She didn’t know. He was intoxicating. Dangerous. She hadn’t known the truth of it until she’d seen him again. She hadn’t known exactly what that man could do to her body simply by talking to her, by just being himself. And how much more powerful would his effect on her be when she was naked beneath his hands? When she was vulnerable in subspace?
For the first time she had to question the viability of her plan. Maybe she was crazy to think she could be with Mick. Be with him, if he was not going to . . . what?
“If he’s not going to love me,” she admitted, her voice a breathless whisper.
The water fell, echoing around her. She let the cold calm her.
No. She could do this. If Mick wouldn’t give her his heart, then at least she could finally give him her body. All of it, with everything out on the table between them.
Except that she was still in love with him. That secret she would keep to herself.
CHAPTER Three
MICK LOCKED THE door to his flat and went downstairs. Moving out onto the quiet New Orleans street, he jogged down the sidewalk. Nothing too fast, keeping an easy, even pace, warming up for the workout he’d do once he reached the gym ten blocks away.
He needed the workout. Not only to keep in shape for his fights, but after seeing Allie, his blood had been humming too damn fast. Too damn hot.
He needed to work her out of his system before she was in his hands.
A part of him could hardly believe he was going to have Allie at The Bastille. Under his command. In his ropes. He was a bastard for agreeing to her crazy plan. But she had the references. She obviously knew what she was getting into from the BDSM side of things. She sure as hell didn’t know what she was getting into with him, no matter how many years they’d known each other.
He took a right down Esplanade Avenue, free of traffic and crowds this early in the morning, heading toward the Faubourg Marigny. He picked up his pace, reveling in the way his lungs opened up.
How did you warn someone of your own bitterness? He didn’t like to admit it to himself. But it was there, like a serpent hiding in the shadows. Bitterness about his own foolish mistakes. About what he’d had to deny himself because of it—being a firefighter, like his father, his brothers, his grandfather. That anger burned through him to this day, but he kept it banked through the fights, and through the control he exerted as a Dominant.
Except that Allie challenged his control too damn much. But he was going to play her anyway.
Maintain control.
Words to live by. And he did, damn it. He would.
He passed the old iron gates of Washington Square, the trees bent, their leaves nearly touching the ground. A few homeless, regular residents of the park, still lay sleeping under their blankets on the grass, where later in the day the local musicians would jam.
He and Allie had spent some time on that grass, listening to music, talking, kissing . . .
The old plaid blanket he kept in a roll on the back of his bike. Allie lying on it, her hair spread in long, silky strands, her eyes glinting golden in the sunlight.
“Mick, kiss me again.” A small smile on her lovely face, her hands coming up to push his hair out of his eyes, then skimming down to grab the lapels of his leather jacket and pulling him closer. She laughed. “Come on, Mick. You know I can never get enough. Kissing is my favorite thing.”
“You’re my favorite thing, Allie girl.”
“Oh, now you really have to kiss me.”
He leaned in to press his lips to hers. Lips like plush velvet, tasting of summer. Tasting of her. Their skin, their hair, smelling of the sunshine in the park. Kissing until their lips hurt, then laughing about it. His heart hammering simply because he held his girl so close, because her eyes were so damn pretty, shining with love when he pulled back to look at her. Love for him. Pretty heady stuff. But she was his girl, and this was exactly how it should be.
Except for the dark beast he kept hidden away from her. The one side of him he could never show her.
Damn it.
He pushed himself harder, starting to break a sweat in the humid morning air.
He needed to stop thinking of her for one damn minute. That was how he’d let his sparring partner’s fist through yesterday morning.
No point in thinking about it now. He forced his mind to empty, to focus on his breathing, on his feet pounding the pavement as he ran the last few blocks.
He slowed as he reached the gym and swung open the door. It was already crowded, but he spotted his sparring partner, Antoine Duke, working out with the double-end bag, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. He’d see if Antoine would have time to work the heavy bag with him when he was done. He’d be meeting his Muay Thai instructor later for a more thorough MMA workout. Meanwhile, he’d start on the speed bag. It’d be good for him. Help him burn off some of this energy raging through his system.
He would be in the gym every morning until he saw Allie. And maybe every night. He hated to admit how much he needed it right now, but seeing her had dragged memories to the surface, things he’d rather forget.
Sometimes he thought he’d rather forget her—not that it was possible. Especially now that she was in New Orleans.
And he was going to play her at the club.
He took a quick jab at the bag, let his fist plow a lot harder into it than he should since he hadn’t warmed up his hands yet. Fuck it. He would do whatever it took to calm the hell down. Had to. Because these same hands would be touching her bare flesh all too soon.
He slammed the bag again, focusing on the pain in his knuckles. Welcomed it. Deserved it.
Allie. Naked. Under his command.
Oh, yeah. He was definitely going to hell. He was pretty sure it’d be worth it.
* * *
MORNING CAME TOO early, the sky a still blanket of fog outside her windows when Allie realized she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, waking up as often as every hour. Always thinking of Mick.
She sat up, stretched, threw back the covers and picked up her robe, slipped it on. She made her way into the kitchen, pausing to open up her laptop as she passed the table before she started coffee brewing. She’d need it this morning. She sat down and browsed through email while she waited for the coffeepot to finish.
She’d always loved the scent of coffee. It reminded her of her father. He’d always been the first one up in the morning, making coffee for her mother before she left to go to Dolcetti, the family bakery, at four a.m. It was her father who was there to help her get ready for school, who made her breakfast, packed her lunch, even braided her hair. Except when he was on tour—then her mother and her aunts would take turns staying with her until it was time for school. But it was those mornings with her father she had loved best.
Bertrand LeClair had been a brilliant concert pianist. She remembered music in the house, always, whether it was him playing the old grand piano in his study she wasn’t allowed into without his permission, or the symphonies and operas he’d listened to.
Her mother hadn’t been to the opera since her father died. She couldn’t bear it. But Allie still adored the opera her father had taught her to love.
She got up when the coffeepot beeped and poured herself a cup, took it back to the table and clicked into her music library, opened her favorite recording of Lakmé. It was a sad opera about ill-fated lovers. She’d often thought of herself and Mick as Lakmé and Gérald. Not that she planned to kill herself, like the poor, grieving Lakmé. It was simply that sense of impossibility that had haunted her for so long.