Strip You Bare (9 page)

He tightened his grip on her, pulled her more firmly against his mouth as he continued his assault. She felt like she was going to break out of her skin, split open like a butterfly escaping a cocoon and flutter away to escape the sensations that were rolling over her. It was too much. She couldn’t take it.

She forced her fingers through his hair, tugging hard, trying to gain some of the control. He chuckled, his breath hot against her wet flesh. And all he did was pull against her, deepening his tasting. Sliding his tongue deep inside her body as he’d done earlier with his finger.

She bucked against him, trying to escape, trying to get a handle on the motion, on the rhythm.

“Micah,” she breathed, his name a thready whisper, “stop.”

“No,” he said, “this is my game. These are my rules.” He took another long, slow taste before raising his head and looking at her. “And I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop.”

He unlinked his hands, still keeping a firm grip on her while moving one hand between her thighs, penetrating her with two fingers this time, his tongue working in time with them. And everything went blank, a flash of fire, lightning over the bayou as she lost control completely and gave herself over to sensation.

She was no stranger to orgasm, but this was something else entirely. This had been different. Out of her control, and stronger for it. And when it passed, when the pleasure finally subsided, she was left sweaty, shaking and begging him to stop. But he didn’t stop. Still.

“Please,” she said, her voice sobbing now, “I can’t. Not again.”

But he didn’t listen. And she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to control. She didn’t want to be responsible. When the dust cleared, she wanted to be able to blame him. If that made her weak, then maybe she was weak. But she wanted to blame him for this sensual, insatiable monster that lived inside of her, that he had called out into the open.

Wanted to blame him for the fact that she was writhing on his bed, saying no to another climax, when in truth, she wanted it more than her next breath.

He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucked, and she came apart again. This time when she came back to herself, he was above her. Settled between her thighs, the blunt head of his arousal pressing against the entrance to her body.

She forgot her nerves. Forgot to be worried about pain, or firsts. Because she was lost to this, utterly, completely. She was his. In this moment, he owned her. Owned her body. Owned her soul. There was no denying that.

He slid his hand under her butt, raising her up from the mattress as he thrust hard inside of her. She gasped as he did, flinching against the fleeting, sharp pain that resulted from the invasion. He didn’t seem to notice, and after a moment it didn’t matter.

He flexed his hips, going so deep she felt joined to him, part of him. She raised one hand, touching his biceps gingerly, looking at his face. He looked pained, tortured. He looked not so much like a stranger. A foreign, swelling sensation filled her chest, and she looked away, turned her focus to the taut muscles of his arms, to the ink swirled over his skin.

And then she shut her eyes tight and gave herself over to sensation.

She would have thought it impossible to climax again after two such intense experiences, but it didn’t take long for her to reach the summit again, the hard, insistent thrust of Micah’s body building a need that started so deep inside of her it stole her breath.

She thought it would break her apart, thought it would destroy her absolutely from the inside out. She clenched her teeth, her eyes still shut tight, her fingernails digging into his skin as she clung to him, trying to keep herself together. Trying to keep herself in one piece.

Just when she thought she would shatter, pleasure burst through her like water through a broken dam. She sucked in a sharp breath, air filling her lungs as pleasure rolled through her body, leaving her weightless, suspended in the waves, and she could do nothing but drift on the tide and ride it out until it was over.

And on the heels of her own release, she felt his big, muscular body shiver, then freeze over her, a feral growl on his lips as the steady rhythm to his thrusts was lost, as he pumped into her, hard and wild, before he froze, giving himself up to his own orgasm.

She was in awe. Utterly and completely captivated by what she had done to this man, in that moment. This powerful, strong, terrifying man reduced to trembling because of her.

It was no less than he’d done to her. Really, it was only a fraction of what he’d done to her. But while she had accepted the moment she had surrendered herself to him that she was at his mercy, she had never once considered that she might hold some power of her own.

She was still processing all of that when he rolled away from her, standing, and turning away.

“Micah . . .”

“You didn’t think to tell me you’d never fucked a guy before?”

Heat lashed at her face, stinging her cheeks. “I . . . well, there wasn’t really a chance.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard about your Christmas party and your canceled wedding and your prick of a fiancé. I think you could have found a moment to mention that you were a virgin.”

“The state of my sex life isn’t your business,” she said, reaching for a sheet and tugging it up over her breasts, trying desperately to wrap herself up—not just in the fabric but in the comfort of her façade.

“Since I’m the sum-fucking-total of your sex life? I think it is my business.”

“Fine. Was a virgin. Not now. Do I owe your cock a fee for the destruction of my hymen or are we even?” She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering, trying her damnedest to seem like she was impenetrable. In spite of the recent penetration.

“Honey, if I would have known I was going to be the first, I’d have paid a prime fucking fee to get a piece. I just think you sold yourself cheap.”

“Kiss my ass,” she said, starting to get out of bed, holding the sheet firmly against her body.

“Nah. But later I might bite it. Lie down. We’re not done.”

“Like hell we aren’t done. Why would I let you touch me again?”

“Because I made you scream like you were dying and you loved every second of it.” He leaned in, planting his hands on either side of her. “You liked it even when you said no. I think,” he continued, a dark light in his eyes, “you like it best when you say no.”

He straightened, leaving her shivering, cold thanks to his absence. Bastard.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, turning and walking into the bathroom. She did her best not to stare at his ass.

Her best wasn’t good enough.

She had a feeling it was an invitation for her to join him. But she had to go. Needed to get her head on straight.

She got out of bed and headed downstairs, gathering up her clothes. By the time he got out of the shower, she didn’t plan on being here.

If he wanted any more sex tonight, it was going to have to come from his right hand.

Well, fuck. She’d been a fucking virgin.

He was torn between an uncharacteristic bout of guilt and the searing, slow burn of regret one might feel after knocking back expensive bourbon in one swallow because you’d been under the illusion it was cheap.

Not that he’d ever imagined Sarah was cheap. It was part of the triumph he felt when she’d gone down on her knees in front of him, ready to obey his every command.

But if he would’ve known he was the first man? He would’ve gone slower. Not for her, for him. He would have savored that. Even now, satisfied from the explosive release he just had, he felt himself getting hard again. The hot water from the shower sluiced over his skin, his hands following the trail, his own touch turning him on when coupled with the thoughts that were rioting through his head.

He’d never screwed a virgin before. Not because of any moral scruples, but because virgins didn’t come looking for guys like him. At least, not usually. This one had been standing in the entry of a mansion, waiting for him like a beautifully wrapped gift.

And being the kind of guy he was, he made his gift unwrap herself.

His cock jerked as he wrapped his fist around his hardening length. Then he cursed and shut the water off. He wasn’t going to stand in here and jack off like a teenage boy. If he wanted some, he would go get some. Sarah was probably waiting outside, and if not, another woman would do.

He hadn’t done anything like that in a long time. Gone from one woman to the next with barely a breath in between. Sometimes, all he’d had to do was roll over and another woman was already there, naked and waiting. But that was back in the clubhouse days. And while he couldn’t deny he’d gotten a kick out of that kind of shit, most of those days were a dark, muddy blur in his memory. Days he didn’t really care to repeat. A man he didn’t really want to go back to being.

But the man he’d become didn’t feel right here. He didn’t function here. His actions with Sarah just now proved that.

That guy, the one who said all those things to her, who kept on going even when she told him to stop, was the man who’d come straight up out of poorest parts of the city, right into the neon of Bourbon Street to try to make something of himself.

He’d never been content with poverty, though he imagined no one was. He’d been driven to escape. By any means necessary. That was why they called him Prince. Because he’d lusted after the finer things. Had always—transparently at first—desired to cross the velvet ropes that kept the common folk out of every place that glittered in the gritty swamp of the city.

That’s why he’d gone to work, first running drugs, then joining up with the Deacons. To try and get a little piece of what people like the Delacroix had.

Well, tonight you got a little piece of a Delacroix.

Yeah, so he had. He got out of the shower and grabbed a towel, ruthlessly dragging it over his skin before casting it back down to the floor. He’d ordered all the necessary items for the mansion the first night he’d slept in it. If he had to abandon the luxury hotel where he’d been sleeping since he first arrived in New Orleans, he wasn’t about to downgrade.

Ajax would think that was hilarious. The fact that Prince was too good to sleep on sheets that didn’t have a high enough thread count. If Ajax even knew what that meant. He hadn’t exactly had any heart-to-heart talks with his old brother about what the other man had been up to since leaving New Orleans, but he imagined he hadn’t gotten himself a luxury penthouse apartment.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back out into the bedroom. And Sarah was gone.

Fuck.

He hoped to God she hadn’t walked herself home on those damn high heels. She was just stubborn enough—and blind enough about the city’s dark side—to do something like that.

He didn’t want her to get herself killed.

And, he just wanted her again.

He was hard again and while he knew full well he could walk down Bourbon Street, pick up a woman in about ten minutes, and have her back here with her dress pushed up and her panties pulled down, that wasn’t what he wanted.

Luxury
. That was his weakness.

Always had been.

Sarah Delacroix was luxury personified. As exclusive as it got. He was the first man to get past the velvet rope, so to speak. He found that pretty damn irresistible.

Of course, now he’d chased her off. He didn’t know how to deal with virgins. He imagined they took things pretty seriously, all things considered. It was just another reason he shouldn’t have touched her.

He didn’t know how to take this stuff seriously.

He also didn’t know how to defer his pleasure.

And he also wanted to make sure she wasn’t fucking dead. Maybe an overreaction to a stroll through the Quarter at night, but even this early on a Saturday, there were people out tripping balls. They wouldn’t see a woman walking toward them, they would see a dragon.

Though, honestly, she might be better off if they saw her as a dragon and not a woman.

He dug through his stuff and found a pair of jeans, tugging them on, before pulling a black T-shirt over his head. Then he grabbed his phone and dialed a number he would rather not have to.

“Travis. You at the Priory?”

“Yeah,” Travis said, not bothering to ask who it was. Even with all the years, all the distance, all the everything, he knew.

“Find out if Sophie can get me Sarah Delacroix’s home address.”

By the time Sarah sat down on her couch in her sweats, with her glass of wine, she was shaking.

This was her typical evening routine, a little silence, a little wine. Not usually preceded by hard, aggressive, amazing sex in her family’s beautiful historical home. That was new.

She startled when she heard a pounding sound on the door, sloshing her wine over the edge of the glass, a dark red spot pooling on her pale sweatpants.

She froze, because she wasn’t expecting anyone, and she wasn’t about to open the door for a stranger.

“Sarah.” It was that voice again, that familiar, wonderful voice.

The voice that had told her, absolutely, coldly, that he did not like to talk after.

She was a little pissed at that voice, and the man attached to it.

“What do you want?”

She heard a clicking sound, and the rattle of her doorknob, and suddenly her door was standing wide open, Micah filling the doorway. “Not standing out in your hallway is the start of what I want.” He took a step into the living room and slammed the door closed behind him. “Getting you naked again would be the next thing.”

“I didn’t say you could come in.”

“I didn’t ask if I could come in. I don’t ask.”

No, he didn’t. He took, he conquered. And standing there, he looked like every teenage fantasy of a bad boy. Ink on full display, that tight black T-shirt clinging to the muscles she now knew with startling intimacy, those tight jeans hugging his thighs like they never wanted to let go, she was having a hard time remembering why she’d been angry. Remembering why she didn’t just want this. Want him. Even if he was an inarticulate ass half the time.

She didn’t want to
marry
him, after all.

But a little more time with his body?

Who are you? You stormed away from him because he was being an ass. Have some pride.

Pride in what? That was the question. She took great pride in her last name, in her roots that ran deep beneath the swampy ground here in Louisiana, but right now she didn’t much care for them. Right now, she just wanted to live independently, live in the moment, live for herself.

You have a luncheon tomorrow. You have to sit in front of Tansey, Jillian, and Louisa, and pretend this didn’t happen.

Right. Somehow, she would have to pretend that the only thing of note in her life was the recent dissolution of her engagement, not the screaming orgasm she’d been given by a stranger. Not the fact that she’d just lost her virginity. Not the fact that she was having illicit fantasies of experiencing it yet again.

She needed him
out
. She needed a more generous stretch of time between facing her friends and Micah having his hands on her skin. And she most certainly needed to put her foot down. Most certainly needed to figure out when this would end, and how. Probably now. Seeing as he had simply walked into her apartment like he had every right, ending it this very moment was likely the most logical.

“Does the tough-guy, biker schtick ever get old?”

“Does this fake, cold, rich-chick thing ever get old?”

She snorted a laugh. “Touché.”

“I think you still have a fundamental misunderstanding of what exactly a motorcycle club is.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I’m not here to enlighten you, baby. On the other hand, I’d love to fuck you again.”

Her internal muscles clenched in response, and the heat that fired through her veins was from something different than the rage she had hoped might come to her rescue. Sadly, there was no anger, there was no fear. She just wanted him.

That, however, made her angry.

One time shouldn’t make her lose her head quite this badly. One man should not have this much power over her body.

“That’s off the table,” she said, setting her glass of wine down on the coffee table by her couch. “But you are welcome to educate me about your little biker gang.”

“No, you really don’t want that. The fact that you think you do only proves how little you know.”

“You’re right. When it comes to your world, I don’t know very much. But that doesn’t make me ignorant.”

“The thing is, if I’m ignorant about your world, it just means I’ll use the wrong fork at dinner. You stay stupid about mine? You could end up dead.”

A shiver scampered down her spine. “Are you threatening me?”

“I don’t have to threaten you. I wouldn’t threaten you, Sarah. We don’t know each other that well, but I hope you know that. I’m not part of this anymore. But I’m back in it for now. Trust me when I tell you I associate with some men who would. I told you, I’m looking into some things here, and whoever is involved doesn’t think anything about killing people. Wouldn’t think anything about killing you. You may not understand it, you might think it’s stupid. But the rules for clubs here run deep. You’re protected by society, by the rules you have here. By the law. We are under all that. Deep underground. It doesn’t touch us. We have to fight for our own, protect our own. And you can be damn sure there are those of us who kill. This isn’t a game, and no one is playing at being tough.”

She swallowed hard. “I thought you were going to protect me,” she said, her voice small.

“How can I do that if you don’t understand what’s in the shadows?”

“Okay, I get it. You’re talking about seriously violent guys. You aren’t going to protect me any better if you’re sleeping with me. So, I’m going to go ahead and say it’s not a necessity.”

“Considering the reaction you had to me earlier, it’s pretty necessary.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Because you won’t be able to resist.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “You think?”

“I think,” he said, crossing the room, stalking toward her, his dark eyes intent, “that if I told you to get on your knees right now, undo my belt, take out my cock, and suck it, you would.”

She was frozen then, her heart trapped in the middle of a beat, her stomach twisting painfully. She tried to suck in a breath, but she couldn’t. All of her words were scattered, and she tried to chase them around her brain, collect them so she could form a sentence. But it proved impossible.

“Yeah,” he said, filling the silence for her. “I could have you right now if I wanted to. Any way that I wanted. I could bend you over this couch and be inside you before you even had a chance to protest. And you would like it. Because you want it. I don’t care what you say, we both know it’s true.”

She tried to speak again, but no sound came out. She was pinned to the couch, the force of his gaze holding her there. She could only sit there, could only wonder what he might do next. What she would do in response.

She knew that being with him again was a bad idea. But he might take the choice away. And if he did . . .

She thought back to how good it had been. How good it would be if he closed the distance between them, grabbed hold of her wrists, held her hands behind her, laid her back on the couch, and had his way with her.

Instead, he took a step back. Then another.

“I think,” he said, “that would be a little bit too kind of me. You want me to do that, don’t you? You want me to do it so it isn’t your fault. But I don’t think you deserve that. If you want it again, Sarah, you have to ask me. You have to beg me.”

He turned on his heel and started to walk out of the apartment.

“Wait,” she said.

He stopped, but he didn’t turn. And now she had to figure out why exactly she had stopped him. If she was going to confess to wanting him, or if she was going to let him keep walking.

She couldn’t confess to wanting him.

“What?” he asked, his patience clearly short.

“Are you still going to . . . be around if I say no?”

She hadn’t meant to ask that, but she supposed it was relevant. Because it was just cruel of him to try to scare her with all of the dark things that lurked in the alleys here in New Orleans, things she had somehow touched now—because of the mansion, because of him—only to then withdraw his protection.

“I’ll keep following orders.”

His words were hard, definitive. And after he spoke them, he walked out, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone.

She picked her wine back up and lifted it to her lips, half expecting him to come back. He didn’t.

She got up and walked to the door, locked it, taking another drink of her wine. She took a deep breath and turned, pressing her back against the hard surface. She needed to relax. She needed to figure out what she was going to wear tomorrow. And she needed to not waste any time regretting the fact that he had left, the fact that he hadn’t taken what she had so desperately wished he would.