by Toni Blake
His hand curved soft and gentle around her breast as his touches below grew quicker, harder, driving her closer to ecstasy. She felt herself reaching, reaching, working her way toward that promised release, his fingers seeming to know exactly what she needed at every step of the journey. In their reflection, his eyes never left her—he studied her as if she were some rare work of art, some erotic statue in a park. And it was his gaze as much as his fingers that had her panting, writhing, stretching—then dropping, dropping, plunging in a wild free fall through time and space and pleasure, her hot, high sighs echoing through the room as every limb of her body went weightless and tingly.
She nearly collapsed when it was over, except that he was holding her up, one arm looped firm around her waist.
The second she got her strength back, she spun in his grasp, lifted her hands to his stubbled cheeks, and pulled him into a kiss. Nothing gentle or warm—more like when he'd ripped her blouse open. She needed to feel his lips, his teeth, his tongue. She needed to feel his strength— nothing held back.
As they exchanged hard kisses, she jerked at his T-shirt, and he helped, stopping the connection of their mouths only long enough to yank it off over his head.
She reached for his belt and he assisted with that, too, not quite getting his jeans open before pulling her onto the bed with him, crossways, him beneath her. There the struggle re-ensued, leaving Stephanie so lost in the rough heat of pure passion that she couldn't make decisions. Undress him or kiss him? Kiss him or explore him?
She rained kisses down his darkly dusted chest, her hands shifting frantically between the breadth of his shoulders and the zipper at his crotch. He seemed to wrestle the same problem, his hands tangling in her skirt one moment, moving up to mold her breasts the next. Soft, teasing kisses cooled her nipples beneath the slow turn of the ceiling fan as he rolled her to her back. Then the kisses became little bites that made her cry out. The sensation pulsed between her thighs just as keenly as at her breasts, and despite her orgasm, she desperately needed more.
The next time his hands pushed their way up under the jumbled skirt, his fingers curled around the lace edge of her matching lavender panties, and his kisses skimmed downward, over her stomach, past the fabric bunched at her hips.
"Pretty panties, chère," he breathed, and their eyes met roughly over her breasts as he ripped the lace above one thigh. It dropped freely from her hip.
"You're hell on my underwear," she managed through ragged breaths.
"They keep gettin' in my way."
"I don't mind," she admitted. She'd never imagined something so urgent could please her. "It gets me hot."
He hovered above, peering darkly down at her. "Mmm, show me how hot you are, beb"
Stephanie bit her lip, stared up into those sexy brown eyes that had all but paralyzed her the first time she'd ever seen them, then found the courage to truly do what he asked, to turn loose all her inhibitions.
Planting her palms on his chest, she rolled them both until he lay flat on his back, her on top. Lifting one knee over his hips, she towered above him as she reached to the panties still curving over one hip. Grabbing onto the swatch of lace, she followed his lead and ripped it further apart so that the tattered undoes dropped away completely.
Next she went back to work on his blue jeans, lowering the zipper, spreading the denim wide, and freeing him from black cotton underwear. She trembled, looking down, and when she ran the flat of her hand over the hard ridge, he shuddered, too, and it raced through her like electricity. Who'd have ever thought that she, Stephanie Grant, would have power over a man like Jake Broussard? The very knowledge was exhilarating, and she bit her lower hp to quell the sensations crashing through her.
It didn't work, of course, and she didn't really want it to.
She wanted to thrill him. She wanted to thrill herself as well.
Easing her way up his body, she bathed his erection in her sex, raking slowly over his hardness to make them both gasp.
She leaned, lowering one breast to his waiting mouth as she continued moving against him, and she thought she could come that way—that fast, again—but she wanted more, more of that intoxicating power he was granting her. A whole different kind of control than she'd ever known—control that came from the very loss of control. So even as excruciating as it was to leave such intense pleasure behind, she rose higher, moved her knees up farther, past his shoulders, until that most sensitive part of her hovered over his mouth.
"Mon Dieu, chère," he growled, his warm breath assaulting her inner thighs as his hands curled like gentle vises over her rear.
A hot, trembling cry left her at the impact of his tongue. After that, all thought was gone—nothing remained but the heated circles she moved in and the selfless pleasure he delivered. The limpness of her limbs, the heat of his mouth. The raging sensations, climbing higher and higher, like flames inside her... until she combusted. The pulse of pure pleasure forced her to abandon her senses for a long, smoldering moment, until finally she collapsed next to him on the bed in complete exhaustion.
Jake, however, clearly was not so exhausted, and when he rolled onto her—and into her, easily—she cried out at the joy of being filled with him. He murmured in French as he moved inside her, delivering hot tongue kisses between his sexy whispers.
"You feel so good in me," she heard herself utter. "So good in me."
His eyes, shut in passion, opened on her, looking like she'd just given him a gift, and she knew her words meant more than if they'd come from any other woman, because having a man feel truly good inside her was such a new thing. He 'd given her the gift.
"I don't think I can hold back, beb. Too excited by you."
"Come in me. I want you to."
The long, hot groan escaped him almost instantly as he pressed her to the bed with one deep stroke. Her arms folded around his shoulders as his breath warmed her ear.
And when his pleasure eased and she opened her eyes, she tried to think of something to say to express her emotions or capture the moment, something clever or witty or sexy that might make him remember this for a very long time—but his expression told her she didn't have to say a thing. Just the connection of their eyes was enough.
Jake lay in her bed, looking around a room that, by all rights, should make him a little uncomfortable—fine antiques, expensive fabrics, Old South luxury. Yet he'd never felt so relaxed in his life, or at least not for a very long time.
The rectangular shaft of tight shining from the half-shut bathroom door made him hope she'd be back next to him soon. He let out a sigh at the memory of Stephanie being so aggressive, so wild and hungry. So much... like the dream woman.
There wouldn't be any more dreams. Couldn't be. She'd just fulfilled them.
More than just her actions, though—she'd made him feel exactly like he always did in the dreams, too. So much. Too much.
Don't think about that right now. Just don't think about it.
Easier thought than done. He shouldn't want her back in his arms so badly right now. Shouldn't want so desperately to feel her soft nakedness against him under the sheets. Shouldn't hunger so deeply to fall asleep in her arms, to wake up to her smile.
"Miss me?"
He opened his eyes to find her crawling beneath the covers. She pressed warm and sweet against him, nestling in the crook of his arm.
He answered her question with a kiss, then lay back, glad the bathroom light was off and the desk lamp extinguished. He tried to pretend that seeing her only in the shadows somehow lessened his emotions. He tried to let the darkness take him away to someplace else.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"That there are angels in the room."
She shifted against him, her hair tickling his chest. "What?"
"You know when you're in a dark room and every now and then you see an odd little spark, a tiny flash that's probably some sort of electricity in the air or the glint off a drawer handle, or maybe even just your eye
s playin' tricks on you, but you're never quite sure?"
"Yeah," she said thoughtfully, as if she knew what he meant but maybe hadn't ever thought about it before.
"My manière used to say those little lights were angels in the room, watchin' over us."
"You miss her," she whispered.
He continued watching for the flashes of angels, thinking of his grandmother. "She was my rock. The one thing in the world I could depend on, always. Especially after my dad left. Mamère was strong as a fortress, afraid of nothin'." She was the one person I never had to worry about, knew nothing bad would ever happen to her, never had to take care of her—because she took care of me.
He was glad he'd shut up before uttering that last part. He was growing sleepy, careless. And somewhere along the way, Stephanie had gained the ability to make him talk too much.
"You remind me of her, chère. So strong," he murmured, sleep threatening to swallow him at any moment.
"Me?"
He nodded, despite the darkness, despite that— already—he was talking too much again. "Maybe you don't see it, but you are." Slumber drifted nearer. "And just like her, you're always keepin' me in line, bendin' me to your will. I don't let women push me around too often, but for you ..."
"Yeah?"
"I can't seem to resist."
The room is dark as night, but you stumble toward the prize that awaits you within. You sense her presence—you can almost feel her lush curves in your empty hands. You 're painfully stiff and only she can ease that ache.
You could be in a French Quarter bordello or a Park Avenue high-rise or a country farmhouse—you have no idea where she's drawn you, only that you 'd follow her to the ends of the earth if that's where her path led. You 're in her world now. It's warm there.
Warm, but you 're getting frustrated. "Where are you ? "
Soft arms slip smoothly around you from behind. You don't hear as much as sense her answer. "Right here, lover."
Your head drops back, eyes closing, as she slides one palm down over the bulge in your pants. Mmm, yes.
"Is this what you want? " Her hand molds around you, begins to knead.
"Oui, beb. Oui."
A second later, your clothes are gone and she's kneeling before you. You still can't see her—she's only a slender shadow below—but there's no mistaking the feeling when her mouth slides over your cock. You gasp, can barely breathe. Her soft lips, moist mouth—you feel every nuance so intensely that it's almost as if this is the first time a woman has done this to you. Not so, but nothing has ever felt this good. You sink your hands in her hair, whisper, "Merci, lover. Oui. "
As her ministrations continue, your pleasure rises higher and higher until your eyes are shut and your panting breaths are the only sound.
But when next you open your eyes—there is light! And color! Fields of flowers. A hot sun beaming down from a bluer-than-blue sky.
Then, like the shift of a kaleidoscope, the colors transform, the fields fade away, the flowers grow into tall buildings painted in vibrant hues, towering over you, making you small.
And that quickly, it all shifts again, another turn of the kaleidoscope, and the ocean sparkles aqua in the distance, and seabirds fly past, an impossibly bright white.
You look down on her, but can only see her hair, your fingers still tangling in it.
Yet you need not see her face to understand she can take you anywhere, everywhere, turn your night to day and your darkness to light.
And she can make you come—mon Dieu, can she make you come—because the rough pulses of pleasure strike then, without warning, and you hear your own groans crawling up from deep within, and you know she owns you now. Funny, you 're not a man who likes the idea of being owned, but in this moment it's the best feeling you've ever experienced.
Only when you next look down on her, she's gone. Nothing before you but a pale, sandy beach.
She owns you, but she's left you. You've never felt more alone.
Chapter 18
He awoke with a start, then realized she still lay in his arms. A blanket of relief dropped over him.
Damn it, why did he keep having these dreams? What more did his body—or mind—want?
His eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to see the shape of her head on his shoulder. He listened to her breathing. For now, the dream didn't matter—all that mattered was that he wasn't alone, and he was so damn glad. He bent to kiss her forehead and she stirred slightly. So did what lay between his thighs.
"Merde, beb, I want you," he whispered in desperate frustration. He didn't want to want her at this particular moment. Sleep would have been easier for them both, even at the risk of another dream. But he wasn't that strong. Reaching beneath the sheet, he found her hand and gently moved it until it covered him. Mon Dieu, so good.
"Oh Jake," she murmured in sexy half-sleep, then wrapped her fingers sweetly around him. "I want inside you again."
"I want that, too." Her breathy assurance turned him even harder as she slid one bent knee across his thighs until she was poised perfectly for entry, the tip of him easing into her moisture. "You're wet," he whispered.
"Since the moment I met you."
The words drove him up into her sweet warmth and they both moaned at the impact. He thrust hard and deep, forgetting to be careful, forgetting her body might not be quite ready yet for everything he yearned to give her. But by the time he remembered, she was letting out heated, sexy cries and he knew she wanted to feel all of him. "Harder?" he asked.
"Mmm, yes."
She began moving on him in hot, tight circles, soon whimpering, whimpering, then yelling out. Even in the dark, he could see the hot convulsions take her—the sway of her breasts, the arch of her back—and within a few seconds, he was saying, "Me too, beb. Me too."
A minute later, she rolled off him, laughing softly.
He arched an eyebrow. "Somethin' funny, chèreT
"Just thinking I'm being ... awfully loud."
He turned to face her on the pillow, hoping she could see his smile. "I like you loud." He pushed her hair back behind her ear. "Lets me know I'm doin' a good job."
She giggled. "Also lets Mrs. Lindman know you're doing a good job."
"Afraid she'll be jealous?"
"Afraid she'll kick me out."
"Mrs. Lindman got a husband?"
"She's a widow. She's about seventy-five."
"Sounds like we need to find Mrs. Lindman a good man."
They laughed for a moment more, until Jake asked,
"So what's the chance of us gettin' a bite to eat from Mrs. Lindman's kitchen?"
Stephanie shrugged. "She gives her guests keys to the kitchen, so I could probably go find us something."
"What—I can't go?"
"Ahem," she said, propping up on one elbow. "You seem to keep forgetting—if we haven't already alerted Mrs. Lindman to the fact that there's a man in my room, I'd like to keep it that way."
He grinned up at her in the shadows. "Come on, beb, live dangerously."
"I think I have been."
His mind flashed on Miss Stephanie playing high-priced prostitute, and also on Stephanie giving herself over to him out at the bayou house and again tonight. "So why stop now?"
"Good point," she conceded, reaching to a bedside lamp. They both flinched slightly from the light as she said, "Come on."
Jake stepped into his jeans and Stephanie tossed his T-shirt over her head—it hung well down onto her thighs. She led him out to the brick pathway that circled La Rue House, and when she stopped at another door, the word "Kitchen" written in neat script above, he couldn't help wrapping around her from behind. "Pretty dangerous, chère, walkin' around outside late at night with no panties on. What would you do if somebody came up behind you and did this?" He dipped one hand between her legs, his middle finger stroking into her.
She leaned back against him, practically purring. "I guess I'd melt into his arms."
He lowered a kiss to her neck and
murmured low in her ear. "What would Mrs. Lindman think if she knew you were such a bad girl?"
She laughed. "She'd probably be as shocked as / am." She extricated herself from his grasp with a sexy grin over her shoulder, then unlocked the door.
"I'm not shocked."
Stepping inside, she turned on an overhead light to reveal a long table and chairs surrounded by cabinetry lining most of the walls. "No?" she asked, turning toward him.
Damn, she looked fine standing there in his T-shirt, her nipples poking at the cotton, her hair tousled. "I saw it in you all along, chère."
She tilted her head, messy locks rambling over one shoulder. "Really?"
"Not that much of a stretch when you think about it. You were pretendin' to be an escort."
"But you saw right through me."
"You were a little too polished, and a little too innocent. But at the same time, I had a feelin' you'd be an animal in bed."
She straightened slightly. "An animal? I'm an animal?"
He grinned. "Don't worry, it's a compliment."
A slow, self-satisfied little smile unfurled on her pretty face. "I know. Although I think it's safe to say you're the first man who's ever accused me of being an animal."
" 'Cause I'm the first man you've been an animal with."
Her expression edged into something more serious, soft, as they stood gazing at each other in Mrs. Landman's breakfast room. Familiar emotions welled in him and he gently reached out for her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and delivered a tender kiss. All was quiet but for her pretty sigh, and his stomach twisted with affection.
Affection that he'd best quit indulging.
Spying a cookie jar in the shape of a cartoonish French chef resting atop a sideboard, he pointed and said, "Um, let's check that out," in order to lighten things back up.
Stephanie nodded, her eyes saying she was making the same effort as she plucked off the chef's hat and peeked inside. "Chocolate chip," she announced with a smile that put him back at ease that quickly.
