More Blazing Bedtime Stories Read online

  Though she supposed that if she manipulated the situation well, she could do both.

  No. Her personal wishes had to wait. She shoved her hands underneath her pillow and curled into a ball on her side, squeezing her eyes shut. She hadn’t known Jack St. Cloud for very long, but her instincts told her that he was an intelligent man who would see through too much subterfuge. She had to focus.

  Unfortunately, when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the formidable man marching toward her across his expansive lawn. In her fantasy, however, instead of questioning Tatiana’s identity, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her senseless.

  Flipping wildly, she punched the pillows a few times, and then tried sleeping flat on her back. Had she been this lusty four centuries ago, before her parents’ bargain with the fairies had been revealed?

  She squeezed her eyelids tight. Yes. Oh, yes. She’d wanted and lusted and schemed like a woman possessed. The only difference was that then, her youth and inexperience had led her to focus on attaining power rather than sex.

  Idiot.

  She opened her eyes and turned toward the bedstand. The intercom’s tiny silver buttons glittered in the moonlight. One press and she could hear his voice. Maybe she could suggest that he return to his room. Collect something he’d forgotten? Or maybe she could be honest.

  Listen, Jack, I’ve been celibate and totally unaware of the deliciousness of arousal for four hundred years…want to help me make up for lost time?

  Definitely not a line that would be stolen by poets, that was for sure.

  Groaning in frustration, Tatiana grabbed a gold throw pillow and pitched it at the bedstand, which knocked over a set of decorative candles. A whining noise screamed in the silence and she cursed, figuring that she’d engaged the intercom again. She dove across his bed and punched a few buttons, trying desperately to turn off the device when she heard his voice.

  “Ana?”

  Sleepy and grouchy and incredibly sexy, Jack’s voice rumbled over her, through her, igniting her nerve endings with tiny snaps of fire.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  Those three words turned her insides to gelatinous goo. She swallowed thickly, wondering if he’d been plagued by the same images and fantasies as she. She had to tread lightly, though. Desire to explore her newfound sexuality was one thing, but what would be the point if she risked her freedom by totally screwing up the situation with Harper?

  “Did you need anything?” he asked.

  “No, I was just tossing and turning and hit the intercom by accident.”

  “It’s hard to sleep in a strange bed.”

  She settled into the pillows beneath her, entirely aware of how her nipples had hardened against the cushions simply from hearing his voice. “Sorry I kicked you out of your room.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  She laughed. “You didn’t. It’s okay. I appreciate you taking me in. I want to make it up to you.” The evocative suggestion in her whisper was too obvious, so she covered with, “And Harper, too.”

  But the last bit was lost beneath his question, “Would you like something to help you sleep? A brandy, maybe? I can bring one up.”

  Was that longing she heard in his voice—a genuine desire to cater to her, perhaps catch another glimpse of her? Because he hadn’t fooled her earlier when he’d come into the bedroom. He’d seen her, however briefly, staring at herself in the mirror.

  The memory tormented her. Was it tormenting him, as well?

  She squeezed her thighs together, trying to dispel the sweet pressure building between her legs at the thought of Jack delivering a brandy to the bedroom only to discover her naked and willing in his bed. This was too much, too soon. Too fast. Too unwise. And Tatiana was anything but unwise.

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she replied grudgingly.

  She had not planned for this turn of events. In her quest to gain her longed-for liberty, she hadn’t thought about men or their effect on her new magic-free existence. How could she, when her magical bonds had turned off her ability to experience desire for anything other than freedom?

  Even when she’d believed she was on the fast track to being a queen, she’d never thought much about how physical attraction might influence her decision making. She’d flirted and fawned as needed to meet the most available grooms, but she’d never been overwhelmed by such a crushing yearning for anything except a crown.

  “Maybe another time?” she suggested.

  “Right.”

  With a groan, Tatiana rolled away from the intercom, pulling a pillow over her head.

  Her body was on fire. Her nipples were hard and sensitized so that the sweep of the sheet across them nearly drove her mad. She didn’t know much about lust, but she’d witnessed enough hot and heavy interactions between her charges and their lovers to know that if a cold shower didn’t do the trick—and it clearly had not—the only way to sate this need was to surrender to it.

  Only she couldn’t risk a sexual liaison with Jack St. Cloud.

  She’d have to take care of this herself.

  6

  AS JACK rose to pour himself a whiskey, he heard Ana groan and pound a pillow before she disconnected the intercom.

  Yeah, honey. I know how you feel.

  He grabbed a shot of booze and downed it before pouring a more generous serving into a cut-crystal glass and returning to the cold darkness of the guest room. Tempted to bring the whole bottle with him, he remembered that morning wasn’t far off. Once the sun rose, he’d either have to get Ms. Ana Starling home—wherever that was—or figure out how to keep her on as Harper’s French tutor without losing his sanity. She’d been in his house now for less than two hours and she was doing wicked shit to both his body and his mind.

  Just talking to her had him stretched as taut as a regulation pigskin. Hearing her voice so unexpectedly while lying in a bed that was too short for him in a room normally used to store his old football trophies had him wondering just how comfortable she was upstairs on his custom-made mattress. Then he made the mistake of picturing her with her golden hair fanned across his downy pillows, her long, lithe legs peaking out from beneath the comforter—pale and creamy against the silky navy fabric. And then he’d pictured her breasts again. As he downed half of his drink, he heard a noise that slipped into his bloodstream more powerfully than any booze.

  A salacious, feminine coo.

  He glanced at the intercom. She hadn’t turned it off. He opened his mouth to confess that he could still hear her, but another moan broke the silence.

  Followed by another.

  Then another.

  Halfway between whimpers of pleasure and sighs of utter wonder, the sounds coming from Ana Starling’s room tackled him like an entire defensive line. If he didn’t know she was entirely alone in that room, he’d think she was having sex.

  The next, high-pitched gasp convinced him she was—with herself.

  He finished his whiskey in one gulp.

  A quick check of the intercom controls told him that no other room had access to this erotic soundtrack. He could cut off the connection, but he opted instead to climb back into the tiny queen-size bed, shove a pillow behind his neck and listen.

  His eyes drifted closed. The vision of her in front of the mirror materialized with ease. She’d been toying with her nipples, probably watching them extend and harden as blood rushed to her erogenous zone. Was that what she was doing now, drawing her fingernails around her blushing areola, pinching the center nub until sparks of electric need shot through her body, invoking a pounding in her sweet sex?

  Jack bit his lip, containing a groan himself as blood rushed from his brain to his groin. His boxers chafed and when he moved to adjust, he couldn’t resist holding on to his dick for a good long minute, imagining that she was the one grasping him, stroking him, invoking the madness that was both elemental and c
erebral.

  A rustle of sheets from her end enflamed the fire consuming him from the inside out. Was she tearing the coverings away to allow herself better access? Her cries grew louder. She seemed unable to catch her breath. He imagined her fingers manipulating her clit with quick little flicks—just like the ones he’d use if he had his tongue on her, in her, around her. His mouth watered. He licked his lips, forcing an explosion of sensation.

  How many fingers would it take to bring her to orgasm? How much pressure? What rhythm would push her over the line? Because Jack was finding that a fast and hard pace was working great for him.

  Was he thick enough for her? Long enough? Curved enough? His palm was no doubt unequal to the tight, warm wetness he’d discover between her thighs, but it was all he had until he burned off the fire ravaging his body.

  The sound of her orgasm was strangled, high-pitched and unrestrained. His was deadly silent. He even grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his mouth to ensure she did not hear a single grunt or groan from him. He moved the cushion just enough to hear her sigh with a satisfaction that echoed like trash talk from a rival team.

  So she thought that was an adequate orgasm, did she?

  Poor girl had a lot to learn.

  Because while he’d soothed one ache in his body, he’d only invoked another. He wanted Ana Starling, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how he could possibly have her.

  “YOU WANT to go on a what?” he asked his sister when he’d finally forced himself out of bed the next day, sometime before noon. He’d slept like a rock. Wanting to avoid facing Ana so soon after using her masturbatory delight to fuel his own, he’d clung to sleep like a lifeline. It helped that soon after cleaning up all evidence of his handy dispatch of sexual tension, he’d finished off the rest of the whiskey.

  Harper poured him a mug of coffee. “A sleepover,” Harper said casually, as if she did this every Sunday.

  Which she nearly did. Sunday was Mrs. Bradley’s day off. The widowed housekeeper usually spent the day with her sister and niece, who lived in the nearby town of Hastings. The niece was Harper’s age and attended the same private school in Lunde, another little hamlet twenty minutes away.

  Normally, Jack loved these Sundays. With the house empty and the markets closed, he didn’t feel so guilty ignoring his work and indulging in his own private pleasures.

  But he’d had enough private pleasure last night, thanks.

  “What about Ana?” he asked.

  “What about her? She’s exhausted. She went back to bed.”

  “You’ve spoken with her?”

  His sister speared him with a look that did not require the accompanying, “Duh.”

  “I wasn’t going to just run off on her, Jack. I do have manners. She said I should spend time with my friends.”

  “And what are her plans?” he asked tentatively.

  Harper gave a perfected teenage shrug. “She was barely awake. But I told you, she doesn’t feel comfortable going back to her friend’s house after last night, so I said it was okay if she hung around for a few days while you worked out the whole tutoring thing.”

  Jack took a deep breath and pushed down his annoyance with another swallow of scalding coffee. It was his third cup, but he still wasn’t feeling the full effects.

  “Don’t you think you should have consulted with me before you promised a complete stranger safe haven in my home?”

  Harper’s jaw tensed and her eyes flashed with a look of utter disdain, reminding him of why their mother had indulged the kid so much. Even as a toddler, it had been easier to surrender to Harper rather than battle to the death with her. No one had ever bothered to teach her the meaning of the word compromise. Or capitulation. He considered himself lucky that she hadn’t broached the topic of her Broadway audition again, but he figured she was just biding her time. No matter what he’d said last night, she wouldn’t consider the matter closed until she got her way.

  Only this time he wasn’t giving in. There was too much at stake—more than a fourteen-year-old girl with stars in her eyes could ever understand.

  “It’s my house, too,” Harper said.

  “Then you should stick around and entertain your houseguest.”

  She morphed from incensed to adorable in a flash. “Why? You’re the one who needs to check her out and decide if she passes whatever rigorous tests you apply to anyone who wants to get within a half-mile radius of me.”

  “Not my fault you’re worth so much money,” he reminded her.

  She slid out from the breakfast bar and took her plate with the last remnants of a bagel with strawberry cream cheese to the sink. “I never get to see any of it, so what does it matter if I’m a so-called heiress?”

  “When you turn twenty-five, you’re going to be stinking rich. It’s my job to make sure that no one takes advantage of you before you learn the value of security and financial sense.”

  “I won’t be twenty-five for another eleven years,” she whined. “Besides, I don’t care about the money. I just want to perform. If I wait until I’m eighteen, I’ll be too old and no one in New York will want me.”

  “Honey, with the portfolio you’ll be inheriting, everyone will want you when you’re ninety-two and toothless. That’s why you have to be so careful. Rich, beautiful, talented—you’re a triple threat.”

  She turned, her expression perplexed. Clearly, she didn’t know what to do with his compliment, which made him wonder if he was just a bit too stingy with them.

  He took another sip of coffee, then joined her at the sink, placed his hand gently on her shoulder, and tickled her ear in that way she hated.

  “Go to your sleepover, Harper. Be a kid. But make sure Ana has everything she needs before you go. I’m going to be working today and I won’t have time to entertain her.”

  Harper launched herself into Jack’s arms with such force that he sloshed coffee onto the kitchen floor. But before he could growl at her to help him clean up, she’d shot out of the room. He heard her tennis shoe-shod feet scramble up the stairs and squeak on the hardwood floors as she turned toward his room.

  Poor Ana. He hoped she’d slept better than he had, because it was probably going to be a very long, very uncomfortable day.

  7

  CONTRARY TO his expectations, Jack enjoyed a relatively short and relaxing day. Shortly after Mrs. Bradley and Harper had departed, Ana had come downstairs wearing a pretty blue sundress that Harper had ordered for herself over the Internet and neglected to return despite receiving the wrong size. He’d only had a moment to register how amazingly long and lean Ana’s legs were before she had announced that she would keep completely out of his hair by spending the day outside.

  She’d grabbed a couple of apples and left.

  Jack hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all day.

  He’d sequestered himself in his studio. Painting had always been his secret passion, something he’d learned to hide from his teammates since high school and from his sister since they’d moved to the bayou. Not because he was ashamed of his work, but because it was his—something he did purely for himself. The only thing he did for himself lately.

  His current work, as usual, reflected his mood. His brush gravitated toward passionate colors like reds, oranges and purples. And though he’d set out to paint something he could hang in his office, the twists and twirls on the canvas ended up looking suspiciously like a woman’s upper torso in the throes of arousal.

  Thanks to Ana Starling, he had sex on the brain.

  Just after sunset, however, he ventured downstairs to make dinner. Normally Mrs. Bradley left a steak in the fridge for him to toss on the grill.

  Tonight, she’d left two.

  Just as he was removing the aluminum foil, Ana wandered inside. Her hair was windblown and a little frizzy. Her face glowed with sweat.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” he said, surprised when the words came out more as an accusation than an observation.
/>   She didn’t seem to notice. “You have beautiful property here. So much to do and see.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. The bayou, to him, was indeed striking, overflowing with tall, mossy trees, still waters and so many different plants and animals a botanist or zoologist could study an entire lifetime and never catalogue them all. However, in his experience, most women found the place primitive and creepy. Jane, the girl he might have married before his mother had died, had spent two weeks in what she called “the swamp” and departed without a backward glance.

  “You really think so?”

  She looked at him as though he’d sprung a second head. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  “Duly noted,” he said with a nod. “So, while I’ve got you in an honest mood, do you like steak or are you some kind of vegan tree-hugger?”

  She winced. “Hug trees? Where I’m from, trees are very grabby.”

  He chuckled, but he wasn’t entirely certain she was joking.

  “And where are you from?”

  “Far from here,” she replied.

  “Can you be a little more specific?”

  Her eyes darted to the side before she replied, “England.”

  “Really?” he asked, not believing her for a minute, even if he realized now that she did sport something of an accent. “Whereabouts?”

  “London.”

  Easy enough to check out.

  He rinsed the aluminum foil in the sink and threw it into the recycle bin. “So, you’re a carnivore, then?”

  She looked at him, clearly perplexed. He lifted a steak on the tine of a long fork.

  “Oh, yes. Do you cook?”

  “In the bayou, all men cook. Why don’t you pick out a nice bottle of wine while I get a marinade going?”

  He pointed to the wine cooler. He didn’t drink a lot, but clients sent him expensive vintages all the time. Notwithstanding his revelry last night with the only other Jack in this house—Jack Daniels—he rarely drank alone. Ana returned moments later with a bottle he never would have picked. The label was bright blue and featured a fairy surrounded by elves. It was a Gewürztraminer called Kissed.