Burn For You

10

I gave her my weight. With one hand under her incredible heart-shaped ass and the other fisted in her hair, I started to f**k her, kissing her neck, instinctively biting her when she cried out in pleasure as I thrust deeper inside. She met my every thrust with an upward cant of her hips, her breasts bouncing against my chest, her soft moans of pleasure ringing in my ears.

“Oh God,” she moaned. “God, yes. Please—Jax—”

“You’re so beautiful,” I said hoarsely, staring down at her. A shockwave of heat surged outward from my spine, engulfing my pelvis and c**k, making me throb deep inside her.

Her moans turned broken. On the edge of orgasm, she stiffened beneath me.

With the first hard clench of her p***y around my pulsing d**k, I lost myself. I was a man no more. I was only blood and bone and sinew, a mindless thing striving toward the end that ached inside me. I became the thing I’d heard people call me behind my back, the nickname whispered as I passed them on the street.

I became a beast, f*****g this beautiful woman with a savagery that terrified me.

“Bianca!” I shouted, my entire body jerking as I spilled inside her.

She clawed her fingernails into my back and, with her thighs and hands and whispered words of love, urged me on.

My own moans and the jerking of my body woke me from the dream.

Panting, sweating, my aching c**k gripped in my fist, I stared up at the ceiling, blood roaring through my veins. For a long, disoriented moment, I lay in bed, trying to get my bearings. Finally I began to weakly laugh.

I hadn’t had a wet dream since I was a teenager.

I sat up. The sticky sheets pooled around my waist. “Jesus, Jackson,” I muttered, looking at the mess I’d made all over my hand, stomach, and poor, unsuspecting bedsheets. “You need to get out more.”

I rose and padded into the bathroom, the marble floor cold as a mausoleum’s under my bare feet. Why the hell I’d done the entire house in marble was a question I’d asked myself many times since moving into this echoing maze of a mansion four years ago. Every footstep could be heard throughout the place. Every pin drop sounded like a gunshot. Even acres of Turkish rugs did little to muffle the echoes. It was like living inside the loudest tomb in the world.

Still distracted by thoughts of the dream, I quickly showered and dressed.

It was so unlike me to have that kind of vivid, visceral dream. I found it unsettling. I never remembered my dreams. Sleep for me was always like stepping off a cliff and falling into an endless black hole of nothingness.

Thanks to Bianca Hardwick, last night was not a black hole of nothingness. She was as snappy as an alligator, but damn that woman was hot. In fact, that smart mouth of hers only added to her heat.

Looking at myself in the mirror above the dresser, I ran a hand over my face. I wonder if she likes beards.

A rap on the doorframe pulled me abruptly out of my thoughts.

“Mornin’, sir,” said Rayford, standing in the doorway.

As usual, he was dressed impeccably in black suit and tie, his jaw freshly shaved, his bearing upright and elegant despite his age.

Not that I actually knew his age. That was a carefully guarded secret, something perhaps my own parents didn’t know. He’d worked for them for over forty years as their butler, among other things, before relocating with me to New Orleans. At the time he’d said he wanted to be closer to his family, as he grew up here, but we both knew the truth.

He was afraid what would happen if he left me alone.

“Rayford,” I said, nodding. “Good morning. Is he up?”

“Yes, sir, Charlie’s just gettin’ him cleaned up now. They should both be down for breakfast in a few minutes. Will you be dinin’ at home this mornin’?”

His benign expression revealed nothing, but I knew he was wondering how the hell I was going to manage without a chef. Thanks to an upbringing that included an army of cooks, housekeepers, and other household staff, I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life.

“I don’t know yet.” I paused. “Does Charlie—?”

“She does, sir,” he said, knowing I’d been about to ask if the nanny could cook. “I asked her yesterday if she’d be able to fill in for a day or two until we could find a new chef. I already rang the service, so we should have a few applicants to interview by tomorrow.” A hint of a smile crossed his face. “I doubt Charlie has Bianca Hardwick’s talent, but she can probably make a sandwich for you and somethin’ appropriate for Cody.”

He disappeared with a murmured good-bye, leaving me wondering just what he meant by bringing up Bianca Hardwick.

Oh f**k. Did I yell out her name in my sleep?

Picturing my orgasmic shout echoing all over the house, I went red in the face.

When my cell phone rang, I answered it more abruptly than usual. “What?” I snapped, cheeks burning.

“Good morning, Mr. Boudreaux!” chirped a young male voice.

It was Matthew Clark, the event coordinator from the Wounded Warrior Project. He’d been working with me for months on the upcoming benefit dinner and fortunately was one of those people who took nothing personally. I could’ve told him I thought there was a tree stump in a Louisiana swamp that had a higher IQ than he did, and he would’ve heartily laughed and agreed.

He said, “I’m just calling to go over some last-minute details for the event on the fifteenth. Most importantly, I’d like to speak with your chef so we can finalize the menu and have the menu cards printed up. Is now a good time?”

Shit. The menu. My chef.