Meant For Me (Hawkeye Book 3) Page 4

  A few seconds later, the singer took the mic and announced another song with The Crush and signaled to his bandmates.

  The audience was captivated by the haunting lyricism of a relationship gone bad. The Crush closed his eyes, as if giving himself over to emotional pain.

  Over the years, she’d protected some well-regarded singers. But she’d never been swept away by their talent. This man bled through is voice. She was quickly becoming a fan.

  When the song ended, the crowd launched into rapturous applause, catcalls, screams. More people than was legal had shoved inside the door, and after they had him securely back with his entourage, Torin found the owner to tell him to get rid of some of the patrons before the fire department showed up.

  She glanced toward the guy she’d stunned. Though he was still sitting, he was doing well enough to allow one of the shot girls to pour a blue-colored drink into his open mouth.

  “I see our friend is okay,” she observed when he rejoined her.

  “Stupid runs deep.”

  It was close to four a.m. when the group called it a night.

  “Breakfast?” Torin suggested as The Crush’s limo’s taillights faded from view.

  Right now, adrenaline was keeping her upright. When it faded, she’d drop on her ass. If she ate now, hunger might not wake her up in a couple of hours.

  “Shamrock Grill’s a couple blocks down.”

  Her tummy rumbled.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He grinned, easing tension from his features.

  When his tone was teasing like that, he became even more irresistible, sneaking beneath her defenses.

  They walked down Bourbon Street. Several bars were still open and had plenty of customers. It took some time in the relative quiet for her ears to stop ringing.

  All the tables at the Shamrock were filled, so they seated themselves at the counter on red-vinyl-covered stools.

  She opted for eggs and toast while Torin dug into a massive pork chop with mashed potatoes and fried okra.

  After a drink of his black coffee, he pushed the cup aside. “Hell of a performer, isn’t he? The Crush.”

  “I’d go see him in concert.”

  He reached forward to feather back her hair.

  She froze, wide-eyed. Heat, long and slow, arced through her. She told herself to pull away. No other partner had ever touched her like that, and she shouldn’t allow him to be the first. But her lips parted, and she remained where she was. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking the swelling. That guy hit you pretty hard.”

  “I’m… It’s fine.”

  “Not completely. You’ve got a bruise to go along with a nasty bump.”

  “I’ll put some ice on it when we’re back at the carriage house.” But she wouldn’t, mostly because it had been so many hours ago that she doubted treating it would do much good.

  “Yeah.” Slowly, he lowered his hand. “Good plan.”

  To him, the touch had been perfunctory. It meant nothing. But her pulse was thready. Ever since the beginning, she’d had disturbing reactions to Torin. Being with him was making her reactions more intense, not less.

  Trying to ignore him—and failing—Mira concentrated on slathering raspberry jam on a piece of toast that she didn’t really plan to eat.

  Every bit of her was aware of him, his crisp scent, the shadow of beard on his strong chin. And when she hazarded a glance up, he was staring at her, his electric-blue eyes hooded and brooding. “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He drummed his fingers on the hilt of his knife, his body language saying otherwise. But he shifted his focus, to the almost empty coffee cup, making sure she could no longer see his whole face. “You going to keep all of your thoughts to yourself?”

  “Not hiding anything.”

  “Right. You’re a regular open book, Commander.”

  “Eat your toast, Araceli.” He snatched up the bill, then strode to the cashier to pay. “I need to get you to bed.”

  Chapter Two

  “Going somewhere, Commander Carter?” Mira glanced up from the British crime drama she was streaming and muted the television. Just as he had for the past two Monday nights, Torin was leaving the carriage house around nine p.m. If his usual pattern held, he’d return sometime after one. It didn’t matter to her where he went, but the fact that he didn’t volunteer the information made her curious. And when she’d asked, he’d given a vague half answer, intriguing her further.

  “Don’t wait up,” he responded.

  Though they’d been under the same roof, sharing a bathroom, eating most meals together, partnering for over a dozen operations, they kept their private lives as protected as possible. She trained at the gym, met with Hallie for a couple of happy hours, indulged in the occasional café au lait, visited some of New Orleans’s best galleries, and tried to ignore the effect her former instructor had on her sex drive.

  Tonight, he was wearing a long-sleeved white dress shirt and tailored slacks. His shoes were polished to a high-shine. He smelled of temptation.

  “Hot date?”

  “Fishing for information?” he countered.

  “Nah.” Pretending disinterest, she turned the volume back up.

  The moment the door sealed behind him, she moved to the window and nudged back the blinds to watch him reverse out of the garage. As if knowing she was there, he stopped near a lamppost and lifted his right index finger in acknowledgment.

  Did he miss nothing?

  As she’d already planned to, she crossed to the kitchen table, snagged her keys, then waited until the gate closed behind him before jogging down the stairs to her car.

  A short time later, she was behind him on the road. Keeping a couple of vehicles between them, she followed him onto Saint Charles Avenue. When he turned onto Loyola, she raised her eyebrows. The French Quarter? Seemed likely since this was the same route he’d traveled when he took her to dinner that first night.

  She lost him on a narrow pedestrian-and-vehicle-packed one-way street. Having no other real option, she continued on, then spotted him again entering a parking lot on Iberville. It wasn’t the same one he’d used when they went to dinner. She pulled over, parking illegally next to the curb, waiting for him.

  Eventually, he emerged to head down Royal Street. Last week, she’d browsed art galleries there, but she was guessing he wasn’t interested in paintings or sculptures.

  Knowing the risk of a ticket—or worse, getting towed—she slipped out of her car to follow him.

  As if suspecting he had a tail, or just taking appropriate precautions, he darted through jammed, honking vehicles and turned onto Toulouse, heading deeper into the heart of the French Quarter.

  As quick as she could, she followed him, down a couple of blocks until…

  She pressed her back against a nearby building as he opened an unmarked green door. One she knew well. The Quarter, New Orleans’s oldest, most vaunted BDSM club.

  Holy hell.

  Torin Carter was a Dom? And he attended her club?

  She dragged in a deep breath. Her fantasies about him hadn’t been far out of line. Had something deep inside her intuitively responded to his unspoken vibe?

  A tourist carrying a camera jostled into her, dragging her back to reality.

  Still hardly able to think, she pushed away from the wall and joined the throngs on the sidewalk.

  Now what? Even if it meant seeing him there, Mira refused to give up her occasional visit. BDSM scenes weren’t just something casual for her. They were much more than a simple, pleasurable release. Inside the construct and rules, she could be free, let go in ways she wasn’t able to in the outside world. Participating fed something essential inside her.

  In front of her, a reveler lurched to a stop, and she bumped into him. “Sorry.” She shook her head as a way to forcibly reel in her thoughts. Allowing Torin’s secret and its implications to distract her was a sure way to lose her edge.

  Focusing on where she was going, she walked to a corner restaurant and ordered a muffuletta sandwich to go. It was ginormous enough to feed her for two meals.

  When she returned to her car, there was a parking ticket on it. Of course. At least she hadn’t been towed.

  The later it got, the more difficult it became to navigate the narrow one-way streets. Many pedestrians didn’t even look before stepping into traffic.

  The drive back to the mansion took much longer than the trip to the French Quarter, and her mind was still scattered when she parked on the property.

  Because safety was ingrained, she checked the grounds before entering the carriage house and closing the door behind her.

  On automatic, she ate part of her sandwich, then wrapped the remainder and stored it in the refrigerator. Restless, she checked email. Still empty. And no notifications on social media. That wasn’t a surprise. Because of the nature of her job, she rarely posted her whereabouts or anything personal. She glanced at the latest memes from her friends. A lot of them had to do with parenting or whether it was wine o’clock yet.

  It was as if everyone she knew had a totally different experience of being alive than she did.

  Mira closed her browser and plopped onto the couch in front of the television to scroll through the programming guide. There were at least a hundred choices, and none of them captured her interest.

  With a sigh, she admitted the truth to herself.

  She wanted to go to the club.

  Action was the only thing that soothed her and allowed her to put her demons to rest.

  Mira stood, turned off the television, then picked up her phone to call Hallie. “Are you still planning to go to the Quarter Wednesday night?”

  “Oh my God.” Silence echoed between them. “Are you serious? Tell me you’re coming!”

  She and Hallie had attended the same boarding school, then later, college. Even though they couldn’t be more different, they’d roomed together and become lifelong friends.

  “Earth to Mira.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “Yes…or, well…I’m thinking about it.”

  “That will make it so much more fun!”

  “I’ll be on duty, so there’s a chance I’ll get a last-minute assignment.” Since it was a Wednesday night and the schedule was still clear, things looked good.

  “It’s a Victorian theme night. You have something to wear, right?”

  “No.”

  “Even better! Let’s meet tomorrow at the costume store, then go to happy hour at the Maison Sterling. Ever since you mentioned it, I’ve wanted to try it. Four o’clock?”

  After they ended call, Mira turned the television on again. The drama couldn’t hold her attention, and neither could a stand-up comedian.

  An hour later, she gave up again, she changed into her bathing suit and headed down the stairs to the hot tub.

  She sank into the water up to her neck, then tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

  Where was Torin now? Sitting in the bar, observing what was happening in the main dungeon? Scening with some lucky sub?

  Damnation and fuck it all.

  She didn’t want to allow her thoughts to go there.

  Did he have someone? A sub? If he had a girlfriend, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it for the month they’d been assigned together. But it was completely possible for him to have a woman he played with at the Quarter.

  Taunted by her own thoughts, she left the tub in favor of making a few laps in the swimming pool.

  The water was blessedly cool on her skin, and the within a few minutes, she was able to banish thoughts of him pleasing some unnamed woman…at least until she went to bed to toss and turn.

  Around two, she woke up, dragged out of a deep sleep.

  She climbed out of bed and grabbed her robe. As she left the bedroom, she tightened the belt.

  The front door was closed and locked. Torin’s bedroom door stood ajar, and there was no sign of him anywhere in the carriage house. His wallet wasn’t on the counter, and the jacket he’d been wearing wasn’t hanging from the peg near the door. Obviously, he hadn’t returned from his night out.

  Without turning on any lights, she walked to a window. The courtyard was empty, and trees swayed in the gentle breeze.

  She wandered toward a window on the far side of the carriage house for a different view when a key turned in the lock.

  Moments later, Torin entered and flipped on a light switch.

  He stood there, completely naked, holding his clothes.

  Water droplets shimmered on his smooth, bare chest, and his dick—massive dick, some wild part of her thoughts corrected—was pulsingly erect.

  She ordered herself to look away, perhaps mumble something as she fled. Instead, she was immobilized.

  “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  Being a light sleeper was a hazard of the job.

  Torin offered no apology for his nakedness, and in fact, seemed completely unconcerned about it.

  Of course, she’d seen him in his swimwear and from a distance. This, though, was different. His muscles were clearly delineated, and if she reached out, she could skim her fingers over his taut, gorgeous muscles.

  He turned to close the door, giving her a full view of his tight ass. This was the perfect opportunity for her to excuse herself, but instead, she stood where she was, unmoving.

  He placed his clothes on a nearby table, then, in silence, faced her again. His cock was scant inches from her.

  “You should go back to bed.”

  He’d given voice to her thoughts. But his prompting didn’t make her walk away.

  “Final warning, Araceli.”

  “Or what?” Her words were a whisper, more of an invitation than a challenge.

  “Or what?” He swirled his hand into her hair. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  No. Yes.

  Smelling of sin and danger, he leaned in, bringing his magnificently erect cock even closer to her. “Tell me not to.”

  This, inviting him, tempting him, was foolish. He might be able to fuck her and forget her, move on with his life. But to her, it would mean something, no matter how much she tried to pretend it wouldn’t. And yet… Even if she might get hurt, she wanted him. “I might die if you don’t.”

  He brushed his lips across hers in a sweet, tender gesture that was completely unexpected. He’d been at the Quarter, so she’d anticipated he would claim her in a much more dominant manner.

  Then she recognized his strategic brilliance. The brief touch fed her hunger, rather than sated it. “Carter…”

  “You’re so fucking desirable, Mira.”

  At the use of her first name, with a slight, sexy roll to r, her tummy fluttered. She reached up to loop her arms around his neck. His skin was cool and damp, and droplets from his hair dripped onto her forearm.

  “That’s it.” He captured her chin. “Give me what I want.”

  Responding to him, she lifted onto her toes. Except for that night in training, they’d never been this close. The reality was more overwhelming than she remembered.

  She kissed him, then captured his lower lip with her teeth. He groaned, turning her on. The moment she released him, she soothed the tiny bite with a soft kiss.

  “You read me right, Araceli.”

  His approval made her pulse skitter.

  “And now…” He seized control, blue eyes darkening with intent.

  This time, he sought entrance to her mouth, and she yielded, opening wide for him. He tasted faintly of whiskey. Bourbon, maybe. If so, that meant he hadn’t scened at the club, unless he’d headed for the bar after a very brief encounter. That, she couldn’t imagine.

  He moved a hand to the center of her back and placed the other at the curve of her spine. It was intimate, and yet…not, as if he was holding part of himself back.

  With restrained power, he brought her in a little closer. His cock pressed against her, making the world swirl. He deepened the kiss, exploring her responses, finding what she liked and giving her more of that.

  Mira met his slow, sensual dance and surrendered to it until she went dizzy. Her body softened, and she tightened her grip on him so that she could remain upright.

  For a moment, he ended the kiss, giving her time to inhale a shaky breath. But he never let go. In fact, he spread his fingers farther apart so he could hold her more completely.

  “I’m not done with you.”

  “Good.”

  With a deep sound of approval, he claimed her again.

  This time, he wasn’t gentle. He thrust his tongue into her mouth possessively. She liked it every bit as much as the first kiss, and maybe even more.

  He consumed her, igniting a flame that had been dormant for more than a year. Since she was focused on her career, she didn’t indulge in casual sex. Suddenly, though, she ached, wanting to be filled, to be taken. But not by any man. By Torin.

  She moved one of her arms and dug her fingers into his hair.

  Slowly, he eased back.

  Part of her was grateful, another, not at all.

  When he lowered his hands, she unwrapped herself from around him.

  She met his gaze and was consumed by the way he looked at her. Longing. And… Regret? “I should go to bed,” she said, an echo of his earlier sentiment.

  “Agreed.”

  She took a step back. Her nightclothes were damp from his skin, and a couple of droplets of water clung to her. His turgid cock was pointed her direction, throbbing. Her hand trembled, and she wanted to reach out and explore him. Would he let her?

  The answer didn’t matter.

  She was too smart to find out.

  Mira hurried back to her room. She didn’t care if she appeared to be fleeing. She was.

  She shut the door with a decisive click, more for his benefit than hers.

  In the dark, beneath the sheet, she pressed a hand against her swollen lips, reliving his tenderness as well as his urgency.

  Whatever it was she felt for him, it disturbed her. She wanted to name it lust, but it was much deeper. Desire? Not deep enough. It was more like recognition. Inevitability. He saw into her, guessed her secrets, and he still wanted her.

  She yanked the sheets around her shoulders, like a cocoon.