Hot Nights, Dark Desires

by Eden Bradley

  He used one hand to spread those pink lips wide, and touched his fingertips to her opening, then slipped inside.

  “Ah…Tristan…”

  He spread her wider, fascinated by the sight of her, open and pink and raw. By the feel of her, all wet silk inside. And her hard little clit, begging for attention.

  He pressed on it with his thumb, circling, his fingers still moving inside her.

  “More,” she begged, her voice a husky whisper.

  He drove deeper, harder, his thumb rubbing hard on her clit. His cock was absolutely bursting with need.

  He glanced at her face again, was shocked to find her gaze on him. Her eyes were all glittering green and gold, like sea glass lit with fire. She bit her lip. Those lush red lips. He wanted to fuck her mouth. To slip his cock in between those lips. He wanted to come in her mouth, into that heat. He wanted to feel her come into his hands. He wanted all of it.

  “Sophie. Come for me.”

  “Yes…”

  She arched, her whole body moving, clenching, that lush mouth opening in a long, keening moan. She bore down on his hand, her insides clutching, hot and so damn tight. He could barely stand that it wasn’t his cock inside her.

  She sighed, held on to his arms and slipped down to the floor in front of him. He didn’t have time to think before her lips touched the tip of his cock.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Sophie. You are too perfect.” He watched as she wrapped those red lips around his cock, and groaned as she pulled him into her mouth.

  The floor was hard beneath her knees. But she didn’t care. It felt like doing penance. She loved the sensation, the idea of it. She drew him in, that hard flesh, all silk over steel against her tongue. He buried his hands in her hair as she began to move, sliding her mouth up and down that rigid shaft.

  “Fuck, Sophie, yes!”

  His hips were pumping now, but gently, as though he was afraid to hurt her. But she wanted it. She pulled him in, her hands around his strong thighs, which were covered in heavy black Maori tribal work, down her throat until it choked her. Tears filled her eyes; it was hard to breathe. He pulled back, long enough for her to catch her breath before she grabbed his hips, her fingers digging into his skin, and she swallowed his cock once more.

  Yes, just like praying. Painful. Lovely. She was shivering all over, with his groans of pleasure, with her own. He was hitting the back of her throat, over and over, sliding over her tongue. She sucked harder, dug into his hips until she felt his flesh break under her nails.

  Yes…

  He drove into her mouth, feeding his cock to her. The tears ran down her cheeks as she pulled him deeper. She wanted to please him, needed to. She was weak with that aching need. To be good for him. To be good. To be bad.

  “Ah, God, Sophie!”

  He tensed, shuddered, and come shot down her throat. That thick liquid, sweet as honey. She tried to swallow it all, but she couldn’t do it. He was too big. She wiped the corner of her mouth with one hand as he slipped from between her lips, cradled her head in his hands.

  He was panting, shaking a little. She was filled with a sense of pride. And a sense of power.

  She rested her cheek against his thigh, breathed in the musky scent of sex.

  “Sophie, Sophie…” he murmured.

  The salty-sweet taste of his come lingering in her mouth felt sacred to her somehow. Sacred and dirty.

  God, she was fucked up.

  He pulled her to her feet, held her close to his body. She leaned her head into the hard wall of his chest, over the designs traced into his skin. His heart beat against her ear, a staccato tempo. Her pulse thrummed with that same beat, lust still singing in her veins.

  “God, I love your hair, Sophie,” he muttered as he buried his fingers in it. “Like fucking silk.”

  She didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. She’d never been so sated, yet still so needy, in her life. The need itself was intimidating as hell, but she couldn’t escape it.

  They stood there together for a while. The strange dynamic between them resonated between their bodies, like some invisible cord. She pressed her cheek into his skin, trying to figure out how she could feel so good and so scared at the same time. This was all too much, wasn’t it? She’d just met him!

  Finally, she stepped back, and there was an odd sense of being released, like a rubber band snapping; sharp and a little painful.

  “Are you getting cold? Let’s get you dressed. Don’t put your bra on; your tattoo is too new. In fact, you should go a few days at least without it.”

  Her stomach dropped. She’d hoped there would be more. That he’d invite her upstairs, where Crystal had told her he had an apartment, to stay the night with him. Why hadn’t he?

  He was picking up her clothes and handing them to her. She stood there stupidly for a moment before she stepped into her panties. They were still damp with her earlier arousal.

  She watched him as he got back into his clothes, as she put on her jeans, her T-shirt, slipped into her sandals. Was this it? Was he going to simply send her home? But maybe it was for the best. Her head was spinning.

  He ran a hand over his short thatch of hair, left his hand on his head as he stood, staring at her. She knew her emotions were all over her face, and hated herself a little for it.

  He’s a guy. They’re like this.

  Not Tristan. No, he’d led her to believe there was more to him. That he had more depth. But was she even ready for that?

  “So,” she said.

  “So…”

  “I guess…I guess I’ll go home.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes were dark, completely shuttered.

  She felt absolutely crushed, even though she wanted to run, even as doubt flooded her mind. And dammit, she still wanted him!

  “Be sure you take care of your tattoo.”

  “I will. Um…” She wasn’t going to be the one to say it, to ask when she would see him again, hear from him.

  “Alright. Well. I have a nine A.M. client tomorrow. Early for me.”

  “Right. Okay. Good night, then.”

  She turned and walked out, without waiting for his reply. She knew she didn’t want to hear it.

  Outside, fog hung heavy in the air, making it a little chilly. But the coolness felt good on her heated cheeks.

  She couldn’t believe what had just happened! The sex had been unbelievable. And she’d never felt so connected with another human being in her life. And then—nothing.

  This was her penance. She knew in the back of her mind it was coming. It always did. Her mother, her brother were right about that.

  Still, she couldn’t believe it was ending this way. So fucking classic.

  At least, for a little while, she’d been able to push her own fears away and believe in that magic. She needed to. Needed to know that life wasn’t all about sin and repression and guilt that never went away, even when she truly hadn’t done anything wrong.

  A wind came up, blowing through her hair, where Tristan’s fingers had woven only minutes earlier. If she inhaled deeply, she could still smell him on her skin. She could still taste him in her mouth.

  She wound up Dauphine and into the narrow alleylike street to her apartment building. On the first floor, she saw lights on in Crystal’s apartment, heard the soft strains of the piano. She bypassed the stairs and went instead to her friend’s door.

  She knocked, heard Crystal singing: some old Billie Holiday, she thought. She knocked again, louder this time. A moment later Crystal opened the door, wearing nothing but a short, red vintage silk kimono, her dark hair touseled.

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Crystal. Boone’s here. I can come back tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t worry about him. Come on in.”

  Crystal took her arm and pulled her into the apartment. Boone sat on the old overstuffed damask sofa in a pair of black boxer shorts.

  “Hey.” He gestured with his goateed chin.

  Boone’s dirty-blond hair curled around
his shoulders. He had the hair of an angel, Sophie had always thought, with those gold-tipped ringlets. And he was a nice guy. But Crystal treated him like a dog.

  “Boone, we need some girl time. Go get us some ice cream, will you?”

  “Yeah, sure, baby.” He got up and went into the bedroom, appeared a moment later in his torn jeans and a sweatshirt. He started to kiss Crystal on the mouth as he passed her, but she pulled back, rolling her eyes.

  “Jesus, Boone, you’ll only be gone twenty minutes.” She turned to Sophie. “Come on, sit down.”

  Crystal pulled her onto the couch as Boone shut the door behind him.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Not a problem. Now, if you’d come half an hour ago…”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Hey.” Crystal grabbed Sophie’s hand. “You’re all flushed and…glazed over. What’s going on?”

  “Tristan took me to the cemetery today. And then he tattooed me.”

  “Oh, my God. Let me see.”

  Sophie turned around and pulled her shirt up.

  “Wow. That’s gorgeous.”

  She turned back around, pulled her shirt into place. “Yeah.”

  “So why do you look so glum?”

  “I did something really stupid, Crystal. I had sex with him.”

  “Tristan? Why is that stupid? He’s hot. And the way you two were looking at each other that day we were in the shop, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, it’s not the sex that was stupid. It’s me.” She wrapped the ends of her hair around her fingers, twisting it tight. “I…you should hear the way he talks to me. The things we talk about. He wasn’t like some guy out to get laid. We really talked. God, I sound like some fifteen-year-old with a crush!”

  “No you don’t. Go on.”

  “He…he talked to me about things that mean something. Art, life, death. And I felt this intense connection. I thought I did. It scared the shit out of me, if you want to know the truth. That it was happening so damn fast. That just talking with him made me feel so…close to him. Like it’s too good to be real.” She shook her head. “But it was there, I swear it was.”

  “I believe you, sweetie.” Crystal rubbed her arm.

  “Then why, when it was over, did he just send me home? Like I was…like I was some whore?”

  “No, Sophie, I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. Look, some guys just get weird about sex. Maybe it got too close for comfort, you know? Maybe it did mean as much to him, and he couldn’t handle it. It sounds like it was almost too much for you. I’m sure he’ll call you. I’m sure he’ll want to see you again. He’d be crazy not to.”

  “I don’t know.”

  All she knew was that she was miserable.

  Whore.

  Yes, maybe she was a whore. Maybe she was getting what she deserved. Paying her penance. But part of her didn’t quite believe it. How could it be a sin when she wanted him so much? When being with him felt…important?

  She didn’t understand it. Wasn’t sure she ever would. The one thing she did understand was that there was something special between her and Tristan. She was sure of it. She’d seen it in his eyes, in the way he touched her.

  But she wouldn’t go to him and grovel at his feet, either. Which left her with nothing. Exactly where she’d started, so she was no worse off, right?

  But that was a lie. She was much worse off. Because she’d had that taste of what she and Tristan could have together. And as frightening as the idea of having something that special was, the idea of giving it up was impossible.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  He felt like an asshole.

  He was an asshole.

  Tristan paced the wood floors of his apartment above the shop, his hand wrapped around a double shot of Jack Daniel’s. He’d poured it, meant to drink it. But he didn’t really deserve that relief, did he? He yanked on a cord and drew the wood slat blinds up, looked down at Canal Street below. Even this late at night, light shone from the shops and restaurants, people still wandered the sidewalks. The partying crowd, ever-present in New Orleans, regardless of the time of day or night, the time of year. He loved and hated that about this city.

  He was such a cold bastard. He knew it was wrong, even while he was doing it: shutting down. Making her leave like that. And God, her face…

  But he’d never been any good at this stuff. Never got emotionally involved with a woman. He wasn’t responsible enough to handle it. And tonight proved that point. He couldn’t be trusted with anyone’s feelings, anyone’s wellbeing. Hell, look what had happened to Phillipe.

  And now Sophie. He’d known from the moment she’d walked into his shop that he wanted more than just to fuck her. Oh, he’d wanted that too. Hell, he still wanted to fuck her. But he wanted to talk to her too. To be with her. That was the dangerous part. Dangerous to her. Dangerous to him. Better to back off now, before anyone really got hurt.

  Too late, asshole.

  He could not get the image of her stricken face out of his mind.

  He lifted the heavy glass to his lips and tossed the shot down his throat. The fragrant liquid burned, warmed him. He didn’t feel any better.

  He took the empty glass into the kitchen. The open bottle of Jack sat on the counter. He stared at it for a moment before pouring another shot into the glass. Lifting it to his mouth, he drank it down so fast his eyes watered. Then he did it again.

  It wasn’t working. He set the glass down on the old black-and-white-tiled counter and stalked back into the living room, settled on the big brown leather couch to sulk. He knew he was doing it. He didn’t care.

  He’d completely fucked up with Phillipe, the one person he’d ever really cared about. The one person he was supposed to protect. No, he didn’t deserve to care about anyone. And no one deserved what happened to them when he did care. He was bad news. Always had been, always would be, no matter that he’d cleaned up his life, settled down, started a business. That didn’t change who he was on the inside. That didn’t redeem him.

  What the fuck was he going to do now? If he called her, apologized, he would only lead her on. If he just let her be, didn’t see her again, she’d be hurt, but she’d get over it.

  He wasn’t so sure he would.

  Fuck.

  He ran a hand over his hair, scrubbed at his head. She was so damn beautiful, this girl. Just thinking about fucking her in his chair after he’d tattooed her…that was the hottest experience of his life. He’d had sex with a lot of women—too many, probably—but he’d never felt anything like he had with Sophie tonight.

  He would not call her.

  But he could sit here and picture her face, that full, red mouth, that long hair, like Lady Godiva. And the tattoo on her pale skin…

  His cock was getting hard again. He could see in his head her naked body, kneeling on the floor. Remembered her hot little mouth on him.

  He pressed down on his swelling cock, but that only made it worse.

  He really was an asshole. He’d hurt the girl, and right now all he could think of was fucking her, her sucking him off.

  Jesus.

  He pulled his cock from his jeans and grasped the shaft, hard. Then he started to stroke, her perfect face in his mind’s eye. All that smooth flesh, the mounds of her breasts, the dark, hardened nipples. God, her mouth on him, sucking and wet.

  He stroked harder, until it hurt. He deserved the pain. But it felt good too.

  He pumped his cock in his fist, remembered her legs spread wide. The sight of her pussy, all hot and pink, wet and waiting for him. Then pushing into her. Into that tight sheath.

  Sophie…

  His come shot out, flowed over the leg of his jeans. He sat a moment, trying to catch his breath.

  Yeah, he was a bastard, drinking and jerking off so he’d feel better. Except that he didn’t.

  Fuck. He knew he wouldn’t feel any better until he talked to her. Saw her.


  Bad idea.

  Yeah, it was. For her. For him. He didn’t fucking deserve her, and he knew it. But he was going to do it anyway.

  He got up, stripped down to his gray boxer briefs, tossed his jeans on the floor. And picked up the phone.

  The ringing seemed to go on forever, but she never picked up. Where was she? Finally her answering machine kicked in, and he hung up. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to talk to the machine. He wanted to talk to her. But what was he going to say? That he was an asshole, that he didn’t do relationships, so even though there was some weird, intense, beautiful thing between them, he was walking away? He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her why. He didn’t tell anyone about Phillipe. No, that was his private burden.

  Phillipe. He really had to get out to St. Benedictine’s. The idea twisted into his gut like a knife. How long had it been since the last time he’d gone? Months? Too long, he knew that. Too long since he’d had the guts to face his shame. His guilt. His brother.

  He went back into the kitchen and poured himself another shot. He drank it down fast, and then another. But there wasn’t enough booze in the city to chase away the demons of his past. Or the problem he’d just created with Sophie.

  He took the bottle and went back to the sofa to brood. He flipped the TV on, hoping for some momentary distraction. The bottle was nearly empty by the time the remote slipped from his fingers, and he slept.

  A week had gone by. Sophie’s tattoo was healing well, the skin only a little itchy now. As she stepped from the shower, she turned to admire it in the misty bathroom mirror, as she did every day. And every day she thought of the man who had put it there.

  Tristan.

  She couldn’t believe that just his name running through her mind still hurt so much. She barely knew him! And yet she felt as though she’d known him forever. That he really knew her, inside.

  She ran the towel over her body, drying herself. As she rubbed the nubby fabric over her breasts, her nipples went hard, peaked.

  Tristan.

  God, she couldn’t get her body, her emotions, under control. She’d barely been able to write all week.

  Dropping the towel, she stared at her image in the mirror. Her dark hair hung in wet, twisting strands against her pale skin. Her breasts were full, swollen, the nipples dark and needy. She angled so she could see part of her back in the mirror, the tattooed cherry blossoms scattered across her skin. God, the sight of her own tattooed body was a turn-on!