled slightly and parted. "Jules, do you have me under a spell?"
"No more than you have me."
Neither of them moved. Then, as he had on the balcony, he lowered his head. The first touch of his lips on hers sent a shock wave zinging along every nerve in his body.
Greedily, he angled his head, slanting his lips over hers for the most intimate contact, and she clasped her arms around his neck as she opened for him.
He was good at kissing. But finesse had deserted him. With a frightening lack of control, he devoured her mouth. And he found her greed matched his.
So did his restless drive to explore—to know. He felt like someone had locked him into a seat on a giant roller coaster and cranked up the speed to supersonic. Only the contact of his mouth with hers would keep him from flying into space.
He couldn't catch his breath, even when his lips left hers to trace a damp, scorching trail across her jaw and down the graceful curve of her throat. When he found the wildly beating pulse point at its base, he pressed his teeth there. But somehow he kept himself from piercing her flesh even when he knew that pulse was keeping time with the pounding of his heart.
Immortal Bad Boys Page 3
