In Your Wildest Dreams (24 page)

"Really?"

She spoke with sureness. "You knew. You
had
to know."

"Okay, I knew in the red room. But I didn't know at the bar."

He kissed her then, warm and sweet, and she feared she'd been too honest, but she didn't care anymore—so far, tonight, honesty had taken them to some wonderful places. "From the first time I looked into your eyes," she admitted.

And he was kissing her again, deeper now—nothing sweet or casual, all heat, his tongue moving against hers, making love to her mouth as his thigh slid between her legs.

As they shifted in the bed, she felt the wetness not quite dried on her stomach and said, "Did we make a mess on your grandma's quilt?"

He laughed softly as he rubbed his thigh against her. "I told you, we're doomed to have a wet spot. But fortunately for us,
Mamère
wasn't real picky about that sorta thing."

"About you having sex on her quilt?" she said, giggling.

He grinned. "No. About things bein' kept perfectly tidy. She thought things should be used for what they were made for, and if they wore out or got messed up, it meant they were servin' their purpose."

"Just the same," she said, "I'd feel better if we pushed the quilt down. It seems
...
kind of sacred or something, especially if she made it."

"She did," he said, sounding a little more reverent, and together they lifted and shoved until the quilt lay scrunched at their feet and only soft white sheets spread beneath them. "Speakin' of grandmothers, how was the pie?"

She grinned up at him, remembering. "Good. A hint more cinnamon and it would have rivaled Grandma's. Definitely the best I've had since hers."

He cuddled against her. "I hope it maybe made you feel
...
a little like she was still around or somethin'. Like I feel when I come out here."

Her heart warmed as she reflected. "Yeah, for a few minutes, I guess maybe it did." Then she reached up to touch his chest. "Thank you for that."

He just shook his head. "Nothin' big,
chère."
But she wasn't so sure she agreed.

'Tina crocheted," she said unthinkingly, just wanting to tell him.

"Hmm?"

"She crocheted. Winter scarves. I couldn't believe it— she's not normally the crafty type—so when she showed me this beautiful scarf she'd made, I was stormed. She gave it to my mom, but now I kind of want to get hold of it and pack it away, keep it pristine and perfect, you know."

"Mamère
wouldn't have approved of that—and I don't know your sister, but I bet it'd mean more to her if the scarf kept your mom warm come wintertime."

Stephanie swallowed, soberly remembering just what had brought her to Louisiana. Her lost sister. "Tell me the truth about something, Jake. Do you think we'll find her?"

He nodded softly, surely. "We'll find her,
beb.
We'll find her. I promise."

Chapter 14

A
few minutes later, Stephanie stood in the tiny bathroom and peered at herself in the mirror, unable to believe she was in a house on some dark bayou, in bed with a man she'd just met, while her sister was missing. And she couldn't recall the last time she'd felt so safe.

When she exited to the bedroom, she found Jake sitting up, still wonderfully naked, a sheet pulled to his waist.

"Not going shy on me, are you, Mr. Broussard?" she asked with a smile.

He arched one eyebrow. "You're not serious?"

She laughed. "No."

"Good, 'cause you'd be sorely disappointed. I don't do shy." With that, he whipped back the sheet and drew her onto the bed until she found herself straddling his lap. She pulled in her breath and glanced down to find him erect again, pressing against her center. Jake was looking, too. "Neither does he."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "He?"

"The little guy down there."

She tilted her head. "I
...
wouldn't call him little."

He slid against her in a smooth and utterly arousing stroke as the corners of his mouth quirked into a smile. "That makes him like you even better."

She couldn't help rubbing back, all amusement fading as passion returned full force.

"That feels so damn good,
beb."
His voice was a low growl.

She let out a breathless sigh. "For me, too."

"Playin' with fire, though. You gotta know that."

She nodded, unable to think clearly. "Kiss me," she said, and he braced one hand behind her neck, pulling her closer, delivering a series of hot, short, sexy kisses that nearly buried her.

He gazed down at her breasts before bending to capture one in his mouth. She locked her hands behind his neck and leaned back to offer him better access, unable not to press against the column that stood so powerful between them. Instinct led her into soft, rolling gyrations.

"Guess you're not afraid of fire, huh,
chère?'
he asked, breath labored.

"Not at the moment," she managed, unable to believe how badly she wanted him inside her, how much she yearned for that ultimate connection. Although she'd thought she'd grasped it completely before, she suddenly gained a deeper understanding of what he'd just said a few minutes ago—there was nothing like actually doing it, actually bringing your bodies together that way. She'd never felt that before with a man, but she felt it now.

Their kisses turned rougher, more needful. His hands roamed her—breasts, back, rear, before his fingers slid down over her bottom, into her wetness, making her move against him harder.

She found herself rising—without thought or decision—until she was poised atop his erection, teetering on the edge of heaven, and ready, so very ready. Fear be damned.

"Ah,
beb,"
he breathed, his dark eyes filled with longing. "Does this mean you want me inside you?" His hands rhythmically kneaded her backside.

She nodded, lost in desire. "Yes." Then she bit her hp. "Do you have a condom?"

"Merde,"
he muttered, leaning his head back in frustration. "I can't believe this, but I don't."

She gasped. "I can't believe it, either." She was so close to sinking down on him, taking him into her, and her words came out sounding breathless. "No offense, but you seem like a guy who'd have reason to carry a condom with you at all times."

He managed a grin, even through ragged breath and what she thought incredible restraint. "I do, at least lately. But when I went home, I changed into old jeans for comin' out here in the pirogue, and forgot my wallet in my other pocket."

She sucked in her breath. Her breasts ached and the crux of her thighs yearned to be filled. "That's
...
horrible." Especially given that she didn't know if she could stop now. She
needed
him inside her.

"If it helps, I've only been with one woman without usin' one—and I was her first, her only—so..."

"I'm on the pill," she said, "and always careful about condoms."

She saw him swallow, his eyes glazed over with how close they were to doing it. "It's your call,
beb."

She placed her hands on his shoulders, curling the tips of her fingernails into his skin, peering at him intently. "How badly do you want this?"

Trembling, he appeared barely able to speak. "I'm about to self-destruct."

She drew in a quivery breath. "Me too."

Only one answer existed—nothing left to do but surrender.

She sank down.

That hungry part of her began taking him in, slow, deep—and he was so sweet, staying so very still for her, the heat in his gaze branding her heart. From the old stereo across the room, Solomon Burke wrenched out the soulful "Cry to Me," and the jolting rhythm prompted her motions. The song was an old favorite of her mother's, but as she made love to Jake to the searing notes, they moved her in a way they never had before. The music drove her to arch against him, lean her head back so he could kiss her neck.

"Hurt?" he whispered between little nips at her throat.

Their eyes met. It
should
hurt. He was so big. But it didn't. She simply shook her head. He let out a low growl of satisfaction, accompanied with a sexy smile as he met her next thrust.

"Mmm," she purred, their hips meeting in perfect unison to the beat of the song.

He pushed into her in long, smooth strokes, his hands in her hair, hers wrapped around his neck. "Ahhh,
oui,
beb."

Their movements stayed slow, intense—and except for the moments when passion drove one of them to let their eyes fall shut, they gazed at each other the whole time, so that when she moaned, she was looking into those warm brown eyes. When she cried out from the overwhelming pleasure, she was looking into those warm brown eyes. And when the heat began to rise inside her, as her breath went thready while she bucked softly against him, she was still looking into those beautiful warm brown eyes.

The spasms of release racked her body, drove her harder against him, made her moan, and moan, and moan with each amazing pulsation. She was still coming, their gazes still connected, when he rasped,
"Mon Dieu,
me too."

He emptied himself in her with a powerful groan, wrapping corded arms around her as they both panted their exhaustion.

"Sorry," he whispered in her ear when it was done.

She drew back slightly. "For what?"

"Long as it took us to get there, I shoulda made it last a little longer."

She was dumbfounded, letting a satisfied smile take her as she said, "Jake, that was the best sex of my life."

Their faces still close, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. "Then this is your lucky day,
chère.
'Cause there's plenty more where that came from."

He lay next to her, the sheet pulled to their waists, his head propped up by one elbow. "I'm glad it didn't hurt." She was sure she'd never seen him look sexier than he did just now, naked in bed, eyes half shut, chin covered with a day's dark stubble.

She gazed up at him,
li
stening
to the night sounds. The records had all dropped and played, and the only remaining music came from the bayou. "Me too."

"Has it hurt
...
other times? I mean, since the college

guy?"

"A little, I guess," she said, swallowing. "But
...
you're bigger than the guys it hurt with, so I don't know ..." "You explained this yourself before,
chère.
It's 'cause you weren't hot for them—your body wasn't ready. Tonight, it was."

"Was it ever," she said on a heady sigh.

As he shifted, she noticed the tattoo on his arm. Inked in muted black and gray, the size of a fist, it looked too complex for her to easily make out the picture. She reached up to touch it. "What's your tattoo?"

"St. Michael, the archangel."

She looked closer to see a winged angel brandishing a sword and stepping on the head of some kind of demon.

"The patron saint of police officers," he explained. "He's castin' Satan into hell. It's a good-triumphin'-over-evil thing. We pray to St. Michael to protect us."

We,
he'd said. As if he were still a cop.

"Does it work?" she asked.

He rolled to his back, put his hands behind his head, and peered up at the brown slatted ceiling. "Tricky question,
chère.
Depends on what you consider protection."

She turned onto her side to look down on him. "Were you ever wounded?"

He shook his head. "Guess Michael took care of my body okay. My mind, my heart, not so much."

The sexy, seductive Jake from earlier seemed to have faded slightly, making room for the other side of him she'd seen sizable, even if inexplicable, hints of. Something had hurt him—badly. She could almost feel the pain oozing from him like perspiration in the warm night air.

"Tell me why," she said. "Why aren't you a cop anymore?"

He gave her a long, somber look she couldn't read. Her heart hurt for whatever secrets he held inside. "Lost too much to keep doin' it," he finally said.