Bayon/Jean-Baptiste

by Alexandra Ivy

  “So pink and swollen,” Jean-Baptiste whispered, his fingers easing her lips apart, one brushing over the sensitive bud of her clit. “As your sex cries, rains down, down, into a true river of pleasure.”

  “Oh, god,” she uttered, wanting to drag herself up, see what he was doing—watch him. But she just felt too dizzy, too heavy.

  His breath…it was close…so close and warm against her pussy as he circled her clit gently with his finger.

  “Please,” she moaned, begged, her hips lifting, straining for more, for everything.

  “Soon, Miss Burel,” he whispered, his mouth so close now she could feel the cool edges of his lip piercing against her opening. “I just want to see how tight you are before I eat you.”

  And with that, he drove his tongue up, so deep inside her pussy Genevieve cried out. Her hands tensed and her nails scratched against the marble at her back. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t slow herself. She writhed and pumped, the feeling so shockingly perfect, she believed in that moment that she might go mad if she didn’t have this—him—twenty-four hours a day for the rest of her life.

  He eased out, lifted his head and locked eyes with her. “You, Miss Burel, are the sweetest, most tempting thing I’ve ever had on my tongue.”

  She stared at him, panting, her entire body on fire, her hips thrust up in a silent plea. “Please don’t stop,” she whimpered.

  He chuckled wickedly, his eyes so gold they looked on fire. “Oh, Miss Burel. I’m just getting started. It’s a feast I plan to savor.”

  His head dropped then, and his tongue made one long sweep from her pussy straight up to her clit. Crying out softly, Genevieve closed her eyes, and gave up everything from her past and everything in her future to accept this incredible, perfect, pleasure-filled moment.

  Her thighs trembled uncontrollably as he licked her, as he made slow circles around her tight, hot bud. She made sounds from somewhere otherworldly, deep in her chest, her throat. And when his lips closed around her clit, when he started to suckle, his head lifting and lowering rhythmically, stunningly, she came apart.

  “Jean-Baptiste!” she called out, her head thrashing from side to side against the cool, hard marble. “Yes! Please, yes!”

  A fearsome growl escaped his throat, and he forced her legs even wider apart, burying himself even deeper as he started flicking her clit with his tongue. Over and over, back and forth, so fast, she felt tears behind her eyes. She bit down on her lip to halt them, her head pounding, her heart slamming so hard inside her ribs she was sure they were getting bruised.

  Everything inside of her, every pain, every hope, every secret burst like an emotional and physical dam, and she was nothing but raw lust and unapologetic need. As his tongue worked her, and his growls and groans intensified, Genevieve came. She came so hard she couldn’t breathe, pressing her mound against his mouth and rough chin as she writhed and convulsed, circling her hips, squeezing her muscles as she took wave after wave of orgasm.

  Before she was even replete, before the breath held inside her lungs had a chance to escape, Jean-Baptiste lifted her boneless frame into his arms and stood. “I’m taking you to bed, Miss Burel.”

  “Wait,” she said breathlessly, clinging to him.

  “What is it?” His tone was rough and impatient and fierce. “I don’t think I have it in me to discuss or flirt. If I don’t fuck you this very instant, my cat will destroy my insides and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I’m not Miss Burel,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Not right now,” she said, her drowsy eyes opening to meet his blistering amber gaze. “Not tonight. Not when you’re inside of me. Do you understand?”

  His nostrils flared and he nodded. “Genevieve,” he snarled hungrily as he headed for his bedroom. “Beautiful, provocative Genny.”

  * * *

  Jean-Baptiste stalked down the hall, removing as many pieces of clothing as he could. His. Hers. Fuck if he knew or cared. He just wanted them skin to skin as quickly as possible. He’d never felt this frantic, this desperate to connect, to feel, to know a female.

  And it scared the shit out of him.

  The lights were out in the bedroom, but the moon shone bride-white and brilliant through the open balcony windows. Enough for him to see her incredible face, her hungry eyes. And when his thighs hit the edge of the bed, when he gathered up the comforter, tossed it to the floor and laid her out on her back, her golden skin against stark white sheets, her exquisite body.

  He growled as he settled her against the mattress. He’d done pretty damn well in stripping her. The bun was no more, and the shirt was gone, pearl buttons no doubt leading a pathway from the living room to the bedroom like opalescent breadcrumbs. All she had on now was her bra and that skirt he’d yanked to her hips on the marble table. The skirt that was nearly ripped from hem to waist.

  Shit. He’d get her a new one.

  He’d get her twenty new ones.

  His eyes clung to her curves, her mouth, her wide, eager gaze as he yanked off his jeans and T-shirt. When he saw her hands disappear behind her back, working the clasp on her pale pink bra, he loomed over her, growling.

  “That’s my job, Genevieve.”

  Her hands stilled and her eyes flipped up to meet his. “I like that. The way you say my name.”

  Something hot and liquid moved through him, and it had nothing to do with sexual desire. Jean-Baptiste dipped his head, slid a canine inside the front of her bra and tugged. There was a quick pop and Genevieve gasped. Both silky pink cups flew to opposite sides, revealing a pair of the most spectacular breasts he had ever seen.

  His mouth started to water.

  “And I like that, too,” she said breathlessly, her gaze raking over him; his face, neck, his chest. “And these,” she continued, putting her hands on his forearms, moving up, over his pumas, tracing the lines of the water and grass. “Did they hurt?”

  He shook his head, jaw tight. He was poised above her, his muscles straining, his skin vibrating, his cock so hard it could drill granite. He’d never wanted anything more. To be inside this female, so deep he lost himself. So wet, he drowned. So enveloped, all thought and anxiety bled from him.

  “Maybe I’ll get a tattoo,” she whispered.

  Fuck. He spread her legs with one thigh and demanded, “Where?”

  Her gaze slid from his neck to his eyes. “I don’t know. Any suggestions? My back? My hip? My ankle? My inner thigh?”

  “Oh, Genny,” he breathed, dropping his head, nuzzling the underside of her breast. “You have such beautiful skin. So perfect.”

  He lapped at one dusky pink nipple and she gasped, wriggled beneath him.

  “I think the only mark you should have on your body is mine.”

  Her eyes slammed up to his. “What?”

  He grinned. “You heard me. And you know what I meant by it.”

  He dipped his head again, but this time he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled it deep. A groan escaped her throat, raw and hungry, and her back arched off the bed. God, she tasted so sweet. He was never going to be able to forget it, forget her. His cat was right there with him, wanting the same thing. Snarling, threatening to emerge if it wasn’t satisfied.

  For one brief second, Jean-Baptiste felt the feline at the surface of his skin, felt the beginnings of a shift, but then Genevieve reached for him—her hand sliding between her bodies, her fingers wrapping around the trunk of his cock—and the puma growled and retreated back into its cage.

  While she stroked him languidly, possessively, Jean-Baptiste turned to her other plump breast and suckled that one, too. He drew the fiercely tight nipple deep into his mouth until she cried out, until she squeezed the head of his dick—until pre-come rushed from both their sexes.

  He knew the words he’d uttered to her had been impulsive as hell. The offer, the claim to mark her. But it had also been real and true, and had come from deep within his guts. How the fuck had he managed to m
eet the one female in the world who was meant for him? It was a goddamn miracle—and one he wasn’t about to turn away from. Maybe he wasn’t the best male for her. Not now. Not yet. But he wanted to be. He’d find a way to be.

  As he circled her nipple with his tongue, then flicked it sharply up and down, back and forth, she moaned and gasped and writhed beneath him. Her thumb played with the pre-come at the head of his cock as he trailed his hand down over her ribs, to her flat stomach, to her hipbones and into the smooth curve of her sex. When he felt the fire, the molten lava between her legs, he nearly came.

  “Sweet, Genny,” he whispered against her breast. “You’re creaming, ma chérie. Your thighs, your hot pussy and my sheets are drenched.” He ran his teeth over her nipple. “Just the way I like it.”

  “Jean-Baptiste, please,” she said breathlessly, wriggling against his wrist, wanting his hand, needing to be filled. And when he thrust two fingers up inside her slick, tight channel, she screamed his name again.

  Tight, wet heat gripped his fingers, and he moaned and lifted his head. Her eyes were glassy and large and pinned to his face. Her lips were parted and she was panting.

  Shit, he wouldn’t last at this rate. One drive into her pussy and his cock was going to explode.

  He took her mouth in a series of hungry, possessive, painful kisses as he growled against her lips, and his fingers pumped inside her slowly and rhythmically.

  “Please, Jean-Baptiste,” she murmured, nipping at his bottom lip as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Please come inside me. I need to know. I need to know how you feel.”

  I need you.

  The realization, the absolute truth in that thought, thundered through him, and he eased his fingers out of her, grabbed his stiff cock and pressed it against the plump, pink folds that guarded her slick pussy. He glanced down, saw the way her flesh hugged the head of his dick, beckoned him inside, creamed around him in anticipation.

  And then she jacked up her hips, taking him inside her just an inch or two.

  Jean-Baptiste felt his mind retreating and his body taking over.

  Mine.

  You belong to me.

  He slid his hands beneath her hips, cupped her ass and lifted her, letting her body take him, one inch at a time until he was buried inside of her. Her eyes dropping closed, her face tensing and her throat releasing groan after groan, Baptiste guided her back and forth, her pussy fucking his cock. It was the most perfect feeling in the world, and he knew in that moment that if anyone tried to come between them, if anyone even looked at this female with lust in their eyes, he would attack to kill.

  He eased her hips to the mattress, released her, only to spread her legs wider. He placed his hands on her inner thighs and started thrusting.

  She cried out. “Yes! God, yes!”

  “Your pussy is milking me, Genny,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s like blisteringly hot ocean waves all the way down my cock, ma chérie. I don’t know how long I can last.”

  She was gone, her head thrashing from side to side on the mattress. Jean-Baptiste pulled out, just partway so he could see her, him, their connection. Her dusky pink lips were wrapped around his cock, coating him in her sweet juices. Christ, if he could lick her and fuck her at the same time, he would.

  His head dipped and he closed his lips around one luscious tit. As he pumped inside of her, he drew on that nipple, flicking it with his tongue. Inside her pussy, the honey sweet walls were spasming, electric currents and waves of wet heat.

  “Jean-Baptiste!” she cried out, stiffening beneath him.

  He battered her womb, suckled her nipple deep, as she came. With every thrust, he growled. With every new wave of orgasm, he cursed. With every roll of his hips, he claimed what had belonged to him the moment she’d walked onto that porch and eyed him warily, that goddamn blouse buttoned up to her chin.

  She wasn’t buttoned up now, he mused, fucking her so deep she cried out again. She was bare. Skin glistening with sweat, stomach muscles flexed, ripe breasts bouncing with every thrust, neck and jaw tense, lips parted as she breathed heavy and lustful.

  She was his.

  And when her slick channel convulsed for the third time that night, when she reached up, ran her fingers over his nipple, and tugged at the metal running through it, he exploded.

  Pounding into her with utter and complete abandon, his body shaking and his balls tightening, he came, so hard and intense he felt something impossible overtake him. No. Not overtake him. Retreat inside him.

  The cat.

  He thrust up inside her one last time, and stayed there, buried against her womb, her warmth. Then he rolled them both to the side, and, breathing heavily, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. His heart was slamming against his ribs; his mind going nuts. He found her gaze. Her eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen them. And soft and satisfied and…dare he say, happy?

  But inside himself, a miracle was taking place. The out-of-control, barely caged cat that he’d been trying to keep hidden for so long was purring. Fuck. The feline was nearly asleep. His tats and his piercings, and the malachite had never even come close to making him feel like this. Like her.

  Genevieve.

  His beautiful, sweet, and debilitatingly sexy Genny.

  She controlled his cat.

  * * *

  Genevieve ran her hand up his arm, over the bulging muscle, over the growling pumas to his shoulder and neck. He was too beautiful.

  Oh, god. What had she done?

  What blissful, amazing, mind-bending act had she given into? Begged for? Wanted again, even now.

  Jean-Baptiste was right. Seduction was a lie, an excuse—something you used to protect yourself from the vulnerability of asking for what you wanted.

  She released a breath, her eyes connecting to his under the haze of moonlight streaming in through the window. Here she was, curled around this spectacular male, his arms protecting her, his gaze fiercely possessive, his cock still stiff and pulsing inside of her. And she never wanted to move again. Her throat felt suddenly tight. How was she ever going to walk away and forget this, forget him? How was she going to continue her quest and her mission when the sun rose the next day? Make sure Isi remained where she was, and then return to the Wildlands and a life that could never include him? Them? This…

  His brows moved together in a frown of concern. “Genny?”

  She pulled eye contact and buried herself deeper against his chest. “Don’t go,” she whispered into his skin. “I want to stay like this a little while longer.”

  Jean-Baptiste chuckled softly, his hands running down her back to cup her ass. “A little while? Oh, ma chérie. We have all night.”

  No, Jean-Baptiste, she thought sadly, letting her eyes drift closed and her breathing soften. We only have one night.

  Chapter 6

  Leaving the warm bed and sweet, soft body of his female had been the hardest thing Jean-Baptiste had ever had to do. But it would pay off. In a grand surprise he hoped would please her, and show her that her first impression of him—bad news—was inaccurate.

  Even at two a.m. the French Quarter was packed, in full party mode everywhere he looked—brimming with revelers. Everywhere but Isi’s shop. Jean-Baptiste slid the Jag into a vacant spot in front of the house and killed the engine. Black and quiet. This wasn’t like her. Midnight to five a.m. were her prime working hours. Either she was avoiding certain customers, or straight-up avoiding him.

  She’d have known he’d return, that he wasn’t going to accept one quick shut down about coming to the Wildlands. She’d have known he’d try again. And she’d be prepared.

  Jean-Baptiste evaded the front door, and circled around to the back. He wanted the window that led straight into the body art room, the one they’d spoken in earlier. The room he knew best.

  He swung himself up into a nearby tree, then silently crept to the edge of a thick branch and reached for the latch on the window. But before his hand even made con
tact with the chipped white paint, the scent of something pungent shot into his nostrils. Whatever it was stung like hell, and made his brain go slow and fuzzy.

  “Was this head trip meant for me?” he muttered with irritation. “Or someone else?”

  For anyone who wishes me harm.

  The words blasted into his head, a near explosion of sound, and Jean-Baptiste whirled around, hissing as he reached for the red powder he carried in his pocket. She was somewhere above him, high in the tree, and though he couldn’t see her, he could scent her. Granted, if this had happened a few days ago—shit, a few hours ago even, before Genevieve had eased and stroked his feral cat—Isi’s magic would’ve pulverized him, made his cat so insane he’d have been debilitated. He’d have fallen out of the tree, clutching his head and begging for the pain to stop.

  But times had changed.

  “You know I don’t want to hurt you,” he said into the darkness, gripping the powder in one hand, swinging up onto another thick tree branch with the other. “But our kind is in serious trouble. Our borders are compromised, our magic is dying far faster than we realized, there’s been an attack inside our lands, and the first Pantera cub conceived in over fifty years might not survive.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Isi said, her voice strangely far away, though her scent remained immobile. “You seem…different. More powerful.”

  “The cat’s caged, Isi.”

  He heard her gasp. “What?” Then curse. “I want to help you, okay?” she said, her voice fearful and all over the place now. “But I just can’t.”

  Jean-Baptiste took a deep breath and calmed his insides. “I’m afraid you must.”

  His instincts were sharper than they’d been in years, and his nose had always been first rate. In under three seconds, he leapt to the top branch. He caught her gaze, her shocked expression just before he opened his hand and blew the red powder straight into her face.

  “Damn you, Baptiste,” she uttered, her eyes rolling back in her head, her body swaying. “I can’t…I’m not meant to be there…”