by Eden Bradley
He was quiet a few moments, simply looking up at her. She didn’t have a clue what was going through his mind, and it was making her uncomfortable as hell. She was sitting on his lap, and he still hadn’t put his hands on her.
“Mick,” she whispered as she leaned forward, bringing her mouth within inches of his. “I need you to kiss me. I need you to touch me. Don’t argue it. Just do it.”
“Bossy girl.”
“Yes. Just . . . for now. Just for now, stop talking and kiss me. Kiss me hard. Make me remember it.”
He blinked up at her, then his shadowed eyes lost their darkness and began to gleam, a pure, crystalline gray.
“I need to remember, too,” he said quietly.
The energy between them shifted and so did he, grasping her hips and bringing her pelvis in until it was seated hard up against his. Then he grabbed her face and kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers, hard, harder. Just the urgent press of his lips until she could barely breathe, his hands loosening their tight hold on her cheeks, going gentle. Then his mouth gentled, too, and it was a pure, sensual fire between them, his tongue sliding into her mouth, so sweet and soft she wanted to cry for everything she felt in his kiss.
It was too much—too much to feel. She took his face in her hands and deepened the kiss, pressed her pelvis into his. Everything changed in an instant. He kissed her harder, taking her mouth. His kiss was primal, wild, taking command. He always would, one way or another, and she was fine with that. More than fine—she loved it. Her body was coming alive, every nerve ending on fire. She ground her hips against him, felt the solid ridge of his erection through his jeans and hers. Wanted—needed—more.
She broke from the kiss long enough to strip her tank top over her head. As she started on his he helped her, then he bent to kiss her breasts roughly. She let her head fall back as he gathered her breasts in his hands and pushed them together, used his thumbs to work his way over the still-dark bite marks, past the lacy edge of her bra to find her nipples. They were already hard. His circling thumbs only made them harder.
Pleasure suffused her, washing the worry away. This was exactly what she needed—to lose herself in body to body, lips to lips, pleasure to pleasure.
Mick unsnapped her bra and tore it off, then he started to unbutton her jeans. She went for his at the same time—and was rewarded by the hard, golden head of his bare cock as she pulled his jeans open. She stroked him, her fingers curling around the tip, and he groaned.
“Ah, Allie.”
“Come on, Mick.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice, baby.”
He stood and set her on her feet, stripped her out of her jeans and panties in mere seconds, then tore his jeans off.
“Damn it. Condom. Hang on.”
She watched his finely molded ass as he strode toward his bedroom, noticed that he was limping a little. The trip must have been hard on him. Seconds later he was coming at her, a string of condom packets in his hand, his beautifully erect cock leading the way.
God, the man was really something.
He sat back down on the sofa, wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her on top of him, seating her against him the way he had earlier, with her straddling his lap—only this time, naked. His cock was pressed against her mound, the ridge of it hitting her swollen clit. Immediately she grabbed the back of the sofa to steady herself and began a slow, sinuous grind against him.
“Christ,” he groaned. “You’re gonna kill me with that thing, Allie girl.”
“Oh, I intend to,” she said, sliding her wet pussy up and down the length of him, every stroke sending desire shivering into her system.
She moved faster, the slip and slide of their bodies hitting her in all the right places, and pleasure rose higher, built like a tight knot deep in her sex.
“Ahhhh,” Mick groaned, driving her on.
She arched her hips, really grinding into him, wanting release, needing it now.
“Allie, slow down, baby.”
“No,” she growled.
She let go of the sofa cushions and grabbed his shoulders, dug her nails into the heavy muscle there. He moaned, arched up against her.
“Oh, yes . . .”
He buried his face between her breasts, kissing and licking at the skin there. “Need to fuck you,” he murmured. “Need to fuck you so hard.”
“Not yet.”
“You are . . . fucking sexy when . . . you’re toppy,” Mick told her between gasping breaths.
She sighed as she slid along the length of his shaft, up, then down, making the pressure just right. He grabbed her ass and helped her move her arching hips, holding her tight against him, making his cock press harder against her. Pleasure spiraled, crested, and finally erupted like a burst of thunder deep in her body.
“Oh! Oh . . .”
She was coming so hard she was shaking. Mick held on to her, held her tight, kissing her bruised breasts as she came. She kept thrusting her hips, sliding her clenching pussy up and down his hard shaft, her climax still skittering over her skin.
Before she was certain she was done, Mick flipped her on her back on the coffee table so fast she never saw it coming—the wood was hard and cool against her back—and in moments he’d rolled a condom over his cock. He held himself over her, and as she wrapped her legs around his waist he thrust into her.
“Mick!”
His cock was big, but she was wet enough to take him all at once. He surged into her, slid out, every motion driving pleasure deep and hard. He was kissing her breasts again, using lips and tongue, punctuated with small, nipping bites that only drove her pleasure higher.
He paused, gasping. “Allie . . . I’m going to come.”
“Yes. Do it. But kiss me, Mick. Just fucking kiss me.”
He lowered his head and crushed his lips to hers as he rammed into her. She held his face in her hands, needing to feel him, to feel connected in some way, even if it was just their two bodies, their hot, wet mouths, joined together.
He pulled back with a sharp groan, and she looked into his eyes as he started to come, hips jerking, gaze locked on hers. Something in his eyes looked lost in wonderment, making her heart twist in her chest. At that moment, she knew he was right there with her.
Right there.
He shivered all over, shook in her arms, that intense, wide gaze never leaving hers. Then he buried his face between her breasts once more as he caught his panting breath, his hands tangling in her hair.
They stayed there for several minutes before he pulled away, helped her sit up on the edge of the table.
“Bed?” he asked, still not quite all there after his orgasm.
She nodded. He drew her to her feet, and she followed him into the bedroom, where he helped tuck her in beneath the covers. He climbed in beside her, lying on his back. When she nudged his arm he opened it and invited her in. She laid her head on his chest and listened to him breathe. Waited for him to really wrap her in his arms. To kiss her again. But all he did was lie perfectly still in the darkened room. There was just enough light coming from the living room for her to see the silhouette of his eyelashes. His eyes were open—he wasn’t sleeping. But he was silent. Unmoving. As if she weren’t even there.
She’d needed to be with him, for him to be with her. Present. Engaged. Connected. But it hadn’t worked in the end, had it? Other than those brief moments when he was coming, when he looked into her eyes and saw her. Felt her. And now she felt even worse than she had when she’d arrived.
A slow tear made its way down her cheek, but she didn’t dare brush it away. She didn’t want him to know. She bit her lip to stifle any sound, forced herself to stop the crying.
How many tears had she cried over Mick Reid? How many times had he turned away from her? And yet she still kept after him.
/>
It was beginning to be humiliating.
She couldn’t be the only one with all her cards in the game. And damn it, it wasn’t a game to her. It was her heart, a heart that had carried these wounds for far too long. She’d never been able to fall for another man—really fall, although she’d tried a few times—because Mick had always owned her heart.
He still fucking did. But maybe she was only helpless against it if she chose to be.
Hours passed while the same ideas whirled through her mind with the force of a tornado. When she checked the clock at five thirty in the morning, she still didn’t have the answers. But one thing she knew: continuing to do this—accepting Mick’s crappy behavior toward her—wasn’t getting her anywhere.
She needed distance to figure things out. To decide if she was willing to accept this from him or if she was stronger than that. And maybe only once she’d gone—gone of her own accord and not because Mick needed space—maybe then he’d realize what was at stake.
She listened for his breathing, wanting to make sure he was asleep. She couldn’t handle another conversation. He always managed to talk his way around her, or seduce her into forgetting what it was she wanted to talk about. The man was too clever for his own good—certainly for hers. She slipped quietly from the bed, found her clothes, her purse, and left the warmth of Mick’s body, his bed, behind. But she knew that warmth would never be anything but temporary if she didn’t go.
Have to go.
She wiped the tears away as she started her car, the engine a loud rumble in the still, early morning air.
The sun was rising as she headed home, the sky a wash of pink and gold. It was lovely. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
Like him.
She was tired of Mick breaking her heart. Maybe it was his turn.
She wanted to feel some satisfaction at the thought. But it was Mick, and she loved him. Knowing he might hurt when he woke up alone only made her own pain more wrenching.
It was still the right thing to do.
Sometimes, being right sucked.
* * *
MICK WOKE WITH a start. He reached for Allie but found only cool sheets next to him.
“What the hell?”
He ran a hand over his head, rubbed his eyes. Maybe she was in the bathroom? The kitchen?
He glanced at the clock as he got up. Seven in the morning. Dusky light shone from behind the curtains—another hazy spring day in New Orleans. It was probably already warm out there. Why did he feel chilled?
He found the bathroom door wide open, moved into the kitchen. It was empty.
“Allie?” he called, knowing there would be no answer.
He grabbed his sweats from the living room floor, pulled them on, then moved around the apartment looking for a note, then his cell phone. No voice mail, no texts. He went into his office and booted up his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk while he waited.
Maybe she was sick? But she would have left him some kind of message or even woken him up to tell him. Wouldn’t she?
He remembered in a small flash the look on her face when she’d shown up at his place last night. She’d looked . . . haunted. He damn well knew why. He just didn’t know what the hell to do about it. But now she was gone. She should at least have had the grace to tell him she was going. Not that he’d treated her any better all those years ago, in college, when he’d split in the middle of the night.
Tears sliding down her cheeks—he’d been too damn caught up to notice. Hell, he was still hard. After the hottest sex he’d ever had in his life. Hot because it was her. But he’d made her fucking cry! What kind of sick fuck was he?
Something in his chest tore, even as her warm body pressed against his, her arms winding tight around his neck. He swore he could see through the gaping hole that had opened in his chest to the darkness that lay underneath, a darkness he’d unleashed on Allie. Allie, of all people!
He held her tight, whispering to her—all the things he thought she might need to hear, feeling like he was flailing around, trying to find some way to make it right.
“Shh, Allie girl. It’s okay.”
Christ, what a liar he was.
“Mick . . . I just . . . I didn’t know. I had no idea this was . . .”
She cried harder, her hot tears falling onto his chest.
Nothing would make it right. Because he was all damn wrong.
Fuck.
He tried to shake it off.
Was this payback?
He deserved it—there was no arguing with that. But he’d have thought better of Allie.
He paced the apartment, the wood floors cold beneath his bare feet.
Fuck it. This was inevitable, anyway. They’d never been meant to be together.
Except that the dull, thudding ache in his chest told him otherwise.
She belonged to him.
No.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stalking into the bedroom and grabbing a shirt and his running shoes, shoving his feet into them.
He needed to run. Just fucking run this off—the thoughts and emotions he had no control over.
He grabbed his keys and a small water bottle and headed downstairs, his shoes making a slapping sound on the old wood treads. He shot out the front door and went into a full run as he hit the streets, the lack of warm-up making his muscles go tight, but he needed it. If he slowed down, his brain would catch up with him.
Can’t handle it right now. Not now.
His bad leg began to ache right away, but he didn’t care. He kept running, his feet hitting the damp pavement—it must have rained at some point in the night. He could smell it all around him. Damp cement, the scent of the old bricks and plaster on the buildings he passed. The green scent of the flowers and plants and weeds that grew in pots on porches and balconies, in every possible crevice. He drew in a deep breath, wanting the damp and the green to cool his burning lungs. He should have started out slower, he knew. But right now all that mattered was running as fast and hard as he could.
Ha. That was fucking obvious.
Don’t think about it. Nothing is going to make sense now.
Not his anger at Allie for taking off. Not his anger at himself for being an asshole to the woman he loved.
Fucking loved!
Still. Always.
Allie.
That was never going to change. What had changed was that she finally understood what he was and wasn’t capable of. And she was telling him loud and clear she wasn’t having it. He didn’t blame her.
Except that he did.
He was fucking mad. Hell, he was in a rage.
He needed to fight. Needed to purge the animal from his body, from his Goddamn soul. And he knew exactly where to go.
He was about to change direction when he realized his feet had already taken him down Dauphine to Canal Street. He crossed Canal, still quiet this early in the day, and Dauphine turned into Baronne. He ran on, his lungs on fire, toward the Pontchartrain Expressway and the row of warehouses that housed the private fight club hidden in the underbelly of the city.
He headed south, following the line of the freeway, his mind empty of everything now but his absolute need to hit something, anything. To be hit back. He needed it—to feel his fist connecting. To have some of the piss knocked out of him. Needed not to think, to feel. And nothing made him go numb better than fighting.
He flexed his fingers, almost dropping his water bottle when he got to the club. There was no address on the old corrugated metal structure. The big door was closed, but he knew there was someone to be found inside at almost any time of day or night.
He paused outside, sweat dripping into his eyes, and he tasted salt. He shook his head, shook the sweat out of his hair, took a swig from his water bottle and push
ed the door aside. And walked into the darkness.
CHAPTER
Eleven
SHE WOKE TO a dull throb in her head.
Bang, bang, bang.
Blearily, she glanced at the clock on her nightstand and found she’d only slept an hour.
Bang, bang, bang.
She should get up and take some ibuprofen for her aching head. Too bad they didn’t make a medicine for an aching heart.
She rolled over and realized she was still lying on top of the covers, fully dressed. She’d come home and fallen onto her bed, turned on Travel TV and mostly just stared at it, unfocused, pretending not to think, crying a little. But not too much. She just wouldn’t stand for much of the damn crying.
“Allie?”
The voice was muffled, and it was then she realized the banging was the front door.
Not Mick. Thank God.
And fuck, why not Mick?
She ran a hand through her hair as she padded on bare feet to the door.
“Allie, it’s Jamie. You in there?”
“Hang on.”
She checked her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked like hell. She shrugged helplessly before turning to open the door. The morning sunlight made her squint.
“Hi, Jamie.”
“Jesus. You sick or something?”
She shook her head and stepped aside to let him in. “I don’t know. Maybe the ‘or something,’” she mumbled as he moved past her into the house.
“I brought you some coffee and beignets from Café Du Monde. Maybe that’ll help?”
She followed him into the kitchen, where he set the cardboard tray of paper coffee cups on the table, as well as a white paper bag.
“They smell good.”
He pulled her in for a hug, and she burrowed into his arms and immediately felt like crying. But she would not do it. She would not.
“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”
She nodded into his chest.
He squeezed her shoulders. “Allie?”
“I will be.”
“That sounds cryptic. You want to talk to me about it?”