by Nancy Warren
He stared at her intently. “It’s not that difficult a question.” With deliberate slowness, he curled his long dark fingers around her throat. “Either you trust me”—his thumb brushed a feathery caress at the hollow of her neck where her pulse leaped, quickened—“or you don’t.” He put a booted foot between her bare ones, spreading her legs farther apart, then pulling her tightly against him so she could feel the thick, cylindrical outline of his penis against her naked belly. “Which is it, Emma? Oui?”
When he lifted his knee against her mound, stimulating already overly sensitized tissue, she moaned.
“Or non?” The question—the challenge—hovered between them, as hot and dangerous as a thunderstorm rumbling on the horizon. A sizzle of electric charge arced between them, from him to her and back again. More heat burned between her legs.
But it was the use of her name, personalizing this game that could have, with some men, turned ugly, that assured Emma she had nothing to fear from this fallen angel in black leather.
She framed his tragically beautiful face between her hands. “There is nothing I will say no to.” She went up on her toes to press a submissive kiss of surrender against his boldly cut lips. “My lord.”
Sixteen
Sitting beside Gabe in the Callahan and Son construction truck, racing through the dark clad only in her wench skirt and belt, Emma was relieved when he’d shown her the shirt he’d tossed into the backseat of the crew cab, along with the suitcase he’d packed while waiting for her to arrive home. “For you to put on in case we get stopped for some reason,” he’d said.
The night air was thick as gumbo and swirled with tension. Emma was quickly realizing that there was a vast difference between fantasy and reality. In her fantasies there weren’t any edgy, “what am I supposed to do now” moments. Things just flowed together, erotically, seamlessly.
“You havin’ second thoughts ’bout this?”
His voice rumbled in the dark, his accent even thicker than usual.
“Not at all,” she hedged.
“Wouldn’t be surprising if you were,” he assured her. “One of the first things I learned when Mrs. Herlihy put me in her drama class back in high school is that playin’ make-believe isn’t always as easy as it looks.” He reached across the stick shift, captured her hand and pressed it against his groin. “Maybe you need a little something to occupy your mind. Keep it from fussin’ about the logistics of gettin’ from your house to mine.”
The tensed steel beneath the black leather fly stirred in a way that sent a delicious, forbidden thrill through Emma. She squeezed the thick bulge of his erection, feeling it grow gloriously thicker. Longer.
Although she was playing the role of a submissive, sexual prisoner, Emma felt a surge of power that she could cause such a reaction. Intrigued, she stroked his groin with her palm and was thrilled by the growl that rumbled upward from his chest.
The black pants fastened with a metal snap and zipper. She tapped the snap with her fingernail. “May I have permission to touch?”
“Mais, yeah.” He arched his hips up. The truck picked up speed when his boot hit the gas.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her gratitude was far from feigned. The truth was that she was aching to rip away the barrier between her fingers and that hard male flesh.
Gabe sucked in a sharp breath as she slipped her fingertips between the trousers and his burning hot flesh, taking care of the snap with a deft twist of the wrist. He was naked beneath the glove-soft leather. Naked and, for now, at least, all hers.
“I’ve been dreaming of this,” she murmured as she lowered the zipper.
“Don’t feel like the fuckin’ Lone Ranger,” he groaned as she freed his penis. “I’ve been so hot the past two days away from you, I thought I’d explode.”
“You could have taken care of it.” She wrapped her fingers around the base of his straining shaft. “By solo flying.”
“What fun would there be in that?” He took one hand from the wheel, covered hers, and began moving them together, in a slow, upward motion. “When I can command my little slave to get me off?”
“Your slave is honored to be allowed the privilege of getting you off, my lord.”
A vein bulged blue and thick in the muted glow of the dashboard lights. Emma could feel the blood pulsing beneath her stroking touch, a powerful thrumming that echoed the pulsing in the wet, slick, needy place between her thighs.
Emma desperately wanted Gabe to pull over and take her then, but knew that by staying in the role, he’d insist on fucking her in his way. On his terms, in his time. Which made her want him even more.
“Harder.” His fingers tightened on hers, increasing the pace. “That’s the way.” He returned his hand to the steering wheel, knuckles whitening from the power of his grip. He spread his thighs farther apart. “Mon Dieu, you’ve got my balls practically jammed into my tonsils.”
“Oh, dear.” She skimmed her palm over the knobby tip, experimented with a little twist at the top end of the long stroke and was rewarded when he expelled a sharp hiss between his teeth. “We wouldn’t want them to feel ignored, they,” she said on a fair imitation of his Cajun patois.
She delved a little deeper, cupping first one, then the other. When she lightly skimmed her fingertips between the scrotum dividing them, he cursed. But not, Emma thought, as she spread the moisture down his rampant penis, in a bad way. Snowy white oyster shells sprayed upward in a fantail beneath the tires as he jerked the wheel, pulling over to the side of the road, and cutting the engine.
He closed his eyes and arched his back, lifting his hips, grinding them against her stroking hand, encouraging her with an intoxicating guttural string of French dirty words.
And then he was erupting in an explosive orgasm that was the most amazing, thrilling thing she’d ever witnessed.
“Christ,” Gabe gasped. Finally replete, he sagged against the back of the seat, eyes shut, chest heaving. “That was the most fucking amazing hand job anyone’s ever given me.”
Emma instinctively opened her mouth to deny the compliment. Then she realized that she had, after all, been the one who’d done that. She was the one who’d made him so dramatically lose control.
Feeling pretty damn spectacular, she fought the grin that was threatening to break free. “I merely aim to please, my lord.”
Gabe opened one eye. “Oh, you do that, sugar. Spectacularly.” He grabbed a handful of tissues from the glove box and was prepared to clean himself off when Emma plucked them from his hand.
“I believe that’s my responsibility.”
He slumped back. “I believe you’re right.” He shut his eyes again, but reached out with unerring accuracy and stroked her hair. “Merci.”
“It was my pleasure, my lord,” Emma murmured, touching a kiss to the still semi-erect flesh. Truer words had never been spoken.
The hours passed in a sensual blur, a stolen, fantastic time apart from reality. When she’d agreed to Gabe’s proposition, there’d been a secret part of Emma that had feared the reality of acting out her long-held fantasies would not live up to the erotic images in her head.
But she’d been wrong. The reality proved amazingly better.
As soon as they’d arrived at the camp, he’d tied her to the iron bed, arms above her head, legs splayed, giving his hands, his mouth, his tongue absolute access to her most private, secret places.
Except for that unforgettable graduation night with Gabe, when he’d taken her to heights she’d never imagined possible, oral sex had always made Emma nervous. Unfortunately, the more nervous she got, the more tense she became, until it became nearly impossible for her to climax.
Once, at a Christmas party at the country club, she’d overheard Richard complain to a golfing buddy that it took so long for Emma to get off, a guy was risking lockjaw trying to go down on his wife.
At the time, instead of being furious, Emma had been suffused with shame. From then on, she’d faked orgasms to get the unf
ulfilling act over quickly.
There was no need to fake anything with Gabe. He was the first person, other than Roxi, with whom she didn’t have to pretend to be anything but what she was. Which, if she were to believe Gabe, was damn near perfect.
His absolute appreciation of her, of every inch of the body she’d spent so many years trying to cover up, soon had the last of her self-consciousness disintegrating, like morning fog beneath a hot July sun.
She enthusiastically explored her sensuality, allowing Gabe to do as he’d promised, to take her to places she’d never imagined possible. Including the wax.
“This won’t hurt,” he assured her as he stood over the bed, holding a burning candle in a tall, red glass container. More candles glowed around the room, their flames flickering in dancing patterns against the walls.
She was tied up again, her wrists and ankles encased in fleece-lined leather shackles that could only be opened with the key Gabe was wearing on a black cord around his neck. “Well, it might. But in a good way.”
She smiled up at him, utterly confident. “I trust you. My lord.” They’d already moved far beyond that initial pirate/captive fantasy, but she’d discovered she enjoyed, in certain instances, such as now, when she was lying helpless and naked, giving Gabe the words along with the power.
“You are beyond incredible.” When he bent down and kissed her, a flare of heat scorched through her body. Smoke billowed in her mind. Then he straightened.
Although she did truly trust him implicitly, Emma couldn’t help tensing as he lifted the candle. As he tipped the red glass.
Instinct had her crying out at the feel of the melted wax hitting her breast. Her body jerked against the restraints. An instant later, she realized she hadn’t been burned. The wax felt warm on her skin. Sensual.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Gabe continued to dribble the wax over her helpless, supine body. Emma never knew where, exactly, he was going to place the wax next, moving from her left breast, to her right thigh, then back up to her right nipple, the other breast, her nipples, her stomach, her thighs, even the tops of her feet and the little round bone at the inside of her ankle. That not knowing was both unnerving and exciting. He also varied the temperature—not allowing the wax to get hot enough to scorch her skin, but no two drops felt the same, which added a slightly dangerous, fantasy edge to the sex play.
Much, much later, he put the candle down atop a heavy pine dresser and stood, arms folded, studying his handiwork.
“That wax looks like sperm,” he said. Humor laced his deep voice. “You look as if your luscious body is covered with my sperm, chère.”
The idea was more than a little arousing. “I can only hope. My lord.”
The laughter in his tone gleamed wickedly in his midnight eyes. “Your captor will take his wench’s request under advisement. Meanwhile—”
He turned his back to retrieve something from the top drawer of the dresser. Emma drew in a sharp breath when he turned around and she viewed the knife he held in his hand. The light from the burning candles glistened threateningly on the sharpened steel.
“We’d best clean you off.”
This was Gabe, Emma reminded herself as an unwilling stab of fear struck. The man she loved. The man who’d sworn never to hurt her.
“Yes, please.” It was barely a whisper, but easily heard in the hush stillness of the candlelit room. Her lids drifted closed as she waited for the touch of the blade against her naked flesh.
“You’ll watch me.”
It was not a request. Emma opened her eyes. The primitive sight of the rampantly aroused male, the cold steel of the hunting weapon, the taboo situation he’d created for them, had her body quaking with lust.
“Yes.”
He smiled. Pressed the side of the blade to her breast, which flamed beneath the darkly dangerous touch. “You’ll need to hold absolutely still, chère,” he said gently. “So I don’t cut you.”
“That may be,” Emma admitted on a voice thickened with desire, “the hardest thing you’ve asked of me, yet.”
His smile promised yet more wicked delights. “A woman of appetites,” he murmured. “And she’s all mine.”
Emma had no concept of how long it took for Gabe to scrape the cool wax off her body. She did know that by the time he’d finished cleaning her, she was nearly out of her mind with lust.
“You’re wet.” He slipped his fingers into her. “And hot.” There was a deep, sucking sound as he pulled them back out again. “Are you hungry, ma belle?”
“Starving,” she moaned, arching against his touch, lifting her hips as high as the restraints would allow. Had it not been for the fleece linings, she could have cut her skin, she was so desperate for relief.
“A woman of strong appetites,” he murmured approvingly, as he took the key from around his neck and one by one, opened the locks. He ran his hand possessively down her body, from her throat to her knees. “And you’re all mine.”
“Yours,” Emma said on a gasp as he surged into her.
It was the last either of them would say for a very long time.
Seventeen
“Why did you leave?” she asked, over a supper of shrimp etouffee. Not only had Gabe given her more orgasms than she could count, he’d also fed her the best meals of her life.
“I figured it was the right thing to do.” When the crocodile kitchen timer dinged, he crossed the room and took a pan of bread pudding from the oven. Emma couldn’t decide which made her drool more—the scent of that sweet baked pudding or the sight of Gabe’s firm hard butt in those jeans he’d put back on. “I didn’t have any prospects. You were going off to college in the fall. No way was I going to ask you to give up your dreams to chase mine.”
“You were my dream.” She was no longer embarrassed to admit it.
“Could’ve been a dead-end one,” he said. “By the time it looked like I was goin’ to be working pretty regular, you’d gotten married.”
Gabe remembered Nate’s phone call as if it had been yesterday. He was admittedly foggy about the next few days, having spent them in a drunken pity party of self-recrimination.
“You could have written.”
“Last time I checked, the mail goes both ways,” he said mildly, as he poured the hot whiskey sauce over the pudding.
“You didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”
“Nate always knew where I was.”
During the past few days Gabe had come to the conclusion that Nate knew a lot of things. He also suspected that if he’d checked, that so-called construction emergency that had Emma meeting him at the airport would turn out to be as bogus as Richard the dickhead’s tax return.
Not that he minded. In fact, Gabe decided, as he carried the two bowls of pudding back to the bed they’d hardly left this weekend, maybe he’d buy his best friend a case of Scotch as a thank-you gift.
“Let’s not rehash the past, Emma,” he said, handing her one of the heavy earthenware bowls. “We’ll leave yesterday behind, worry about tomorrow when it comes.” He stuck a finger into his bowl, scooped out some of the brown sugar whiskey sauce and drew a ring around Emma’s plump pink nipple. “Right now, I’m suddenly feelin’ hungry again, me.”
Eighteen
Emma was in the bathroom, getting dressed for the presentation ceremony when the phone rang.
“I think the jig’s up,” Nate said without preamble. “A couple reporters from the Enquirer just dropped by the mayor’s office, asking questions about you.”
“I’m surprised it took them this long,” Gabe said. He’d been half expecting the hungry hoards to descend on him since he’d first arrived. He’d also decided that if any reporter tried to intrude on his and Emma’s weekend, he would’ve dug out Nate’s old twelve-gauge shotgun. “Do me a favor.” He told Nate what he had in mind.
“No problem. Just make sure you send Regan and me an invite to the wedding.”
“The lady hasn’t said yes, yet.”
That was an understatement. When they and their adopted teenage son had visited him in L.A. last fall, Gabe had never seen two people more enthralled with each other’s company.
It was then that he’d first started thinkin’ that maybe that’s what he wanted for himself. And, as always, whenever his mind went wandering down that path, it led straight to Emma Quinlan.
The entire town showed up for the ceremony. Even Emma’s mother and father were there, looking tanned and fit after two weeks spent on a ship cruising the Greek Islands.
Neither looked all that pleased to see their daughter enter the high school auditorium with Blue Bayou’s former bad boy.
“Broussard,” her father said.
“Sir,” Gabe responded. As far as he was concerned, the guy was nearly as much of a dickhead as Emma’s ex, but since she’d been unfortunate enough to have him for a father, Gabe was going to pay him respect if it killed him. Only for her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his lush, lusty wench.
“Gabriel.” Angela Quinlan somehow managed to hold her surgically perfected nose in the air while looking down at him. Which should have been even more difficult since she was a good foot shorter than his six feet two. She was also so bony a stiff wind would blow her away. Which had him suddenly wishing for a hurricane. Or maybe a tornado.
“Miz Quinlan,” he said politely, smiling as he imagined a house dropping out of a stormy sky onto Emma’s mother.
“I was surprised you’d come back to Blue Bayou,” she said. If her tone had been any icier, there’d be frost all over the green, purple, and gold crepe paper strung across the ceiling. “Now that you’re so famous, or should I say infamous”—her teeth flashed like a barracuda’s as she layered the acid scorn onto the word—“there’s nothing here for you anymore.”