by Laura Wright
“I thought that was my room,” she said, gesturing behind him.
“It is.”
“And my shower.”
He sniffed with irritation. “I have a bathtub.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“I don’t do bathtubs, Miss Burel.” His eyebrow lifted. “Unless I have company.”
She might have had her sane mind back, but her body was still completely and totally refusing her call for control. Her legs were doing that made-out-of-water thing again, and her skin was pulling tight around her muscles. She could do nothing to stop it. This strange, new compulsion to attack.
Lust and deep sexual interest had never played a part in her life. She’d been too busy with establishing her career and caring for her Grands. And lately, refusing to be angry with her parents for acting cowardly and taking off, leaving her to deal with the dying magic inside their home. Sure, she’d found males attractive. But wanting them? Needing to feel their skin? Taste their lips? Run her fingers through their hair as she growled and begged them for all things dirty?
Not until now.
Until Jean-Baptiste.
Her stomach clenched. This…this attraction, this lust, this hunger, this desire to run at him and lick her way down his throat, chest, abdominals, hipbones…
It was going to ruin her if she let it. Working alongside the elders required full focus, a vow of chastity, and a gold star with this mission. She could not allow herself to be swayed.
“So, who was that on the phone?” he demanded.
Genevieve started toward him. If she could just get past him, get into her bedroom and close the door…
“I was just letting my family know I’m all right.”
“They worry about you?”
“Of course.” She moved around the leather couch.
“You don’t seem like the kind of female who would make a parent worry.”
Unlike you, Mr. Baptiste. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Yes, you do.”
She stopped before him, waited for him to move aside. But he didn’t. “You have very strong opinions about who I am, Mr. Baptiste. I’m curious to know where that comes from. Are you listening to rumors, or simply judging a book by its cover?”
He looked her up and down. “Which one would bother you more?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should be sure, Miss Burel. Because one is understandable, the other is not.”
“And which one are you?” God, he smelled good. Like soap and hungry puma.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Let’s just say we all make judgments based on appearances.”
So, he’d heard rumors about her? Who the hell was talking about her? And what were they saying?
“You may think it’s understandable, but I don’t judge others,” she said, trying like hell to control her breathing. He was just so close. His clean scent, and all that naked, heavily inked, heavily muscled skin was making her dizzy. If her legs buckled and she fell, would he catch her? Maybe she should try it and see.
“Come now, Miss Burel. Don’t pretend you didn’t take one look at me, at this,” he pointed to his lip, “and these,” he brushed a hand across his shoulder, “and decide I’m bad news.”
Lucky hand. Lucky, lucky hand. “I’m not going to deny it,” she said primly. “But I think my judgment in this case was right on.”
His eyebrow—the one with the metal—jacked up.
Her eyes locked with his. “You are bad news, Mr. Baptiste.”
“I’ve done nothing to you, Miss Burel.”
Nothing except make me question the direction of my future. Nothing except make me forget again and again why I’m here.
He reached out then, and touched her hair, snagged a piece that had long ago escaped her miserable bun, and wrapped it gently around his index finger. “You have beautiful hair. Feels like silk in my hand.”
“Thank you.” God, what else could she say? Her heart slammed against her ribs.
His eyes narrowed on the crown of her head, at her bun. “I have this irrepressible urge to take it down. I want to see what all that pale gold looks like floating around your face, kissing your neck, playing against the pale skin of your shoulders.”
Her chest tightened. Her breasts and nipples, too. “You mean against the fabric of my shirt.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Burel. That’s not what I mean.”
Her stomach clenched with awareness, and below her waist, between her unsteady legs, she felt the heat in her sex turn liquid. Her lips parted and she started to pant. The button at her throat once again constricted her breathing, and she touched it with her fingers. Maybe she could undo just one button…
A knock at the door startled them both.
“Dammit.” Growling with true menace, Jean-Baptiste stalked past her.
Genevieve took the opportunity to make a break for her room, for safety, for a place to get her head on straight.
“You get that door,” she called after him. “And I’ll get this one.”
The last thing she heard was a great whoosh of air as Jean-Baptiste hauled back the thickly beveled glass, then snarled at whoever stood on the other side.
* * *
He’d put clothes on.
He’d even set the table.
But as he stared across the black marble at Genevieve, all he wanted to do was strip them both bare and take her on top of the china.
She was drinking a beer. That’s all she was doing. But it was the way she was doing it that was making his cock stand up tall and scream for an exit inside his jeans. Her long, pale fingers were wrapped around the bronze, pony neck, and her lips were sealed against the wet rim as she swallowed.
Fuck, he was in trouble.
His cat snarled and spit inside his chest in agreement.
Stay put, you bastard.
Never in million years would he have pegged this female for a beer drinker. Possibly a margarita. Wine, maybe. Shirley Temple, more like.
She looked up then and caught him staring. She gestured to the full plate in front of him with that nearly drained Bayou Bock in her hand. “You’re not eating.”
Very observant, Miss Burel. I’m too busy watching, lusting, and trying to keep my cat caged and my steel prick from exploding.
“I’ll get to it,” he muttered.
“Well, don’t wait until it gets cold,” she admonished. “It’s amazing. Best étouffée I’ve ever had. It was nice of your spy friend to arrange this.” She cocked her head. “Michel, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that,” Jean-Baptiste said, not liking the Suit’s name on her lips. “And he’s not being nice. Males don’t think that way. Pantera males don’t think that way.”
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?”
“We stalk, claim and possess, Miss Burel. We’re natural predators. We see something we want, and we go after it.” He stabbed his fork into the center of the catfish and came up with a steaming chunk of white flesh. “He was trying to impress you.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. “Well, if he really wanted to impress me he would’ve had them bring beignets and coffee along with this étouffée.”
“I’ll let him know for next time,” Jean-Baptiste said, then stuffed the fish into his mouth.
“You will?” she asked, slightly taken aback.
“No.”
She laughed. Then took another bite of her food and groaned happily. “What do you think of the catfish? I like it spicy, don’t you?”
Did she have to keep taunting him unknowingly? Christ, he could practically feel the malachite leaching from him. “Just like mama used to make,” he said.
“Really?”
“No.” He glanced up. His face broke into a smile that mirrored hers. Damn, he couldn’t help himself. “She’s not much of a cook. How about yours?”
That smile suddenly died. “Sh
e was.” She started picking at her rice.
Shit. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s just me and my Grands now.”
“You live with your grandparents?”
She nodded.
Was that who she was on the phone with? And why did that belief, that hope, fill him with far too much relief?
“Do you live with your family?” she asked.
“No. Haven’t for many, many years.” He took another bite of fish. “They’re Nurturers. Very important. Very brilliant. Very consumed with their work.”
She nodded her understanding. “So no family dinners.”
“Not since I was five.”
She studied him for a moment. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “You know, what kid doesn’t want his family crowded around a table, barking at him to sit up straight, to stop making disgusting noises, eat his peas?”
She laughed. The sound was like fucking church bells. “Most kids don’t want that, Mr. Baptiste. To be bossed around.”
“Sure they do.” He put down his fork. His eyes locked with hers. “They may gripe about it, but they want it. They want the structure and the boundaries and someone to take control so they don’t have to. All that strictness and nitpicking—just means someone loves you enough to give a shit.”
Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her eyes boring a hole in his head.
“What?” he said.
“You.”
His chest squeezed with tension. And maybe the thing beating rapidly inside it, too. “What about me?”
“Never judge a book by its cover?” She shrugged, her eyes glowing a little. “Never again.”
He nodded. “Back atcha, Miss Burel.” He tipped his beer bottle in her direction, and she instantly scooped hers up and gave his a solid clink.
“And who knows?” she said, after taking a quick swig. “Maybe you’ll have it.”
His brows knit together. “Have what?”
“A cub to boss around at the dinner table.”
His gut tightened. “Odds are against it, don’t you think? Fifty years and counting.”
“There’s Ashe.”
“She human.”
“So, go get yourself a human.”
This time, it wasn’t just his gut that tightened. It was every damn part of him. Even his fingers curled around his fork. “I don’t want a human.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right—”
“What are you doing, Miss Burel?” he said, placing his fork on his plate.
She shook her head, her eyes uneasy, taken aback by his gruff response. “What do you mean? I’m just talking—”
“Do you want me to go out and find a human? Really?”
She started chewing her lip. “I don’t understand what you’re—”
“Yes, you do. “ He leaned forward, his meal completely forgotten now. “Acting naive is almost as grating as believing you’ve been seduced.” His eyes narrowed on her gorgeous face and his voice lowered almost conspiratorially. “Tell me, Miss Burel. Can you continue to sit here, across from me and pretend there’s nothing going on? Nothing between us? Eat and drink and talk about our families and our history when all we want to do is answer the real questions on our minds?
She looked startled, and her cheeks flushed.
“What does she taste like?” he continued. “How would his arms feel around me? Would she like it slow and deep, or completely and totally out of control?”
“Oh my god,” she uttered hoarsely.
“I don’t think I can pretend, Miss Burel.” He stood up. “Never been any good at it.”
“Sit down and eat. Please.”
“No.”
“It’s getting cold.”
“I’m not hungry,” he growled.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment and whispered, “Neither am I.”
“Then what the fuck are we doing?” With a roar of lust-fueled ire, Jean-Baptiste swiped at the food on the table, sending it crashing to the ground. He heard Genevieve gasp, but all he wanted to do was get to her. He jumped onto the table, then leapt down on her side. His puma pacing inside his chest, he had her in his arms before she even had time to fully register what had happened.
“What are we doing?” she uttered, panic-stricken.
“Exactly what we both want.”
“I can’t…”
“You already are,” he returned, lifting her up, placing her on the table.
“I should go to bed,” she whimpered. “And we should forget this ever happened.”
“What you’re going to do, is keep your eyes open and brace yourself. After I take your mouth for a good long while, I'll be working my way down to all the bits and pieces you keep so tantalizingly and irritatingly covered."
Her eyes widened, but she whispered the only word that mattered to him in that moment. “Okay.”
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Burel. This won’t hurt a bit.” He ran his teeth over his lower lip, tugging at the silver hoops. “Unless you want it to.”
Chapter 5
Heat, tension and anticipation barreled though Genevieve as Jean-Baptiste tugged her to the very edge of the marble table, then splayed her legs with one of his powerful thighs. The table that had once held their dinner, she thought inanely— the dinner which was now somewhere on the floor. Maybe on the walls, too.
But did she care?
No, she did not.
He took up residence in the empty space between her legs, so big, so imposing, his hands plunging into her hair, and his gaze roaming over her with such predatory hunger she broke out in goose bumps. Clearly, this male was accustomed to taking what he wanted—no questions, no invitations—and Genevieve was stunned to realize just how sexy and irresistible she found that.
His nostrils flared as he breathed her in, and his fingers pressed into her scalp. He looked on the verge of attacking, and for one brief second, Genevieve swore she saw his puma push through his skin, saw his canines drop and his eyes flash gold.
But then his mouth covered hers, his body pressed against hers, and she forgot everything.
He feasted upon her like a starving male, his tongue plunging into her mouth, demanding a groan, a moan, a cry of his name, and she gave him all three. It was the most perfect, lusty, mind-blowing, sensual kiss she’d ever experienced, and she wanted more. So much more. Everything above and below her waist ran hot and suddenly frantic, and she curled her arms around his neck and clung to him as he took her mouth in kiss after kiss of perfect ocean waves; wet and pliant and drugging. She could feel the smooth metal of his lip piercings pressing into her skin, and it made her crazy with desire. She dropped her head back, forcing him to release her, just enough so she could run her tongue across the cool silver.
A sexual growl escaped Jean-Baptiste’s throat, and he tried to nip at her, lap at her tongue. But she wouldn’t allow it. She grinned wickedly, hungrily, and drove her fingers up into his dark hair, cupping his scalp. God, she felt out of her mind. Irrational. Uncaring about anything except this, him, her. Is this what lust was? The desperate need for another? Wanting him, needing him, as badly as you needed air or sunlight? Because truly, Genevieve had never wanted anything or anyone more in her life.
His eyes locked on her then, but her focus was entirely on those hoops. She’d thought about them so many times since they’d met. Now she was going to know.
Slowly, gently, she let her tongue probe inside the first ring. Then, just a hair inside the second. She heard him curse under his breath, felt his arms leave her hair and grip her hips. He yanked her closer, and she felt his cock pulse against the apex of her thighs. Her breathing turned ragged, and her mind went blank except for one thing, the one impulse she knew she couldn’t shake.
She curled her tongue around the silver rings and tugged.
It
was as if she’d unleashed a wild animal. With that one simple movement, Jean-Baptiste’s face went from a sensual hunger to a mask of fierce, feline possessiveness. He glared at her. Snarled at her. Sweat broke on his brow, his eyes flashed burnt gold and he looked ready to attack.
Maybe she should’ve been scared. Or at least, cautious. But when she eased her tongue from the rings, she grinned.
“Lie back,” he growled at her. “Now.”
Her heart slamming against her ribs in a rhythm of total thrill and desire, she let him guide her; one arm under her shoulder blades, one pressing at her hip, until she was completely stretched out on the black marble dining table. The room was lit by soft electric lights, and the pale gold walls etched in black created an intimate, opulent, feel.
“Knees up, Miss Burel,” he commanded, his voice a rough snarl of desire.
Every inch of Genevieve was shaking. From fear, from the delicious unknown, from unbearable anticipation, from overwhelming need. Jean-Baptiste’s hands found the edges of her skirt and not so slowly, or so gently, pushed the fabric up all the way to her waist. Liquid heat pooled into Genevieve’s sex and trickled down her thigh. She knew he could see it, but she didn’t care. She felt no shame. Only a desire to move, to demonstrate how badly she wanted this—wanted him.
His eyes flashing gold, Jean-Baptiste found the waistband of her underwear and curled his fingers around it. Genevieve bit her lip and groaned. Do it, she urged him, arching her back, canting her hips. Do it now before I lose my mind. Or my will. But instead of pulling down the damp, pale blue silk, he grabbed hold of it with his teeth, and ripped them right off of her.
“Now this is what I was hungry for, Miss Burel.”
He eased her thighs even farther apart, then shouldered his way between them.
“So pretty,” he whispered. “So wet. I can see your clit pulsing, Miss Burel. It calls to me, begs me to take it in my mouth and suckle.”
The muscles inside Genevieve’s pussy clenched, and her nipples tightened beneath the soft fabric of her bra.
Jean-Baptiste dropped his head and strung kisses across her hipbones; slow, hot kisses, the silver hoops gently scraping against her flesh. Genevieve stilled, her breath little pants interspersed with swallows of saliva. She’d never been kissed there before, but she’d fantasized about it too many times to count. A male’s head between her legs, his fingers gripping her inner thighs almost to the point of pain as he slid his hot tongue through her wet folds.