In Your Wildest Dreams (32 page)

Yet you need not see her face to understand she can take you anywhere, everywhere, turn your night to day and your darkness to light.

And she can make you come
—
mon Dieu,
can she make you come—because the rough pulses of pleasure strike then, without warning, and you hear your own groans crawling up from deep within, and you know she owns you now. Funny, you 're not a man who likes the idea of being owned, but in this moment it's the best feeling you've ever experienced.

Only when you next look down on her, she's gone. Nothing before you but a pale, sandy beach.

She owns you, but she's left you. You've never felt more alone.

Chapter 18

He
awoke with a start, then realized she still lay in his arms. A blanket of relief dropped over him.

Damn it, why did he keep having these dreams? What more did his body—or mind—want?

His eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to see the shape of her head on his shoulder. He listened to her breathing. For now, the dream didn't matter—all that mattered was that he
wasn't
alone, and he was so damn glad. He bent to kiss her forehead and she stirred slightly. So did what lay between his thighs.

"Merde, beb,
I want you," he whispered in desperate frustration. He didn't
want
to want her at this particular moment. Sleep would have been easier for them both, even at the risk of another dream. But he wasn't that strong. Reaching beneath the sheet, he found her hand and gently moved it until it covered him.
Mon Dieu,
so good.

"Oh Jake," she murmured in sexy half-sleep, then wrapped her fingers sweetly around him. "I want inside you again."

"I want that, too." Her breathy assurance turned him even harder as she slid one bent knee across his thighs until she was poised perfectly for entry, the tip of him easing into her moisture. "You're wet," he whispered.

"Since the moment I met you."

The words drove him up into her sweet warmth and they both moaned at the impact. He thrust hard and deep, forgetting to be careful, forgetting her body might not be quite ready yet for everything he yearned to give her. But by the time he remembered, she was letting out heated, sexy cries and he knew she wanted to feel all of him. "Harder?" he asked.

"Mmm, yes."

She began moving on him in hot, tight circles, soon whimpering, whimpering, then yelling out. Even in the dark, he could see the hot convulsions take her—the sway of her breasts, the arch of her back—and within a few seconds, he was saying, "Me too,
beb.
Me too."

A minute later, she rolled off him, laughing softly.

He arched an eyebrow. "Somethin' funny,
chèreT

"Just thinking I'm being
...
awfully loud."

He turned to face her on the pillow, hoping she could see his smile. "I like you loud." He pushed her hair back behind her ear. "Lets me know I'm doin' a good job."

She giggled. "Also lets Mrs. Lindman know you're doing a good job."

"Afraid she'll be jealous?"

"Afraid she'll kick me out."

"Mrs. Lindman got a husband?"

"She's a widow. She's about seventy-five."

"Sounds like we need to find Mrs. Lindman a good man."

They laughed for a moment more, until Jake asked,

"So what's the chance of us gettin' a bite to eat from Mrs. Lindman's kitchen?"

Stephanie shrugged. "She gives her guests keys to the kitchen, so I could probably go find us something."

"What—I can't go?"

"Ahem," she said, propping up on one elbow. "You seem to keep forgetting—if we haven't already alerted Mrs. Lindman to the fact that there's a man in my room, I'd like to keep it that way."

He grinned up at her in the shadows. "Come on,
beb,
live dangerously."

"I think I
have
been."

His mind flashed on Miss Stephanie playing high-priced prostitute, and also on Stephanie giving herself over to him out at the bayou house and again tonight. "So why stop now?"

"Good point," she conceded, reaching to a bedside lamp. They both flinched slightly from the light as she said, "Come on."

Jake stepped into
his
jeans and Stephanie tossed his T-shirt over her head—it hung well down onto her thighs. She led him out to the brick pathway that circled La Rue House, and when she stopped at another door, the word "Kitchen" written in neat script above, he couldn't help wrapping around her from behind. "Pretty dangerous,
chère,
walkin' around outside late at night with no panties on. What would you do if somebody came up behind you and did this?" He dipped one hand between her legs, his middle finger stroking into her.

She leaned back against him, practically purring. "I guess I'd melt into his arms."

He lowered a kiss to her neck and murmured low in her ear. "What would Mrs. Lindman think if she knew you were such a bad girl?"

She laughed. "She'd probably be as shocked as / am." She extricated herself from his grasp with a sexy grin over her shoulder, then unlocked the door.

"I'm
not shocked."

Stepping inside, she turned on an overhead light to reveal a long table and chairs surrounded by cabinetry lining most of the walls. "No?" she asked, turning toward him.

Damn, she looked fine standing there in his T-shirt, her nipples poking at the cotton, her hair tousled. "I saw it in you all along,
chère."

She tilted her head, messy locks rambling over one shoulder. "Really?"

"Not that much of a stretch when you think about it. You were pretendin' to be an escort."

"But you saw right through me."

"You were a little too polished, and a little too innocent. But at the same time, I had a feelin' you'd be an animal in bed."

She straightened slightly. "An animal? I'm an animal?"

He grinned. "Don't worry, it's a compliment."

A slow, self-satisfied little smile unfurled on her pretty face. "I know. Although I think it's safe to say you're the first man who's ever accused me of being an animal."

" 'Cause I'm the first man you've been an animal
with."

Her expression edged into something more serious, soft, as they stood gazing at each other in Mrs. Landman's breakfast room. Familiar emotions welled in him and he gently reached out for her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and delivered a tender kiss. All was quiet but for her pretty sigh, and his stomach twisted with affection.

Affection that he'd best quit indulging.

Spying a cookie jar in the shape of a cartoonish French chef resting atop a sideboard, he pointed and said, "Um, let's check that out," in order to lighten things back up.

Stephanie nodded, her eyes saying she was making the same effort as she plucked off the chef's hat and peeked inside. "Chocolate chip," she announced with a smile that put him back at ease that quickly.

"Homemade?"

"Mrs. Lindman's specialty."

"I'm sold," he said, and together they collected a plate of cookies before Stephanie disappeared into the next room, returning with two glasses of milk.

As they made their way back to her room, it occurred to Jake that this was one of the first times he'd actually cared very much about something to eat
...
in a long while. Sure, he went through the motions, ate whatever was handy when his body let him know he was hungry, but only lately had he truly started
enjoying
food again—
beignets,
shrimp
étouffée,
the greasy good po'boy he'd eaten the other day with Tony, the pizza with Shondra, and now his mouth was practically watering for cookies.

They soon sat in Stephanie's bed, sharing them. "I hope Mrs. Lindman doesn't mind crumbs in her bed," he said.

"Why? Are you thinking of kicking me out and inviting her in?" She'd delivered it without missing a beat, face totally straight.

He lifted his gaze. "Anybody ever tell you sometimes you got a wicked sense of humor, Stephanie Grant?"

She shook her head and smiled. "No, actually."

He quirked a grin. "Must be somethin' else I bring out in you."

From there, conversation flowed easily. Jake asked her about
li
ttle
things he found himself wanting to know: what movies she liked, what music she
li
stened
to, her favorite flavor of ice cream. Stephanie soon regaled him with stories from her suburban upbringing—tales of slumber parties and hanging out at the mall, and the night she'd walked out the front door to go to her first formal dance only to be caught in an out-of-control lawn sprinkler.

"Shoulda grown up on the bayou,
beb."
Jake laughed. "No sprinklers there."

After that, they moved on to friends, Stephanie admitting she'd had close friends in high school and college, but had mostly lost touch with them now. She asked Jake how he'd met Tony, and he explained that they met on their first day at the academy and had hit it off fast despite their differences. But then he quieted—just wanting to hear more about
her.

For some reason, though, Stephanie's animated smile immediately disappeared to be replaced with a thoughtful stare.

"What?" He shouldn't have asked, of course, and knew it the moment the word left his mouth, but there it was—an invitation to whatever serious thought suddenly swirled in her mind.

"I was just thinking that it feels like you know so much about me, and I still know so little about you."

He swallowed uncomfortably and hoped she didn't see. "You know plenty about me. You know about the bayou house and
Manière,
you know about my dad leavin', you know things about my mom. Hell,
now
you even know I'm harborin' a runaway. Fact is,
chère,
you know more about me than
most
people."
These days anyway.
Once upon a time, he'd been an open book—it had only been the last couple of years that he'd changed into someone so quiet and gruff.

"All that's true, but I still don't know the one thing I've wanted to know about you since the night we met. I still don't know why you're not a cop anymore."

He flashed a look of warning. Same look he generally gave Tony during his lectures, his mother during her attempts at comfort. Same look he'd given Stephanie every time she'd ever asked him about this.

But she didn't back down. "Look, I've opened myself up to you in ways I never even knew I could. And I just
...
want to know what you're flunking about when you get that faraway look in your eye."

Could he tell her? he wondered. Could he get the words out—all of them?

Most people who knew him already knew what had happened, and they also knew not to bring it up. Even so, it was the reason he'd avoided everyone from his past as much as possible the last two years—because he couldn't face it, and dealing with people who knew the whole damning story somehow meant facing it. And he just didn't know how to—still. It was easier to wallow in guilt by himself.

Even his mother and Tony knew better than to ever say it out loud. Both were bold enough to skirt around it, talk about what they thought should happen now, how he should move on—but they never spoke the ugly truth aloud.

And neither did he. Never had. He'd never had a reason to.

Yet Stephanie's gaze bore into him, and again he asked himself:
Can I tell her? Can I get through it? Do I dare ?
It was a world away from haywire sprinklers.

He swallowed again, this time past the lump that had grown in his throat. He glanced down at the sheets, the crumbs, the little flowers in the checked print, the remaining cookie on the plate in his lap. "I used to be married."

She hesitated, and he supposed that piece of news alone was enough to catch her off guard. Finally, she said, "Really?"

"Her name was Becky."

"Was?" He heard the dread in her voice and thought,
Ah,
chère,
you don't even know the half of it.