Burn for You

I rushed to the sink and poured water from the tap into a glass. My hand shook when I offered it to her.

“Thank you, baby,” she said weakly after she’d swallowed it. “That’s better.”

I sat across from her again. Her skin had taken on an unhealthy ashen hue, and little beads of perspiration glistened at her hairline. Like mine, her hands were trembling.

I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but something about this smelled bad enough to gag a maggot.

I looked my mother straight in the eye and said firmly, “Mama. You better spit out the truth right now or I’m gonna cream your corn, as Daddy used to say. What did Doc Halloran really tell you about that cough?”

Something crossed her face. It was an expression I’d never seen my vibrant, carefree, and confident mother wear—an awful mix of resignation, sadness, and, worst of all, fear.

When she said quietly, “Owen, would you please give us a moment?” all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

The Colonel gently kissed my mother’s head. “Of course, Davina.” He squeezed her shoulders, shot me a worried look, and left, quiet as a kitchen mouse.

Then my mother gathered my hands in hers and started to talk, but I only heard a single word. A word that made my heart stop beating and my soul bleed.

Cancer.

CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS

Makes 4 servings

4 cups water

1 cup stone-ground grits

3 tablespoons butter

2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese

1 pound raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

6 slices bacon, chopped

4 teaspoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped

1 cup scallions, sliced

1 clove garlic, minced

kosher salt

freshly ground pepper

Preparation

In stockpot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, add grits, salt, and pepper, and cook until water is absorbed, about 20 minutes.

Remove from heat and stir in butter and cheese.

Fry the bacon in a large skillet until browned. Remove to paper towels, drain well, and chop.

Rinse shrimp and pat dry. Add into bacon grease and cook until shrimp turn pink. Do not overcook.

Add lemon juice, chopped bacon, parsley, scallions, and garlic, and sauté for 3 minutes.

Spoon cooked grits into serving bowls. Add shrimp mixture on top. Serve immediately.

FIVE

JACKSON

The feel of her warm, full lips around the head of my cock made me moan.

“Fuck yes,” I whispered, looking down at her. “Don’t stop.”

Beautiful, dark eyes stared up at me as she opened her lips wider and took me down her throat. My pelvis flexed of its own will, sending my hard cock even deeper into the wet heat of her mouth.

So fucking good. Christ. So good.

Naked, on her knees between my legs on the bed, she wrapped one hand around my shaft while the other gently fondled my balls.

I was out of my mind with pleasure.

Moaning again, I cupped her head in my hands and started to slowly fuck her mouth, careful not to go too fast, timing my thrusts with the stroke of her hand, the bob of her head. When she squeezed just under the engorged crown and lingered there, sucking and licking like a kitten with a bowl of cream, a shudder ran through my body.

“Oh, you like that,” she whispered playfully. “Let’s find out what else you like.”

Releasing my cock, she rose and straddled my hips, smiling down at me. My hands encircled her small waist. She reached down and grabbed my stiff cock again, and then began to slide it slowly between her legs, over and around her wet folds, rolling her hips, teasing me. I let her play and slid my hands up to her breasts.

She gasped when I pinched her nipples.

She had perfect tits, round and full but not too big, the weight of them lush and feminine in my hands. I sat up and sucked a rosebud nipple into my mouth, loving the sound of her soft groan as my tongue circled the hard bud. She arched into my mouth, her fingers still lazily stroking my erection.

I bit down gently on her nipple, and she gasped again.

Something about that sound made me feel like an animal. Like a powerful, hungry animal. Suddenly I desperately needed to be inside her.

With a low snarl, I flipped her onto her back. She lay there, blinking up at me with wide eyes, her lips parted, panting softly, a beautiful flush all over her chest. Her dark hair spread wild over the pillow. Her bare skin gleamed in the low light, a rich golden hue like poured honey.

I’d never seen anything as fucking perfect in my entire life.

“Jax,” she breathed.

Her thighs were clasped around my hips, slightly trembling. I pressed forward, flexing my pelvis, finding her soft and open, ready for me. She arched her back and slid her arms around my shoulders. Her eyelids drifted closed as I pushed slowly into the heaven of her tight, wet pussy.

I gave her my weight. With one hand under her incredible heart-shaped ass and the other fisted in her hair, I started to fuck 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 cock, 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 pussy around my pulsing dick, 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, fucking 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 cock 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.