Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2)

by Nina Bruhns

  "I'll be the judge of that," she said, and closed the distance, easing the bag with the tape from his death grip on it.

  His burden gone, he grabbed her arms, his fingers circling her flesh like tourniquets. She didn't quail, didn't show a sign of the blood that rocketed through her veins at his touch, the joy that he would trust her even this far. She looked up at him calmly, doing her best to focus his attention, his anger, on her, away from the ugliness he'd just witnessed, and channel it into something else. Something positive.

  "I'll tell you what I need," he growled, and pulled her close.

  Her senses filled with him and her pulse went crazy, an electrifying tumult charging places she didn't know she had. This was exactly what she wanted to happen. Making love would help him so much. And her.

  "Tell me," she murmured, and felt the full impact of his hard, virile body against hers.

  His hands slid up her arms to her neck and jaw, then his fingers bracketed her cheeks. Not painfully, but firmly, so she couldn't move her head.

  He leaned in so they were nose to nose, lip to lip, sucking in the same hot, fevered air. "I'll tell you what I need," he repeated, and she was glad he was holding her, or she'd surely sink to the floor. "I need to forget."

  Could she do this? "I'll try my best," she whispered, her knees shaking furiously. The emotional explosion she sensed they were on the brink of eclipsed anything she could have imagined. Her whole body shook with terror. And stunning anticipation. "How?"

  He looked deep into her eyes for a very long moment, then moved his mouth to her ear and in a hungry murmur, he told her. Told her erotic, wicked things. Tantalizing things she'd never dreamed of. Passionate things that took her breath away. Carnal things she knew were meant to shock her into headlong retreat.

  But she wasn't going to make it that easy for him. Not before and not now. Because she trusted him. And he needed her.

  "I can do that," she managed, when his stream of earthy suggestions trickled to a stop.

  His arousal grew hard and thick against her abdomen, and she exalted, knowing she'd turned the tide. Now all she had to do was relax and enjoy the resulting tsunami.

  Relax?

  The tidal wave came as his lips crashed down on hers. He pried open her mouth and plunged into her with his tongue, sweeping aside all thoughts of staying aware and focused on his needs. "Are you sure?" he gasped as they came up for air, long moments later.

  "Oh, yes," she murmured, lost down the dizzy whirlwind of being in his arms. "Very sure."

  He swept her up and strode into the bedroom, took the cassette from her and set it on the TV stand.

  "I want you naked," he said, letting her feet tumble to the floor as he wrenched down the back zipper of her dress and yanked it off her. Excitement zinged through her entire body at the possessive look he raked her with. He reached for the clasp of her bra. "Completely naked."

  He tore it and her panties off. As he quickly unbuckled his pants and unleashed his arousal, she ripped open the buttons of his outer shirt, stripping it from him before he could protest. She reached for the straps of his shoulder holster, but he grabbed her arms, whipped her around and pushed her onto the bed, front first. Tearing his handcuffs from his back pocket, he placed one ring around her wrist.

  Before he snapped it shut, they both froze, each staring at the metal cuff with a sudden vivid awareness.

  "Let's skip those," she suggested breathlessly, not wanting the reminder of restraints to lead to thoughts of his brother. Aside from any other reasons she might have.

  He turned his eyes to her, keen but uncertain. "Won't it be too hard for you? I mean, not to touch—"

  "I'll grab the bed if I feel the urge."

  He was clearly torn. Had he ever made love without them?

  "All right, we can try it." He tossed them aside. Banding an arm around her abdomen, he slid between her legs, lifted her hips … and swore. Bracing herself for his entry, she peered around and saw him tear into a packet and sheath himself.

  His eyes met hers. A shiver coursed down her spine and straight to her woman's center at the blatant hunger she saw glittering in their inky depths. A primitive, unhewn lust.

  And something much more.

  Need pulsed there, too, primal and basic. A need so centered in its intensity, she could not fail to recognize it for what it was—a need for her. Only her.

  Holding her captive from behind, he thrust into her, deep, sure, arousingly forceful. The feeling was overwhelming; her body convulsed in pleasure. This was what she wanted, needed, had searched a lifetime for.

  She closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensation of his body's possession.

  She was his. Totally. Irreversibly. Agonizingly. The denim of his jeans rasped against her thighs, and the weight of his gun in its holster pressed into the flesh of her ribs. His huge frame covered her completely, from her feet held down by his powerful ankles, to her back and bottom where he crushed into her with each commanding stroke of his hips, to her arms and hands which he held in place with muscled forearms and strong fingers woven with hers.

  But instead of feeling trapped by his massive male body, she felt embraced. Desired. Needed.

  Safe.

  As if nothing ever again would or could hurt her.

  Safe.

  And also, incredibly pleasured.

  He moved against her, thrusting deeper and deeper into her, filling her to the hilt over and over.

  The combination of the emotional and the physical was incredible. An explosive, provocative, bone-deep feeling that brought her right to the sharp, sparkling brink of ecstasy.

  He groaned. "Ah, chère, I can't— I can't—"

  Her name tore from his lips, catapulting her over the edge of oblivion to the untamed roar of his release.

  * * *

  Creole lay sprawled on top of Grace for several breath-gasping minutes before shame began trickling through his consciousness, culminating in a low moan.

  What had he done?

  Her answering, "Mmm," sounded surprisingly agreeable for someone being squashed by the brute who'd just taken her like a half-feral junkyard dog. Make that fully feral.

  Her fingers slipped from the black iron of the bedstead she'd grabbed in the height of passion, taking his own with them, as they were twined together like the tangled canes of a rambling rose. Without letting go, she dragged his hand to her lips and softly kissed his knuckles.

  His heart squeezed. He guided his other hand to scrape the damp strands of hair from her face.

  "Ah, chérie, I'm so damned sorry," he whispered.

  The corner of her mouth lifted faintly. "I'm not."

  She shifted under him, making his body acutely aware of her again. Her warm, smooth skin, her hot, wet velvet glove. Still lodged deep inside her, he stirred, and just like that he wanted her again. Painfully.

  He pulled out. "It shouldn' have been like this. I should have taken time—"

  "You needed it like this."

  It was true, but that didn't make him feel any better about what he'd done. "I took my anger out on you, made it into something—"

  "Wonderful," she murmured, with a soft, radiant sigh, filled with contentment. "Just wonderful."

  Wonderful?

  He'd thought he had no more emotions left inside to feel. That they'd all drained out of him like rivulets of blood, watching his brother die on that tape. But this was something new. Something he'd never, ever expected … or experienced … before.

  Acceptance.

  Inexplicably, the backs of his eyes stung. She'd taken him at his very worst, at the absolute lowest point in his whole wretched life, and with one word had turned it into something good.

  He pressed his eyelids shut and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath.

  He didn't deserve her.

  But somehow, some way, he prayed he'd be allowed to keep her.

  "Stay right here." He squeezed the words hoarsely past the huge lump in his throat and strode to
the bathroom before he lost it in front of her. He disposed of the condom, then splashed his face with cold water, gripping the edge of the sink with white-knuckled fingers.

  Wrong. It was too late. He'd already lost it, long ago. Probably the first minute he'd laid eyes on her. Certainly the first time he'd spoken to her. Now that he'd made love to her for the first time, he didn't stand a chance in hell of ever getting it back again.

  His heart.

  What there was left of it was hers forever.

  "Auri?"

  He looked up to the mirror and saw her worried reflection gaze back at him, concern filling her beautiful blue eyes. She leaned into him, laying her cheek against his shoulder.

  "Are you okay?"

  Again, his heart went out to this incredible woman whom he'd just used so selfishly. "Doin' better, jolie, thanks to you." He turned and put his arms around her. "Thank you for bein' here. I don' know what I would have done…"

  He let the thought drift off, not even wanting to imagine what might have happened if she hadn't been there.

  She circled his waist with her arms, resting her hands on the sink behind him, and hugged him close. "You shouldn't be alone. I know you're hurting." She put her honeyed lips to the curve of his neck and kissed him. "I wanted to make love."

  "Me, too. Like crazy I did." He raised her chin with a finger and gazed into her eyes. "I just wish—"

  "Hush, there's still time to do all that," she whispered, and lifted her lips to his.

  He met them with a groan, "Ma douce amie. My sweet love." He filled his arms with her sweet body, his mouth with her sweet taste. "I love holding you like this," he murmured, sweeping his hands over her silky bare skin, her luscious nude curves. "Si belle, so fine."

  She answered in kind, surrendering to his kiss, twining her arms around him but never touching with her fingers. He felt the old wariness and apprehensions start to slip. He knew he could trust her to take care of him, of his special dread. It was a profound relief.

  So much so that when she reached for the straps of his shoulder holster, he pulled away in a sudden sweat, but didn't stop her from sliding them down his arms and placing the holster and weapon on the bathroom counter. He swallowed heavily, reading the understanding and encouragement in her expression as she saw his reaction to being stripped of his steady companion.

  It wasn't the weapon itself that served to soothe his nerves so much as the tight cinch of the leather straps on his shoulders and the solid weight of the gun against his ribs, telling him he was in complete control of every situation.

  But he wasn't in control anymore.

  Without his unfailing security blanket, he stood before her feeling very naked and terribly vulnerable.

  He saw the longing in her eyes to reach out to him, touch him, comfort him. He wished like hell his sickness would just go away, and he could let her touch her fill. For a moment the temptation to let her try swamped over him, nearly overcoming the knowledge that doing so would only lead to disaster and rejection.

  Tentatively she toyed with the hem of his sweat-dampened T-shirt, glancing up for permission.

  With an anguished shake of his head, he ground out, "Non," crushed her to him, lifted her and carried her back to bed.

  He darted a glance at the handcuffs lying on the nightstand, then rejected the impulse to reach for them. Just once he wanted to experience intimacy without that crutch. True intimacy.

  "I'm sorry. Dieu, I'm so sorry," he murmured, coming down on top of her, pulling her into his arms. "How I want to be whole for you."

  "It doesn't matter, baby. I like you fine just as you are. More than fine."

  "You're too good for me," he whispered, aching because he knew it was true. A woman like her would never be content with a man as flawed as he was. Should never be. She deserved a man who was like her—perfect in every way.

  "Not true," she sighed as he kissed a path down her throat. "You are so-o-o-o good. So very— Oh, Auri," her voice broke off when he nuzzled her breast and took the pebbled tip into his mouth.

  Her breath gasped in, and he smiled as her nipple ruched against his tongue. This he could do. This was the one thing he knew he was better at than most other men. He had to be, since it was the only thing he could offer a woman in exchange for her time with him—enough blinding pleasure to make up for all the rest. At least for a short while.

  With his tongue, he lathed first one breast, then suckled the other, nipping with his teeth, rolling the peaked crown between his lips. She writhed, and her hands came up, hovered over him, then plunged back and grabbed the iron headboard. Another great coil of tension left his body with a perceptible shudder. He was so incredibly lucky to have this phenomenal woman beneath him, gifting him with the treasures of her body.

  Making love to her, he felt almost … normal.

  She was a banquet, a feast to his starving soul. To the crushing need in him for simple human contact. He touched her everywhere, with every possible surface of his body. Wishing there were some way for her to do the same for him, but still thrilled to the core for all he was able to experience of her, with her.

  He slowly, thoroughly, kissed every single inch of her front, turned her, and worked down her back from head to toe. Then he started over. Licking her, caressing her, running his cheek and nose over her, nipping at her, everywhere, everywhere. Learning her whole body, committing it to memory, until he knew it as well as he knew his own, or better.

  Then he went back and did it again.

  And again.

  He couldn't get enough of her. The feel of her, the scent and taste of her. The sound of her needy whimpers and heated sighs. The sensation of her limbs trembling with desire under his hands and lips.

  "Auri, please, I can't take much more of this," she pleaded, inflaming him further with her passioned entreaty. "I want you, I need you inside me."

  "Soon," he murmured, loath to end his blissful exploration. He was so hard, so ready, he knew that when he entered her his time would be limited. He wanted this to last all night. All night and all day. Hell, a lifetime of nights and days.

  "Soon," he whispered again, and moved down her body to part her legs, and settled his shoulders between them. He put his fingers to her feminine folds, so swollen and wet for him. "But first…"

  A needy moan floated over the bed, and he couldn't have said if it was hers or his own.

  He put his mouth to her, his tongue and his lips, and he loved her. Showed her in actions what he couldn't say in words, for fear of scaring her off sooner than she was bound to be otherwise. How he loved her!

  Her legs came up and around his neck and shoulders, gripping him tightly. Si bon. So good. He heard her arms whoosh down and, amazingly, didn't flinch. Arching under him, she clutched at the sheets next to her hips, affirming his trust in her. The last steel band that encased his heart loosened and fell away, along with the cloak of caution he'd always worn in bed before. That, and the absence of his holster and Glock under his arm, made him feel strangely … weightless.

  An incredible lightness settled over him.

  An incredible rightness.

  All because of this woman.

  He tasted her, licked her, drank of her essence until he could feel the first tremors of her release. With a growl, he spread her wide and coaxed the impending explosion with his tongue on the pearl of her need.

  She cried out his name.

  His name.

  Then her whole body shuddered sweetly.

  And came apart beneath him.

  * * *

  Creole kissed her thigh, lovingly, lingeringly, drawing out a moment of anticipation as his woman floated back to him from her cloud of spent passion.

  Now it was his turn.

  He ached to throw himself into position and plunge into her. To thrust and scythe until he reached that burning pinnacle of need, and spill himself into her welcoming heat, over and over, on and on, until he had nothing left to give. No seed, no love, no heart, no soul.
He wanted to give it all into her keeping. Everything. For, what use did he have of those things once she had left him?

  She made a low hum of satisfaction, urging him up with her sultry tone, and with the pressure of her legs on his backside.

  "That was … unbelievable," she said on a moan as he glided up her body and lowered himself onto her. "I've never…" She swiped a tongue across her lips and smiled. "Never."

  He smiled back at her lack of words, well pleased that he had given her an experience she'd remember, he devoutly hoped, for the rest of her days.

  "I want you to hold me," he said quietly, and lifted her arms to circle his neck.

  Her smile deepened. "I'd like that." She curled her fingers into her palms and rested her arms across his shoulders, pulling him close. She kissed him sweetly, lovingly. "Know what else I'd like?"

  "What?" he gently asked, determined to make this time perfect. Whatever she wanted, he would give her. Tout quoi e' veut. Anything at all.

  "I'd like to feel your skin against mine." She gazed up into his eyes beseechingly. "I'd like you to be naked, too."

  Chapter 13

  Gace watched Creole's face drain of color, leaving his rich, olive complexion nearly as pale as hers.

  "Darlin'…" His eyes lowered and his jaw worked. "You don' know what you're askin'."

  "No, I'm sure that's true," she murmured, feeling the tension bunch in the muscles of his shoulders. "Would you rather not?" she softly asked, not wanting to spoil the special place they'd already found together.

  His breath jetted out, and he looked into her eyes. "Is it very important to you?"

  She didn't know how to answer. Yes, it was important to her. To know he trusted her with his body enough to risk total intimacy. More important than she could say. But she wouldn't demand it, not unless he felt ready to take that step.

  "I just thought— Well, we've been … good … together so far. I was hoping you might feel comfortable enough…"

  He stared at her intently, unreadably. Finally he said, "What if you don' like what you see?"