Hold Me Down (The Deacons of Bourbon Street #3) Page 10

  She had no idea what he wanted from her or what he’d say, but one thing was for sure. He was pissed. His rage was like a storm front, projecting ahead of him as he moved, causing people to either turn and stare or get the hell out of his way.

  He was kind of terrifying. Tall and broad, his eyes black with fury as he bore down on her. But she didn’t move or back down. Because he had no right to be fucking angry. She was the one who was allowed, not him, and if he took it out on her she’d cut him. Again.

  Leon reached out and grabbed her arm, moving without pausing toward the back of the bar and the doors to the courtyard. She debated whether or not to try and pull away, but this was supposed to be a happy event and she was supposed to be his old lady. Causing a scene by resisting him wasn’t going to help.

  She went with him as he banged open the doors at the back of the bar. He didn’t stop, moving down the corridor, then out into the humid heat of the courtyard. Only there did he let go of her arm, slamming the doors shut behind them with such force they bounced on their hinges.

  He turned back to her, but she didn’t wait. She’d be fucked if she put up with him acting like this.

  “This isn’t your tragedy,” she said coldly before he could speak. “It’s mine. So stop acting like you’re the one who had their uterus removed.”

  Chapter 7

  Her voice was a hard slap, cutting through the red haze that had clouded his vision.

  She stood in front of him, a small curvy figure in black leather, her hair a spill of red silk over one shoulder. Her face was white, a cold kind of strength in her expression. But that didn’t hide the pain he could see lurking just beneath the surface.

  He’d always known she’d wanted a family; they used to talk about it after he’d joined the Deacons. Sitting in Pete’s workshop as he’d watched her tinker on his bike, sharing their plans for the future, what they wanted out of life. Alice’s had been simple. She wanted to have her own business, the garage, and she wanted a family of her own.

  A family she now couldn’t have.

  When she’d told him what happened, he’d had to get up. Had to leave before he did something stupid like hurl the table right through the fucking window. He couldn’t have said where his anger came from, only that it had boiled up inside him, a black, impotent kind of fury.

  You know where it comes from. You didn’t want to leave. Not the Deacons, not New Orleans, and not her. But Priest made you go.

  Leon stared at her, his heart beating hard and fast inside his rib cage.

  Of course he hadn’t wanted to go. The Deacons had been far more loyal and true than his own damn family, and after the mess of that last job, Priest casting him out had felt like a betrayal. Like finding out the truth about his father had felt like a betrayal.

  He’d lost his family. He’d lost Alice. And because he’d left, there had been consequences for her. Consequences he hadn’t known about because he’d been trying too hard to hold to the vows he’d made to himself. Keeping his eyes on the goal of returning to the exclusion of everything else.

  This isn’t your tragedy.

  No. It was both of theirs. Because he should have been there to protect her and he hadn’t been. Once again, the actions of a fucking Delacroix had ruined her life.

  “I didn’t want to go,” he said hoarsely. “I wanted to stay. But staying would have brought down a world of shit on Priest and I couldn’t do that. He was my president. He told me to go and I had to. But…fuck, Ally. I didn’t want to go.”

  She stared at him, her mouth a tight line, her arms crossed as if protecting herself. “Whether you wanted to or not, it doesn’t matter. You did go and I made a stupid decision that had horrible consequences. Nothing can change that.”

  He could see why she’d done what she’d done all of a sudden. Cut her Deacons ties, gone to the Ministry. She’d been trying to re-create the family she’d lost. The family she couldn’t have.

  A grief he hadn’t been aware of feeling turned over inside him. Deep regret for a chance that was now gone. A path he could have taken if only he’d been more aware of her. If only he’d thought more of his future than he had of his past. But he hadn’t. Alice had been the one with the dreams and the plans. He’d been the one content with where he was, not looking to see where he wanted to head. After his strict upbringing with its emphasis on manners and correctness, being a Deacon had felt like freedom following years of being locked in a jail cell. It called to the wild part of him that had always been there and he’d thrown himself into it with abandon. His life had always been mapped out for him—being a Delacroix was a career path all in itself—and for the first time, he didn’t have to do anything but what he wanted. It had been glorious.

  Fuck, what a dumb bastard he was.

  He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair, unable to meet her gaze. Yet he could still feel her anger, still feel her pain. His hand dropped, his anger turning around and around inside him like an animal in a cage, wanting out.

  He didn’t know why he’d brought her out here, what he’d wanted to say. You could only say sorry so many times before the word lost all meaning.

  Well, perhaps there was nothing to say. Perhaps he could only do. And hadn’t he always been better at that anyway?

  Turning back to her, he met her gaze. He remembered her strength, her backbone of pure steel, but underneath that toughness burned a passionate nature. A woman who loved fiercely and loyally, and who left herself vulnerable because of that. Yet she was holding herself, even now, like she was in pain.

  Fuck that. If she didn’t have anyone else to hold her, to help her feel better, then he would. He had a lot to make up for, after all.

  Blue moved, going over to where she stood and, ignoring her protests, he pulled her into his arms. She was stiff and unyielding, but he didn’t let her go, holding her tight as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the leather-and-flowers scent of her. And inevitable as the tide rising or the dawn breaking, the hunger for her rose, too, bringing with it the memories of the dreams he’d had on occasion. Dreams he’d dismissed come morning because he couldn’t do anything about them and didn’t want them anyway.

  Dreams of being in bed with a woman. Of wet heat and satin skin and breathless cries. Red hair across his chest. A white hand on his stomach.

  The first time he’d dreamt of her, he’d thought it was the bayou heat getting to him. The loneliness of the tiny town he’d washed up in. But no matter how hard he’d tried to forget, those dreams had stolen through him, taunting him. And sometimes when he’d taken himself in hand, those dreams had given him pleasure.

  But now she was actually here, in his arms, wearing his patch. She wasn’t just a dream. And he didn’t have to deny it anymore.

  He turned his head, pressing his mouth to her neck, sliding his hands down her back and over the smooth leather covering her ass. He was so hungry, yet he also wanted to give her something. Show her she wasn’t alone. That he was back and he wouldn’t be leaving her.

  Never leave her again.

  Her hands splayed on his chest, her body still rigid. He opened his mouth, nipping the side of her neck, and felt a shiver ripple through her.

  “Don’t,” she said in a soft, hoarse voice. “I meant what I said on the phone. I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”

  He kept his hands on her, squeezing the gently rounded curve of her ass. “Why not?”

  “Because of the Ministry party. B-because…they’ll see the marks.”

  “I won’t leave a mark where they can see.” He soothed the nip he’d given her with his tongue, then kissed her throat again, gentler this time.

  “Leon…No…”

  He shifted his hold, sliding one hand over her butt and down between her thighs, feeling the damp heat of her even through the leather of her pants. She made a choked sound as he pressed his fingers against the seam, stroking, rubbing. The stiffness in her posture was starting to melt and he could hear her breath ca
tch.

  They’d both lost something—chances, opportunities they wouldn’t have again. And nothing they could do would change that. Yet he could ease the grief somehow.

  Drinking worked. Drugs worked. But sometimes pleasure worked even better.

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the outdoor table and chair positioned in the shadows near the back door to The Priory. Then he put her down in one of the white metal chairs and dropped to his knees in front of her.

  She shook her head as his hands went to the fastenings of her leather pants. “No, Leon.”

  He ignored her, undoing the button at the waistband, then tugging at the zipper. “Yeah, so you said. But I think that’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit.” She put her hand over his, gripping him. “I told you why sleeping together was a bad idea.”

  “And that’s the bullshit I was talking about.” He shook her hand away. “You not sleeping with me because you’re afraid I’ll leave a mark and they’ll see. I already told you I’d be careful. They won’t know a thing.”

  But she was shaking her head, inching back on the metal seat and away from him. “I said no.”

  He put his hands on her knees, pressing down to stop her from moving farther, watching her face. She wanted him—he’d tasted it in her kiss, in the sharp intake of breath as he’d run his fingers between her thighs, the way all the stiffness had melted right out of her. So what the fuck was the matter now?

  “You promised you’d be in my bed,” he said roughly. “That was the deal.”

  She glanced away. “Not every night.”

  Oh, no, she wasn’t going to renege on her promise. No damn way. “Yes, every fucking night. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m going to have. So either I fuck you here and now or you come back after the party and I fuck you then. Your choice.”

  Her eyes were black in the darkness, glittering. “Nice to know you respect a woman’s right to say no, asshole. Or are you one of those men who really does think no means yes?”

  If he didn’t know she was afraid, he would have been angry. But it was obvious to him now that fear was at the root of this. He remembered once, years ago, how she’d gotten angry when he’d fallen off his bike and broken his arm. She’d been furious with him, yelling at him, telling him what a stupid prick he was, but he’d seen the fear in her eyes. That same fear was there now, too.

  Sliding his hands up her leather-covered thighs, he gripped them, holding them down in the chair so she couldn’t move. “You know I’m not one of those men. You know that’s not what this is about. You’re afraid.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “You are. I can see it in your face. That’s why you’re so angry.”

  She turned her head sharply away, her chest rising and falling fast, breasts pressing tantalizingly against the cotton of her tank top.

  Oh yeah, he was right. The only question now was what was she so afraid of?

  He leaned in, his body pressing against her legs, his hands moving higher up her thighs. Stretching his thumbs out, he began to stroke them up and down either side of her zipper. She shivered, her hips shifting in response.

  “Why?” he asked in a low voice. “What are you afraid of? Is it me? You know me, Ally. You know I won’t hurt you.”

  But she only shook her head, her mouth in a tight line.

  Fuck this. If she wasn’t going to talk to him, then he’d make her.

  He grabbed the tab of her zipper and began to tug it down.

  “Leon.” Her voice held a rough edge to it. “I said no.”

  “Tell me what you’re afraid of and I’ll stop.” He pulled the zipper down the rest of the way, the leather parting to reveal lacy black panties. His cock was starting to get hard, pressing painfully against the fly of his jeans, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

  The night before, in his bed, he’d been too intent on the needs of his own damn dick and then, after that, too tired to do anything but fall asleep with her in his arms. But now…God, he was so hungry for her. Wanted to taste her more than he wanted his next breath.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said hoarsely. She was clutching the arms of the chair now, her fingers curled around the white metal.

  “No. You don’t. Which means I’m not stopping.” He didn’t hesitate, reaching for the waistband of her pants and gripping on. Then he started pushing them down, taking her panties along with them.

  She made a little sound as he did so, halfway between a cry and a sob. But when he looked up at her, she had her face averted, her gaze off to the right. Her jaw was tight, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  Stubborn, sexy woman. Protecting herself. Didn’t she know she didn’t have to do that anymore? They used to talk about everything once; they’d had no secrets from each other. She hadn’t been afraid back then and he was going to show her she didn’t have to be afraid now. She didn’t have to protect herself; he’d protect her.

  “Are you gonna talk?” He began to peel the leather down over her butt. “Because if not, lift up so I can get your pants down.”

  Her throat moved, the delicate arch of it pale in the moonlight. She was clutching the arms of the chair, her knuckles white, and he thought she wasn’t going to either talk or move. But then she lifted herself a little, allowing him to get the material over her butt.

  So, no talk then.

  Disappointment turned over inside him and for a long moment, he just stared at her shuttered face. “You used to tell me everything, Ally. I’m still the same person. I’m still your friend.”

  She shook her head. “You might be. But I’m not the same person. And friends don’t do what you’re doing now.”

  The disappointment changed at the hint of accusation in her voice, became anger. Like this was all on him, which was bullshit. If she didn’t want this, all she had to do was get up and leave. But she wasn’t leaving. His fingers curled in the leather. “I don’t see you stopping me.” And he jerked, pulling her pants down her thighs.

  Her breath escaped in a rushing hiss. The moon was bright above them, the party raging inside, but there was silence in the courtyard. Her skin was as pale as the metal she sat on, a gleam of copper curls between her thighs.

  He pulled again, easing the leather down over her knees and right down to her ankles. She’d begun to shiver, keeping her gaze on the potted magnolia across the courtyard.

  No, fuck this. She was going to be with him, not staring off into space. Not trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. She hadn’t left and she hadn’t talked, and she was still afraid and trying to protect herself. But he wasn’t going to let her.

  He wanted her fucking trust, goddammit. And he was going to get it.

  He took her boots off, then her pants, and ducked under her knee so he was kneeling between her thighs again. “Look at me,” he ordered roughly.

  And she did, her head turning as if she couldn’t help it. The expression in her eyes was guarded, staring at him as if he were a stranger.

  Well, maybe he was to her now. Maybe that’s what she needed. Because she sure as hell didn’t seem to want a friend.

  He held her gaze as he slipped his hands beneath her thighs and lifted them, hooking them over his shoulders. She took a harsh, ragged breath.

  The smell of her threaded through his senses, musky and feminine and so fucking sweet. She was turned on, oh, yes she was. His mouth watered. It felt like he’d been wanting to taste her for years.

  “You’re not gonna hide from me, baby,” he murmured. “I won’t let you.” He lifted a hand and slid it up her hip, pushing her tank top up until one lace-covered breast was revealed. Then he pulled aside the cup of her bra, baring her.

  Another gasping breath escaped her. She’d stopped biting her lip now, her gaze fixed on his, her mouth parted. She was still clutching the arms of the seat for dear life, but he could see her nipple was hard and the night wasn’t at all cold. In fact it was humid with typical Louis
iana heat despite the lateness of the year.

  He brushed his thumb over her nipple, watching her, watching her pale body stretched out in front of him. She was such a fucking feast and he couldn’t wait to eat. But he was going to get her to talk first if it killed him. And given the hard-on in his jeans, it very well might.

  He pinched her nipple hard, feeling her body tense, her moan echoing around the courtyard. Then he slid his hand down her body, down to the soft, silky little patch of curls between her thighs, just inches from his face. And found her clit with the pad of his thumb.

  “Leon.” She said his name on a sharp gasp, her hips arching.

  “You got something to tell me?” He kept his gaze on her face and not where he wanted to be, tasting that sweet little pussy just beneath him. Kept his thumb circling her clit with a light pressure.

  Her hips jerked and he had to wrap one arm around her right thigh to keep her steady. “N-no,” she said shakily. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.” He stroked lower, parting the folds of her pussy with his thumb, feeling slick, wet heat against his skin. “I want to know what you’re afraid of. Is it this?” He circled the entrance to her body, teasing her, watching as she shuddered in response. “Me touching you? Fucking you? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  She shook her head in a jerky movement, her breathing loud and ragged.

  “Don’t lie to me, Ally.” He shifted his hold on her, cupping her butt in his palms, then sliding down farther, easing his thumbs between her trembling thighs, spreading her pussy open to him. Then without taking his eyes from hers, he dipped his head and licked her, from the center right to the top in a long, deep stroke.

  Alice gasped, shuddering in his grip. “S-stop.” Her voice sounded hoarse and thin.

  “No fucking way. Not until you tell me what you’re afraid of.” The taste of her had gotten into his head, salty and musky, with a tart sweetness that had more of an alcoholic kick to it than the rough bourbon he’d been drinking. He wanted more.