Bretaur grins. “Of course not, darling. Can I order you anything to drink?”
She sits down and looks up at me. “I was thinking a Long Island. What did you want, Professor?”
Her voice softens and lingers over the title, warms a little. My shoulders ease and I nod, sitting next to her. “A bottle of the house wine, please.”
The server grins at us and hurries away.
“So. Tell us your story,” I say to Daniel.
“Well, I’m a local boy. I grew up in Orleans parish. My mom’s family has been here since before the Civil War.”
He reaches for a briefcase and brings out a package wrapped in plastic and cloth.
The little book is small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, a few pages tucked back into the book after slipping the loose binding. The pages have the look I’ve seen on so many documents that have spent any time at sea—the edges are ruffled and slightly curled.
It’s a journal, and from the looks of it, the kind a sailor would carry, tucked in a pocket while he worked.
“Most sailors couldn’t read or write,” I say, curling my fingers in my lap. Forcing myself not to reach for it.
“According to the book, he was a ship’s boy. The captain would teach him a little, when he was cleaning the captain’s quarters. Enough that he eventually was semi-literate.” Bretaur makes a face. “It’s not easy to read—the spelling is awful and the handwriting is worse. But it might be useful.”
Avery makes a face and takes the drink from our server. “It can’t be worse than the Professor’s.”
I dart a quick look at her and murmur, “Be nice, Miss. Emili.” I reach for the little book. “Do you mind?” Bretaur hands it to me, and I carefully unwrap it. My heart skips when I see it. The spelling is atrocious, the chicken scratch typical of quills.
I look up at Avery, trying to contain my excitement. “We’d need to authenticate it.”
“Is it real?” Bretaur asks, startled.
“We won’t know for sure until it’s been authenticated.” I look up at him. “Can I take it with me?”
I’m sitting on the bed, staring at the journal, still a little shocked Bretaur let us take it.
“We should probably move to the other room and cancel this one.” Avery says, her voice echoing in the bathroom.
I frown, tucking the journal into my brief case. “What’s wrong with our room?”
She comes out of the bathroom in an oversized t-shirt, her hair pulled into a high pony tail. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Atti. It’s just small. And paying for two rooms seems silly, don’t you think?”
“Paying for two rooms seems like a better idea than trying to explain why my research assistant is sharing my hotel room,” I say. She stiffens, and I curse. “Shit. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It doesn’t change that I want you,” I say, standing. I catch her and turn her to face me. “Look, we’re consenting adults. It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“That’s true for this very moment, but for how long?”
I pull her into my arms, inhaling the smell of hotel shampoo and her lotion. “Can we not talk about expiration dates? Not yet.”
She gives me a serious look, the kind she gets when she’s going to push a point, and I kiss her. “We will talk. But I just want tonight. This trip. We’ll talk about this on the way home. Deal?”
Avery bites her lip, and I see the indecision in her. And then she nods. “Deal.”
I release the breath I've been holding and tighten my grip on her. She wiggles in my embrace and I release her enough to look down as she cranes her head back to smile at me. It's subtle and sexy and I get hard just staring at her. "So we have this weekend in a city I've never been to. What do you want to do?"
I take a step, pulling her with me as I sit down on the bed. "Tomorrow, I want to take you to get beignets and coffee, and to see everything in this city you've ever wanted to see. I want to dress you up and take you on a dinner cruise and get drunk with you on Bourbon Street. I want to find a street fortune teller and have her read our palms and tell us a cheesy future that we know won't be ours."
She's smiling, her heart beating like crazy. I can see the pulse pounding under the delicate skin of her neck. "That's tomorrow. What do you want to do tonight?"
I stretch up, and she meets me halfway, kissing me. Her mouth opens and her tongue darts out, flirting with mine, and I shiver as she shifts, straddling me. I fall back on the bed, and she grinds against me. I groan and break the kiss. She nibbles at my neck, her kisses like tiny drops of fire across my throat. "Tonight, I want you naked in my bed. I want to fuck you until you scream my name, and then I want you slow and soft in the shower. I want to taste every inch of you."
Because I only get you this weekend. And I need as much as I can get.
She shivers, shifts a little, and sits up. I see my own thoughts reflected in her eyes, and I force down the thought that this won't be enough. I won't be able to let her go after a weekend.
"That's all well and good, Professor," she murmurs against my lips, "but I want something first."
I shudder at the heat and promise in her eyes.
Avery
I slip off him, and pull my t-shirt off. I'm not wearing a bra, and I stand in my panties, watching his eyes widen and then grow drowsy. He's so fucking hot, and I honestly don't think he realizes it. I tug impatiently at his pants and he helps me unfasten his belt, lifting his hips as I tug the pants down and off. I let them crumple on the floor by the bed, and he sits up, tugging his shirt up and over his head.
It rumples his hair adorably, and I lick my lips.
My turn.
I straddle him, and Atticus' arms come up and around me, a soft warmth that surrounds me, and I have to swallow at how right, how fucking perfect it feels, having him hold me.
How much I want to have him hold me.
I kiss him, because I can't let myself think like that.
I slide a little lower. His cock brushes against my core, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinding against him. As delicious as he feels inside me, I want to taste him.
I kiss my way down his torso, and he props himself up on one elbow, watching me while he pushes my hair from my face. I was right, his abs are cut and perfectly lickable, and I give into the impulse, dragging my tongue over the soft skin. He's salty, just a little hint of sweat beading on his chest, and I close my eyes, savoring it.
Drop a little lower, following the perfect V of his hip bones.
His cock is gorgeous. I've never really thought men were that attractive, naked, but god. Atticus has changed my opinion on that front. I wrap one hand around him, and he inhales sharply.
"Avery," he murmurs, and I smirk up at him. Then take him in my mouth.
His groan is so loud, I think it can be heard in the hallway. He falls back on the bed, and I feel his hands fisting in my hair. He shifts me with a quick tug, and I love it—he's almost rough in bed, sure enough of himself and me that he doesn't bother with asking. With anyone else, it would piss me off. But Atticus has always given me an option out, and I chose this. I could still walk away.
But he knows that I won't.
I lick my way down his shaft, teasing as he tries to thrust deeper into my mouth. I tighten my grip on him and he groans again, but settles, waiting. I smile, then tighten the pressure of my lips, sucking on him while my tongue dances over him. He makes a strangled noise when my free hand slips between his legs and cups his balls. He thrusts into my mouth then hesitates. I bob down on him a few times, and I can feel his control snap as I suck his cock. His grip tightens a little, and his voice is hoarse in my ear. "Avery, I...I want to fuck you." I shake my head a little, and he growls, "I'm gonna come, baby."
I tighten my grip on his balls, and he groans then jerks me away from him. I make a noise of displeasure, and he laughs. Reaches across the bed.
"Don't. I'm safe."
&n
bsp; He glances down at me, but doesn't question my assurance. Without preamble, he sheathes himself in my core. I cry out, tears burning the edges of my eyes. It feels so good—so damn right. He fits me, in a way no one ever has. I shake as he pulls out, teasing me with just the tip of his cock as he kisses my neck, suckles my tits. I shift impatiently and he smiles. "What do you want?"
"I want you to make me scream, Professor," I say, shifting my hips. He drops down to kiss me, his tongue plunging into my mouth as his cock plunges into my body. I close my eyes, the sensation of his weight, his lips, his cock driving into me, all of it overwhelming and leaving me breathless.
Atticus shifts, almost kneeling as he drives into me, his hands coming up to frame my face. "Look at me," he commands. I whimper, and his thumb smooths over my lip. Without thinking, I catch it with my teeth, biting down lightly. His breath catches. "Avery, look at me."
I force my eyes open, force myself to meet his burning gaze. It's too much—too intimate. Sex with him should be casual, nothing, something we can walk away from. But he's staring at me, like he can see into my soul, see everything that makes me twitch and tremble. Like he's trying to memorize it. "Atticus, please," I breathe, and I don't even know what I'm asking. All I know is if he looks at me like that when I come, I won't be able to hide anything—I won't be able to walk away from him.
And I have to walk away.
"I've got you, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I'll take care of that sweet little body."
I shudder as he eases almost all the way free of me, then drives back in with a strong thrust. He smirks. "You like that, don't you? You’re so fucking wet, Avery. I could fuck you all night."
I make a strangled noise, and he laughs. My hands come up, toying with my nipple and his eyes darken. He likes that—seeing me touch myself.
Atticus captures my hands, holds them down on the bed as he stretches out to cover me, and finally—finally—he settles into a pounding rhythm. Every thrust takes him deeper than anyone's ever been, the sensation of his bare cock in me enough to drive me wild. Then he kisses me, and it's sweet, tender. Almost loving. The contrast—his lips making love while he fucks me—makes me tighten, the world disappearing until there is only this. This bed, us, him and me, so close there is nothing else. His lips leave mine, nibble at my ear, and his voice is hoarse and pleading, "Come for me, baby. Come with me."
I shudder, and he drives into me once more. My orgasm slams into me, my toes curling and my breath catching as my body clenches around him. He makes a strangled sound as I cry out—his name—and then he's coming, long and hard and hot inside me, and it kicks me even higher as he thrusts one last time, pushing my orgasm into another little one as shudders rack my body.
It seems like hours when I finally can breathe and my vision returns to normal. He's lying on me, his breath rough and uneven in my ear. "Just. Give me a few minutes," he murmurs. I laugh lightly, and he lifts up to kiss me, gently and thoroughly, before pulling free. I choke off the noise of disappointment and watch him walk into the bathroom to clean up.
God, I am so screwed.
Chapter 16
Atticus
“That,” she says, staring at the offending cup, “is not coffee.”
I swallow my laugh. “No, sugar, it’s not. It’s café au laite—they mix it with chickory.”
She pushes it away with a scowl, and I signal the waiter. “Can she get some orange juice?”
He hurries away, and she takes a bite of her beignet before frowning at me. “You didn’t tell me you’d be depriving me of my coffee, Atticus.”
Powdered sugar clings to her lips, and it’s taking all of my self-control to keep my hands to myself and not lean over and lick them clean.
“Sorry,” I say, unrepentant.
She glares at me, and I do kiss her, my tongue slipping into her mouth and finding the taste of coffee and sugar. She’s stiff at first—for a split second—and then she relaxes, a soft sigh slipping from her.
“Finish your breakfast, and we’ll go for a walk.”
Interest sparks in her eyes, but she’s trying to hide it. “And I’ll stop and get you real coffee first,” I add.
Watching Avery explore New Orleans is like experiencing it for the first time. There’s a childlike excitement in her eyes as we tour St. Louis Cathedral that makes me want to wrap her up and cuddle her, and makes me sad that I’ve missed so much of her life.
After touring the Cathedral, we wander the streets, ducking into random shops with gaudy jewelry and elaborate masks, bookstores that are surprisingly big, but dusty and full of books that smell like time.
“You hungry?” I ask when she starts flagging. She nods, and I link our hands together, pulling her down to a small café with the smells of Cajun food emanating from it.
She starts to ask for a table, but I shake my head and pull her to the counter to order. “I don’t want to be with other people,” I murmur into her ear, tucking her back to my front. She softens against me, and we stand like that, quiet in the noisy café while they prepare our po boys and red beans and rice.
When our lunch is ready, I lead her out of the café and away from the busyness of the city. Down by the river, there are a few benches, and I settle on one. Amused, Avery sits next to me and sips our sweet tea. “I should have gotten two of those,” I say, grinning, and she smirks.
“Probably.”
She crosses her legs under her on the bench and unwraps her sandwich, watching as a freight ship eases down the river. “He fought in those waters, didn’t he?”
I glance out at the harbor. “Yeah. It was his home turf. The people of New Orleans loved Jean.”
“Is that why you like him?”
“No. I mean, he was a pirate. He did good stuff, but he was still a pirate. And I think it’s pretty obvious I’m a teen boy at heart.”
“What do your parents think of you chasing pirates for your living?”
“Mom encouraged this, remember?”
A mischievous smile turns her lips, and she licks ketchup off her finger. “Tell me the most embarrassing thing that happened to you growing up.”
“Are we doing that? You first.”
“Amelia told this guy I was crushing on that I liked him. Except, she didn’t know that there was more than one Gary in our class. So she told the super cute, popular one. And he was a dick about it—told everyone in our grade, and then at lunch was like, sit with me, woman.” She laughs, her eyes a little distant.
“Sounds like it was really embarrassing for him.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t let me finish. So we’re eating lunch and he’s being super shitty and he’s like, you can clean up for me because you like me. And I just blurted out that I didn’t like him, I liked Gary Little. And the whole class, they just got super quiet. Gary Little was different—quiet, a little nerdy, but my god, the imagination that boy had. I was so embarrassed, because everyone knew I liked this little geek. But Little became one of my best friends.”
I smirk, lean over and wipe a little sauce from the corner of her lips. “That is the worst embarrassing story in the history of embarrassing stories,” I tell her.
Avery rolls her eyes. “So what’s yours?”
“Lisa Martin’s sixth grade pool party. Dad bought my swim trunks that year, and they were a little big. So I’m swimming around, and Dane yanks them off and runs. So I’m sitting there, naked, with all these girls in bikinis running around, and Nik furious because I got a hard-on when Lisa came out in her suit—she was really coming into her own that year—and I couldn’t hide it or anything. And Dane, being Dane, was laughing his ass off on the other side of the pool.”
She’s laughing at me, her shoulders shaking silently. I make a face at her and reach over to poke her in the ribs. She shrieks, almost falling off the bench when I hit a ticklish spot. “Quit!” she yelps, and I laugh. “That’s what you get for laughing at my poor sixth grade self.”
“So what happened with Lisa?” she asks, composi
ng herself, her eyes sparkling.
I shrug. “A few rounds of spin the bottle, and Dane had her wrapped around his finger.”
She makes a face. “He’s a good friend, isn’t he?”
I nod, bunching our trash in the bag it came in. Pull her close and relax as she nuzzles into me. “The very best.”
I wait, toying with my tie as Avery puts the finishing touches on her makeup. The maid came by while we were out, the sheets straightened and cover smoothed down. The pillows are where they belong—all evidence of our night together is wiped away, as if had never happened.
We're leaving tomorrow. Headed back to Branton and the lives that wait for us there. The idea of it makes my blood cold. I'm not ready for it.
We spent hours on that bench, watching boats stream up and down the river and talking about the journal Bretaur loaned me, about her plans after graduation, about our siblings—two hours of nothing more than holding hands and laughing.
It was as intimate as the night we'd spent naked in our hotel room.
And none of it was making me want to give her up.
My phone vibrates slightly.
Dane: How is the trip?
Me: I don't know. Good.
Dane: Well, that's cryptic. Did you sleep with her?
I hesitate. I don't want to tell him.
Dane: Fuck. Did it at least get it out of your system?
Me: No.
There's a moment before he responds, and I can almost see my best friend. The irritation in his eyes mixing with pity.
Dane: You can't keep her, A. You know that. Don't get attached.
I don't respond. There is nothing I'm willing to say to that. Avery steps out of the bathroom, and I look up, slipping my phone in my pocket.
She takes my breath away. She's wearing a long summer dress, the pale purple draping over her. It's perfectly modest—she's covered from the high halter top to the tip her painted toenails.
But the way the dress clings to her curves, soft and sweet, makes me want to lock the door and never come out.
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