Hot Nights, Dark Desires

by Eden Bradley

  “But you already know how to draw, Catie chere. So what did you learn in school, except someone else’s way of doing things?”

  Another ice cube, another pass over her breasts, and then she brushed one nipple lightly with her thumb and bit her lip to keep from gasping. She pressed it between her fingers, the warmth and the cool mixing together to shoot sensation straight to her groin. She knew if she touched herself, she’d already be wet.

  “How did you learn your job? Didn’t someone teach you?” she whispered, afraid her voice would give everything away.

  “Someone showed me the ropes, but I developed my own style. And from the look of your sketches, you did the same thing.”

  She knew her face was flushed and was grateful for the darkness. “I want to finish school. And I plan to, just as soon as I’m done here.”

  She put a palm on her bare stomach, wondering if she had the nerve to slide it downward and stroke herself to the gentle caress of his drawl. “How long have you been a cooler?”

  “Long enough to be good at it.”

  Very good at it. She was more than sure of that. Her hand dipped lower, and she reminded herself to keep him talking.

  “The work you do…it’s very dangerous.”

  “Yes. But that’s a big part of the attraction.”

  She grew bolder, slid her hand across the silky fabric of her thong and forced her breathing to stay even. “You like the danger.”

  “Everyone likes danger. And that’s how I built my name.”

  Danger—yes, she could see that. Her finger slipped in between her folds, wet and hot; the flesh contracted and she nearly jumped off the mattress. She slid the finger up and down, stroked her clit as her hips rocked gently, slowly, silently, and thinking along a straight line was next to impossible as she imagined Bat’s fingers working her. “Your name…where did it come from?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.” She really, really wanted…

  A pause, and for a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he gave a low chuckle, and when he spoke, his voice was husky and full of want. “I got the nickname Bat because I can see in the dark.”

  The breath caught in her throat, her hand froze in place, between her legs, and she tried to picture what exactly he saw, pictured the way she looked with her T-shirt pulled up over her breasts and her thong pushed to the side to reveal her own hand working her sex.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” he drawled, and no, as embarrassed as she was, she didn’t want to stop, had never felt this sexually powerful in her entire life. It was still dark enough for her to feel cloaked, even though she could actually feel his eyes on her; her nipples throbbed in time with her sex.

  She wondered if he’d been stroking himself in time with her own caresses, wondered if his naked body looked as good as she’d imagined.

  “Are you thinking about me?” he asked. “Wondering if I’m down here doing the same thing while I watch you?”

  “Yes,” she managed, let her finger stroke her labia gently.

  “How often do you do that, Catie chere? Do you touch yourself every night, spread your lips wide and work your clit until you want to scream? Or was this all for me?”

  For you…all for you.

  Her hands remained on her own sex until he drawled, “Let go, Catie chere—let go and come to me.”

  That was all it took. She swung her legs as he rose off the floor to meet her—her legs ended up on his shoulders and his head moved forward, between her legs, and oh, she hadn’t even kissed him yet, but he was kissing her in a far more intimate place.

  The first touch of his tongue was to the silk of her underwear. His breath was hot as his mouth locked there, his hands running along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

  She attempted to squirm away but it was too late, had been since Bat walked into her bar, and within seconds the scrap of fabric was pushed impatiently to the side and his tongue stroked her far more effectively than her own hand. The first probe left her breathless and aching for more as the tension flared in her belly.

  She’d dreamed of this, of a man’s head between her legs, taking her until she lost all control…dreamed of a man who knew exactly what she wanted, needed, even before she did.

  Bat was that man.

  “Bat, oh God, I can’t.” But she could, and she was, spreading her legs and twisting her hands through his hair while his tongue explored her folds, rubbed the tight bud of her clit with a patient rhythm that had her rocking her hips and making the flimsy cot shake and squeak, and she didn’t care if they both tumbled to the ground, as long as he didn’t stop.

  Her releases had always been tight, hot bursts she’d only been able to accomplish with her own hand. With the few men she’d been intimate with, orgasms had eluded her. She had written it off and allowed her sexuality to show in lush ripeness in all of her paintings and sketches, big and bold and full of passionate energy.

  That sexuality was unmistakable on paper, and obviously in Bat’s arms. An orgasm wasn’t going to be a problem with him, not the way his tongue rasped and probed over her most sensitive areas.

  She was going to explode, right against his mouth, and all she could do was let it happen. The climax was strong enough to make her moan his name, over and over into the still of the darkness.

  Her legs trembled from being held open, her head felt heavy and she was so drowsy.

  “You taste sweet, so good.” Bat’s voice was low and soothing and she let out another small moan as his head dipped down to take her again with his mouth.

  Hot and sweet, and this was all so obviously for her pleasure…only for her pleasure.

  “Bat, I can’t…I won’t be able to, not again.” She’d never been able to come twice in a night. But this, being spread in the dark, her sex pressed to a near stranger’s mouth—oh, what a mouth—tongue working the sensitive knot of nerve endings with a hard pressure that caused her ass to nearly rise off the mattress…or would have if his hands weren’t firmly anchored to her thighs. He was holding her legs apart so he could remain with full access to the most intimate part of her.

  Her hands were braced on the mattress behind her, holding her body upright, and she glanced down at the dark blond head moving between her legs, and that was all it took. Her body stiffened, so taut, as if she’d break in two, and then yes, she went over the edge again, his tongue filling her as she climaxed even harder than the first time.

  He licked her through the crest, as if he couldn’t get enough, his touch lighter now as she trembled. And then he kissed along her inner thighs and the relief coursed through her like a sharp blast of air, and finally—finally—her body felt cool.

  She whimpered as he released her legs, fell back against the mattress, drained and sleepy.

  “How’s the heat?” he murmured in her ear.

  “Who cares.”

  He pulled the sheet over her breasts and stroked her shoulder. “Now you’re beginning to understand the bayou, Catie chere.”

  CHAPTER

  Three

  The heat was worse already and it was still before noon. The power had come back on while Catie slept and the air conditioner built into the wall sputtered worthlessly, but it didn’t matter. The first thing she did was reach for her sketchbook.

  Those sketchbooks and art school had mocked her for the better part of two years. Ironic that she was planning to use part of the money from the sale of the Bon Temps to finish art school, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to draw anything more than a rudimentary, unsatisfying sketch in months.

  She broke open the tin container that held her soft charcoal sticks and turned to a fresh page in the brand-new sketch pad filled with charcoal paper.

  Her strokes were tentative at first, grew to sweeping marks that colored the paper, her hands black with dust. She sketched furiously with bold, dark lines, line work first, then the shading details after, afraid that if she didn’t capture Bat’s face s
he might never see him again.

  Foolish, yes, because she’d never be able to forget him, not the way his eyes flashed or the hard planes of his cheekbones or the way his hands and mouth had touched her.

  It was as if something invaded her that she couldn’t control. She balanced the values effortlessly—the shadows, the contours filled the page…the scar on his face, shaded slightly by the cheekbone, the way Bat looked in front of her in living, breathing color.

  She finished, breathless, wanted to crumple on the floor in a heap, the way she had last night onto the cot after she’d let Bat…

  Oh, God, she’d let Bat.

  A quick glance out the window, and she spotted the big, black Harley, parked in a different spot than it had been last night.

  She could still feel his mouth between her legs. Remembered wanting more from him but being too satiated to do anything more than fall asleep as he’d stroked her back. He hadn’t pushed for anything more, and she wondered why.

  She took a quick, cool shower in the tiny bathroom off the office and then tucked her hair up into a ponytail and threw on some clothes before she walked out to the main area to find Bat.

  He was standing by the front entrance of the bar, installing a heavy-duty lock on the door, just as he’d promised. One large hand held the big brass lock steady while the other worked the old power drill she’d seen lying around the storeroom.

  “Morning,” he called over his shoulder to her, and she started, hadn’t realized he’d sensed her standing there. His greeting was friendly enough, although he looked even more intimidating this morning. A blue bandanna was wrapped around his head; his T-shirt had the sleeves ripped off, exposing rock-hard arms, with a tattoo on his left biceps.

  It looked like a military emblem, served to remind her that she didn’t know this man very well at all. He had to be as dangerous as he looked in order to survive in this business, and he’d told her as much last night.

  God, she didn’t want him to leave.

  “I need to talk to you,” she heard herself call over the sound of the drill. He nodded, his back still facing her as he finished up and tried the lock, clicking the heavy bolt back and forth.

  “This should hold well. I’ll put another one on the back door,” he said. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t want you to leave. This morning was the first time I’ve drawn anything decent—no, better than decent—in nearly a year,” she told him, and then drew in a deep breath. “Please, I know I’m asking a lot…”

  “Why couldn’t you draw?”

  “I don’t know. Everything just seemed to dry up. It’s hard to explain.” She rubbed her fingertips together; they were still faintly smudged with charcoal. “You don’t have to listen to my problems.”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  Yes, he was.

  And she was normally so full of pent-up frustration that the want and need spilled over into her work, which was usually enough to take the edge off. She could lose herself in the work, let the broad strokes of hard pastels or paint on the canvas soothe her, until she was so sure that everything she felt was on the page.

  And then, one day last year, she couldn’t bring herself to pick up a brush or chalk or anything more than a pencil to make a grocery list. The only thing that saved her was drawing those pictures he’d seen last night. But she wanted more.

  And she stood there and told Bat all of that, as if she had nothing left to lose but her pride. But he didn’t look at her with anything that resembled pity.

  “I sold everything. My brother has his new life—he’s making his own fresh start. And I knew that if I didn’t do that, didn’t sell everything and buy a car to get me cross-country, I’d have a safety net. That way, I had no choice but to come here and see this sale through.”

  “So this bar is your way out?”

  “I took it as a sign when I got the notice from my uncle’s lawyer. I didn’t stop to think it through. For the first time in my life I did something impulsive. Normally, I’m only like that in my art—the only place I’m never afraid to fail. Well, until lately. I like drawing you. I like the way you made me feel last night.” She heard the passion in her own voice as she made her case.

  “I liked it too, Catie.” He turned around and looked at the lock. “This will help, but it’s not enough. I can’t have it on my conscience, leaving you alone like this.”

  “You were planning on staying anyway,” she said, and wondered why she wasn’t angry that he’d let her spill her guts. But she felt strangely free. “I’ll never be able to repay you for this, for staying on.”

  “I don’t remember asking you for repayment. Just what I’m owed at the end of the job.” He paused, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out the window, as if a memory had caught him by surprise. “Sometimes it’s easier to ask a stranger for help.”

  “But you don’t feel like a stranger. Last night was—”

  “Last night was a promise of what’s to come.” His drawl grew thick and his gaze settled back on her, the way it had last night that sent a hot thrill straight to her belly and outward. He closed the distance between them until they were separated by mere inches. “Don’t fight it now—don’t fight me. It’s going to happen no matter what.”

  It was—and it actually made her swell with a strange pride that she could give in so easily to her desires. That she could make him want her in that way.

  For most of her life, at least on the outside, she was Catie, the reasonable one. Here, she was Catie chere, and Catie chere was ready to give herself to Bat.

  He put a hand under her chin and tilted her face to look up at him. “Last night, that was the first time a man did that to you. Put his mouth on you, made you come like that.”

  “Yes.” There was no reason to lie.

  He tilted her face toward his with a finger under her chin. “Are you a virgin?”

  “No. Not technically.” Not if she counted a few unsatisfying, silent encounters in her bedroom when her brother was out with friends, and the one time in the back of a car that happened so quickly it was over before she’d even begun.

  No, she’d learned to pleasure herself. And with her drawing, she was free, could explore her needs as she poured out her dreams and her frustrations, sexual and otherwise. Between last night and this morning, she’d finally been able to combine the two. “I’m not good at this.”

  “At sex?”

  “Sex. Asking for help. Giving up control,” she admitted, and she saw a flash of compassion in his eyes.

  “I kind of caught that.”

  “I’ve managed to hide it from everyone for most of my life.”

  “I may be a stranger, but I’m not just everyone. And I’m good at the first thing I mentioned—lucky for you.” He pulled her tight to him and she took careful note of his admission of what he wasn’t good at either. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked when I walked into the bar—swaying to the music, wishing you could climb on the tables and dance. I can’t stop thinking about the way you tasted last night, the way you moaned my name.”

  His erection was rock hard against her belly and she’d never felt so protected, so turned on, and she sighed softly against his broad chest. “I want to sketch you.”

  “Sketch me?”

  “Yes. For my portfolio.”

  “You didn’t ask my permission before,” he said, and yes, he might’ve come into the office earlier when she’d been drawing—she’d been so engrossed in her work that walls could’ve fallen and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  Her sex grew moist at the thought of him watching her again, and she wondered what he’d done last night, after she’d fallen asleep, if he’d lain there in the dark on the floor and stroked himself to completion, wondered if he’d thought about her while he did so.

  “This time I want you to pose for me. I want to sketch all of you,” she explained.

  He stuck his tongue in his cheek as he considered
her words. “What’s so special about me? There are plenty of people around this place.”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” she said. “You’re the perfect subject.”

  “What were you drawing this morning?” he asked.

  “You.” She reached up to slide a finger down the long scar on his cheek.

  “You like my scar, Catie chere?” he asked, as his hand moved under her T-shirt to caress the bare skin on her lower back. Slowly, his hand traveled upward to rest near the swell of one breast, and she shivered.

  “Yes, I like your scar.”

  “Why? Because it makes me look dangerous?”

  “I know how dangerous you are, Bat.” His name came out as a moan when a calloused palm brushed her nipple. At the same time, two fingers slid inside her shorts and between her thighs—she was already wet, and she should’ve been embarrassed by how quickly she spread her legs for him, but she wasn’t. Mainly because the way Bat looked at her, his own lids heavy with desire, told her that he liked it that way, liked it when she opened herself to him.

  They’d only been together once, in the most intimate of ways a woman could let a man touch her, and her body was already responding as if it couldn’t get enough.

  “I wanted to take you last night. Wanted to strip you down right on that old cot and whisper dirty Cajun magic in your ear.” His breath was warm on her neck. “I’m going to do that tonight. With my fingers, and then my tongue, lick you until you’re so wet you can’t stand it. Just like last night.”

  He brought his mouth down on hers, inhaling another long moan with a kiss that took her up on her tiptoes, a kiss meant to claim, to conquer. And she let it, let him take her mouth with a brutal, satisfying kiss as she breathed him in, and yes, he was staying with her, and she was going to stay in his arms as much as humanly possible.

  Her hands clutched his shoulders as his tongue teased hers and his fingers worked the hot flesh between her legs until she went dizzy, until he was pulling his mouth off hers for moments at a time because he liked hearing you moan, chere.

  “Hey, I’ve got a liquor delivery here for you!” a voice called from outside, through the open window in the storeroom.