Authors: Julie Leto
Without a doubt, Michael Murrieta would have fit in well with them. Even now he radiated the character traits she’d associate with an early eighteenth century man of means in New Orleans: confidence, power and sensuality. As they passed people in the halls, he gave the men superior, knowing nods and charmed the ladies with saucy winks or cryptic half smiles. They were halfway across the dance floor, heading toward the verandah that wrapped around the back of the house, when she couldn’t take it any longer and stopped his flirting with a smack of her aunt’s fan to his shoulder.
“Cut it out,” she said.
He swallowed his laughter even as he patted her hand. “Excuse me?”
“You’re drawing too much attention,” she admonished, not exaggerating. Scores of gazes followed them as they moved across the room, sidestepping dancers and avoiding the small groups of men and women who had clustered together while they sipped brandy or noshed on canapés delivered by white-gloved waiters.
“They’re looking at you, not me,” he replied.
She snorted, then covered her unladylike response with a flutter of her fan.
“Are you always this smooth?” she asked.
“Actually, I don’t think anyone’s ever called me smooth.”
His chest had puffed up. Claire liked that she’d done that to him—and that it mattered.
“I can’t imagine,” she replied. “You’ve blended in here without a seam showing.”
They arrived at the tall paned doors that opened out onto the covered porch. When Michael focused his charismatic smile solely on her, her knees wavered.
“That remains to be seen.”
Clarice, who’d been following unobtrusively behind them, pointed out the direction Josslyn had gone.
“Thank you,” Claire said to her aunt, then kissed her on each cheek. “You still have my phone and my keys?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Now, go home. I’ll call you once we’re done.”
“What? I will n—”
Michael slid his hand over her aunt’s shoulder. “Trust me,
madame.
Your charge is in safe hands with me. From this point, she’s under my protection. Nothing will happen to her.”
Clarice narrowed her dark eyes at him, then with a huff, accepted their orders and bustled her way back across the dance floor.
Though September, the weather was sultry. Few couples had ventured outside, where the music from the six-piece orchestra surrendered to the sounds of the Louisiana countryside—the chirp and whine of crickets, the rustle of Spanish moss in the towering oaks, the occasional booming croak of a bullfrog lazing in the center of a glossy pool. In the distance, they heard the distinct sound of a woman’s throaty laughter.
They followed, their footsteps muffled by the grassy moss that had grown over the lopsided tiles leading from the house into the maze of tall, trimmed hedges. As they moved farther away from the light, Claire felt Michael’s muscles tense.
She glanced behind them. No one was following. No one was even watching. She had no reason to continue holding on to him, and yet pulling away had to be the hardest thing she’d done all night.
After another couple of steps, Michael grabbed her. In the darkness, she nearly gasped, but he pressed a finger to her mouth, stifling the sound. The moon, more than half full, provided just enough light for her to see him nod his head to the left. They stepped off the path and after a few more minutes discovered a break in the hedges.
Within a private garden, the woman they’d followed stood atop a circular terrazzo dais. She untied the knots at the shoulders of her Grecian-styled dress and then slowly, enticingly, allowed the material to fall into a dark pool of silk at her feet.
Unabashed and completely naked, she fanned her long hair over her bare breasts, then posed as if she were a statue of Venus. The men—there were two now, the younger one who had escorted her here and an older man who had clearly been waiting—circled her with hunger in their every step.
The older man wore only pants and boots. The other man remained clothed except for his discarded cravat.
“You’re killing us, woman,” the nearly naked man complained, his arousal obvious even with his pants on, particularly when he grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “Make your choice. Put one of us out of our misery.”
The woman laughed again. This time she threw her wavy extensions over her shoulder so that her dark, silver-dollar sized areola puckered proudly. She slid her hands up her torso, encircling her flesh with her hands and thrusting the upturned nipples even higher.
“Why do I have to choose? Why can’t I have you both?”
The men exchanged lascivious glances. The younger man hesitated a moment, then both of them began stripping away their clothes. The older man was thicker around the middle, but his penis more than made up for a bit of paunch.
Claire swallowed hard, her mouth dry.
Now who was the voyeur?
M
ICHAEL MOVED IN
closer behind her, his hand protectively splayed on her stomach. She was instantly aware of everything about him, from the citrus scent of his shampoo to the leathery aroma of his boots. Through his clothes, he radiated heat, from his possessive touch to his resilient erection pressed intimately against her backside.
When he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the insistent thudding of her accelerated heartbeat nearly masked his words.
“We should go.”
She shook her head, bracing her hand over his in a move that gave her the contact with his skin that she craved and at the same time stemmed the fluttering in her stomach. She wasn’t even sure if this woman was Josslyn Granger. She forced herself to focus on the woman’s face and not the pouting roundness of her breasts, the imperfect yet sensual curve of her belly and the pear-shaped hips and thighs.
Her client had sent Claire numerous pictures of his wife, but none like this. She called on all her powers of observation to make the connection between the demure woman in a wedding gown or the sweet young mother with her toddler and the brazen sex goddess being worshipped by her duo of lovers.
But it was Josslyn. Claire could see it in the eyes. In the chin and cheekbones.
Enough for her to know that the woman being pleasured by two men, out in the open where anyone might see, was the woman she needed to find.
The older man stepped behind Josslyn on the dais, exactly the way Michael was poised behind Claire. But instead of holding the woman steady, he surrounded her generous breasts with his huge hands, then proceeded to caress, pluck and play with her nipples. At her feet, the younger man retrieved her gown and then shockingly drew the material up to her waist, knotting the fabric like a belt. While the man behind her buoyed her breasts in offering, the other one suckled her until she arched back and cooed.
They were talking. The older man spoke English, but his companion’s words jumbled in some language that Claire couldn’t recognize, not with her brain fuddled by what she was seeing—what she was feeling. The thudding in her ears intensified when the younger man dropped to his knees and climbed underneath the woman’s skirt.
With a squeal of delight, Josslyn hooked her knee over his shoulder. The sounds of the man feasting echoed against the mossy cobblestones.
Claire’s body ignited, her center throbbing as blood rushed to her clitoris. Behind her, she could feel Michael respond as well, his penis lengthening and hardening. She’d nearly had him inside her, and she still desperately craved to make it happen.
When he moved to step back, she stopped him. She needed to feel his rigid length cradled between the curve of her buttocks.
She needed him.
Claire had seen public displays of carnality before—any dark alley on a weekend in the Quarter provided quite the education. But she’d never been so turned on by it. There was something about the garden, the moonlight and the utter sexual abandon in the woman’s face that caught her entirely unaware, snaring her in a rush of need.
“Is it her?” Michael asked, both of his hands now lightly encircling her waist, as if he was afraid to touch her, afraid to mimic the trio playing out an erotic tableau only twenty paces away.
Claire nodded.
“Do you want to leave?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
No, she didn’t want to leave. She most definitely did not want to leave.
“Does this excite you?”
She nodded again.
“Two men. Is that your fantasy?”
She didn’t move, unable to answer. She’d always considered herself a free thinker when it came to pleasure, but she’d never been much into porn and had certainly never had sex with more than one guy at a time. She’d truly never imagined either the logistics or the decadent possibilities of four hands and two tongues on a woman’s willing body.
Watching men touch, tease and pleasure a woman unhampered by any expectations beyond orgasm pushed Claire to the edge of her comfort zone. Had she ever truly been that free? That wild? That open to the endless possibilities of sensual ecstasy? When Michael spread his hands along her waist, the tips of his fingers caressing the underside of her breasts, she fell into a twirling abyss.
He pulled her flush against him. His every taut muscle enflamed her, swirling her into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions that ranged from shock at what she was witnessing to the reignited passion of having Michael’s hands on her. His palms smoothed down the soft folds of her dress, stopping at her thighs, where he inched the material of her skirt upward as if they were gathered curtains being pulled above a stage. He bared her flesh to the elements with such incremental slowness that she registered the sultry air on her skin one body part at a time. First, her ankles. Then her shins. Knees. Thighs.
Claire retreated into the part of herself that did not overthink, did not rationalize, did not judge. She only wanted to feel what he offered, experience what she needed.
“Hold this,” he said.
She latched on to the gathered hem and held tight. Through the foliage, she watched the woman on the dais yank up her skirt and swing the material behind her so she could watch the man feasting at her core, his fingers stretching her labia, her sex pink and swollen. Through the pounding in her ears, Claire heard her demand that he lick deeper, harder, faster.
His partner took the bulky skirt over his arm and grabbed at the woman’s ass, kneading the flesh hungrily. She cried out as his fingers disappeared between her cheeks, spreading them. He ground his pelvis against her, simulating what he wanted to do to her—what he would likely do to her very, very soon.
The instant the men ripped away the rest of her dress, Michael’s gentle touch inched through the slit in Claire’s bloomers.
She was wet. She was hot. Unlike the man ravishing the woman in front of them, Michael was passionately hesitant, his finger skillfully soft. He teased her with his touch, exploring every curve before finally breaching the fold between her outer needs and her inner desires.
He was not rough. He was not desperate. He was tentative. Sweet. And oh-so-precise.
“I’d never share you,” he whispered, the pad of his finger connecting with her tiny swollen center. “But it’s hot to watch. Look at how she wants it. Look at the way they’re focused entirely on her. On her pleasure.”
Claire slipped her hand over his. For an instant, he stilled his touch, but she curved her fingers and showed him precisely what to do. He was a quick study, following her lead in toggling her clit with circular motions that blinded her to anything beyond her own growing need. When he slipped his finger inside her, she gasped.
“Yes, Michael. Please.”
This was insane. This was lurid. This was amazing. For an instant, she became aware again of the theater of sexual debauchery being played out in front of her. One of the men had dropped onto the dais and, using it like a chair, sat Josslyn down on his lap, facing outward. His hands dug into her hips and he held her at the perfect angle to pump inside her while the man still standing kneaded her breasts as she licked his penis like a popsicle.
But as Claire’s arousal edged toward madness, she no longer cared about anyone else’s pleasure. She closed her eyes tight and focused on the feel of Michael’s hands on her body. Slowly, worshipfully, he touched her, murmuring in her ear, making confessions she wasn’t sure he’d reveal at any other time or place.
“I couldn’t watch another man touch you,” he said. “Even if you wanted it. Even if you begged me. God, you’re so hot. I want to be inside you, Claire. I want to feel you come. Will you give me that? Come on. Let go.”
He slipped a second finger inside her, stretching her, filling her, curling his hand so that he touched her precisely in the right spot. He intensified his reach and tempo, building a friction Claire could not fight. Her orgasm built like a silent wave, washing over and through her until she was shaking so hard in his arms, he had to tighten his grip to hold her still while the sensations climaxed and then receded.
From what seemed like a great distance, she heard grunts, groans and cries as the three people on the dais reached their own peaks. Thankfully, Michael made sweet shushing sounds in her ears that covered their animalistic cries.
“That’s it, honey. I can’t wait to have more. To have all of you. All to myself.”
As the quivers subsided, she allowed herself to relax completely against his strong body. After a few moments, while he righted her skirts and nibbled on her neck, Claire realized that she couldn’t wait, either.
C
LAIRE MIGHT HAVE
been the one to orgasm, but Michael knew that he was the one who’d lost his mind. Something about this place, something about Claire had seeped into his brain and destroyed every rule for behavior he’d ever established for himself.
And it rocked.
He’d never been a prude, but he’d always kept his sexual liaisons private. Maybe because his father had been such a player before he’d met Michael’s mother, Michael had never exchanged locker room talk with his buddies or pursued the easy girls in school so he could add another notch to his bedpost. Even in his adult life, he’d only been to strip clubs for bachelor parties or stakeouts. In his mind, sex belonged in the bedroom.
And the sooner he got Claire into one, preferably one without cameras, the better.
Because as crazy as tonight had been, he knew he’d go completely mad if he did not make love to her the right way.
His way.
“He’s coming,” Claire whispered.
The older man had grabbed his clothes, and after giving Josslyn one last, long, deep-throated kiss, was jogging in their direction. Michael spun Claire around a thick tree trunk and hoped the sound of the man’s chuckling didn’t mean they’d been made.
The next voice, however, proved that they had.
“You can come out now,” Josslyn called, her voice full of amusement.
Claire glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide.
He shrugged. “We’ve come this far. And clearly, she’s not shy.”
Though she chewed on her lip for a moment, Claire nodded and slipped around him, leading the way to a break in the foliage that allowed them entrance into the hidden courtyard.
Josslyn remained draped across the younger lover, her back against his chest. He’d buoyed himself into a semi-sitting position on his elbows and the two of them resembled a living, breathing statue that might have been titled,
Lovers Spent.
Michael imagined that if the guy were feeding her grapes instead of lazily playing with her passion bruised nipples, the whole scene would be a lot less lurid.
“You’re new here,” Josslyn said.
When Claire didn’t immediately speak, the woman laughed, giving her lover a chance to nibble on her neck.
“No need to be shy, darlings. You could have joined in if you wanted to. We’re all here for one reason, aren’t we?”
“Not exactly,” Claire said. “Could we talk? Alone?”
Josslyn frowned. “Why? I’m sure that,” she turned to her lover and asked in what sounded like Portuguese, “what is your name again, darling?”
The man chuckled. “Leon.”
“I’m sure Leon here is trustworthy, aren’t you, my great rutting stud?”
The naked man growled, grabbed at her hips and twisted her around until they were practically wrestling in a tangle of limbs and appendages that Michael had seen more than enough of. He grabbed the guy’s discarded pants and tossed them onto the dais.
“This won’t take long, Ms. Granger. The sooner you give us a few minutes, the sooner you can get back to your fun.”
Michael kept his face immobile as Josslyn turned her attention from her lover to him. Her gaze was boldly sexual, even a little hungry, though Michael couldn’t imagine she’d want anything more after having two guys filling her two main orifices only a few minutes ago.
When he was hidden behind the bushes with Claire, the woman’s sexual abandon had been hot. Now it was a little unnerving. He supposed most things that looked erotic from a distance weren’t quite so palatable close up.
She made a grand excuse to her lover, though Michael wasn’t entirely sure the guy understood, judging by his squinted response. Josslyn got the message across by patting his cheek and kissing him sloppily while she pressed his clothes to his chest. The man winked at them, then disappeared.
“Don’t use that name here,” she snapped the minute the guy was out of earshot. “Luckily, Leon speaks only Portuguese and knows me as Dalinda.”
“Your real name is only necessary one more time,” Claire said, holding out her hand to Michael, who produced the legal document from his pocket. “Sign this and you’ll never have to hear that name again.”
Josslyn drew her hands through her long hair and thrust out her breasts, eyeing Michael as if to gauge his interest.
He looked away.
“I can’t believe I’m being served at a
Nouvelle Placage
event. Do these people have no security?”
Claire pasted on a sweet grin, much more in keeping with the character she’d adopted for the weekend than the woman Michael was quickly—and intimately—getting to know.
“They have great security,” Claire said. “We’re just good at breaching it. This is a legal document relinquishing your legal rights to the children you abandoned when you left your marriage and divorced their father. His new wife wants to adopt them. For that to happen, you need to sign.”
Josslyn made a little show of flipping through the pages, then looked up at Claire and made a sweeping gesture to indicate her nudity. “I don’t have a pen.”
Claire turned to Michael, but he didn’t have anything to sign with, either. The only thing in his pockets was his credentials, and he didn’t think flashing an FBI badge to the woman was going to help Claire’s case.
“We’ll go back up to the house,” Claire suggested.
“We will not,” Josslyn argued. “Well, you can go if you want, but not with me.”
She snatched her dress from the floor and tossed it over her head. Retying the Grecian-styled garment proved impossible, so she simply let it hang from her shoulders, her breasts exposed and her backside barely covered.