Bad Boy of New Orleans (12 page)

"Yes," she whispered sharply.

"And you like the way it feels, don't you?"

"Yes," she hissed.

He tried not to gloat when she instinctively rose to meet the next thrust. He took
a deep breath and stopped. With all his will he forced himself to stop, not to rip
their clothes away.

"Well, let me tell you something. It feels mighty good on this comfortable couch,
in this nice cool room. But I can guarantee you, it would only have been a matter
of time before you started to hate it... To hate me. To dread the feel of my body
on yours in a flea-bitten shack, while I got more bitter by the day for not achieving
the kind of life I craved. You can't climb the ladder from the bottom up when it's
hand-to-mouth, and you have more than one mouth to feed."

"It wouldn't have been like that. How can you even say such things, Chance?"

"How?" he snorted. "Don't you kid yourself. You can't see it, because you didn't grow
up in poverty. On the other side of the tracks kids turn tricks, dropouts do drugs,
and most of us never know who our old man was. And the ones who do stick around blow
the welfare check on pure grain then beat up their wives. That's the reality of it,
Micah. That was the neighborhood I grew up in."

The room was suddenly so still, like the aftermath of destruction. He waited, glad
he'd spelled it out, yet wishing he hadn't. Maybe it was more than she could accept,
maybe she could only care for the shiny new penny, the bright, successful man he had
become. He'd always wanted it all, prayed that she could take all of him, and not
just what everyone else saw, Maybe, just maybe, he wanted too much.

The softness of her body beneath him, the sweet rasp of her breath against his face
obliterated the shadow of ugliness past. It was the memory of her that had brought
him this far. This was
his
Micah. His only love.

He gathered her close. He'd take what he could, get.

"I'm sorry, Micah. I never meant to tell you all this. You were never meant to—"

"Never meant to what—see your life? Live the way you did? You were wrong, Chance.
I never would have hated you." She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he could
feel his spirit soar, his heart swell with an emotion that was savagely possessive.
"I never would have dreaded you touching me. And you never would have been bitter.
I wouldn't have let you. We would have worked together. We would have sacrificed together.
Somehow everything would have worked out, and neither of us would be lying here now
with the regrets the years have been so generous with. You've made your mistakes,
and I've made mine. Well, I'm tired of mistakes. I'm not about to make one now."

"No? And just what mistake would that be?"

He held his breath in anticipation. His hands—hands that hadn't quavered in the face
of violence—vaguely shook.

Micah pulled his head down to her own. "Not asking you to kiss me," she whispered
against his mouth.

The lips that met his were hungry, tender, and bold. The skimming of mouths, the mating
of tongues. And the whimpering sounds she couldn't mute, the answering growls he made
no effort to restrain.

His lips skimmed the length of her neck, tonguing the pulse that beat wildly in the
warm hollow. She held him close, and urged him on, pressing him closer. His hands
reached for the buttons of her blouse, and he forced himself to move slowly, though
he wanted to tear them away. Her hands treaded through his hair greedily; he welcomed
the tug, the slight discomfort.

If only there were a candle, even some small light to let him see the miracle of what
he was feeling. Her breasts, so full and heavy as he fondled them through the gossamer
silk of her bra, needed to be suckled—this she told him with no more than the upward
tilt of buds he remembered to be the color of roses.

"Remember the first time I kissed you there?" he whispered against the wet silk, raising
the flesh beneath his mouth.

"I remember," she whispered shakily.

"And do you remember the first time I undressed you?"

"The only time... yes. I could never forget."

The blouse was gone now, so too the bra. He rubbed his chest against her, feeling
the fabric of his shirt graze the soft nudity of her flesh; he relished the way her
breasts rolled beneath the expanse of him. He lowered his head once more and laved
them, then unable to help himself, he moved so that his hand skimmed beneath her skirt.
Her legs were parted, and insistently he tried to nudge them wider.

She clamped her legs tight, capturing his hand between them as though she were still
a virgin protecting the barrier. He laughed quietly, seductively.

"You did the same thing when I had you against the car before we went parking. But
you opened them for me before the night was through." He massaged the bone beneath
his palm, feeling the silk of panties covering her, silk that was unable to hide the
evidence of moisture against his trapped fingers. He moved them to excite her, to
caress her, and persuade, using the fabric to tease the velvet texture he ached to
more intimately touch.

"Chance," she whispered. "Chance, it's too soon. Once this starts, well never be able
to quit."

"You're right. And you don't really want me to stop now, do you? We know how good
it is with us, how it's always been... always will be. Tell me not to stop. Tell me
you're ready to pick up the pieces, to make love the way we should have all those
years Instead of wasting it on other people."

He heard the quickening of her breath, the sign of heightened arousal sliding wetly
against his fingertips. He needed her—Lord, how he needed her—and he would do whatever
it took to take what he needed. Deftly he rolled a nipple over his tongue and between
his teeth. Before she could refuse, he breached the barrier of the panties, sliding
his fingers around the elastic. Into the heat he slipped them, deep inside. The pounding
of blood rushed through his veins at the contact; the hated prison of his pants cloaked
the pulse of his virility, which moved in an insistent rhythm against her thigh.

"There's no one else now, Micah... there's just us. Ask me to undress you, that's
all you have to do. Just two simple words, 'undress me' and we'll share something
wonderful again... something sacred." He flexed his fingers. She gasped; contracted.
He did it again.

"Chance... please...."

He smiled in the dark. So ready to take her, to make her his own.

"Please... not yet... I... I need more time."

The dark swallowed his curse. He withdrew his hand and sat up. Abruptly, before she
could cover her breasts, or push down the bunched fabric of her skirt, he leaned over
and turned on the lamp, not caring if she minded. His eyes feasted while they could,
challenging the startled irises of green to deny him this.

"You're beautiful." He growled the words like an accusation. "Not tonight... but one
day I won't have to ask. One day, Micah, you'll be mine. Each rosy-tipped breast,
each shuddering contraction... mine."

She sat up, pushing her skirt primly over the knees, and crossed her arms over her
chest, while moving for the blouse, the bra. He brushed her hands away as they reached,
and picked the garments up for her.

"I can dress myself." Her voice wavered in spite of the assertion.

"I'm sure you can. But tonight, let me. If I can't take you to bed, at least let me
do something I've imagined a thousand times or more."

Gently, in amazing contrast to the harshness of his voice, he replaced the clothes,
inhaling the scent of her body that clung to them. Doing it slowly, making it last.

His only consolation on the lonely ride home, and in the stark solitude of his bed,
was the fine tremble he remembered as she let him dress her; and the silent tear that
escaped as he kissed her forehead tenderly and whispered, "Goodnight."

Chapter 9

"Roll, you jerk! I said,
roll,
damn you!" Micah gave the long-handled stick another shove over the ceiling. The
round brush skidded obstinately and plopped yet another big dollop of white over the
paint-spattered T-shirt she wore. It did the same to the kerchief covering her head.

She made a noise that was somewhere between a curse, a groan, and a sob.

"Oh, excuse me. I must have taken a wrong turn. Here I came looking for a lady of
high society, and ended up with a sailor on the wrong side of the deck. The foul language
always gives them away."

Micah swung around at the sound of his voice. She was used to his impromptu visits,
but it was a constant source of irritation that he always managed to come when she
was in the middle of an impossible mess—most of them worse than the botched dinner
and what had followed.

Micah shivered in spite of the hot room. Chance had dressed her so tenderly, she had
wanted to beg him to stop, to undo the buttons once more. And when he had driven away,
it was torment the way he had left her hungering for him: Body and mind and spirit.
It was getting harder and harder to remember just what it was she was trying to prove,
and that fact alone irked her. Suddenly she felt a prickle of anger. It must be the
heat. Yes, the heat of the house, not the heat he was inciting by simply standing
there.

"Couldn't you call or at least knock first?" she muttered crossly.

"It's my house too." He dangled his copy of the house key.

They stared at each other in what seemed a standoff for a few moments before Chance
began to chuckle.

"You've got paint on your head."

"I know."

"And on your arms."

"So what's new?"

"Not to mention, your clothes look like they've been whitewashed."

"Enough, Chance. If I decide I want your opinion on my appearance, I'll ask for it."

"I'll give it to you anyway. Anyone told you lately you look good enough to eat?"

"Stop it. Chance!"

"I'm glad I'm the only one then. I'd hate to get messy by beating someone up for trespassing
on my turf."

"Chance...." So she was his turf, was she? The man was impossible! Maddening! To even
have the gall to say he didn't want to get
messy
while she stood there with paint from her head to her toes and he just sauntered around
in his fresh linen business suit.

Micah pointed the uncooperative paintbrush at him. "Messy?" she repeated. "I'll give
you messy, by golly. You come one step closer and we'll look like the Bobbsey Twins.
Now go away and don't come back until you're dressed for the occasion."

She slapped the roller back into the once-silver container that was now thickly coated
in white. After it was loaded, she deliberately ignored him, and pushed the roller
against the ceiling once again, silently praying just this once it would go on right
as he watched. She'd show him! She was good at this. The next time she might run away
screaming if she had to buy yet another supply of white paint, rollers, and masking
tape—but, by gosh, this time she'd show him, that was all.

"You know, it would help if you loosened the screw beside the roller. Then it might
actually roll instead of—"

She whirled around and fixed him with a lethal stare.

"Yes?" she said testily. Down came the roller, the stick thudding squarely against
the drop cloth. Micah held it like a staff meant to do bodily harm to anyone who got
in her way.

Chance shrugged, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips. If he
dared to smile at her predicament now, she just might be obliged to share the wealth.
Fancy suit or no.

Looking at him standing there so immaculately dressed—his hair neatly brushed, and
more than likely remnants of air-conditioning still clinging
to
his skin while the big box fan was coursing a humid breeze around the room—gave her
an almost overwhelming urge to wipe that big, stupid grin off his face. A grin, yes.
The man was most definitely grinning.

"You're grinning," she accused.

"Is that a crime?"

"Around here it is. Please take that silly smirk along with your Gucci shoes out of
my sight. Or else."