MidnightInk-epub

by MI

  “Ah, much better.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed.

  He smacked her ass again. “Let’s go, pretty girl. I want to see this city.”

  “Okay, okay. Let me grab my coat.”

  In a moment she was with him on the sidewalk, the shop lights off and the door locked.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. We’re in the French Quarter. What should I see?”

  “Do you want the tourist spots or the underbelly?”

  He chuckled. “I love that you asked me that. Let’s have a sampling of both.”

  They started off down Canal Street toward the Jackson Square area, the streetlamps casting halos of gold onto the pavement. There was a bright half-moon out, the sky clear of clouds. She felt his presence at her side almost as if their bodies were touching, she was that hyper-aware of him. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked it.

  “So, where are you taking me?” Finn asked as they passed the bars and cafes, the tattoo parlors and small shops that sold Mardi Gras beads, shot glasses, and other items for the tourists who flocked to the city’s French Quarter year-round.

  “I thought we’d head toward Café du Monde, but maybe stop at the Old Ursuline Convent on the way.”

  “Me at a convent? Now that’s a variation on my life.”

  “No nun fetish?” she teased.

  “Maybe if it was you in the outfit.” His blue eyes were sparkling, catching the light from the streetlamps and the shining moon.

  “That is so not happening. I’m a good Catholic girl.”

  He laid a palm against the small of her back and it went through her like a shock. “Really now? Even if you go to mass on Sundays, I’m not sure we could call you good. Not that it’s a problem for me. I prefer a bad girl. But tell me, Roisin…if we were at your club and I asked you to dress as a nun, you’d refuse me?”

  She bit her lip, purposely keeping her eyes on the sidewalk. “Maybe.”

  “I might have to test that theory. But tell me first why you’d take me to a nunnery.”

  “I like the place. They say it’s haunted. I know it may seem like a silly show put on for the tourists, but I love all the haunted places in New Orleans. If not there, then we should go by the Octoroon House on Royal Street.”

  “Octoroon House? What is that?” he asked.

  “You haven’t heard the story of the Octoroon Mistress? Julie was the secret lover of a wealthy Frenchman in the 1850’s. She wanted him to marry her, but he refused because of her lower social status. Anyway, the bastard devised a test for her, saying he’d consider marrying her if she passed it. On a cold, damp December night he told her he was going to play cards downstairs, and she was to undress and wait for him on the roof. Hours later he found her frozen body up there, patiently waiting for him, poor girl. They say he died a few months later of a broken heart, so I suppose that’s some divine retribution. The place is supposed to be haunted by both of them. You can see her pacing the roof, waiting for that asshole Frenchman.”

  “Your sympathy is to be commended,” Finn said wryly.

  “It’s a horrible story of a woman sacrificing everything—one that’s all too common. That and men who abuse their power.”

  He looked at her closely for several moments, and she had the feeling once more that he was reading her in some way—some way beyond the usual Dominant’s tendency to look for changes in breathing and pupil dilation while playing a bottom. It made her shiver.

  Finally he said, “So why do you like to go there?”

  She shrugged. “I like a good haunting.”

  He shook his head. “’Curiouser and curiouser…’”

  She turned to look at him. “You’re the last person I’d expect to quote Alice in Wonderland.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, apparently. There’s a lot we don’t know about each other. Except I’m finding out you’re a strange and unusual girl.”

  She grinned. “That coming from a man who likes to chain up ‘pretty girls’, as you say, and hurt them.”

  “Touché, Roisin.”

  He stopped walking and stared down at her. She couldn’t tell what was going on with him, exactly, other than that he seemed pleased, which pleased her. She was finding it difficult to keep the submissive ‘her’ separate from her everyday self, even here on the street, outside of the club environment. Even more so when he dragged her in close to his body so fast she would have lost her footing had he not been hanging onto her so tightly he was squeezing the breath from her.

  When he kissed her, she lost the last of her breath, her body melting, heat simmering in her belly, between her thighs.

  Oh, his tongue was soft and wet, pushing into her mouth, demanding, exploring. She was helpless to do anything but give in. She didn’t want to do anything else.

  Finn felt the yielding in her body as she went soft and loose against him, her mouth opening up without protest. And Christ, if she didn’t taste better to him than anything—or anyone—had in his life. He found himself sinking into the kiss, into the sensation of her tiny waist in his hands. Into the knowledge that this woman full of fire and a little rage allowed herself to belong to him in this way. That she chose to give herself over. There was power in that—in the way a sub gave. He’d maybe never felt it so acutely. It hit him like a punch in the gut.

  He released her. Had to.

  He took a small step back, trying to ignore the haze in her lovely eyes.

  “Show me this haunted Octoroon House,” he said. “Then maybe Café du Monde. I’ve heard Mick go on and on about the place.”

  They walked a few more blocks and stopped in front of an old brick building—classic New Orleans architecture, with a second floor hung with intricate wrought-iron balconies. The small doorway was an arch of brick, with a dark green-painted door set with ironwork. The narrow, dimly lit street was quiet.

  “This is it,” she said, her voice low, almost reverential.

  He wasn’t sure what he thought about the idea of anyplace being haunted—other than a man’s own soul, maybe—but he had to respect her feelings about it. And the quiet and the moonlight, seeing her pale face shadowed by her long, thick lashes, was all doing something to his head. He didn’t understand it. He only knew it felt good.

  He’d just met this woman, but something about her…it was as if she opened him up.

  Bloody fucking crazy. But true.

  He reached out and thrust his fingers into her hair, pulled out the clip that held it up and ran his fingers through the dark tresses. There was always a little command in him when he handled a woman, but now…this was different. She was different. Or maybe it was just where he was in his life. What he was trying to learn from Kenji’s death. Something about reflecting back on those earlier losses that had driven him his whole life, which he hadn’t realized until he showed up at Kenji’s funeral and found himself to be one of the sparse few who had. It was time to stop running so damn hard. And this woman…even though he’d known her only a week, she made him want to stop the running.

  Christ, he couldn’t think about all that now. He couldn’t figure it out.

  “Finn…?”

  “Shh.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. And this time it was gentle, a soft press of his lips to hers, then again, and again. He just needed to feel the texture of her.

  When he pulled back, he could see the confusion on her face. Hell, he didn’t know what he was doing, either.

  “Tell me the story of the Octoroon Mistress again,” he said, his voice low.

  She did, going into a little more detail, describing Julie’s cold body in almost romantic terms, the artist in her showing in her words. He liked that about her. He liked a lot about her.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  He didn’t want to answer that question.

  “Take me to the café now,” he said, pushing down the thoughts tumbling through his head faster than he could track
them. “I want some of that famous chicory coffee.”

  “The beignets are the best part,” she told him. “Pure heaven on your tongue.”

  He’d already had heaven on his tongue kissing her. But he wasn’t about to say it.

  They walked the few blocks to Café du Monde, and found the last available table on the awning-covered patio just as it started to rain. The waiter brought them beignets and coffee, and she told him to top his cup with milk, as she did.

  “You were right. Fucking heaven, both the pastry and the coffee. I have to come here six times a day now. It’ll be all your fault when I put on fifty pounds this month.”

  “I’ll accept the blame. This place is too good to ignore.” She wiped the powdered sugar from the beignets on her napkin and leaned toward him, elbows on the table holding her chin in her hands. “So, where are you from in Australia?”

  “Melbourne. But I’ve been in the U.S. a long time.”

  “I assumed so, since your accent is so light. What brought you here?”

  He shook his head, thought he would avoid the question, as he usually did. But it was Kenji’s secrets, his acute sense of privacy, that had led to his lonely end—and wasn’t he trying to learn from seeing that? It had been a changing moment for him, that sad funeral. So, things had to change. He may as well start with this.

  He cleared his throat. “I married an American girl, Olivia. I was young, only twenty-four. Stupid of me. It didn’t last long—about a year and a half.”

  “But you didn’t go home after?” she asked.

  He nodded his chin. “Your ghosts? Well, I guess you could say I have my own in Australia. There was a reason I was so eager to get out even though I knew I didn’t really love her.”

  He’d never admitted anything so true to anyone. It made his chest ache.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching to cover his big hand with hers, so small and delicate. “Tell me about your ghosts, Finn.”

  The knot in his chest pulled tighter. He shook his head. “Maybe another time. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”

  She let out a short, barking laugh. “What makes you think I have any?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Hmm. Yes. But mine are…well, no one’s died. Thank God.” She took a sip of her coffee, wiped her mouth again very carefully. He loved the way she looked with her scarlet mouth. Even without her lip gloss her lips were a lovely, deep red. “So…” she stopped again, folded her napkin in half on the table, then in half again. “I guess you could say my family is not very supportive of me. It’s almost as if my parents and my sister are cut from a different cloth, you know what I mean?”

  He nodded, and she went on.

  “Family for me was always Christie. We’ve just always been close, ever since we were kids. And there was my uncle, Henry Lee, my mother’s brother. He owned the shop for years, taught me to tattoo at sixteen so I didn’t put any more crap ink on eager teenage boys. He understood me. That I needed to tattoo. That it was almost a sort of redemption for me.”

  “Redemption for what?”

  When she looked up there was fire in her eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yeah.” And he did. It was almost as if this conversation, the two of them sitting at this table at nearly midnight, was some sort of sacred space. Just the two of them insulated from the world, the rain coming down with a soft patter on the awning overhead.

  “Okay. Okay.” She lowered her eyes, smoothing her napkin once more. When she looked up, her gaze was dark. “I really was a good Catholic girl, went to Catholic school. Well, I was always a bit of a rebel, but I had faith, you know? Anyway…there was this substitute teacher one semester. I was fifteen, but a girl knows when she’s being undressed by a man’s eyes. It wasn’t long before the bastard tried it with his hands.”

  “What? Bastard,” Finn agreed, his heart wrenching. He wanted to kill someone. He might have, had the fucking wanker been within reach.

  “He didn’t get very far. But it left me…pissed off. I’d always drawn. It was a kind of escape for me, a way to express myself growing up, and at that point I needed it. And Henry Lee, he caught me tattooing some idiot guy in the parking lot at the school with a machine I’d stolen from him. God, he was mad. But he realized I was going to do it with or without him. He started mentoring me right then. Didn’t tell my parents, of course. They would have had a stroke. And that was redemption, too, that he trusted me to have this secret, just the two of us. I should say three of us, since Christie was my biggest repeat customer while I was learning. Tattooing has been the best thing in the world for me. I know this kind of thing has happened to a lot of girls. I don’t mean to sound pathetic, because I’m not. My art has been my way of dealing with it.”

  Finn shook his head. “I get it. I do.”

  She tilted her head, smiled a little, though he could still see the darkness in her eyes. “I think you do.”

  He wanted to kiss her again. Needed to.

  “Come on, Roisin. Let’s get out of here.”

  She just nodded and pulled her coat on as she got to her feet.

  Together they moved through the crowded tables and onto the rainy sidewalk. Neither of them mentioned that they were getting wet as they walked. He had his arm around her small waist, pulled close to his body, and that was all that seemed to matter.

  “Back to the shop?” he asked. “Or shall I walk you home like the gentleman I’m not?”

  She laughed. “I already know you’re not a gentleman, Finn. Walk me home, anyway?”

  She batted her lashes, and in the lamplight he could see the rain caught on the tips. Oh, the things he wanted to do to her. With her.

  “Home it is.”

  Chapter Six

  By the time they reached her apartment in the old building on Conti Street, they were both soaked and Rosie was shivering. Her hands shook as she tried to get the key in the old lock on the iron gate. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that the shaking wasn’t just because she was wet and cold. Finn took the keys from her, unlocked the gate and held it open while he ushered her inside and up the stairs, his hand on the small of her back reassuring, solid. Authoritative even in that simple gesture. He unlocked the deadbolt on her apartment door and pushed it open.

  She dropped her purse on the dilapidated antique velvet chaise she’d bought at a swap meet and pushed her damp hair from her face. “I haven’t been rained on like that in a while. Do you want me to take your coat?”

  He stepped closer, his gaze burning into hers. “Roisin.”

  “What?”

  He only stared at her, silent as a statue. And as he did, she began to get it. Her mind sank down and down, her body humming to life, yet going strangely numb at the same time.

  After several moments he said again, his tone low, “Roisin.”

  “Yes, Sir?” She knew she’d gotten it right that time.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  She didn’t take her gaze from his, blue fire locked to scorching blue heat as she tore her wet coat off and dropped it on the floor. He did the same. Her tee shirt came next, and as she slipped it over her head he followed suit, revealing the tight six-pack of abs, the beautifully muscled chest covered with the ink she herself had put there, which was incredibly hot to her. And his shoulders and arms…big enough to crush her, every inch of delicious muscle covered in more stunning ink.

  She kicked off her flat boots and her hands trembled as she unbuttoned her jeans and peeled them off. As she went to straighten her gaze traveled over his strong, bare thighs. She had to catch a gasping breath when she reached the black boxer-briefs and the hard bulge she saw there.

  She swallowed.

  He stepped closer, ran a finger under one red satin bra strap, grazing the bare skin of her shoulder.

  “Very nice. But this will have to come off, too.”

  She nodded, already practically drowning in subspace.

  With clever fingers, he undid th
e clasp at the front, and her breasts were freed, heavy and aching with need.

  Please touch me.

  He reached out and brushed the tip of one nipple with his fingertips. “So pretty. So dark and red. Like your lips. Makes me want to kiss you all over.”

  He moved in, and in a flash he’d wrapped one big arm around her and yanked her in tight. He smelled like rain and the ocean, like wet, warm flesh. She moaned softly.

  “Tell me,” he demanded in an urgent whisper. “Do you remember what it was like when I kissed you everywhere the other night at the club? When I tasted your skin? Dragged my tongue over your clit? You were so swollen it was like licking a ripe cherry. Are you that ready for me now?”

  “God, yes.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  He bent and tore her red panties down over her legs, leaving her naked. He stepped back.

  “You are bloody gorgeous, girl. Your breasts are as perfect a pair as I’ve ever seen. And your tight little body…flawless. I love to see my teeth marks on you. Makes my cock so damn hard.”

  He lowered a hand and stroked himself. She swallowed. Shivered.

  He said quietly, “Do you want to touch me, Roisin?”

  “Yes. Please, Sir.”

  “Then get down on your knees, pretty girl.”

  She went right down, knelt on the old Persian rug in front of him, her eyes level with the hard ridge of his cock.

  “Take it out,” he said.

  She drew the boxer-briefs down and off, his thick cock inches from her face. Just looking at it made her want to have it inside her. But she understood that would not be allowed. Yet.

  Her sex squeezed. Her mind emptied. She was exactly where she needed to be.

  “Touch me,” he commanded.

  She smiled a little as she feathered her fingers over the tip of his cock, the skin flushed, his flesh gorgeously swollen. Her pulsing clit was just as needy, but it was his turn.

  She leaned in and breathed on the sensitive head, looked up at him when he moaned.