FrenchQuarter.htm by Alexander Lacey (good fiction books to read TXT) 📗

saddened, but now all the more impressed with Jack’s success and obvious sense of confidence. “What did your dad do?”

“Before we left the bayou, he was a fisherman—brought in crawfish and redfish and whatever the restaurants would buy. Later, he started drivin’ a bus.” He grinned. “Not a lot of dough rollin’ in for me and pere, but we did all right together.”

“See?” she said. “There was something to tell.”

Yep, Jack thought, there was, but this was a good time to stop. He wanted to be with her, touch her, take her to bed—and yeah, talking was okay, could be a part of that, but not too much. Another rule he lived by. And he might have already broken his rule about sex and clients, but he wouldn’t break this one. If his dad had taught him anything, it was about self-preservation, never giving up control. Jack could almost hear his father’s voice even now. “You let a woman get to you, son, and you end up without any control, over you, over her, over your whole damn life.”

Jack had watched the heartbreak his dad had gone through during the divorce, and though he knew he shouldn’t let the fate of one marriage govern his whole life, he had. Because it had been easy. Because Jack had never met a woman he’d had a particularly hard time keeping at a distance. He respected women—hell, he was crazy about women, from their bodies to their brains—but he made it a point never to open up to a woman too much lest she think it meant he wanted a relationship.

And he didn’t. Relationships worked great for plenty of people, but he wasn’t interested. He liked his life fine the way it was—had always liked it. His job was his life, and femmes were like…a hobby, a pastime. If his work was his sustenance, women were dessert.

As for why he’d invited this particular female home with him, it was like he’d told her—it didn’t seem smart to let her go home to her fiancé right now. And hell—he wasn’t ready to be apart from her just yet, and he didn’t think she was ready to be apart from him, either. That simple. Sitting there studying her in the dark, his mind drifted back to the intimacies they’d shared together tonight. God, what a woman. First writhing against that sexy stripper at the club, and then fucking him in the alley. He wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced sex so gritty and raw, his desire rising from deep inside him like some twenty-first century caveman. His cock began perking to life in his pants again at the memories.

He got caught grinning at her across the little table where they sat. “What?” she said. “Glaze on my face or something?”

He chuckled his reply. “No, chere. Just thinkin’.”

She smiled. “Thinking what?” Her naughty expression told him she’d already figured out the answer.

He lowered his chin and hoped she saw the hunger in his eyes. “Thinkin’ I want to fuck you again.”

She cast a coquettish look, took the last bite of a donut, washing it down with the milk he’d supplied, and quietly got up from the chair where she sat, meandering to one end of the balcony. She faced the breeze, putting her back toward him, and he understood that the simple gesture was an invitation.

Jack approached behind her, stepping up close enough for his erection to rub against her ass through their clothes. She wrapped her fists around the top of the wrought-iron railing, waiting.

Reaching around, he skimmed fingertips up her thighs, under her dress.

He leaned near her ear. “Is your sweet little pussy wet for me, baby?”

“Why don’t you check?” she whispered, turning her head to draw him into a kiss. As he pushed his tongue into her mouth, he cupped her mound full in his hand, glad he’d torn off her panties earlier. Oui, she was wet, nearly dripping.

He pressed his fingers to her center, where he knew she was pink and aching for him. With his other hand, he reached around to toy with her nipple through the fabric, sliding his hard-on more fiercely against the delicate crack of her ass.

Liz heard her own breath come heavier until she was panting, writhing against him. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt anything so exquisite—every move brought pleasure, from his sweet stroking fingers in the front to his stone-hard rod in the back.

“Fuck me,” she heard herself whisper on the breeze.

“Tell me again,” he said softly in her ear.

She said it louder. “Fuck me.”

She kept moving against his hand, the pleasure there mounting. Was he rubbing her harder or was she grinding more intensely against his fingers?

He didn’t ask her to say it again, but she did anyway, wanted to, this time with more force. “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me.” His fingers, moving in hot circles, were so good, so perfect; she was getting so close, so close… “Oh God, baby, fuck me.”

“I’m fucking you with my fingers, chere.”

She moaned and thrust against his touch, harder, harder, his fingers seeming to sink deeper against her clit as they stroked her—warm, swift, sure. The pleasure grew and gathered inside her, working itself into a hot, tight little ball that—oh God, yes! —finally exploded, breaking over her like a tidal wave, making her cry out over and over, without a thought to the attention it might attract. Each heated vibration was more shattering than the last, so powerful that her body spasmed and if Jack hadn’t wrapped his other arm around her waist she might have collapsed on the balcony from the sheer intensity of her bliss.

He kept rubbing her, slowing when she began to slow, letting his fingers go still when she stilled, too. She finally panted her exhaustion, numbly leaning her head to one side when she felt Jack’s kisses on her neck. “So sweet, baby,” he whispered. “So sweet.” Then his voice changed, got deeper, more forceful. “Now I’m gonna fuck you with my