Stop Me (Last Stand #2)(32)
Author: Brenda Novak

So why did her fingers itch to call him back?

She couldn’t breathe. Only it wasn’t Black’s cigarette smoke that threatened to suffocate her. It was steam. Thick, hot, heavy steam. She was in a shower. And Fornier was with her. She would’ve recognized the way he handled her body, the way he kissed, even if her hands hadn’t immediately sought out, and found, that identifying cut on his thigh.

“It’s me,” he murmured, his body slippery as he purposely brushed against her. “Did you think it’d be someone else?”

No. But she’d been nervous, apprehensive. Too many dark thoughts had made her feel that way.

“Relax.” He ran a bar of soap over her br**sts and stomach, pausing to take advantage of her more sensitive spots. “You want this, don’t you? You want me as long as it’s safe.”

The bitterness in his voice reminded her that their last conversation hadn’t ended well. He was angry. It was apparent in his movements, which hinted at barely leashed emotion. But Jasmine didn’t care. He was as masterful with her body as he’d been the first time. Sure of himself, sure of her. She’d never known a lover like him.

Bending his head, he let the water run over them both as he kissed her, nibbling her bottom lip before toying lazily with her tongue. She could taste the water, his mouth, and then his skin…

Light came from a muted source in another room. A fire? A lantern? Whatever it was, it wasn’t very bright. She didn’t know any place that was so dark and quiet and private, any other place she’d rather be….

Romain lowered his head to lick the water beading on the tip of one breast.

Jasmine was beginning to tingle, to want him to do more, and she let him know it by curling her fingers into his broad shoulders.

“You like that?” he whispered.

“Mmm…” She arched into him, and he laughed.

“Patience, ma belle fille.”

Closing her eyes, she moaned as his fingers began to work in conjunction with his tongue. Soon her pulse was pounding in her ear, so loud she couldn’t hear the water anymore. But she didn’t care. About anything. Especially when he knelt in front of her and used his hands to pin her against the shower wall.

His mouth was so soft, so warm…

She made fists in his thick hair, eager to take what he offered even as she was tempted to reject it. It was…intimate. Too intimate. She’d never felt so vulnerable.

But he moved her hands away, insisting she trust him, and she soon lost the will to fight. Dragging a gulp of steamy air into her lungs, she held her breath and turned her face into the spray, letting him do as he would, and it wasn’t long before her legs began to shake. She gasped, ready for the climax he promised her—

And then he stopped.

“What’s going on?” she whispered helplessly.

His hands slid up over her hips and around her waist, pulling her against him, his mouth at her ear. “You want more?”

She dragged in another breath. “What do you think?”

“I think you know where to find me.”

Just like that, he released her and let her fall, except she didn’t hit the ground.

She jerked awake and found herself wrapped in her own blankets, tormented with frustration.

At first she thought she’d somehow experienced another of his fantasies. But she doubted he’d dream up a shower when he lived out in the swamp with no running water.

No, she couldn’t blame this one on anyone but herself, and the conversation they’d had earlier.

She wanted to make it real. But she refused to go to him. Instead, she got up and read, paced and wrote down every piece of information she’d collected since coming to Louisiana. Then she drew a picture of Fornier, vilifying him with mean eyes, a harsh mouth and a devilish goatee.

But it changed nothing, of course. Crumpling the picture, she threw it away and occupied herself by playing Hearts on her computer until the storm dissipated and the sun began to rise.

Finally, at seven, her alarm went off. “Thank God,” she said as she crossed the room to turn it off. It was time to get showered and dressed so she could visit Moreau’s house. Once she left for the day, she’d be too preoccupied to think of Fornier.

She peeled off her pajamas in preparation for a shower. But she couldn’t forget him as easily as she’d hoped. When she passed the mirror, she paused to study her reflection. Would he really consider her beautiful if he ever saw her?

I’ve seen the rest of you….

Damn him. How had he managed to get inside her head so quickly?

“I don’t want to make love with him,” she told her reflection. But the way her skin burned at the thought told her she was a liar.

Chapter 9

Moreau’s house looked deserted. Jasmine knocked at the front door, even called out, but no one answered, which felt decidedly anticlimactic.

She should’ve asked Black if Moreau’s mother and brother worked during the day. He seemed to know them pretty well, which was odd. She could understand a cop becoming friends with a victim’s family; that happened occasionally. Empathy, a desire to make things right, a sense of responsibility, frequent contact—those were the threads that connected the protector to the protected. But it was rare for a cop to form a lasting bond with the family of a perpetrator. Those families tended to maintain faith in the innocence of their loved one, which made the two parties natural adversaries.

Of course, if Huff was correct, Black had played a fundamental role in Moreau’s release, so there was that.

Stepping off the sagging gray porch, Jasmine gazed up at the dormered windows on the second story. The place had a shut-in feeling, as if the occupants didn’t like visitors even when they were home. The blinds were pulled. The garage, which was separate from the house, had a big padlock on it. Most glaring of all was the No Trespassing sign tacked to the cypress tree in the front yard.

Not the friendliest place Jasmine had ever been. There was no barking dog, no welcome mat, no Christmas wreath on the door.

“Bleak,” she muttered. She could definitely see someone like Moreau living here, which made her glad no one was there. Maybe it wasn’t legal, or ethical for that matter, to snoop around, but as long as she didn’t break in or steal anything, she wouldn’t get more than a slap on the wrist if she got caught.

She wanted to see the cellar where the video and those pants bearing Adele Fornier’s blood had been found, wanted to examine the marks on the door. It made sense that a home owner wouldn’t crowbar his way into his own cellar if he could get in easily via an alternate entrance.