Another Brush of Love (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 3)

by LW Barefoot

  His unapologetic voice vibrates through me and I’ve missed that domineering tone. That demand I made of fucking me hard and rough is no longer adequate because there’s nothing that’s going to be hard enough. I want that tightening in my stomach as he makes every nerve in my body come back to life. I need to bite and mark him, just like he accused me of doing.

  I have no doubt his sweet offer of making love to me was genuine and I’m glad I didn’t take him up on it. We won’t be able to keep from tearing into each other.

  I lay back and scoot up the bed on my elbows. Thankful he demanded those bitches take the comforter with them. Evan’s hands are all over me, ripping lace, touching me in forceful grasps and fists-full of muscles kneading into me as if I need a warm up. I’m already on fire and I’m tired of waiting.

  I love that he ruins the lingerie and the feel of it ripping off me. Relishing the sensation of fabric scrapping over my skin makes me flush.

  He pushes my thighs wide, exposing me, his head dips down and he takes one long swipe with his tongue. I want to watch, but my head falls to the bed because I forgot how delicious his hot tongue is. He licks and sucks, swirling and teasing me to the brink by pushing his fingers in my heat. I use my nails against his scalp to urge him on and encourage him to have his way with me.

  I shudder when his tongue taps my clit in rapid succession and he pushes a second finger in. Circling his fingers and sending me into a frenzied orgasm. I ride his sinful tongue as I scream and spasm. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this and I want more. I grip his hair and yank his head back up. The mixture of his wild eyes and my desire wet on his lips makes me ravenous.

  “Don’t make me beg, Evan,” I plead with him as I spread my legs wider for him, showing just how much I need him.

  Making him groan, I lay back down and submit because he’s the one that has to do this. He grips his cock and teases me, circling the head around my clit and I moan. Those small circles feel so damn amazing. They prolong the sensations he set in motion. He inches into me slowly, stretching me around him. It’s all I can do not to impale myself painfully on his cock. I sink my nails in his shoulders and brace myself.

  He does what we both need and pushes deep. I’m hot and desperate as I stretch and try to accommodate his erection even more. He tries to pull out but I hold him to me. He presses in more, his muscles tense.

  I’m panting as I finally get my wish and it’s mingled with everything I’ve been missing. In and out, he eases himself deeper. His hands push my thighs wide, pinning me to the bed as he hovers over me.

  He pulls out and then pushes past all of my resistance.

  “Fuck, you’re tight, baby.”

  He punctuates every word with a forceful thrust.

  “Let me hear you, Harper. I’ve missed your sexy little moans.”

  And I’ve missed everything about him.

  Take, give, render me useless. We’re teeth and lips and lust and love. We’re dancing in tune to our desire and loving every powerful second of it.

  His necklace bounces off of me with our movements. Evan moves his hands from my thighs, grabs my breasts and he squeezes, roots his cock deep, hitting the spot that makes stars burst in my vision.

  We become wild and hungry for each other. He squeezes my tits harder and picks up tempo. I’m so close to shattering and becoming whole again.

  He possesses me body and soul and I spasm again and take off everything as it falls to the floor as I scream his name. His pounding, forceful, earth-shaking control rockets inside of me.

  The sight of him losing himself is so hypnotizing I can’t take my eyes off him. This feverish need to reconnect is all that exists. Clawing my short nails down his back and savoring his taut muscles as they tighten with every thrust.

  We’re rough. We’re resilient. We’re one.

  I come undone as he fucks me and he does the one thing I’ve missed the most in these moments when we’re completely uncontrollable. His teeth latch onto that favorite, claiming spot and sinks in. That massage, that carnal push of his teeth on top of muscle sends my orgasm to new heights. One part connects to the other in joy and elation. I scream louder and he drinks in my proclamations of release.

  He catches his weight and there are tears in his eyes. They don’t fall but they’re there. I’m still throbbing around him with his cock kicking up into my heat. He kisses away all worry, all doubt of our reunion, and loves me like he needs to. The way it should have been all along.

  Evan

  My chest pounds violently as the rest of body comes down from the ultimate high. I push the hair across Harper’s forehead as she catches her breath. We’re locked through gaze and touch and something so much deeper there are no words to describe it.

  “You shouldn’t have come back here,” I confess as I search her eyes.

  “Do you want me to leave?” she whispers.

  “You’ll never have a chance to get away from me again.”

  “You’ve said that before,” she mumbles.

  “And I’ll never stop saying it, gorgeous.”

  “Why did you let go and push me away in the first place?” she pleads with more than just words.

  “I thought I didn’t have a choice,” I confess even though it’s not a good enough explanation.

  Trailing my fingers from her jaw down along her collarbone, going lower through the valley of her breasts. Taking the light damp off her skin and pulling it down her sinful body.

  “You always have a choice.”

  “Not always,” I admit.

  She purses her lips together and looks away.

  “I need to know something,” she says as she sits up.

  “Anything.”

  “Were you ever going to come after me?”

  “No,” I state. This upsets her, but I’m done lying to her. “I don’t deserve you, Harper. I mean that.”

  She looks around the room and searches for her clothes.

  “How could you say that?” she says.

  “Because you will never be safe with me, Harper. If I were to quit all illegal business dealings and break those ties, they will still haunt me. There will always be a way for someone who wants retribution and revenge. Even if I were completely innocent, I’m still a Hawthorne. I will always have to deal with the consequences of my father’s actions. That’s how it is, that’s how it has always been.”

  “But we could build a new life together, we could become someone else.”

  “If it were only that easy, gorgeous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think you could pack up and never look back? Would you be capable of turning your back on Mae and Martin and the rest of their families who could easily be used to gain access to wherever you and I escape to?” She shakes her head. “Could you really watch as someone used people you love to get to you?”

  “No, I could never do that,” I admit.

  “I couldn’t either.”

  “Evan, I might not have been strong enough to stand by your side when we met but I am now. You’re worth whatever risks I take by being with you.”

  “How could you say that?”

  “I’ve already given up before. I won’t walk away from you. Not now. Not ever. So get over it. We will find a way to deal with the consequences.”

  “I love you, Harper.”

  “I love you the most, Evan,” she proclaims as I lead her to the bathroom and usher her in the shower.

  The silence stretches between us as we get lost through steam and touch and something too powerful to say.

  The Sculptor

  I wind my way through the dark rooms of the Garden District residence. I observe the decor and dedication to the secret club the Hawthorne’s are clearly proud of. Memorabilia covers an entire parlor. From framed invitations to curio cabinets filled with masks from days long gone. There is nothing remarkable about any of this until I find the grand master’s guise, the krewe king’s righteous marker and slip it in my jacket.


  I take in the details of the mansion as I wait for the clock to strike ten. Sarah mentioned one of my paintings is located here but I can’t find it anywhere.

  My latest person of interest is nothing if not punctual. Every step of her day is planned and executed with precision, regardless of the amount of alcohol consumption. I admire that sort of dedication. It’s the only redeemable quality I can find in this person.

  I wonder which number the blind witch would count this as. Before the night is through I will be so much closer to that glorious number one.

  I find the perfect seat to hide in the shadows and listen as the grandfather clock dings with the announcement of what is going to be a very interesting hour indeed. And just like every other night, the Mrs. Joe Hawthorne stumbles from her drunken stupor to refill and refresh her empty tumbler.

  She shuffles her body in the room. Oblivious to my presence, she pours herself a nightcap, or more accurately, another one. Her hands shake as she lifts the heavy glass bottle and knocks over her empty cup with edge of it.

  The crystal tumbler explodes on the marble floor. She barely notices her accident as she reaches for a fresh glass. She proceeds to fill the glass to the top with bourbon and walks over the broken shards crunching underneath her feet. Not feeling the pain of broken pieces pushing through her skin.

  Her torn feet leave a trail of speckled blood on the rug as she stammers her way to eternal slumber. She’s doing a fine enough job of slowly killing herself but I think it’s admirable I’m willing to help ease her pain.

  “Sweet dreams,” I murmur under my breath.

  Her footsteps falter as my words make their way to muddled ears that have grown too immune to lies poured in them.

  Like everyone else in this godforsaken city, she’ll believe that ghosts are real whispering sweet nothings in the middle of the night.

  I wait and when the new hour arrives I stand and leave. Mindful of the broken glass as I slip out into the night and on to my next victims.

  The distance it takes for me to drive back to the Quarter, allows me to get my excitement back under control.

  I park a few blocks away from the building Joe Hawthorne spends every night in. The same building Sarah led me to the night I took her under my wing.

  I straighten my suit jacket and check my reflection in the rearview. I let the hollow calm and resolve settle in.

  Another step closer to Casey. One more act of securing my prize. Taking out the others who threaten to keep her away from me.

  I enter the code on the keypad Sarah gave me after the brutal beating I gave her this morning. The alarm beeps loudly, granting access.

  The foyer is empty as I absorb the sounds throughout the building. Faint light spreads from small table lamps and scattered burning candles.

  After studying the activity of the building since I took Sarah, there’s no set schedule for the activities of this place. Sarah swore that the sex club is on the bottom two floors and Joe’s private quarters are on the top two stories. He will retreat to this room to use whatever poor soul he chose for the evening.

  The priceless painting I searched for at the Garden District mansion adorns the wall above the bed. Honey hued waves float over luscious breasts as if caught in rushing water. The movement in the painting and Casey’s perfection has my cock hardening instantly.

  My attention focuses on the art and the resurrection of my anatomy when the door opens.

  I step back in the shadows as I watch Gisele crawl beside Joe when they enter the massive bedroom. I smile ear to ear with this new development. She was the last on my list. Too stupid and scared to seek help from anyone. She didn’t pose the same problems Sarah had. I thought about taking her when I took Sarah, but I knew I would have my hands full.

  Probably the only person in New Orleans who cares that Sarah’s missing is on her hands and knees playing slave to the person who couldn’t care less about either one of them. The same man who sent Sarah away from this building weeks ago crying.

  I watch the older version of Evan Hawthorne. The man responsible for bringing me back to life. Resurrecting my broken self with the promise of Casey.

  Joe secures Gisele’s wrists to the foot of the bed. When she bends at the waist, I catch sight of the scars scattered all over her thighs and back.

  I prefer perfection. Flawless skin is my canvas. I only mark to gain recognition, not amusement.

  Joe removes his belt from his waist and strikes her. She doesn’t make a sound. No safe word, no consent, but she was the one crawling for him. Submitting in the most degrading way I can imagine.

  There’s only one person I want on her knees.

  I wait until he’s intoxicated further on adrenaline from inflicting pain. I have no interest in voyeurism. I’m afraid if I witness any more I won’t be able to control my imagination and anger and memories that torture me. He looks too much like his son.

  The visuals take over as I approach him from behind. I try to shake them out but they cause me to stab the needle and plunger into his neck harder than I intended. I calm down enough to pull him away from Gisele. The drugs work almost immediately, knocking him out cold. I curse when some of his blood touches my shirt. Gisele whips her head around, unsure if her punishment is over. She starts to shake as I drop Joe’s limp body and go to untie her.

  “Get dressed,” I tell her.

  She moves quietly to the closet and pulls something on. I remove everything in Joe’s pockets. I find his phone on the bedside table and slip it in my pocket.

  “Is this his only phone?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  I study the painting marking my past and exhibiting my future. I hadn’t expected it to be here.

  “Come here and help me with him,” I instruct her.

  She pauses and looks between Joe and myself, fear shining off her. She doesn’t have a choice.

  “Now,” I command.

  Placing Joe on the bed is easy enough. I cruelly make Gisele carry most of the weight. Joe’s propped up and drugged as I offer Gisele a pill, but she shakes her head in refusal.

  “You might want it before the night is over,” I offer her in false condolences.

  “My family will pay you. Whatever you want, just ask. Please. You don’t have to do this,” she begs.

  “Would it make you feel better to know your brother is looking for you?” I ask her to take her mind off her future that’s now in my hands.

  There’s not a chance I will let her live. I would burn this city to the ground as I pull out of here with Casey in my possession to secure our future. Our very long, dedicated future with one another.

  “Which one?” she whispers.

  “Would you like me to show you?” I offer.

  “Please.”

  I pull out my phone and show her the video I have of her brother at Casey’s complex. I’ve watched the building around the clock through hidden cameras in an attempt to unravel the connections to the people Casey’s involved with.

  Gisele gasps and her tears run in earnest. I observe her and want to know where this pure sadness comes from. I switch the phone to record her sobbing. Torrents stream down her face and I never thought I would witness sorrow from someone so shallow. I have hours of footage of tears. So much that I’ve grown accustomed to the physical reaction. But for the first time, it’s not out of selfish angst. She’s crying for him, the brother searching for her.

  “Thank you for showing me,” she whines between sobs.

  “What are you thanking me for?” I ask.

  I’m the devil here to deliver her death.

  “I thought he didn’t care or that he would never forgive me for my betrayal. Anthony being here, looking for me is enough. Do what you have to, but his forgiveness, his presence is all I need. No matter what, I’ll be okay.”

  I want to laugh because she’s never going to be okay again after I’m through with her. I catch every emotion on video. Such brokenness pours out of her. H
er eyes glitter when she turns and the lamp light highlights the moisture covering her face. I stop the recording.

  In hushed Spanish, she prays for forgiveness and mercy from the Almighty. I can’t help but tense when I hear the list of names she prays for. This woman who found me weeks ago, helping to lure me here is praying for the same woman she wanted me to get rid of and the man keeping Casey away from me.

  Joe doesn’t stir as I climb up on the bed and remove the painting he bought and I paid for with my soul.

  Gisele turns on her heel and rushes across the room as I sit the canvas down gently by the bed. Her feet are light as she makes her escape.

  It’s nothing for me to tackle her to the ground before she reaches the door. The adrenaline from tonight’s events has my black heart pumping. I search her eyes, the same ones I misjudged. Something lurks in her depths, something I’ve seen in the one person I want most in this world.

  I pity Gisele’s hope, but she surprised me when she ran. I didn’t think she had it in her.

  She lets out a final breath of defeat.

  “How did you become this?” she whispers.

  “With the help of people just like you. Do you think you and Joe and even people like your brother are any better?” I ask her still pinning her to the ground.

  “We’re not murderers. We don’t destroy people,” she declares.

  I touch the belt marks on her upper thighs running my fingertips over the newly torn skin and across older, healed scars.

  “Whether you kill someone slowly or in one strike, we’re all the same,” I confess.

  I pull the pill I reserved for her to slip into death peacefully and, this time, she accepts it. I seal her lips with a kiss and wait for the light to leave her eyes.

  My favorite creative trigger accompanies a hint of regret as Gisele draws her last breath.

  I lift her off the floor and position her in a compromising position. I secure Joe’s belt around her slim throat. The irony of me doing this same thing to her the night we met doesn’t escape me.