Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3)

by Jennifer Blake

  “I did that, while I was waiting.”

  “What did you think?” It was just something to say; she couldn’t imagine that he cared much one way or the other.

  “It was—interesting.”

  She put Midnight on the sofa, then sat down beside the cat and reached for the bound pages. “What do you mean?”

  “I have a hard time seeing why Peabody thought you were so perfect for the role.”

  “Really?”

  “Read it,” he said.

  He’d stopped in the middle of the living area as if taking his place on the stage. The light from the fixture overhead caught in the waves of his hair with a blue-black sheen and gleamed along his nose, but left his eye sockets in shadow. His stance, the low sound of his voice and lack of eye contact were disturbing, though she would never admit it, not even to herself.

  Midnight leapt to the cushions on the back of the sofa and then strolled noiselessly to the one directly behind her head, stretching out there as if to be close at hand in case of need. The move was oddly comforting. Turning to the script page marking her scene, Zeni began to read.

  It didn’t take long; it was a bit part after all. There were only six or seven lines for her and the same for the lead actor, who would be Derek, of course. She could feel the increasing throb of the pulse in her throat, sense the prickly reddening of her skin like the eruption of a rash.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “You said it. So—you ready to run through it?”

  Zeni lifted her eyes to Trey’s dark gaze while the first shock of discovery faded from her system. That process was aided by the irony mixed with challenge in his voice. He didn’t think she’d do it.

  A second before, she might not have. Now, she wavered. “I—can see why this scene is pivotal to the story.”

  “Being such a turn on?”

  “No, not so much that.” Her answer was for what he’d said rather than the condemnation in his voice. “It’s the moment when the protagonist realizes he prefers an aggressive woman.”

  Trey grunted. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I’m just saying I see the point,” she insisted.

  “You don’t mind giving it a try then?”

  The quiet note of a dare was in his voice. How could she not answer it?

  She glanced at the script page again, as if trying to decide, but actually to commit the lines to memory. Tossing it aside, she rose to her feet in abrupt readiness. Anger was one way to root out embarrassment and gain an edge.

  “Sir infidel,” she said clearly, as she paced toward him in assumed grandeur. “What brings you to me?”

  “Curiosity,” he answered in his turn. “I wanted to see what a warrior queen looks like.”

  “You dare much. Do you not know you could lose your head if found here?” She circled him, putting out a hand to run it across his shoulder and down the flinching muscles of his back. Keeping her fingertips upon him as she continued around in front of him again, she let them rest above his heart.

  He had definitely read the scene; his heartbeat drummed against her palm and something that might almost be anticipation leapt in his eyes. “I did not know,” he said, “but it might be worth the risk.”

  “From where do you come?” She eased closer, rising on tiptoe as if about to collect a kiss.

  His head dipped toward her in a way that didn’t seem entirely an act. “Another time, another place.”

  With a slow, lingering movement she smoothed her hand downward; over the flat surface of his abdomen to his lower belly. Quite gently, she tested the heat and rock hardness of him. “As you are a stranger who may not see the dawn, I would have you.”

  He swallowed, and she felt a definite springing lift under her hand. It was thrilling to know she could affect him that way. The exhilaration was so great she almost forgot this was an act, almost curled her fingers around him. Or perhaps she did, for his voice was hoarse as he made the scripted answer.

  “And I you.”

  “Prepare for it then,” she said in tones of command, and used both hands to push him toward the sofa.

  He didn’t resist at all, though he pretended to stumble as the script instructed before falling backward upon the cushions. She was upon him at once, straddling him, dragging his shirt open with the popping of buttons. He rose against the hot core of her in a way that made her gasp low in her throat. A moment later, she felt his hands slide under the raised hem of her caftan, pressing with urgent fingertips, testing the smooth surface of her skin and the muscles underneath.

  She bent lower to take his face in her hands and match her open mouth to his as if it was her right and privilege as the queen whom none could or would deny. She plumbed the moist depths, swirling her tongue to receive his very essence, licking the slick underside of his tongue. She wanted to take him into her body and make him hers.

  Hers alone. Hers always.

  He gripped the curves of her hips, grinding against her. She was melting inside and burning up outside, while the scent of their arousal surrounded them, a blending of sweet peas and patchouli and the spice of his aftershave.

  She reached for his belt buckle, pulling it open. Releasing its pin, she flipped the ends aside and made short work of the button of his jeans. As the zipper gaped she felt silky cotton briefs and hot male.

  It was then that Midnight yowled and leaped from the cushion above them. His small feet thumped into Zeni’s back before the kitten launched himself onto the chest that sat before the sofa and then down to the floor.

  Trey stilled in place for endless seconds. With an abrupt bunching of muscles, then, he heaved over, taking Zeni with him over the edge of the sofa cushions. He thrust out his forearm in time to break their fall, cradling her with his other arm as they settled to the sisal rug, trapped between coffee table and sofa. She moaned in protest as she lost direct contact with his mouth, his heat and power.

  “Cut?” His breathing was fast, deep and difficult as he made that husky, movie filming suggestion.

  She gazed up at him, half-stunned and bereft at the withdrawal of something that had seemed right and inevitable, something that had nothing whatever to do with a movie, a pretend engagement, or lines written for other people and for other reasons.

  What did it matter who he was or what she was not. She didn’t expect promises, didn’t need them. All she wanted was this moment, with its upheaval of emotions and closeness of skin to skin and mouth to mouth in a physical welding that was as nature meant it to be, the way nature demanded.

  “No,” she said, and wound her legs around his as she slid an arm to the back of his neck, holding him to her. “The scene doesn’t end here. I want you, just you.”

  “Ah, Zeni,” he said against her hair. “I thought you said you were bashful.”

  “Sometimes. Not now.” The words were choked, barely a whisper.

  “Thank God for it.”

  Within seconds, the robe-like caftan was stripped away over her head and her bikini panties, his jeans and shorts were gone. He paused to retrieve a condom from his wallet, but for nothing else. Pulling down the front of her bra, he allowed the stretchy fabric to frame and lift her breasts for his attention, but the rest of her was gloriously naked to his probing touch, his licking, suckling invasion.

  He was thorough, unhurried, though alive to her soft inhalations, her clutching hands, her flexing knees and soft pleas. And when she was hot, wet, and trembling on the edge of desperation, he gave her surcease, tumultuous and slow, powerful and fine. He gave her exactly what she asked for; he gave her himself.

  Zeni held him while their hearts slowed and breathing became even again. He supported his weight on one elbow while brushing the hair away from her face, but did not withdraw. She would have rug burns from the sisal in the morning, she knew, but he would have them on his knees; it seemed a rough equality.

  She thought of instigating a move to her bed, but was afraid he might take it as a signal to go. S
he didn’t want that. Not yet.

  She touched a finger to his ear, following its whorl before trailing it along his jaw to the center of his chin. Reversing that path, she explored the strong line of his neck and across to his shoulder where she carefully traced his tattoo, outlining the roses and their thorns.

  He glanced at what she was doing from the corners of his eyes, and a smile grooved the planes of his face. “That reminds me, though I’m not sure just why—I have something of yours. “

  “You do?”

  Her voice sounded languorous with contentment, totally lacking in interest. That wasn’t far from wrong.

  He reached for his jeans and delved into the pocket, bringing out something small that gleamed briefly between his fingers. With great care, then, he gave it a twist to open its locking mechanism and touched it to her nostril.

  It was her small gold nose ring. He was threading it carefully into the hole made for it. She could feel it moving, delicately gliding into the place it belonged.

  The operation was no doubt a first for him, yet he was as competent at it as he was most things. She didn’t move as he turned the ring as it should be and then fastened its closure, yet she felt the most incredible giving sensation at her very center.

  Something about the intimacy of that small incursion into her body affected him as well; she felt him harden again inside her, expanding to fill her with amazing completeness. She tightened internal muscles around him in a deep caress. He drew in a startled breath.

  And abruptly they were swept up again, striving toward the ultimate pleasure, the joining of hearts and minds as well as bodies, which was life’s gift, and its best recompense for the punishment of being born human and aware that it was not infinite.

  Sometime later, Trey eased from her and rose, padding to the bathroom to be rid of the condom. Afterward, he picked her up, stripped away the constriction of her bra and carried her to bed. Flinging back the sheet and blanket, he sat down with her in his lap, then lay back and drew her close against him while lofting the covers back over them both.

  Midnight leaped up to join them, winding his small, lithe shape into a circle before settling into the curve of Zeni’s body. He purred all three of them to sleep.

  It was barely three a.m. when Trey roused, yawned, and slipped from the bed. Leaning down, he tucked the sheet and blanket back in around her.

  “Where are you going?” she murmured, still half-asleep.

  “Home, before all of Chamelot figures out I didn’t sleep there.”

  “I don’t care what they think.”

  His voice held warm amusement as he answered. “I guess I’ll have to care for both of us. But Zeni—”

  Something in his voice brought her closer to being awake. She raised on one elbow and propped her head on the heel of her hand. “Yes?”

  “I am not going to be in that scene with you.”

  What was he telling her? That he didn’t intend to rehearse with her again? Or that he wouldn’t be returning, wouldn’t make love to her again? “You mean—”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Or maybe I should say I won’t do it.”

  “Why not?” The words were stark, edged with sudden pain.

  “I can’t stand there while Peabody says the words I said last night, has make-believe sex with you in front of the cameras and crew and whoever else may crowd onto the set.”

  She let out the breath she had not known she was holding. “You mean you won’t be Zenobia’s guard.”

  Trey straightened and walked to the door where he turned back for an instant. “Peabody knew what was in the script. The idea of having the man who showed up to support you stand and watch it as a palace guard was his idea of a snide joke, a trick to make him—me—feel foolish. The man is an arrogant asshole. You can do what you like, but I’m not playing his game.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. Stepping from the bedroom, he closed the door behind him. The click as it shut was quiet but definite.

  Chapter 10

  First time for everything, and all that, but Trey had never been seduced before. That it had happened with Zeni was unbelievable. He stopped dead-still every now and then over the next couple of days, staring at nothing, stunned into immobility by the memory. He caught himself smiling at nothing while rubbing away the heat that flared on the back of his neck. His flashbacks were hot; his showers cold.

  It took about the same amount of time to realize Zeni was avoiding him. She couldn’t do that completely, of course; they saw each other as usual at the Watering Hole and spoke of this and that, mostly business. She didn’t linger, however, and barely met his eyes. There were no more suggestions that he help with her lines, no invitation to come up to her apartment.

  Was she embarrassed, or was she mad because he would not be doing the dream sequence with her? He wished he knew.

  The fact was, he was more than a little pissed off himself. He’d half expected her to say she wouldn’t be doing that sexy scene with Derek after all. She hadn’t done that, which meant he was forced to imagine her as an aggressive, love-starved Zenobia to the actor’s horny quarterback. That didn’t exactly improve his temper.

  It might be that Zeni had been disappointed in the way he made love, but who could tell? Women were better at keeping these things hidden than men. Or she could have decided it would be best if they didn’t carry matters any further. If that was it, it appeared he was going to be the last to know.

  He could ask her but it was doubtful he would get a straight answer. She was an expert at avoiding questions. He’d think he had her attention, but then she was busy somewhere else and he was left talking to thin air.

  The long and short of it was, he was frustrated, and in more ways than one.

  He was working on his bike at the arena in late afternoon of the second day, when the sheriff came by. Strolling toward him, Lance asked, “What’s up?”

  “Getting ready for a run-through of the ring tournament scene, a sort of dress rehearsal.”

  “You got it all figured out, right? Nobody’s going to get hurt?”

  “More or less. Which one of us is going to win is not in the script, so that’s up for grabs.” Trey gave him a tight grin. “Literally.”

  Lance snorted. “Yeah, I get it, grabbing the ring and all that. I just hope you guys know what you’re doing.”

  Trey took no offense; it was his cousin’s job as sheriff to see that no one got hurt. The two of them shot the bull for a minute or so before he found an opening to ask the question that was on his mind.

  “Tell me something. Does Mandy ever, well, make you an offer she won’t let you refuse? I mean, in the bedroom?”

  Lance gave him a hard look. “None of your business, cuz.”

  “I’m not intending to get into your personal life. It’s just that there’s this situation.”

  “What situation would that be?”

  Trey concentrated on tightening the nut under his wrench. “A woman initiating sex doesn’t bother me, and a woman on top works just fine any time, but what does it mean when one comes on strong with no warning?”

  “Maybe that she likes you?” The sheriff looked as if he wanted to laugh, but was waiting for the punch line.

  “I’m serious here.”

  “Could be she thinks you weren’t moving fast enough.”

  “I don’t think so. Not unless I’ve lost all knack for reading the signals.”

  “It happens, especially when it’s important. But what’s the big deal? Everything turned out okay, right?”

  Against his will, Trey’s brain handed him another fast and graphic replay of that night. “More than okay. Only—how do you know when it’s real and not an act? How can you tell when you are what’s turning her on, and not what’s going on in her head?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Not ever?” Trey was sorely disappointed. He’d expected better from a man who had been living with a wife for well over a year.

  Lance gav
e him a quick look from under his brows. “One thing might be whether her eyes are open or closed, if she’s looking at you or not. But it’s not foolproof. She could be concentrating on how you’re making her feel.”

  “That helps just bunches.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be engaged, so I don’t know what you’re doing out with this needy female. That is unless she’s—”

  “Never mind,” Trey interrupted. “I’m sorry I asked.” He suddenly saw where Lance was coming from with his not wanting to go into his personal life with Mandy. He didn’t much want to talk particulars about Zeni and what had happened between them, either.

  “Just as well.” Lance nodded toward the other bike club members at the upper end of the arena. “Looks like this dress rehearsal is about to get underway.”

  He was right. Jake, their cousin from over near Turn-Coupe, was fitting an antique-looking knight’s helmet over his head while astride his rumbling Harley—trust a Benedict to always be out front. With it settled into place, Jake took the long lance that was handed to him, revved up his bike and began a fast circuit around the arena.

  Trey got to his feet, squinting against the bright sunlight as he watched the action. “Where did the armor come from? We’ve been waiting for it to be delivered.”

  “Guess it showed up.” Lance watched the rider for a second as well, before he went on. “Peabody’s personal assistant, or whatever she is, was out front when I got here just now. She was checking a list while a couple of guys unloaded a van.”

  “The movie folks seem to be on the ball with the tournament. We churned up the ground here in the arena floor pretty good after the rain the other night. Somebody from the company brought in equipment and smoothed it out again. It was nice and even when we got here this morning.”

  “Getting it ready for the filming, maybe?”

  Trey tipped his head in assent. “In a couple of days, if this rehearsal with armor goes as it should. The stuff may take some getting used to, though.” Privately, he thought the ruts made today might need leveling again before they brought in any cameras, which made the work done the night before a waste of effort. He wasn’t complaining, however, as it was on the movie company’s dime.