Page 29 of Burn for Her

For the rest of the day and night, Dorian laid on his bed debating on whether or not he should try to catch a glimpse of her with his own eyes before he died or if he should go home and defend his king’s territory until fate put him out of his bloody misery.

Staying here wasn’t the safer option. Not for Lena and she was most important. The longer he went without her, the more deadly and uncontrollable he would become. Space between them was paramount. His death, unavoidable.

Pulling out his cell, he called Lucian. “Send the jet. I’ve got to get home as fast as fucking possible.”

Damn the consequences.

Chapter 11

Lena walked every inch of the French Quarter before heading back up to her hotel room to get ready for her night. With every step down each street, every sip of every drink, every bite of food, every note played on an instrument, she fell deeper in love with New Orleans. But, holy shit, her feet were killing her. Sitting back on her bed, she ignored the fluttery feeling in her belly. She hated excitement like that. She much preferred the full blast of an adrenaline rush where chaos swirled around her until she bucked up and owned it, possessed it, mastered and controlled it. This fluttery bubbly bullshit was for the birds.

Give her intensity. That’s how she went into fights and that’s how she intended to go into The Wicked Garden, damnit.

Sinking into her pillows, she sighed and closed her eyes to refocus and slam down her nerves. A weird mix of red and black sensual ribbons twirled behind her eyelids. It was the strangest thing to see. Her body tensed, even as heat pooled between her thighs. She had no idea what this was, but the vision had haunted her lately. It made no sense, but the way her body responded to it made it almost addicting. The ribbons coiled and slipped, lashed out and twirled—almost like it was trying to pull her in to lure her somewhere.

Slipping her hands down to her waist, she opened her fly and shimmied out of her shorts. Maybe… maybe if she took the edge off just a little, she wouldn’t feel so twisted right now.

Lena slipped one hand between her thighs and found herself already slickened. Her panties were wet from it. This had been her constant state for months… her lust was a dangerous thing. Always hungry. Always front and center.

The ribbons in her mind coiled and twisted into a tight rope. It thickened. Pulsed. Slithered and zipped behind her eyelids as her fingers delved into her pussy. Lena worked herself into a frenzy, heels digging into her bed, back arching, head digging into her pillow as she rub, rub, rubbed her clit with one hand and fingered herself with the other. Her heart slammed in her throat like a wild thing. She was close… so close she could almost—

Lena lost it.

That fast, she lost her fucking orgasm—just like every time she tried to take care of her needs. This, too, had been going on for months.

The Wicked Garden was her last hope. Her only hope.

Each time she reached that cliff of pleasure, everything frayed, including the ribbons in her mind. It was enough to drive her batshit crazy. Going into the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and glared at herself in the mirror. “Snap out of your shit and carpe this fucking diem.” Orrrrrr noctem. It was nine o’clock already.

Shit! Lena grabbed a dress and struggled to pull the zipper closed, then snagged her cell from the dresser. Following the instructions on her email, Lena waited outside her hotel for the car service, which had been lined up for her by the staff at The Wicked Garden, and at precisely nine-thirty, a black Mercedes pulled up just like the email said it would.

A large man stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door for her. “Good evening.”

Her words caught on her tongue. The sheer size of this guy was intimidating, but his voice purred. Whoa. Lena flashed him a smile and slid in.

The driver didn’t even look at her in the rearview as they headed down the crowded street at a snail’s pace to give pedestrians the right of way. Lena ran her hands down her simple, black cocktail dress, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles, impatience snaking into her system. As they left the French Quarter and headed into the Garden District, Lena looked out the window at each of the homes they passed.

She came from money. Lived in a mansion once.

No more though.

Lena bit her bottom lip and tried to get out of her own damn head. “How long have you lived here?”

“Long time.”

She got the feeling he wasn’t much of a talker, so she didn’t ask more questions. Or maybe that was the introvert coming out in her. To busy herself, she studied the way the driver worked the steering wheel, calculated the width of his shoulders, his height. The thickness of his neck, the size of his hands. He was big. Real big. Too big for her to win a fight with.

That almost disappointed her. She loved dangerous challenges.

Speaking of dangerous…

What would The Wicked Garden offer? Was it going to give her the very things she craved so desperately? First, Lena had to get through a tour and interview. This place wasn’t just elite, it was almost impossible to find and become a member of.

She bit her bottom lip. If this place gave her what she needed, she was moving here. Hands down, no question. She was already madly in love with New Orleans, and if this kink club satisfied her ungodly itch, she would pack her shit and move next week.

She looked at a few condos online this afternoon when the idea struck her.

Classical music played softly on the radio. While she fantasized about life in Louisiana, the driver remained quiet. Lena’s ears started ringing. She lost track of her thoughts.

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