Dangerously Bad

by Eden Bradley

“Duff?”

  “Shh, lovely girl. I just need to take you to bed. I need to fuck you again. Here.”

  He picked her up in his arms. She weighed nothing. And her arms went around his neck, her head resting against his shoulder, which made more than his cock jump—there was a quick little stab in his chest. He didn’t know what it was.

  You do know, damn it.

  But he didn’t want to stop and dissect it. Not now, when he had her in his arms, and was about to have her in his bed.

  He managed to grab another condom before carrying her into the bedroom and laying her down on the bed. He rolled the latex sheath over his hard shaft, looking down at her.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this view—you all worn from coming and play, glassy-eyed with subspace. It’s a beautiful thing. You’re a beautiful thing.”

  Had he ever said such things to a woman? Maybe he should have. But all that mattered was that he was saying it now to her.

  As he parted her thighs and pushed into her, she sighed, wrapping her legs around him. He pushed on her knees, until they were almost flat against her shoulders, opening her wide. Then he was in, buried to the hilt, his balls pressed tight against the curve of her lovely ass.

  “Fuuuuuuuck.”

  He began to move and, freed now, she moved with him, her hips arching up against him, her mound crashing into him, the muscles in her body working.

  “Duff,” she rasped, “I need to . . . God, I think I need to come again.”

  “Yes, do it. Come for me, my lovely girl.”

  It started as a small tremor in her limbs; then he felt it as her insides squeezed, then squeezed again. Her nails dug into his hips as she drew him deeper. And very quickly it was too much to take. He had one moment to raise himself up so he could watch her face as she came. He had to—had to see her gleaming green eyes and beautiful, plush mouth. Their gazes locked as his orgasm hit him, and this time it was like flying, soaring to heights he’d never reached before. Like dark earth and night sky and the fucking moon. Sensation poured through him, blinding him, out of control.

  “Ahhhhh! Ah, good Lord, Layla. Feels. So. Good.” Then he was whispering, “So good, darlin’ girl. Ah, Christ. You don’t know what you do to me. You don’t know.”

  He found himself cradling her head, his bowed against her hair as he drew in one gasping breath after another, trying to recover from the climax that had just rocked his body.

  “You are a most dangerous woman,” he whispered against her cheek, uncertain if she heard him.

  He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. But there was a lot going on between them that wasn’t what he’d intended—with her, or ever. Oh, yeah, she was dangerous for him. Because he knew this was more than sex, maybe for the first time in his life. And that changed everything.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  IT WAS A weekend unlike the other time they’d had together. On Sunday they took a steamboat brunch tour along the Mississippi River, with Layla pointing out the sites. He couldn’t remember whose idea it had been, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was how impossibly good it felt to have her in his arms, the breeze blowing through her hair, seeing how the sunlight reflected in her eyes. He loved watching the way her mouth moved when she talked, and couldn’t resist stealing kiss after kiss—although, to be fair, it couldn’t exactly be called “stealing” since she didn’t fight it one bit. She was full of the usual fire at times, but once he was touching her she simply melted against him. The Dominant in him was pleased as hell. It made the man in him . . . well, it made him smile, inside and out. And what man wouldn’t smile, with this gorgeous girl—gorgeous woman—giving herself into his hands? Putting up with him forcing her to come six times the night before and twice more that morning? He could count himself as lucky, and he damn well did.

  After Layla proclaimed the food served on the boat was “tourist crap,” they got off at the end of the tour and went to the infamous Court of Two Sisters, where they sat in the brick-walled terrace and loaded up on a rich shrimp étouffée and spicy andouille sausage gumbo. The green-jacketed waiters brought her a glass of cold beer while he drank glass after glass of iced tea. Finally they were both stuffed, lounging in their chairs while the three-tiered fountain in the center of the courtyard splashed against the low tones of a live jazz trio.

  “You know,” Layla said, her eyes sparkling, “the great pirate Jean Lafitte is said to have killed three men in three separate duels in a single night in this very courtyard.”

  “Badass. Sounds like my kind of pirate.”

  “You may be a sadist, but I don’t believe you’d kill a man, Duff.”

  He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Ah, but the day is young yet.” She laughed, and he felt inexplicably pleased with himself. “What else? This city is so rich with history—one of the few places in the U.S. as filled with history as Europe—and I like that you know all the stories.”

  “Oh, not all of them—not by a long shot. But I will tell you, the voodoo queen Marie Laveau lived only a few blocks from here. Legend has it she practiced voodoo rites in the wishing well right here in this courtyard. Its real name is the Devil’s Wishing Well, and no one knows if the name came first, or if it was named for her practice of the dark arts.”

  “Why do you look so happy about that?”

  “She fascinates me. A strong, powerful, fearless woman who held her own in a man’s world? That’s the kind of woman I want to know about.”

  “It’s the kind of woman you are,” he said.

  She paused, watching his face for several long moments. Then she shook her head. “No. I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

  “Like what, lovely?” he asked softly, not wanting to frighten her off. He didn’t understand why he felt he needed to know. Perhaps for the same reason she felt compelled to know about the infamous voodoo queen.

  She bit her lip. “Well, like June bugs. Goddamn exoskeletal creatures from hell. They always fly into my hair.” She shivered. “Seriously. The world would be a better place without them. I need a giant exterminator to come along and wipe them from the face of the earth.”

  He chuckled. “What else?”

  “I’m . . . a little afraid of you.”

  “As you should be.”

  “No. Not like that. I don’t mean the kink. That’s the good kind of fear. I mean that I’m . . .” She trailed off, looking down at the table and twisting her cloth napkin between her fingers. Without looking up, she said softly, “I’m afraid because I want you to dominate me. And that’s something I haven’t wanted for a very long time—something I was certain I’d never want again.” She raised her chin and met his gaze then. “It frankly scares the shit out of me—that I’ve let you so far in, you know? And I like it all a little too much. The kink. This.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, lovely girl. I do. I’m kind of going through the same thing myself. It’s weird, eh? You and me. But it’s not really, when you stop and think about it. We have a lot in common. Granted, some of it is the bad stuff, but still, it’s common ground.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like feeling as if we’re outcasts in our own families. And our shitty relationship histories. Except, of course, in my case, it was my own doing.”

  “It was in my case, too, though, Duff. I chose badly.”

  “And so you mean to not choose at all now—is that it?”

  “What?”

  He saw the storm in her expression, and knew immediately he’d said the wrong thing. Reaching across the table, he tried to take her hand, but she yanked it back, green eyes blazing.

  “Oh, I like your fire, darlin’ girl, but I truly didn’t mean to offend or to imply I know your mind. Except I believe I do. Because I’m of the same mind.” He leaned in closer and took her hand again, and this time she let him hold on to it. “We
are birds of a feather, you and I.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know we are. We are the black sheep, you and I, yes? Yeah. But I’m coming to figure out, on an intellectual level, at least, that we simply walk to the beat of our own drummers, rather than those set down by our parents. You know, my folks are convinced that those bar brawls were my own fault. They don’t believe me when I tell them how many blokes come at me because of my size. My da, especially. He thinks I’ve done something to provoke it. But I swear, I mind my own business, never hit on anyone’s girl. When you’re my size, you can’t afford to throw your weight around, unless you’re truly dedicated to becoming a hoodlum. And my brother, Leith . . . all right, so maybe he looked up to me and I did have something to do with him wanting to be a musician, and I’m fairly certain his fascination with fast bikes is my fault. But he’s male. We like fast things, and let’s face it: playing guitar gets a guy laid, although he’s pretty enough that he doesn’t need to be in a band for that. But I didn’t turn him on to kink—that’s something he came to on his own, not that my parents know about that part, with him or me. There has to be some genetic factor, or something. And fuck, that came out in a pretty flood, didn’t it? Sorry.”

  “No, don’t be sorry, Duff. This is probably the most open you’ve been with me.”

  He ran a hand over his smooth head. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is. I just don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, right? I have a good life. I’m a damn happy man, as I should be. Not complaining, really. I was trying to point out that we have some history in common.”

  “You’re right—we do. I can’t tell you how many times I got the ‘you should be more like your brother’ speech. My brother the preacher! In our church, women aren’t even allowed to preach, which is even more alienating. But I don’t have that in me—to be pious and follow someone’s rules without question. I never have. My mother has that mind-set—other than her one big fuckup—and she’s paid for that her whole life. Sometimes I think she shouldn’t have stayed with my father, despite us kids.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened, this ‘fuckup’? Or is it too much your family’s business?”

  “No, I’ll tell you.” She pulled in a breath, exhaled, took a slow sip of her beer, then set the glass down before answering. “When I was a kid my mother got caught cheating on my dad. I wish they’d kept it from us, but there was yelling . . . and kids hear more than parents give them credit for. I heard every ugly accusation, every ugly, angry word. And the thing is, I can’t blame him, because I knew he was hurt by it. Of course he was. My mother was so contrite, but he’s never really forgiven her. And now, as an adult, I’ve come to realize that there’s as much concern about him being judged by his congregation as there is pain—maybe more so. But still, it’s been really hard for me to let it go, to forgive her. In my head I understand how awful it must have been for her living in a largely loveless relationship. My mother is so sweet and loving. God, thinking about it now, I feel like I’ve let her down, because I’ve sort of held my affection back from her. But after all the cheating men I’ve been with, I think I allowed it to harden me a bit. Or maybe a lot. And that’s a really hard thing to admit.” She looked up at him, her eyes big and round. “Does that make me a terrible person? Because right now, saying this stuff out loud, I’m kind of feeling that way.”

  “Nah, I think it just makes you human.” He lowered his tone, trying to be gentle with her. “And I know you’re feeling a lot right now, but I like to see this in you—to see how deeply you feel things. To know you’ll let yourself go there with me.”

  Her gaze narrowed, and she bit her lip. “Do you, Duff? Why?”

  Sitting back in his chair, he felt a bit as if he’d been punched in the gut. Because he damn well knew the answer to her question. He wasn’t ready to say it all. He wasn’t ready to face it. But he said what he could. “Because I like you, Layla. I like who you are. You’re a good woman and probably more than I deserve.”

  “Because you’re such a bad seed?”

  He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Maybe.”

  “If you are, then I am, too.”

  He cracked a smile. “A perfect match, then.”

  Her face went perfectly still, and he realized what he’d said. But it was the truth. Grasping her small hand in his, he gave it a squeeze, his chest going tight. This woman touched something in him he knew he’d never felt before. Not with Bess, not with Eileen. He understood now, with a sharp and undeniable clarity, that Eileen had been nothing more than a dizzying lust—lust that didn’t even begin to match the chemistry he felt with Layla. And Bess had been more about trying to do the right thing than anything he’d truly felt for her, and shame on him for doing that to the girl. No, this was the real thing. For the first time. And sometimes he felt like a goddamn giddy schoolboy.

  Some big, strong Dom you are.

  Yeah, he didn’t like that part. But the rest of it was so good, he was caring less and less about the part that told him he was being weak. Being foolish.

  Maybe he’d talk to Jamie in the morning, see if his cousin could help him get his head on straight—and damn if he wasn’t about to become one of those guys who had deep, emotional talks with people. But that’s what she did to him, how off-balance she had him. Meanwhile, he had Layla right in front of him, and she’d never been more beautiful.

  “Woolgathering, Duff?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Thinking about all the things I could be doing to you right now if I had you back at my place. The spanking bench. My violet wand.”

  She smiled, batting her long, dark lashes. “Let’s go, then.”

  He knew they were both avoiding a subject neither one was comfortable with. But it was easy enough to let his need to touch her override everything else, and it seemed she was relieved to be back on surer footing herself. Kink and sex were their comfort zone.

  You are one fucked-up dude.

  Yeah. But he was willing to let that go for the time being. As long as he could be with Layla, and thank Christ the girl was willing. He could happily lose the giddiness and the overthinking in the lush curves of her gorgeous body, in doing lovely, wicked things to her. Well, the overthinking, anyway. The giddiness, he feared, was there to stay.

  He slapped some cash down on the table and stood to hold her chair. “Let’s go, darlin’ girl. Despite this wonderful meal, I could eat you alive about now.”

  • • •

  IT WAS THURSDAY afternoon before things calmed down enough at the shop for Duff to have a quiet minute or two with Jamie. Lunch was po’boy sandwiches at Duff’s desk, but it was the first quiet moment they’d been able to find all week, and it suited him just fine. They’d sent the work crew to lunch and it was just the two of them in the nearly finished shop.

  “Work’s going well,” Jamie remarked, unwrapping his sandwich, his feet propped up on the opposite side of the big desk.

  “Yeah, seems to be on track.”

  “We should be able to get the mural started by Monday. I have the artist on standby”

  “Yeah, good, that.”

  “You could show a little more enthusiasm, cousin.”

  “Hmmm . . . what?”

  “Earth to Duff. Where are you, man?”

  “Eh? Sorry. I’m distracted.”

  “Too distracted to eat, apparently, which for you means it’s something major. Do I need to get you to a hospital?”

  “Could be,” Duff said, wanting to talk about it, but not knowing where to start. “You ever have that feeling in the pit of your belly, like it wants to turn over like an engine full of fuel?”

  “I’m assuming you’re not describing a stomachache from eating too much jambalaya?”

  “I’m not. I’m talking about . . . fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this—me!—but I’m talking about Layla.”

  “Well, well. How the might
y have fallen.”

  Was this what it was to be falling? If so, he was going down like a fucking ton of bricks. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. “Fuck me,” he grumbled.

  “You’re not my type, cousin. And you’re my cousin, which is just sixteen kinds of wrong.”

  “Fuck you, Jamie.”

  Jamie swung his legs off the desk and leaned across it, hands splayed. “All right, I’ll stop giving you a hard time. So, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t stop fucking thinking about her. Can’t stop touching her. I don’t want my goddamn space, for God’s sake.”

  “You’ve got it bad.”

  “You say that like it’s a disease,” he muttered, tossing the napkin he’d been holding onto the desk, since it seemed Jamie was right about him not being able to eat. “So what the fuck do I do?” he demanded.

  “Do? There’s not much you can do. You either go full throttle and give things a try with her, or you run.”

  “I don’t think I can run,” Duff said. “But I’m not ready to deal with this. It’s been nearly a month. I need more time. I need to figure this shit out. I’m not good relationship material—I’ll only fuck it up.”

  “Most of us do. Welcome to the human race, cousin.”

  “Fuck. You’re not much help, you know.”

  Jamie shrugged. “Maybe not. But let me grace you with some wise words once spoken by ‘an old bastard who knows nothing about women.’ Don’t wait too long. Women only have so much patience, you know.”

  “Ah, that’s charming, to throw my own words at me.”

  “Not my fault that you were right. You were overdue.”

  “Thanks and fuck you again, cousin,” he grumbled.

  “You’re welcome,” Jamie told him cheerfully. “You going to eat that?”

  “Nah, have at it.”

  Despite his grouching, he couldn’t be too pissed off, because Jamie was right. But he didn’t feel any better, any more comfortable with feeling this much for someone. He still had it in the back of his head that he was a bad seed, that he couldn’t give any woman what she deserved, and certainly not a woman like Layla. She deserved everything. But he also wasn’t ready to give her up.