At His Mercy (2 page)

"Just temporarily. The bar belongs to a
friend who found himself in a bind. I told him I’d hang out a
couple of years until he’s back on his feet."

A couple of years? "That’s some kind of
generous."

"I had the time."

His comment raised all sorts of
questions, especially coming on the heels of the one about keeping
things simple. Two years without a lover? Was that what he’d
implied?

"Lucky man, having you for a
friend."

"So I keep telling him," he said,
lifting his drink. The ice cubes rattled when he returned the glass
empty to the bar, the lead crystal heavy as it struck the polished
wood. Lise took the sound as a sign.

She was mobile again, though she wasn’t
leaving Danport without replacing the tire. Just her luck she’d hit
another nail on the bridge over Lake Ponchartrain if she drove the
rest of the way to New Orleans on her spare.

Tempting fate more than she had already
wasn’t wise. It was time to find someplace to stay for the night.
She gathered her purse from the bar to her lap. "Thanks again for
the rescue."

Still staring at his glass, he nodded,
his eyes hooded, his lashes long, dark paintbrush fans. Gorgeous.
Tempting. If she didn't get going …

"What time do you open tomorrow? Maybe
I’ll swing by for lunch before getting back on the road."
Reluctance kept her pinned to her seat, as did his nearness, his
muscled thighs spread, his waistline trim. "I’d love to pay for a
meal since you won’t let me pay for your help."

"You’re staying the night then?" he
asked, his voice gruff.

He sounded equally torn, as if they
both knew her leaving was for the best though her staying … She
wasn’t staying. She couldn’t stay.

She had a room waiting for her in New
Orleans and a new life to start. "I have to get a tire. I don’t
want to risk another flat without a spare. I guess Danport doesn’t
have a Marriott?"

"No, but there’s a bed and breakfast a
block off Main. Place called Barrett’s."

She glanced at the clock above the bar.
"It’s so late."

"I know the owners. I’m happy to give
them a call, tell them you’re coming."

"You think they’ll have a
room?"

"They always have rooms."

That didn’t surprise her. "Then it
looks like I’m at your mercy yet again."

"I’ll call, but one thing
first?"

"What?" she asked, her chest tight with
the effort to breathe.

He swiveled toward her, put out one
hand, desire thick in his gaze when it settled on hers. "Dance with
me."

#

Donovan wasn’t sure why he’d made the
suggestion. No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly, and it had
everything to do with keeping her close. Keeping her here. He
wasn’t ready to let this one get away.

She’d brought a cool breeze with her
into this pit stop of thick swamps and heat. She was unexpected.
She was a moment in time he hadn’t known he needed.

Mostly, though, he was caught up in the
thought of her being at his mercy. She had no idea the heat that
coursed through him at the idea of hearing her beg.

Her fingers slid along the surface of
his palm in response to his request. "A dance as payment for your
services?"

"I’m not looking to be paid for my
services."

"What are you looking for?" she asked,
just as the next playlist he’d programmed queued up. The music was
a mix of blues and jazz. New Orleans music. Sweating music.
Grinding music.

"I hadn’t been looking for anything,"
he told her honestly, the snake around his spine tightening to the
wail of the sax. "Not before tonight."

He guided her away from the bar to the
square of floor in front of the dark corner stage. There hadn’t
been a single band booked to play when he’d taken up the managerial
reins, and he’d done nothing to change that.

He was here to do a favor for a friend,
sure, to keep The Swamp Pit running. Booking shows wasn’t part of
the deal, however, because he was also here for himself, to
recharge. To take the two years, finish writing the books which
remained on his contract, and decide if it was time to switch
gears.

The barrage of constant input—from
reviewers, from his editor, his publisher, from fans—was doing a
bang-up job of stripping the joy from his work. His True Believers
thrillers had been a sweet ride. Monetarily, he was set for life.
Creatively, not so much.

Burnout wasn't the problem. Neither was
writer's block.

The problem was control. Caught up by
success, he’d let it slip away, given the power over his life’s
work to others. He needed to get it back. Needed the satisfaction
that came with running the show. Even if it meant walking away and
starting over.

Enough. His arms were wrapped around a
beautiful woman, her heartbeat synced to his, her breath soughing
like a whisper beneath his ear. Her breasts were high and firm, and
pressed to his chest like an offering. And her voice was low when
she spoke.

"I'm sorry if I stirred something you'd
rather leave settled."

Her comment brought him back to the
present, and to the only time he wanted to think of. He pulled away
to look into her eyes. "Don't be sorry. Stirring can be a very good
thing."

Her smile came slowly, her lashes
lowering to hide what the smile couldn't. Longing. Hunger.
Uncertainty.

He pressed her close, swayed with her,
against her, the music like silk ties binding them. Words would do
nothing but get in the way so he answered her with his hands, his
fingers, his cheek against hers, his thighs tangled with the fabric
of her skirt.

One song became another and the hour
grew late. Late enough that the thermostat kicked to its overnight
settings. The ceiling fans, timed to follow, spun to a stop. The
air stilled. Their body heat rose.

Perspiration dampened her neck and
chest, and he breathed deeply of the arousal that bloomed on her
skin. He hardened, his breathing rough, his pulse
ragged.

She shifted slightly, her hip nudging
toward his fly, noticing his length. Lingering. "Can I ask you a
question?"

The music’s bluesy bass notes thrummed
along the surface of his skin. "Of course."

"I’m curious about something you said.
I just don’t want to cross any lines."

"Something tells me that’s not going to
be a problem."

"What did you mean by keeping it simple
while in Mississippi?"

He weighed a full confession of his
sins against a simpler answer and gave her the latter. "It’s a
small town. Seemed a good move not to get sleep with the
clientele."

"But a dance with a stranger passing
through is a good one?"

"Feels damn good to me," he said, his
hand sliding down her back to her ass. She slowed, stopped, and he
bit back a curse for rushing her. He’d obviously misread her
signals. It had been a long time. He was out of practice. He’d been
known to get things wrong—

"No," she told him. "Stay." Both hands
on his shoulders, she raised her gaze to his and brought her mouth
close as she whispered, "Stay."

Chapter Three

His eyes glittered darkly. His hand on
her backside burned. His desire rose to surround her, a column of
palpable lust and heat, consuming. She didn’t know him. She didn’t
care. Tomorrow she’d be gone.

Tonight, only one thing existed.
"Stay."

He lowered his hand, cupped her, his
fingers close to the crevice separating her cheeks. "You draw the
line. I’ll step back."

Her heart in her throat, she nodded and
once again begged him near, the music soft but urgent. Donovan.
Nova. He smelled of a day’s work, the skin of his neck damp, and
salty when she tasted him, not a kiss but with the touch of her
tongue.

A sound throttled low in his chest. She
felt it, heard it. Beneath her silk tank, her nipples tightened,
and the sound came again, involuntarily, making them painfully
taut.

He wanted her, and in that most basic
of ways. No manipulation. No games. His body. Her body. Oh, how
she’d missed this honesty. Sex for pleasure, not offered as a
reward, or withheld as punishment.

She slipped her leg between his,
pressed her hip to his groin and learned the thickness of him. He
said nothing, but nuzzled his face to hers, his jaw hard, the
stubble of his beard a scraping reminder of their differences and
shooting sparks from her nape to the base of her spine.

She sighed.

"A good sound, I hope?" His voice
rumbled, intense and deep.

She thought she might come from no more
than this. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do," he said, the press
of his erection to her hip reminding her.

"Yeah." Her skin was on fire. "It’s
that kind of good."

"I can make it a whole lot
better."

She wanted better. She wanted more. She
wanted everything. He was in her head already, tempting her,
teasing her, and her panties were damp with the wait.

Aching, she splayed one hand between
his shoulder blades, skated the fingertips of the other in the
hollow of his throat, taking measure of his pulse and his sweat. He
swallowed, and she moved to his buttons, slowly freeing them from
their holes, baring him in inches.

The parking lot lights showed her the
definition of his collarbone, his pecs, the discs of his nipples,
the dark hair he clipped close. He was beautiful, big and built,
and the idea of being taken by him left her breathless.

Sounds of a soft guitar washed over
them, and Nova guided her across the floor, one step, another, both
of his hands now lifting her to him. They moved as if one being,
wrapped together in this wildly inappropriate longing.

Lise closed her eyes, let her head fall
back on her shoulders and invited the sweeping escape of arousal.
It coursed through her to pool in her core, stirring long buried
dreams of the life she’d wanted, a husband, a lover. A
love.

Too late she realized the mistake of
dredging up that loss.

Nova had stopped. "You’re
crying."

"I’m not. Not really."

He nudged a knuckled beneath her
lashes. "You saying these are tears of joy? Because I don’t think
my dancing skills are worthy."

She laughed because it felt so good to
do so, to know she’d done the right thing in moving on. She trailed
the backs of her nails along his abs just above his belt buckle,
asking, "What about your other skills?"

"Outstanding, though a bit rusty. I’m
eighteen months into that two year thing."

"I wouldn’t want to be the cause of a
broken vow."

"It was a business decision. No oaths
taken. No graves sworn on."

"And you weren’t out to prove
anything?"

"If that had been the case, I’ve blown
it by taking matters into my own hands."

His hands on his cock. Gripping his
shaft. Cupping his head. Stroking. Pumping. His face a tight mask
as tension built. There was something so incredibly erotic about
watching a man giving himself pleasure ...

She ran the flat of her hand along his
hard length and squeezed. "If you’re sure …"

He thrust into her hold. "I should ask
you the same. You stopped to change your tire. Not for
this."

That had been hours ago. Before she’d
closed the door on the past that had brought her to this place. To
him.

What if her tire had hit a nail miles
down the road? The thought that she might have missed out on this
night … "How close are we to a wall?"

He took three steps, pressed her
against the smoothly varnished pine, brought his mouth down on hers
and possessed her. He tasted of scotch, earthy and warm and
intoxicating.

His tongue was bold as it moved against
hers without permission or manners. He took, and he gave, stroking,
biting, his hands behind her gathering up the fabric of her skirt
and exposing the backs of her thighs.

Sensation bubbled through her and burst
in a giddy laugh. This. Exactly this. The urgency. The potent
pressing physical need. How had she existed so long without
it?

Her hands found their way to his
waistband, and she tugged his shirt free. His belt buckle was next,
then the buttons straining at his fly, then the elastic of his
briefs, and he was in her hands, hot, full, slick on his tip.
Hers.

His own hands stopped, and he growled.
"I can’t think with you doing that."

"You need to think?"

"It’s been awhile. Thinking’s the only
thing keeping me on my feet."

"Oh," she began, his words striking a
thought. "Not having planned for this …"

"I’ve got a condom."

"Close?" she asked because the idea of
waiting for him to fetch it …

He breathed heavily against her neck.
"I’ll have to let go of your skirt and I’m not sure I want to do
that."