Page 8 of Savage Devotion
“Reaper, yo man. You got a call. I’ll forward to the upstairs apartment, bro. ’k?” A man in his late forties I recognize as Boomer waves his arms in our direction and signals toward some doors I have never entered before. He doesn’t pay attention to me so I don't make an effort to out myself. The less I give away about myself, the better right now.
“Reaper? Is that your first or last name?” I tease, leaning in at the same time he does.
Big mistake. Both of us moving closer causes my breasts to brush up against his hard pecs and the sparks are freaking lethal to my nipples. They pucker up into hard tips and there is no way he misses the effect they have on the thin material of my halter top. I can practically chisel a block of ice for all these drinks with how hard they are.
Color me fifty shades of embarrassed.
“¡Ay Dios!”I groan under my breath. It’s not nearly dark enough here to hide the red on my cheeks.
His hungry, intense gaze roams over my deep cleavage but in a way that makes me feel sexy and desired. Maybe it’s the tequila talking, but I did not miss the protective way he shielded mewith his body or the gentle caress of his hand over my lower back. As if he needs to feel the connection as much as I do at this moment.
“Reaper is nothing more than an unwanted moniker I was saddled with a long time ago doing things I wish I could forget.” He caresses the pad of his thumb over the back of my hand. Each warm stroke reveals this man works a lot with his hands. Rough, yet controlled and gentle.
I sense a much deeper story behind the moving shadows darkening his handsome features.
I want to say I’m sorry, but how do I offer up those words for situations I have no understanding of?
So instead of uttering useless, placating words, I turn to the next obvious option. “What is your real name?” I bite the inside of my lips waiting for him to give me some made-up name, but I don't think he’s lying to me when he answers.
“Liam Black.” His voice is low, smooth, and drifts a little toward the end as if his words are weighed by memories. Using his thumb, he twirls the single ring on his right hand giving me the idea his words and that ring are somehow connected.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, though it’s none of my business. Before I go against my better judgement and start moving my mouth with questions, he takes my hand in his and steadies me as I slide off the stool. A fast-paced salsa blends into a sultry rumba from the club’s live band.
Liam presses his mouth close to my ear. Standing like this his body heat molds to mine. I inhale and Jesus help me. His masculine scent nearly has me begging him to do his worst to me in bed.
And then he speaks and, hand to God, I cream all over the small slip of cloth between my legs. His voice is low, controlled, and dripping with lust. My five hundred and thirty-two-day dry spell is coming to an end, and tonight is going to be the kind of night memories are made of.
¿Bailas conmigo?
4
ARABELLE
There are secrets and mysteries hidden behind those thick, black lashes and equally dark eyes. They hold me captive, forcing curiosity about him deep into my thoughts. Yet I seal them away and stay in the here and now.
It’s better to be held captive by his body caressing mine than the darkness surrounding this man’s soul.
Dimmed lights throw the entire club into vast shadows. Shades of neon colors pierce through the canopy of black to cast rays of pinks and greens to cut across our bodies as we move through the gyrating crowd.
Step after step I follow his lead, not giving myself time to regret following my lustful desires rather than my rational thinking. My thudding heart makes me strain to hear him over the music but I catch a few words that have me faltering in my step.
“I wish I could take you home with me. Tie you up, never let you go.”
I heardtie you upjust fine, but that voice deserves another chance to say those words to me. “Excuse me?” Images of thedirty deed play out in my mind. Sounds fun, if not a tad bit scary. Just how close did he live? I could use a night of letting loose and forgetting what brought me to New Orleans and kept me here.
His knowing grin says he knows what I’m up to. This is madness, but I push for more, anyway. My heart races as I lean my body closer and press my lips close to his ear. “Where do you live? Is it nearby?”
I’ve never felt so alive. This must be what it feels like to have just let go and let fun take me wherever it wants. Safe? Not so much. But for once I want to feel alive. Why not tonight? And why not this man?
“Harlon. A small parish north of the city.” Not even the cutting acid green of a nearby sign penetrates the shadow of regret overtaking his handsome face. It’s there one moment and then gone the next.
And then apparently he’s done talking.
His hard, muscular body feels amazing against mine as he leads me through two quick steps and a slow forward step. My feet follow his regardless of it being years since I last shared a dance. Firm hands hold me closer than what the rumba calls for and with every movement he makes I can feel I’m not the only one aroused. And I like it. For once I want to lose control and shed the responsible woman always following the rules. Even if he is a bad boy.
And with a man who is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s older than me by at least ten to twelve years. Dark tailored slacks highlight muscular legs and the way he moves with such graceful finesse you would think he was born to sweep women off their feet.
Around us, fellow patrons move to the edge of the dance floor as we dominate the entire space. We glide, turn, dip and sway until he simply takes my breath away. With his powerful hands on me, the words between us now are spoken by our bodies.
