Chapter 6
Leaving the warm bed and sweet, soft body of his female had been the hardest thing Jean-Baptiste had ever had to do. But it would pay off. In a grand surprise he hoped would please her, and show her that her first impression of him—bad news—was inaccurate.
Even at two a.m. the French Quarter was packed, in full party mode everywhere he looked—brimming with revelers. Everywhere but Isi’s shop. Jean-Baptiste slid the Jag into a vacant spot in front of the house and killed the engine. Black and quiet. This wasn’t like her. Midnight to five a.m. were her prime working hours. Either she was avoiding certain customers, or straight-up avoiding him.
She’d have known he’d return, that he wasn’t going to accept one quick shut down about coming to the Wildlands. She’d have known he’d try again. And she’d be prepared.
Jean-Baptiste evaded the front door, and circled around to the back. He wanted the window that led straight into the body art room, the one they’d spoken in earlier. The room he knew best.
He swung himself up into a nearby tree, then silently crept to the edge of a thick branch and reached for the latch on the window. But before his hand even made contact with the chipped white paint, the scent of something pungent shot into his nostrils. Whatever it was stung like hell, and made his brain go slow and fuzzy.
“Was this head trip meant for me?” he muttered with irritation. “Or someone else?”
For anyone who wishes me harm.
The words blasted into his head, a near explosion of sound, and Jean-Baptiste whirled around, hissing as he reached for the red powder he carried in his pocket. She was somewhere above him, high in the tree, and though he couldn’t see her, he could scent her. Granted, if this had happened a few days ago—shit, a few hours ago even, before Genevieve had eased and stroked his feral cat—Isi’s magic would’ve pulverized him, made his cat so insane he’d have been debilitated. He’d have fallen out of the tree, clutching his head and begging for the pain to stop.
But times had changed.
“You know I don’t want to hurt you,” he said into the darkness, gripping the powder in one hand, swinging up onto another thick tree branch with the other. “But our kind is in serious trouble. Our borders are compromised, our magic is dying far faster than we realized, there’s been an attack inside our lands, and the first Pantera cub conceived in over fifty years might not survive.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Isi said, her voice strangely far away, though her scent remained immobile. “You seem…different. More powerful.”
“The cat’s caged, Isi.”
He heard her gasp. “What?” Then curse. “I want to help you, okay?” she said, her voice fearful and all over the place now. “But I just can’t.”
Jean-Baptiste took a deep breath and calmed his insides. “I’m afraid you must.”
His instincts were sharper than they’d been in years, and his nose had always been first rate. In under three seconds, he leapt to the top branch. He caught her gaze, her shocked expression just before he opened his hand and blew the red powder straight into her face.
“Damn you, Baptiste,” she uttered, her eyes rolling back in her head, her body swaying. “I can’t…I’m not meant to be there…”
She passed out. But before she fell, Jean-Baptiste pulled her into his arms and held her close, then dropped easily from branch to branch until they hit the ground. As he headed around the side of the house and toward his car, he growled softly. He didn’t relish in the fact that he was taking this female into the Wildlands against her will, but these were desperate times.
Not just for the Pantera.
But for him.
Genevieve awoke to rich, yellow beams of sunlight, the earthy scent of coffee, the delicious feel of Jean-Baptiste’s warm, thickly muscled body against her back, and the breath-stealing intrusion of his steel-hard cock slowly pushing inside her.
She instantly arched her back, groaning as she gave him better access. Jean-Baptiste brought an arm around her waist and up to grip her shoulder. As he filled her, inch by wondrous inch, he pressed down on her shoulder, sending him as deep as possible.
Grinning, her entire body flaring with heat and hunger, Genevieve let her eyes drift downward. Jean-Baptiste’s other hand had slipped between her legs and was working its way to her sex. The muscles inside her pussy clenched in anticipation, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep her back arched or swing her hips forward. But before she could even pull another thought from her already-fuzzy brain, she felt his teeth on her shoulder. Growling, he scraped gently over her skin as his fingers slipped into her wet pussy lips.
After that, it was impossible to do anything but give in and let her body react and respond.
Thrusting inside of her, nipping at her shoulder, circling her plump clit, Jean-Baptiste hit all the right spots, and Genevieve moaned and fisted the sheets and moved with him. God, being filled by him, taken by him, felt so right. Like the perfect breeze off the bayou, the perfect day when everything goes just as you planned it—the perfect kiss from the one male on earth who sees past your buttons and starch and into your splayed heart.
“Genny,” he uttered roughly. “Just the thought of being inside you, so deep inside your tight pussy, is enough to make me come.” He cursed and bit her shoulder again. “But the reality…Christ, it’s like a drug. A drug I never want to come off of. A drug I will never let anyone else near—”
He pinched her clit. Lightly. But it was Genevieve’s undoing.
She moaned, arched her back even farther, circled her hips over and over, feeling the volcanic rush of impending orgasm spread through her. And when he did it again—pinched her sensitive bud, a little harder this time—she screamed and came apart in his hands.
It was too much for Jean-Baptiste. He roared into the beams of sunshine cascading down upon them, gripped her, nipped her, and as she bucked wildly in his arms, he gave her three hard, deep thrusts before he came inside her, before he filled her with hot, milky seed, before he gathered her up and held her impossibly close.
It seemed like hours, days, maybe even weeks before either of them moved again. Before they even stirred. They lay still and sweaty as the sunbeams were temporarily overtaken by clouds, then returned, brighter and warmer than ever.
Then Genevieve purred and rolled in Jean-Baptiste’s arms until she faced him. She draped her leg across his powerful thigh and stared. Sweat agreed with him. So did sex. His eyes were glowing. His dark hair fell around his neck, the tats, his jaw. And his mouth was a dusky, well-worked-over, crimson color. She wanted him again.
“Yes, Miss Burel?” he said, his eyes flashing with heat.
She grinned. “I smell something amazing.”
“Well, thank you.”
She laughed. “No, not you.”
“Not me?” He plastered on a frown, which frankly only made him look sexier. “Then it must be the beignets and coffee.”
“You’re kidding?” Her heart pinged and she came up on her elbow. “You did that for me?”
He reached down and gave her backside a playful slap. “Just trying to impress you, Miss Burel.”
She loved being called Genny, especially when he was inside her. It was soft and gentle and intimate. But she had to admit there was something that made every inch of her skin tingle when he called her Miss Burel. “I can’t believe you went out just to get me coffee and beignets. Where are they? I need them now.”
He laughed. “Easy, ma chérie. I’ll get it. I’ll be serving you. Feeding you. Though, with how late it is, the coffee might be a little on the cool side.”