Make Me, Take Me

by Amanda Usen

  He made an appreciative noise. “So sexy.”

  You make me feel sexy. The words almost broke from her lips, but she choked them back. His ego didn’t need fuel. She squirmed when his hands slid down the back of her thighs. She felt him shift closer to the end of the bed. His lips tickled the backs of her knees for long moments, discovering nerve-endings she didn’t even know she had, before he slid down her calves to her feet.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “Feet are not sexy.”

  “Yours are. But I don’t have a foot fetish. I just want to touch you everywhere, including your feet.” He grasped her right foot and rolled his thumb across her arch in a firm massage.

  She groaned at the pleasure. “I take it back. Do whatever you want.”

  “I intend to.”

  She shivered and gasped as he worked on her feet, releasing the last vestiges of tension in her body. It was a different kind of pleasure, not sexual, but very physical. She felt heat rising in other areas of her body. A fizzing awareness surged through her as he worked his finger in between her toes, giving each one a gentle tug before he set her foot back on the bed.

  He had sensitized every inch of her skin. She was warm and tingling, ready, waiting—willing. She wondered what he would do next. The bed dipped under his weight as he made a place for himself between her legs again.

  His shoulders nudged her thighs, forcing them wide. She pressed her face into the pillows as his broad hands warmed her ass, rubbing wide circles. When his finger traced a line between her buttocks, she caught her breath, wondering what he intended. No one had ever taken her there, but the thought of it inflamed her. She wanted him to touch her everywhere.

  She was almost disappointed when his thumbs parted her folds…until his mouth latched on to the exact spot that had been aching for him. She whimpered. His strong tongue speared inside her.

  It wasn’t enough, but somehow he knew.

  The bed shook as he launched himself to lie beside her, snatching a condom from the floor and ripping open the package. He rolled it into place. His body heat was a shocking inferno, his arm a hard band around her waist as he hauled her up onto hands and knees. She reached between her legs, arching to guide him in, and they both groaned as he slid home, stretching her.

  His hips pressed forward, pinning her to the bed. She rested her head on her arms and let him take her. His hand gripped her hair, tugging, demanding. She couldn’t move. Resistance was impossible. His hard thrusts made surrender imperative as he bucked his hips, forcing pleasure through her. The hand on her waist moved between her thighs, and his fingers found her clit. His other hand tightened in her hair, and the power in him took her to the edge and hurtled her off, screaming.

  His hips drove her on while his fingers urged her toward another peak.

  She gasped. “Can’t.”

  “Of course you can.” He trapped her clit between his fingers and rubbed. Urgency built deep inside her, and she began to whimper. He pressed harder, and she ground back against him, unable to get away from the pressure that made her feel like she was going to explode. He let go of her hair and thrust his arms beneath her to cup her breast, fingers unerringly finding her tender nipple.

  She felt her walls squeeze him, heard him groan, saw sparks dance across her vision.

  He was still moving inside her.

  “I need to be on top of you.” He flipped her onto her back, levering himself between her thighs. She almost came yet again when he slammed into her, the ferocity of his thrust inspiring a matching fury in her. She lifted her hips, met each punishing thrust, determined to make him lose control. Instead, he eased back.

  His gaze was almost black and the intensity of his expression made her breath catch. He licked his thumb, drew it into his mouth, and pulled it out. Then he reached beneath where they were joined and pressed it firmly against her ass.

  Her vision caught fire.

  Ecstasy tightened every muscle, including the ones he was teasing with the tip of his thumb. Her pussy clenched so tightly, his eyelids dipped shut, but that didn’t stop him from bouncing his hips against her in the shortest, most intense thrusts she’d ever felt. Tears poured down her cheeks. She didn’t know what it was going to take to ease her. Another orgasm felt impossible.

  “Please.” She was open to him in every way, vulnerable, pleading.

  “You said the magic word.”

  He pulled his thumb out, and the friction made her burn. The tiny bite of pain made every nerve-ending sizzle. He made a slick circle against her ass and pushed in again. She detonated, screaming her relief, and he fell forward, driving inside her and shouting. She clung to him, clutching his back and holding tight as he shuddered. Aftershocks ricocheted between them, triggering more waves of bliss as he continued to pump slowly inside her.

  Finally, she went limp. The decrease in her muscle tension made him heavier, forcing air from her lungs in a whoosh.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, easing to the side.

  He rolled away and she lay with her eyes shut, feeling lethargy invade her entire being. Her limbs felt heavy; her thoughts were dense. She had to get out of here before she fell asleep, but she couldn’t move. He rolled back and nudged her onto her side, spooning her, with one arm under her pillow and the other wrapped around her waist.

  “Sleep,” he commanded.

  “Can’t.” She could barely form the single word and thought felt impossible, but she didn’t need to think to remember how difficult it had been to leave this morning. “I have things to do, and I’m beat. If I fall asleep, I’m afraid I won’t wake up until tomorrow. I don’t want to be late again.”

  “I’ll set the alarm.”

  He caught her arm as she inched toward the side of the bed. Her back felt icy without him, and she wanted to burrow back into his arms. She nearly gave in. Fear speared through her, giving her the energy to resist his warm strength and the weakness it inspired in her. She had to get out of here. “Just sex.”

  She didn’t know whether she was reminding him or herself, but it had the intended effect. He let her go.

  “Does that answer your question?” he asked.

  “What question?” She snatched her clothes from the floor and slid into them with relief. She’d made it out of bed, which was a damn miracle. Hopefully, putting a few layers between them would get her out of the hotel room.

  “About why I don’t believe in happily ever after. People always leave when I want them to stay.”

  …

  He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but she was dressing like a firefighter, racing for a five-alarm blaze. Bringing her to nearly a half-dozen orgasms without losing control hadn’t been as difficult as watching her get ready to leave. Abandonment issues, much? If he was going to get pissed every time she left, this was going to be complicated. She hurried into the bathroom and shut the door before he could think of a way to make what he’d said sound like a joke.

  He rolled out of bed on a wave of edgy energy, post-orgasm buzz gone. He’d promised to stay out of her business—a promise he’d already broken—and he’d also agreed not to contact her after their two weeks were up. He didn’t plan to keep that promise, either, so the least he could do was respect her desire to keep it simple for now. Just sex. Nope. That wasn’t going to work. He had a two-week deadline and couldn’t afford to lose an opportunity to change her mind.

  He waited for her to come out of the bathroom. “I’m sorry for being an ass. That wasn’t fair. Can I buy you dinner to make up for it?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. I have plans.”

  “Gotta wash your hair?” he asked dryly. “See a man about a dog? Save the planet?”

  “I need to find my sister.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Is she lost?”

  “Not exactly. We had a fight yesterday, and she took off in a snit. I have to hunt her down and drag her back.”

  “Why?”

  She looked start
led. “Because that’s what you do.”

  A painful laugh chuffed from his chest. The urge to confide in her surprised him, but he didn’t resist it. “I have a lost sister, too.”

  “Really?” Her gaze shot to his. “How long has she been lost?”

  “Over twenty years.” He met her curiosity head on. “We were fostered together and then she ran away. They never found her.”

  “I’m sorry.” She took his hand. “Do you remember her?”

  “No.” His fingers curled around hers. At least not when I’m awake. “I told you—I don’t remember anything about that part of my life.”

  She looked shocked. “Not anything?”

  “Apparently I have dissociative amnesia brought on by traumatic events.” The understanding in her eyes made him want to share more. He remembered plenty about the night two somber policemen had knocked on his door and told him Peter and Maeve were gone. But he didn’t want her to think he was guilt-tripping her again.

  He pulled his hand out of her grasp. “Hold on a second. I’ll leave with you.” He ducked into the bathroom and stared at his reflection until he got a grip on himself. He didn’t want her sympathy—or her pity.

  After washing his hands and splashing water on his face, he dressed quickly. He grabbed his wallet, key card, and phone, and joined her in the sitting-room of the suite. “Ready?”

  He opened the door for her, and they headed down the hall. They were both silent as they waited for the elevator. As they stepped inside, her gaze darted everywhere but at him. Was she remembering their last elevator ride? He was pretty sure he’d think of it in every elevator for the rest of his life.

  The doors opened to a flurry of activity in the lobby. The walls were already bare and he assumed the cool gray paint would be covered by a warm, dark red tomorrow. Anticipation built inside him as the strains of jazz swirled through the air. He glanced sideways to see if Betsy noticed the new music. She seemed preoccupied, intent on reaching the door, and his pleasure dimmed.

  It was just starting to get dark when they emerged from the hotel, and the air was heavy with moisture. The sound of a trumpet from a bar across the street struck chords in his bones, and a shiver vibrated across his skin. He rubbed his arms.

  “Ghost walk over your grave?” she asked.

  Every day. His gaze drifted toward the bar. “Sure felt like it.”

  “Great music over there,” she offered. “Good gumbo, too. Not as good as my mom’s, but good.”

  “What makes hers the best?”

  She laughed. “Three beers.”

  “There’s beer in gumbo?”

  “Nope—but it takes a long time to make the dark roux. Long enough to drink three beers. I’d say theirs is a one-and-a-half, maybe a two-beer gumbo, but still worth the price.”

  “I’ll save myself for your mom’s. Is it on the menu?”

  Betsy nodded. “She made it today.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, lingering to breathe in the scent of her skin mixed with the hotel’s citrus hand-soap. She smelled amazing, and he decided to cover her in the scent at his next opportunity.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, tugging her hand free.

  “You. Naked. In my bathtub,” he said casually. “I love this scent on your skin. I want to rub it everywhere, so I can enjoy it. How does the idea of a bubble bath after work tomorrow strike you?”

  She looked away.

  “Followed by a massage, of course.” He stroked his hand up her arm, brushing his thumb across the hollow of her elbow, traveling up her biceps to her shoulder, cupping it for a brief moment before winding his hand in her hair. He tugged her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze, tightening his grip until she gasped, no doubt remembering how he’d pulled her hair in bed, just as he’d intended. The desperation that grated inside him every time she put distance between them edged sharper. “And room service,” he added.

  She blinked and nodded, softening as he hardened.

  He pressed a light kiss on her lips. “I want you again,” he whispered. “But I can wait.” It was a lie. If she said or did anything to encourage him, he’d drag her in the alley and show her every inch of his impatience. But she pulled away, so he merely smiled. “Where do you live? I’m walking you home.”

  She cleared her throat. “No need. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s getting late, and even I know the French Quarter isn’t all parties and fun. There’s a dark alley every few feet. Let me walk you.”

  “I grew up here, and I’m on a first-name basis with almost every bartender in the Quarter. These are my dark alleys. No one is going to bother me.”

  “Why don’t we argue while we walk? The faster we reach your door, the faster you can be rid of me.”

  She growled softly and walked away from him, so he followed. He caught up with her easily, tempted to take her hand again, but he decided not to push it. They passed plenty of alleys and dark corners before she slowed just outside the French Quarter proper and pointed up. “Home sweet home.”

  The ground floor of the building was taken up by tourist shops. It was a prime location, just a few blocks from Jackson Square, and he was relieved.

  “Good-bye, Quin.”

  He shook his head. “Door-to-door service. Humor me.”

  She rolled her eyes as she unlocked the door. He followed her into the hallway and up two flights of stairs. She stopped in front of the second door on the left and turned to face him. Curiosity beat inside his blood. He wanted to see her space, but she clearly had no intention of inviting him into her apartment. “See you later, Betsy.”

  As promised, he left her at the door.

  He looked around when he reached the street. Unlike the French Quarter bars, the drinking establishments on this street had a trendy feel to them. Gas lamps cast bright spots every few yards, and the souvenir shops carried more expensive items. Underneath the scent of fried food and sticky, sweet drinks, he could smell the river. He let instinct carry him around the corner and the scene changed again.

  This street was dark. The only lights were neon, advertising beers. The sounds of serious music competed for his attention. His fingers began to ache, so he flexed them. There had to be an instrument shop somewhere in the French Quarter. Tomorrow he’d buy a guitar, but tonight he’d find a bar with live music—and good bourbon—and lose himself for a while.

  The strum of a guitar beckoned, and he moved forward, stopping in front of an open door. The bouncer looked him up and down. “Twenty.”

  Quin put a bill into his hand, waited for change, and pressed forward, taking a seat right in front of the small stage. The band occupied folding chairs and had no music in front of them, just their instruments. Music weaved through the small room as they took turns improvising solos. He closed his eyes and soaked it in, feeling strangely at home in the unfamiliar environment. As far as he knew, he’d never been in a jazz bar in his life, and yet he felt something deep inside him begin to unfurl, just as it had the other day with the old man. He knew these songs and this music. It was part of him, a part he couldn’t reach.

  As they shifted to jazz standards, he grew impatient with his memory. If he picked up a guitar right now, he knew he could join in. The music grew louder, building toward a crescendo, and the tension inside him tightened as he reached for the memories with everything inside him.

  The music stopped.

  Quin felt as if a rope had been ripped from his hands and he was falling. He clutched his chair, drenched in sweat, every muscle straining as the band members tucked their instruments in cases, either taking a break or making way for the next act. He stared hungrily at the guitar.

  “Hey.” The guitarist lifted a pale brow and a silver ring caught the light. “Do you play?”

  Quin nodded tightly, shocked when the man held out the instrument. “You look like you got somethin’ just about ready to bust outta you. Let’s hear it.”
r />   “Really?” Quin hesitated.

  The man shrugged. “She’s been through just about everythin’. You’re not gonna hurt her.”

  He stood and took the guitar, moving to sit in one of the folding chairs on stage. He tucked the guitar into his lap, wrapped his arm around it, and fit his fingers to the frets. When he brushed the strings, adrenaline surged through him. He closed his eyes and began to play, following the melody in his memory, chasing it around blind corners and galloping through dark alleys, moving faster and faster, picking up so much speed he dared not stop or his legs would fly out from under him and he’d lose layer upon layer of skin on the street. He couldn’t slow or he’d stumble and spin through the air, ricocheting against the hard edge of a nightmare.

  The scent of incense punched through the darkness. Quin’s fingers hit a brick wall and slid down the frets, lost. He circled for a minute, trying to find his place, but the cloying smoke covered everything. Applause jerked his eyes open. Rich colors swirled along the edges of his vision, edging out the shadows, and he forced a smile at the small crowd gathered in front of the stage.

  Heart pounding, he returned the guitar to its owner. “Thanks.”

  “Fo’ sho’. Anytime you wanna jam, you come right back here, brother. I’ll hook you up.”

  Quin nodded and left the stage, stopping to buy a round of drinks for the band before he hit the door. Shadows slipped through his memory. His chest was heavy with dread as he walked, and he knew there would be no escape from his nightmares tonight.

  He turned the corner and broke out onto the brightly lit street, stopping as a familiar figure caught his eye. He watched her weave down the sidewalk, and then glanced at his watch, surprised to see three hours had passed since he left Betsy at her door. Apparently, she’d had the same plan of getting drunk he had, but she’d made better progress. She staggered as she pulled open the door of a bar and disappeared.

  What the hell was she doing? Bar hopping? Alone? Over his dead body.

  With a sharp sense of relief, he headed across the street.