The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  She was forced still by my hands, tight in her hair and merciless on her cunt. As the burn from her clit intensified, the head of my cock hit against her front wall and the magic spot inside her.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Light and dark.

  She and I were two sides of the same outcast coin.

  When she cried out, I swore the heavens must have opened with the sound.

  “Q!” She arched and shuddered as her release claimed her, wrapping her body in a blanket of ecstasy.

  And the waves of her pleasure pulled me under.

  My hands sank into the hot flesh of her hips as I rammed into her one last time, holding myself pinned inside her rapidly clenching pussy as it tore my climax free.

  My head tipped back with a long groan, my cock pumping hot jets of cum inside her. Filling—sealing—marking her.

  Fuck. It felt so good. So fucking good.

  And it was that feeling which should send me running. But I didn’t. I let myself bask in it—in the warmth as it seeped through my skin.

  Esme curled into me. Her face burying in the corner of my neck as the long black waves of her hair cocooned over my chest.

  I should move her.

  I should put an end to this—an end to what never should’ve been started.

  Instead, I let my eyes drift shut and savor the sensation of my wheel moving smoothly forward through the minutes. Moving without the hinderances of anger and hatred, of self-loathing and punishment.

  I let it roll smoothly through the warmth I felt in her arms. The acceptance. The desire.

  But not love, though I couldn’t imagine how love could feel better than this—better than holding the one person who saw through all your faults and still believed your worth.

  I had enough sense to know that love was not only out of the question—but out of the vocabulary.

  Because who could learn to love a liar?

  I shuddered and drew her soft warm flesh tighter to me.

  It wouldn’t last. But for the first time in a long time, I wanted to hold on to something for as long as I could before fate or fortune ripped it from my grasp.

  So, I sunk deeper into her calm—or her storm, depending on how you looked at it.

  And I held on tightly to the gypsy who’d claimed the Gargoyle of Notre-Dame.

  Esme

  The mountain beneath me rumbled and hissed, letting off some of the steam that pumped hotly through its veins.

  I murmured softly and clung tighter to its muscled crags and ridges, unafraid of the fire that brewed beneath until it winced, and I realized it was no mountain.

  My eyes blinked open slowly with the heaviness that comes with being woken from a sleep born of pure physical and emotional exhaustion. It took a second to realize the black hair rubbing under my cheek wasn’t my own, but belonged to the wide, muscled torso I was resting against.

  And then the memories of last night came back to me.

  The performance. The bomb.

  Quinton.

  The life—the past—he confessed to washed over me in waves.

  Of course, I knew that there were spies in the world, organizations that existed both under and outside governments that did things the majority of the population would never hear about. But to know one… to hear about it from his own lips. To see him work—and see him hurt—with my own eyes… it was the difference between watching the moon landing on TV and being an astronaut, moon boots touching down on the extraterrestrial plain.

  Gently, I pulled off him, my body deliciously sore in places that made me ache for the same treatment all over again.

  His fingers tightened at my waist, but he still appeared to slumber.

  My gorgeous gargoyle.

  I let my eyes take a lazy morning stroll down the length of him. Even bruised and blue, sliced and swollen, he was still something to behold. His black curls fell in tired strands over his brow. Lips that mostly appeared drawn and tight, like he was constantly fighting a battle, were now loose and relaxed.

  His shoulders and chest were cut sharply with muscles even though he wasn’t bulky. The soft pelt of black hair on his torso tapered down over his well-packed abdomen before it cushioned around the root of his cock that lay long and semi-erect against his leg.

  My gaze returned when he grumbled, and on the second pass, noticed the blood that had soaked through his bandages and guilt slammed through me, wondering if it was from the way I’d rode him—the way I’d lost sense of every other thing except where we were joined, where he touched me, and then, how exquisitely he’d broken me apart.

  I reached out and touched the cotton.

  Bright black eyes shot open as a hand swung up and locked around my wrist.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was still thick and distressed with sleep.

  “Good morning to you, too, Monsieur Gargouille,” I teased a little breathlessly before indicating. “You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

  His eyes looked to his wound before releasing his grip and letting me examine him.

  “We didn’t use protection.”

  My hands paused.

  I’d known it… but I hadn’t thought about it. I never had unprotected sex—and not just because I was taking birth control. It always seemed too intimate for what I was looking for in a relationship. Too trusting even when it was with someone I knew and was comfortable with.

  But with Quinton…

  I swallowed hard.

  Being with him… kissing him… touching him… it was the only thing between us without barriers. Our need burned hot and raw like a wildfire—unable to be stopped or controlled, only able to let it ravage until it claimed everything.

  Maybe that was why I wanted to feel his bare cock inside me.

  Or maybe it was because everything about Quinton was different. Everything about how he and I had come to be… everything about how he saved me… it all begged for something different. Something more.

  I cleared my throat, unwilling to let that thought linger because what kind of relationship could there possibly be between a spy and a scholar?

  “I’m on the pill.” I looked up to him and said, before returning my focus to his injured side. “Now, I need to change this.”

  Any argument on his part diffused in a hiss as I slid over him, off the bed.

  While I searched out fresh gauze, Quinton drained some of the water I’d set next to the mattress.

  “Careful,” I warned as he winced, pulling his severed shirt out from behind him.

  His nostrils flared as he poured some of the water onto a clean bit of his shirt before ripping it in two and handing me half. My head tipped to the side. In explanation, he began to wipe himself down, and my cheeks warmed. I’d been so focused on his wound, I hadn’t felt the remains of our desire between my legs.

  Murmuring my thanks, I set it to the side for the moment, intent on finishing my first task.

  “You’re becoming good at this,” Quinton rasped while I peeled the bloodied gauze from his wound. I was pretty sure we both breathed a sigh of relief, seeing all his self-inflicted stitches still intact.

  My swollen lips flickered into a shadow of a smile before disappearing again. “Well, it’s not going on my resumé, so let’s try to keep all future stab wounds to a minimum, please.”

  His jaw ticked with the hint of a pained laugh as I laid fresh fabric over the site and began to tape it down.

  “And if I like watching you play my naked nurse?” he mused roughly.

  My fingers froze as my eyes jerked up to meet his glittering black gaze.

  In the periphery, I didn’t miss the way his arousal had grown. I’d hardly been aware of my nudity until he’d handed me the damp cloth of his shirt, but now I was entirely aware of it and what it was doing to him, and consequently, me.

  “This only happens the first time, Monsieur Gargouille,” I smarted. “I will be purchasing a potato sack to wear in order to tend any and all future injuries.”r />
  It was meant to be a joke, but the joke was lost in the implication that I would be there for all future injuries.

  Sealing off the last piece of tape, I stood and grabbed myself a water bottle, draining half the contents without looking at him and hoping my assumption would shrivel into the silence between us.

  Even though I was thirsty, my stomach cramped also needing food.

  “Do you have any food up here?” I looked around while he continued to stare at me.

  I looked like a prisoner—one who was free to go yet stayed in the lair of the beast wearing my former restraints with pride.

  Perhaps I should put something on instead of traipsing around wearing nothing but my birthday suit and broken chains in his domain.

  “Quinton?” My eyes narrowed demandingly on him.

  “It’s not food I’m hungry for,” he bit out as if his focused silence and hard cock weren’t indication enough.

  “You need to eat.” His eyes followed my breasts as they rose while I reached behind my neck to unclasp my body chain, letting it slide off onto the floor with the soft chime of fallen stars. “Do you have food up here? Or a refrigerator? How do you eat?”

  His nostrils flared. “There are protein bars in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  “Protein bars?” I gaped.

  There was no way he could survive on bars.

  “This is where I live, Madame Gypsy. If it offends you, you don’t have to stay—”

  My blood began to boil. “It doesn’t offend me, Q,” I cut him off. “Trust me… this is the Ritz compared to the places I lived while in college.” Which was saying something considering this building was built centuries ago. “But it does concern me because you are injured and you need actual food right now,” I huffed and held my hair back from my face.

  “Well, I don’t have any of that,” he said roughly, having the decency to appear apologetic. “I usually get food out… elsewhere.”

  I didn’t have to ask. It was clear that he ate on the job. In the streets. On his way to and from the cathedral. Truthfully, it was no different than many people I knew who worked in a big city and had no time to cook. It was just that most of them didn’t live inside a Gothic cathedral, work as a spy, or hunt national terrorists.

  “Okay, well, I’m going to go out and get us some food,” I declared, reaching for my clothes that were strewn on the floor. “And some more bandages.”

  I paused as soon as I settled my pants on my waist. “Where do you shower?”

  His expression tensed.

  “Never mind.” I waved his answer away. “As soon as you are okay to stand and walk, we’re going to my apartment and we’ll shower there.”

  “I have a shower—”

  “Is it one I can take you to?” I pulled my shirt over my head.

  He grunted. “No.”

  I pulled my hair up, having only a hair tie left to hold the mass back, though I wouldn’t regret the use my scarves had been resigned to.

  “Then we’re going to use mine,” I concluded with a nod, looking for my bag and remembering I’d left it down in the sanctuary.

  Heading for the door, I paused and leveled him a hard stare over my shoulder, not missing the potent desire in his eyes or the way his hand rested over his hard length. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” I promised, licking my lips and ducking into the hidden staircase before I, too, became willing to forego food for us both in favor of the only other thing our bodies wanted.

  For the next two days, playing nursemaid to the gargoyle who refused to admit he was simply an injured man was a full-time job.

  That first day, I’d returned to find him slumped in his desk chair that he’d dragged back over to the desk, attempting to scribble something on a piece of paper before he’d had to forego his fool-hardy attempt in order to put pressure on his wound that was revolting with fresh blood once more.

  Wrapping an arm around his neck, I’d wondered how he’d even made it to the chair with his knee so swollen and painful that I’d had to bear most of his weight just to get him back to the mattress.

  “You may not be completely made of stone, Monsieur Gargouille,” I said, my voice thick with anger fueled by concern. “But your head certainly is.” I pulled back the tape on his side—not taking care to do it slowly this time. “I told you not to move, and now, look what happened.”

  The only consolation I felt in addition to berating him was that he’d had to replace one of the stitches that had torn—a small but fine punishment for his foolishness.

  Restitched and rewrapped, I gave him some pills for the pain before we’d devoured the fruit, cheese, and fresh sandwiches. With a full stomach and no longer in pain, Quinton drifted back off to sleep.

  But I couldn’t sleep. And I wouldn’t leave him.

  So, I fetched my bags of equipment from where I’d stored them in one of the maintenance offices and began setting up my laser. I needed to scan the rafters, anyway. Plus, as I further explored Quinton’s apartment, I found a makeshift door on the wall opposite the rose window. It had no handle, but there was an opening through which I could grab and pull, the passage leading out to a walkway along the top of the transept and along the final stretch of the nave.

  It was the perfect place to capture the detail of the old roof of the building.

  So, that was what I did while Quinton healed, leaving only to get us food, to teach my seminar, and to stop once for the fastest shower of my life before returning to the cathedral with my hair still dripping from its ends.

  “Where are you off to now?” he queried grumpily from the mattress.

  I told him he had to stay there one more day until I felt confident he wouldn’t do more damage by getting up.

  It was bad enough we’d had to figure out a system to maneuver him down the staircase just so he could use the bathroom.

  I tossed him a coy look over my shoulder, ignoring the mounting tension between us. And the bulge underneath the black shorts he had on.

  Too afraid he’d never heal if we continued to fuck each other like we wanted, I stayed up late, working at his desk on my laptop, importing and merging my scans, until he was asleep when I finally joined him in bed, and making sure I was the first to rise in the morning.

  It was entirely necessary even though the unfulfilled desire, tasted only briefly, felt like it might kill us both before it gave him the chance to heal.

  “I’m going up to do the towers today,” I informed him. “It’s raining so they closed them off to tours.”

  I saw from the lines creasing his face that he wasn’t fond of my choice. Old, worn steps and stone were dangerous.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said without needing his prompt. “What can I get you?”

  Every day, when I left to do my work, I did it knowing he needed to do his own. And even though I wanted to, I didn’t ask for specific details. The phrase ‘if I told you, I’d have to kill you’ sticking out far too prominently in my mind from just about every spy movie ever made.

  “The book on my desk,” he indicated, his eyes following my curves as I went to retrieve it for him.

  I padded over to it, my long loose blouse clinging to my thighs. Sleeveless and buttoned down the front, a worn brown leather belt cinching it around my waist, I knew the pale blue was partially see-through and normally, I wore it over leggings and a tank underneath, leaving it only partially buttoned, but there was no way I could stand wearing layers in here. Even though it was cool with the small air-conditioning unit, working in the rafters—or anywhere that the heat from the entire cathedral rose—became stifling.

  “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame?” My head tipped to the side as I flipped through the pages, seeing it was the original French version of the text. “I didn’t realize you were rereading.”

  “I’m not.” He took the book from my hand. “It’s how I communicate with my… people.”

  “You mean your other spies?”

  His head didn’t move even
though his eyes looked up at me, answering me with a glance.

  “So, you’re writing them in code?” I continued, unable to stop myself.

  More secrets hidden in plain sight. More secrets my curiosity couldn’t resist.

  Just like Notre-Dame.

  Just like him.

  I was surprised when he gave a slow nod. This was so fascinating—like I was living a secret history in the making.

  “How do they know which words to pick?”

  “The numbers in the message correspond to words in the book. Need to know what book in order to be able to decode the cipher.”

  “Are you writing to your father?”

  I should’ve left, rather than trying to continue a conversation I knew, no matter how many avenues I tried, would eventually lead to a dead end.

  “Yes, and no.”

  As long as I was going to get an answer, I decided I wasn’t going to stop.

  “Do you think the man, Méchant, will do something like this again?” I shivered at the thought.

  Khal had called several times to make sure I was okay. Guiltily, I’d only managed to text him abrupt responses of reassurance. At least, he hadn’t asked about playing anywhere anytime soon. It seemed we were all a little shell-shocked over what had happened, and in my case, there was no way I was going to leave Quinton to go perform. The stone-headed fool would probably try to follow me.

  “I know he will.”

  I sucked in a breath, asking quickly before he could regret answering, “How?”

  “Because this isn’t the end.”

  I heard it in his voice just as I saw it in the way he looked down at his body—he was beyond frustrated that while evil continued its work, he was stuck here, recuperating.

  “And even if I hadn’t known it already, the man you saw me kill confirmed it.”

  This time, when I recalled that moment, I didn’t shudder. Instead, I only felt that justified warmth that comes when the bad guy gets his due.

  “You’ll figure it out, Quinton,” I murmured, hating to see the toil that traumatized his face. “You’ll figure out whatever it is he has planned and you’ll stop him.” I crouched down, cupping my hand against the scarred side of his face. “You’ll stop him before he takes anything else from you.”