Misconduct

He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, kissing him with full force on the mouth.

“Your clothes are all wet,” I rushed out between kisses, breathless. “Get them off.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, nibbling at my mouth.

“Do what?” I played, licking and biting his jaw, hearing him suck in a breath. “Fuck like animals in my bed upstairs?”

His fingers dug into the skin of my ass, and I went to town with my tongue. I attacked his neck, his jaw, and his lips, squeezing my thighs around him.

“Fuck.” He stilled, holding me tight. “Just wait. Hold on,” he gasped, dropping me back down to my feet and letting me go.

“What’s wrong?” My voice trembled. I was so fucking turned on, and he’d just stopped.

His shoulders slumped slightly, and his face was twisted as he breathed in and out. “Shit, that’s painful,” he cursed, the bulge in his pants hard and ready.

What was he waiting for?

“What’s wrong? Is it Christian?” I asked gently, feeling guilty.

He shook his head. “No,” he choked out. “He’s away for a couple of days.” He jerked his chin to the stairs. “Go get dressed.”

“Why?”

I curled my toes into the floor, my clit pounding like my heartbeat during a run. I didn’t want to leave. What the hell?

“Now,” he ordered, his voice hard and pissed off. “I’m taking you to dinner. Go get dressed.”

TEN

TYLER

I knew her kind.

It was like looking in a mirror, and I had no doubt that everything she’d told me was true. She was too brave to lie.

But I also knew she was trying to distract me. She didn’t want to open up too much or take off the mask.

Easton Bradbury was a survivor, and she’d ride me to kingdom come if it would get me to stop asking questions.

I’d love every minute, but I didn’t like how she kept me at arm’s length.

I’d always set the boundaries, not the other way around.

She’d gone upstairs, without argument surprisingly, and came back down dressed in a pleated black miniskirt.

It was sexy but tasteful. Her top was off-white and off the shoulder, and it felt like water when I placed my hand on her back and guided her to the car, beneath an umbrella I’d found right beside her door.

Every bar in the Vieux Carre was open, and the streets were flooded with people, despite the heavy rain.

The French Quarter was the highest point in New Orleans, so it rarely flooded, not that flooding would stop the residents. The electric charge in the air only incited the already thick lust for life that flowed in their veins.

Just give them an excuse and there was a party.

Patrick dropped us off at Père Antoine on Royal Street, a block off Bourbon, and I rushed her inside, doing a piss-poor job of not ogling her beautiful legs, decorated with drops of rain, as she followed the hostess to a table and I followed behind.

I sipped my Jameson neat and watched her trail her fingers along the edge of the tablecloth in front of her, her lips moving slightly. The cloth was white with small flowers sewn into the design.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She looked up, her eyes wide.

“I…” She closed her mouth and then opened it again. “I was counting,” she admitted. “It’s kind of a habit I’ve been working on stopping, but sometimes I still find myself doing it.”

“What do you count?”

Her head turned, her eyes scanning the room as she spoke, as if she was afraid to look at me. “I count my steps as I walk sometimes.” She looked down, smoothing her clothes as she went on. “My strokes when I brush my teeth. The number of turns when I use a faucet. Everything has to be an even number.”

I set my drink down. “What if it only takes three turns to get your desired temperature with the faucet?”

She glanced up. “Then I do shorter turns to get to four,” she shot back, a hint of a smile on her face.

I narrowed my eyes, studying her.

She blushed, looking embarrassed as she leaned her elbows on the table and took a drink of her gin and tonic.

Why couldn’t I get a reading on her?

Her face was oval shaped with high cheekbones, and she had big blue eyes that always seemed covered by some kind of filter. I couldn’t look at her and tell what she was thinking.

Her top lip curved downward, making her bottom lip look pouty, both the color of a sullied pink that I wanted to feed on.

Her shoulders were squared, and her jaw was strong, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes, and her breathing was shaky.

So much like a strong woman, but the vulnerability and temper were that of someone who worked very hard to never really face the world.

She wanted me but acted like I could easily be replaced.

I thought about her when we were apart, and I wanted to know that she thought about me too.

“So why do you do it?” I pressed.

She shook her head, shrugging slightly. “It’s soothing, I guess,” she placated.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

She met my eyes, holding the glass in her hand as she leaned on the table. “I have. Sporadically,” she added. “Most people like me function just fine, and when I’m busy, I forget about it. But at certain times” – she paused, watching me – “I regress.”

Certain times? Did I make her nervous?

“It just makes me feel better,” she explained. “And sometimes, it’s just a habit.”

I nodded, understanding. “So you count things. What’s your favorite number?”