Lacey wasn’t sure yet what the pictures meant, except that someone knew where the girls were—despite the fact that their family and friends, not to mention the police, were clueless of their whereabouts. It was just one more piece of a rapidly darkening puzzle.
Taking a long swallow of wine, she told herself that she would be doing the girls a favor if she managed to figure this thing out. Told herself that she would save countless other young girls from a fate worse than death. But the guilt still ate at her like a cancer.
Across the courtyard, Byron reached for a towel to wipe the sweat away, and she nearly protested. Would have, if he’d been close enough to hear her. She liked him the way he was—hot and sweaty and deliciously inviting. If she had her way, he’d walk around like that all the time. Of course, she’d have a hard time keeping her tongue in her mouth if he did, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
Long seconds passed as she imagined running her tongue down his glistening neck to his well-padded shoulders before moving on to his glorious chest and the dark blond happy trail that disappeared beneath his jeans. Just thinking of what was waiting for her there had her breasts swelling, her nipples tingling. Her thighs aching.
She knew she was using him as a distraction, knew she was thinking about Byron in an effort to keep her mind off that poor girl on the flyer and her parents. But she didn’t care. If something didn’t give between the two of them, she just might die of pure out-and-out sexual frustration.
Squeezing her legs together in an effort to stop the burn, Lacey struggled to look away. After the way she’d shut him down at Café du Monde, she had no business looking at him. No business wanting him—or any other man, for that matter.
But for the first time since she had gotten away from Curtis, she felt like a fraud telling herself that. She did want a man. Worse, she wanted Byron. The comments she’d gotten on her last blog entry had proven that to her.
As she’d been going through the normal response posts to her latest fantasy blog, all she’d been able to think about was Byron. She wanted Byron to do the things to her the other men promised, wanted Byron to tease her into a frenzy and make her scream and cry with pleasure.
With a moan, Lacey squeezed her legs together and tried to concentrate on something besides sex. But it was hard, damn hard, when Byron was directly across from her—half-naked and raring to go.
What was even more difficult was knowing that when she’d read the mystery responder’s comments, when she’d imagined him doing all the wicked, wonderful things he’d promised her, it had been Byron’s face that came to mind. Byron whom she’d imagined hovering over her. Byron whom she’d imagined touching and kissing and licking her all over.
Ugh. She ran a hand over her eyes in an effort to block Byron’s hot, ripped body from her view. But the image was burned into her retinas, and it was all she could do to stop herself from getting his attention. From beckoning him over to her.
What was wrong with her that she was suddenly having such a rough time distinguishing fantasy from reality? One of the things she loved about her blog was her ability to live out her fantasies, even if it was only on a computer screen. She’d spent so much of her life picking boring men, men like Curtis who didn’t want her suggestions in the bedroom, that she loved having access to men who weren’t disgusted by what she wanted.
On her blog, she could act out everything she’d ever imagined. She could get comments from men who did like her suggestions, did like her ideas. And she could imagine what it was like to be touched by men like that, could imagine that she was actually trusting enough—healed enough—to open herself up to another man after everything that had happened with Curtis.
But that was fantasy, her blogging personality an alter ego she’d made up to satisfy her sexual nature without any risk to her heart. Never before had she had a specific man in mind to fulfill those fantasies. Never had she pictured the face of the man she fantasized about.
Now she did. Now when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Byron. When she imagined calloused hands running over her body, she wanted them to be his. When she imagined taking someone inside her, she needed it to be him.
It was embarrassing—humiliating, really—how much she wanted this guy. Wanted his attention. Wanted his body. Wanted him, when what she should want was anything but.
But allowing those fantasies to encompass her neighbor, to bleed into her real life, was dangerous territory.
After all, she’d done this before, Lacey reminded herself before she could get totally off track. She’d been drawn in by a smoldering look, a sexy voice. A great body. Had tried to live out all of her sensual fantasies as she had given herself totally to a man. All she’d gotten in return was more grief than any woman should have to handle.
As memories of her time with Curtis started to invade the sensual haze surrounding her, Lacey felt herself grow cold despite the heat. The crappiness of her day came back to her, had her gulping her wine as all the mug shots she’d pored over of the girls who had been arrested swam sickeningly in front of her eyes.
Most of them had been released on bail and disappeared before they had to stand trial, but the ones who had gone through court—the ones who had served time—surveyed the world with haunted looks that kept her up at night, especially after her talk with Veronique. Like the Mardi Gras Madam herself, these girls were terrified of something—and she needed to find out what it was.
For the story, for her own peace of mind, but mostly for the girls who hadn’t been able to help themselves. She knew what it was to be helpless, knew what it was to be powerless when—
She cut off her thoughts with another big sip of wine. It slid down her throat smoothly, warmly, and it randomly occurred to her that she was abusing a very costly bottle of wine. Fine wine was meant to be savored, not swigged. Meant to be enjoyed slowly, not used to anesthetize all thoughts and feelings.
But right now she wanted to be anesthetized, needed it with a passion that couldn’t be denied. And if she couldn’t do it with sex—with the incredible release of tension that came from surrendering her body to a lover, with driving a lover wild—then she might as well do it with a fine bottle of red.
Lacey took another sip, but the ache inside of her only grew stronger. She was sad, lonely, horrified. Desperate for the comfort that only came with the touch of another.
It had been so long since she’d been held by a lover—by anyone. Too long since she’d trusted a man enough to give herself over to him. Certainly those last months with Curtis had been more about sheer survival than pleasure.
She ached to feel strong arms around her once again. To feel soft lips brush over her skin. To feel steady hands clamp on her thighs and open her fully to her lover’s gaze.
She glanced at her computer, thought about blogging her frustrations out. After all, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time in the last year she’d done just that. But the cold computer screen held no interest for her.
Byron set down one of the weights and guzzled a bottle of water, and desire ripped through her like a finely wrought blade as she watched his throat work. She told herself to turn away, told herself it was disgusting to watch a man who didn’t know she was there. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.
The sight of Byron, half-naked and ready to go, held her transfixed.
And when he lifted the navy blue towel to his face, then ran it over the back of his neck, she did whimper. The movement highlighted his washboard abs and thickly muscled chest, and it was all she could do to keep from panting.
She forced herself to move, to head back inside, but she couldn’t resist one last glance in his direction. One last stare at everything she was giving up so that she could stay the course she’d put herself on eighteen months before. And that’s when he caught her gaping like a schoolgirl looking at her very first crush.
Their eyes connected and for a second she swore she could feel the pop and sizzle of the electricity flowing between t
hem. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment at being caught, and she wanted nothing more than to duck inside and never show her face again.
Except he didn’t seem to mind the fact that she’d been watching him, didn’t seem to care that she had invaded his privacy. He smiled at her—a warm, welcoming kind of grin that seemed totally at odds with the control freak she’d met at Café du Monde—and she couldn’t help responding to it.
Her lips curved of their own volition, and while her smile was a little more sheepish than his, it was still genuine. Still pleased. Still capable of getting her into trouble.
They stayed that way for long seconds, neither one of them moving as they watched each other in perfect accord. And then he was finishing what he’d started, was running the towel over his face and chest before rubbing it quickly over his stomach and reaching for a black T-shirt. He pulled it over his head with a determination that couldn’t be denied.
Lacey found herself wanting to protest, to tell him to stay exactly as he was. Her fantasy: strong and sweaty and half-naked. But he was more than a fantasy—much more—and she’d do well to remember it.
Her smile faded and she took a step back, followed by a second and a third. A little harmless flirtation was okay. Fantasizing late at night, when she was hurting no one, was even better. But thinking of Byron as her real-life fantasy? Letting herself get caught up in the dream? That was just asking for trouble. And if there was one thing she didn’t need more of, it was trouble.
She moved back one last step, until she once again hovered in the doorway of her apartment. Pausing, she watched as the smile drained from his face. As his laughing eyes grew darker, more intense. As he stiffened in that I-can’t-believe-she’s-doing-this-again way that so many men did.
And then he was raising his hand, pointing one lone, tanned finger at her in a You stay right there kind of gesture. The order stiffened her spine in a way little else could, had her wanting nothing more than to tell him to go to hell.
But she didn’t. She didn’t argue, didn’t tell him off, didn’t do anything but stare at the empty space where he had last been standing. And when there was a knock on her front door a few minutes later, she knew she never would.
But what would she do?
Would she let him in or tell him off?
As she shuffled slowly to the front door, even she didn’t know the answer to those questions. All she knew was that she’d better figure things out—and fast. Or her life would, once again, be spinning completely out of her control.
Chapter Six
Y ou come to me when I least expect it. When my heart is pumping and my blood boiling and I expect anything but you. I open the door and see that wonderful, crooked smile of yours and everything that has come before this moment is gone.
You don’t say hello, don’t make small talk, don’t do anything but ask permission with a quirk of your eyebrow, a tilt of your perfectly formed chin.
Yes, yes, yes. You know the answer before you ask, and as you pull me against you I know that things will never again be the same.
I want to touch you. To run my hands over your chest and back and ass until I understand the hardness that is you.
I want to taste you. To lick my way down your stomach, to take your cock in my mouth, to tease and torment your balls with flicks of my tongue until you are as familiar to me as my own breath.
I want to give you pleasure. To make you come in my mouth and my body again and again and again until I’m drowning in you and you are lost in me.
I want the same for you. From you.
Your hands in my hair.
Your mouth on my breast.
Your body backing mine against the wall as you thrust so deeply inside me that I will never get you out.
I want you.
I need . . .
You.
Byron’s heart was pounding fast and hard as he stood outside Lacey’s door. As he waited for her to let him in, the words of one of his favorite fantasies from What a Girl Wants ran through his head—one that he’d read over and over again until he’d had it memorized.
The first time he had read it, it had reached inside him, sunk its claws in good and hard. So that every time he thought of making love, every time he thought of her, it was there in his mind. Begging to be fulfilled. Begging to be made reality with the right lover—one who wanted the same things from him that he wanted from her.
Lacey would be that lover. He knew it—felt it—and couldn’t let himself believe for one second that a woman as passionate as needy as she was would turn him away. Not when he was willing to fulfill every single fantasy she’d ever had.
Willing? He laughed grimly at the mediocre word. He was eager to fulfill her fantasies. Dying to fulfill them, and he didn’t know what he’d do if she turned him away again. The idea of her doing those things with someone else had his stomach tightening, his jaw clenching. She was his fantasy, and he would do whatever it took to see that she got what she wanted. What they both needed.
The apartment door cracked open and he watched hungrily as Lacey was revealed to him, one tantalizing sliver at a time. First one delicate foot, with toes tipped in scarlet. Then the smooth expanse of a leg ending in the smallest pair of short-shorts he’d ever had the privilege to encounter.
As the door continued to open—one slow inch at a time—he was treated to a quick view of her bare stomach followed by an expanse of white tank top that hugged her small breasts, much as he would like to. And finally, when the door was fully ajar, he got to see the best part. Her glorious pixie face, surrounded by miles and miles of hair so red it was nearly crimson.
Her verdant eyes locked with his, sparkling with enough desire and mischief to have his cock throbbing in rhythm with his too-fast breathing. She wasn’t smiling, but then, neither was he. The desire was too intense for anything as tepid as a grin; too overwhelming for anything but the intensity flowing between them.
At his first full glimpse of her, he wanted nothing more than to grab her, to shove her shorts down and take her in every way a man could take a woman. But there was more than desire in her eyes, more than the lust that was threatening to overwhelm him. There was a touch of fear that calmed him faster than anything else could, an uncertainty that warned him he had to take things much more slowly than he’d originally intended.
Suppressing his groan—as well as the sexual yearning that made every muscle in his body ache—he leaned against the doorframe and tried for a smile. “Hi, there.”
“Hi.” The word was breathy, a little high-pitched, and he couldn’t help the spurt of satisfaction that shot through him at the knowledge that she was as aroused—as out of control—as he was.
Casting around for something to say that didn’t begin with Wanna fuck? he cleared his throat, then said, “I was going to head down to the pool for a swim. Do you want to come with me?”
Those emerald eyes widened—first with surprise and then with a disappointment that made him happier than anything had in a very long time. “I, umm—” She paused; stared at him in confusion. “Really? A swim?”
“Sure. It’s hot as hell outside, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Her look said that it was also hot as hell inside, the flames between them raging like a five-alarm fire. But all she said was, “You don’t exactly look ready for a swim.” She looked him over from the top of his black T-shirt to the tips of his jeans.
He laughed; he couldn’t help it. He was just so delighted with Lacey and the fact that she hadn’t shut the door in his face. Thrilled that she was going to invite him into her apartment, and that very soon, he might actually have a shot at getting inside of her as well. That, more than anything else, put an indelible grin on his face.
“I can change.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, but—” Her voice broke.
“But what?” He kept his voice deliberately low, so as not to spook her—or jar her out of the accommodating mood she seemed to be in.
“But—
” She took a deep breath, then another and another until he feared for a second that she might actually hyperventilate. She didn’t, and the odd breathing pattern actually seemed to give her courage; for when their eyes met again, the wariness was absent from hers. In its place was a determination—and a desire—that couldn’t be denied.
“I don’t want to swim right now.”
“No?” He cocked an eyebrow and prayed that he wouldn’t humiliate himself by losing it before he ever got his hands on her.
She shook her head. “No.” And then turned and headed deeper into her apartment, leaving the door wide open behind her.
His heart slammed in his chest and his cock tightened to the point of insanity as he followed her inside like a pet on a leash. For a moment, he wondered what had changed her mind—she’d seemed so dead set against this when they’d spoken the other day. But then she stopped next to the couch, held out a hand to him. And every thought—every worry—flew right out of his head until nothing existed but the need to touch her. To hold her. To make her cry out in ecstasy again and again.
Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and gave one sharp tug that had her stumbling forward. First one step, then another, until she was pressed against him. But she was so small that they didn’t quite match up. Cupping his hands under her glorious ass, he lifted her so that they were touching from breast to thigh.
It felt better than he could have imagined to have her against him like this, her soft breasts flush against his chest, her flat stomach resting against his, her plump, sexy mouth almost on the level with his.
“Hi,” he whispered, leaning forward so that only centimeters separated his lips from hers.
“Hello, yourself,” she whispered back with a grin.
“Is this okay?” He was dying to get inside her, but he didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to take things too quickly. As he looked into her wary eyes, he began to understand for the first time why Lacey put her fantasies on the Internet. She was too shy or too scared—he wasn’t sure which one yet—to live them in real life.