Bad Boy of New Orleans (16 page)

His hand slid back down her thigh, raising the flesh with it. He reached for her chin
then, turning her to him.

He loves me. He cares.
She was thrilled to hear those words. She'd known all along, but
hearing
him say it.
He loved her.
Words he had never said before. And she was sure, never to another woman. Words that
made her melt.

"Would you be angry with me?"

"Angry? Not exactly that. Just frustrated.
Very
frustrated."

"And... what do you do when you're frustrated? I... I know I have no right to ask,
Chance. But do you... go to..." She couldn't say it. She really had no right, not
if she was turning him away.

"No. I don't. The fast girls are gone. I haven't slept with another woman since the
day you were widowed. I might have... uncivilized tendencies, but that doesn't mean
I don't have principles. Or emotional commitments that are more important to me than
slaking an appetite."

When she didn't answer him, he put the car into gear and began to press his foot to
the accelerator. She wasn't sure if what she was doing was right or wrong. But instinctively
she reached out and turned off the ignition.

Silence. No running motor in the background. No nearby traffic. And no words. Only
the sound of their breathing: His deep and expectant, hers shallow and quickened.
The decision had been made. There was no taking it back.

"You're sure?" He peered at her through the dark.

She nodded.

"Say it."

"I'm sure." Her voice was shaking. "I want you to make love to me... just as you are."

The hardness behind his eyes was gone, given way to a glimmer... of delight, of warmth.

"Stay there." He got out and came around to her door, causing her to gasp in surprise
as he caught her up under the legs and swung her into his arms.

She laughed with a sudden and unexplainable abandon as he dramatically kicked the
door shut with his foot.

"You're a crazy man, Chance Renault."

"And you're crazy about me, aren't you?"

She gave into the impulse to nuzzle the side of his neck with her nose, Inhaling his
deliciously masculine scent. "Mmmm."

Chance stopped in midstride. He made a motion as though he meant to drop her.

"Chance!" she yelped, hanging tight to keep her balance.

. "Say you're crazy about me," he insisted, nipping the lobe of her ear.

"Yes!" She laughed helplessly as he goosed her ribs.

"Yes, what?" He goosed her again.

"Yes! Oh... oh, Uncle!... Yes, I'm crazy about you!"

He picked up his pace and headed for the house. "I've
never
been your uncle, and I've got no intentions of starting now. In fact, we're about
to enact one of those fantasies I was telling you about. It's the one where I sweep
you off your feet and carry you up to my bedroom for the first time. By the way, you're
supposed to gasp in awe at your surroundings."

By now he had opened the door to the house she had driven by so many times wondering
how it would look inside and what kind of creature comforts a man like Chance would
surround himself with.

He was still holding her, looking at her expectantly, while she took in the surroundings
he was obviously so proud of.

"Chance, it's beautiful."

And it was. The rooms had high ceilings, huge spaces, leather and chintz, antiques
and contemporary. From the kitchen to the library, from the drawing room to the game
room, the house was exquisite.

"I'm proud of my house. When I bought the place, I thought it looked like home. Except
it was too empty. Still is.... It means a lot to me that you like it here."

They were on the top landing of the stairs, and there was no doubt in her mind where
he was taking her next. Four doors faced the balustrade. Chance strode to one, shifting
her weight in his arms as he reached for the handle. The door opened, and she mentally
readied herself to confront the bedroom.

Blues and greens and yellows and pinks splashed gaily around the room. From the wallpaper
to the platform rocker. From the chest of drawers to the big stuffed giraffe. From
the teddy bear mobile to the baby bed.

A nursery!

"No one comes in here. Just me. Sometimes I sit in the rocker and I dream. About the
way I wished life had turned out. About the children we never had. The children we
were. It's a little strange, I know. But the nursery was here when I bought the house,
and the house always seemed so big, and this room seemed especially empty. I don't
know what possessed me to do it, but one day I just decided I wanted to fill the nursery
up. There weren't any kids. Hell, there was no one but me. But it was a whim. One
I gave in to. And—why are you looking at me like that?"

Micah could only shake her head in disbelief. "You, Chance... you never stop amazing
me."

"Oh? You never thought I might have paternal instincts? That maybe I've felt I was
missing something in life, or that I wanted more than money and power?"

"Well... something like that. I just never really thought about you wanting children.
That's all." The way he was looking at her, she knew he had wanted more and was disappointed.
"At least, not until recently," she confessed at last.

"I've thought of you being a mother," he said hastily. "What a good one you'd make.
I always wondered why you didn't have any. Lord knows, if you had, it wouldn't make
any difference in my feelings for you now, and I'd love your children just because
they were yours. But I'm selfish. I wanted you to have mine... if you can have them."

Children. Chance wanted to talk about having children, implying a long future, when
she'd been expecting a simple seduction. He was swinging into all the nooks and crannies
of her hopes and fears with the quick ease of a trapeze artist. It left her a little
breathless. More vulnerable to him than ever before.

"I can have them. He couldn't."

Chance nodded slowly. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Do you know how many times I've pictured
you in that rocker, nursing a baby at your breast? I think about it, I remember what
your breasts looked like when we were young."

"You remember?"

"I remember everything. I remember the way you tasted. Your shape, the way your breasts
fit in my hands. Only you're fuller now." As he spoke his hand found her breasts.
Over the silk of her dress he caressed her, making the mound even fuller. She could
feel the quickening inside: In her bosom and the aching core between her thighs. She
sought his mouth, wanting him, his taste, to urge him suddenly on.

When they pulled away to catch their breath, Micah whispered next to his ear, "I think
it's time you showed me the rest of the house."

In his room, he turned on music. The blues. The heavy thud of sensuality pulsed to
the beat of their intimate rhythm, while the low rumble of thunder shook the night.
He undressed her to the music, to the thunder, stripping the last threads of civilization
away. She savored the feel of his hands, the way they moved confidently, yet almost
reverently against her skin.

The dress was shed, slowly, deliberately. She wore only the silk chemise, her lacy
slip, stockings held up by the garter belt, minus one catch. Chance stepped away from
her then, the wispy glow of scented candles illumining them, making this space more
intimate than just darkness.

"Don't cross your arms," he whispered gruffly.

She made herself stand still, pliant, letting him look at her, trying to get his fill.
She could feel the remnants of self-consciousness, but his eyes were warm and appreciative.
And intoxicating. Far more heady than the wine he'd just poured. He handed her the
glass as she stood there feeling more naked than dressed.

Chance tilted the glass toward her lips. She drank as he urged her to, not too much,
enough to dull what little fear was left. Fear of this heavy sensuality, this unknown
entry to a place she had only glimpsed before.

She reached for him, and he complied. Giving her a taste, teasing her as he stepped
away, taking the glass with him, laying it aside with his own next to the bed—the
big four-poster, intricately carved, heavy, and very masculine.

"Turn," he commanded, circling once with his hand.

She could feel her feet slowly begin to move. Her brain felt numb but acute with awareness.
A tingle was spreading. A frightening sensation, some of her control being taken away;
but too exciting to resist.

Micah made the circle, feeling his eyes hot, intense, intimately upon her. Seeing
the lust, the need, the love etched clearly on his face as his gaze caught hers in
the cheval glass, old and beveled, positioned behind her.

Something sacred and immutable passed between them before she dared a fleeting glance
at her own body in the mirror. As before, he signaled, and she began to move again,
arousing him deliberately, and consequently, herself.

Gracefully she turned until they faced again.

"Take it off."

Her hand lifted slowly. A part of her, and yet, detached. She shut out the far cry
of fearfulness, of any hesitance that was left.

The chemise strap fell down in a diagonal curve, invitingly coy upon her arm. Her
breasts, heavy and full as they strained against the silk, felt the fabric's caress
riding upon the peaks.

Her hands began to work the tiny buttons. She didn't look down to see what she was
doing. Instead, her eyes sought his approval... as he watched her. As she gave in
to the temptation of watching the strain of his pants.

The chemise undone, her breasts were still covered. A small shrug. The chemise fell
off, creating a puddle of silk beside her stockinged feet. She paused, and waited,
letting him look. His gaze rose and met hers. For long moments they sought the secrets
of hearts meeting there. Too many years, they seemed to say. Too many nights dreaming
of this, wanting so urgently, afraid never to have.

He gave a small nod. And she went on.

The pale slip pooled beside the matching top, and she stood with her shoulders held
proudly, with elegance. Offering herself, all that she was, only to him.

He nodded his approval.

"Well done,
ma cherie.
As you can see, I approve."

She could feel herself flush, the rise of blood in her veins, as she whispered, "I
lied. I do look at your pants sometimes. Wanting to see you react like this."

He smiled. "I know." He came toward her, walking with purpose. "You can stop now.
I want to finish the rest for you."

He crossed over to where she stood by the bed. For a while he simply looked, gazing
at her nudity from behind in the mirror. Then his hand came up, brushing lover's caresses
down her spine before falling lower, lower still. Lifting the delicate catch, he released
the fabric of French silk hose.

He worked his way down, lowering the stockings, removing them from her feet. Touching,
soothing, he seemed mesmerized by the lift of her foot, its shape and texture.

"I'm a leg man, you know." He kissed the tops of her feet, then ascended with soft
kisses climbing the length of her legs. As the wisp of her garter belt fell away,
his attention shifted.

"I'm also a man who goes for nicely shaped behinds." His fingertips traced the contour
of each cheek, separately, then as a whole. Micah could feel herself getting cold
and then hot, and then it was too hard to even breathe. Her legs nearly buckled as
he traced his nose against her, and then his lips. Though he didn't touch the hidden
ache buried within her folds.

With one hand he reached up and expertly began to fondle a breast. "But I like breasts
even more." He murmured it against her belly, vibrating the sensitive skin beneath.

She was completely naked, and his clothes were all too intact. She urged him upward.

"Chance, please."

"Please what? Touch you, kiss you? Stroke you
there?"

The quick slice of his fingertips skimmed over the sheen of her femininity. And then
her legs did give way. She fell against him, and he caught her firmly, anchoring his
mouth between her thighs. She was helpless, caught there against his merciless probing.

It was too wonderful to bear. A delicious agony. No. It couldn't be happening. Not
this quickly.

She tried pushing him away, pulling at him to stop, to rise to her at once. In silence,
in the fleet movement of his tongue, his low growl of warning, he denied her. He denied
her the right to ever say no to his wanting again. He denied her the right to control
her own longing, pushing her closer, closer, until she plunged off the edge.

She was crying. She could feel the tears of release pouring out of her. Could hear
the keening wail of his name fall from her lips. And the floor was suddenly beneath
her back, and he was moving inside her with the rush of his fingers, the vibration
of his hand. He was talking to her without words, making sounds that were guttural
and inarticulate. Or maybe she was too far gone to understand.