Page 11 of Mine to Tease

It’s then that I open my eyes and run my fingertips slowly up my leg. My lips part as the simple movement draws my nipples into small peaks. I continue running my fingers up my abdomen to my breasts. I stop to massage them. As I do, my core tightens and a flood of warmth rushes between my legs, and no, I don’t mean the water.

My first time—only time—lasted no more than ten minutes, including undressing and the sorry excuse for foreplay that my nineteen-year-old counterpart and I conducted. He was no one special and neither was it. We’d met in some class sophomore year at university. After being assigned to the same group project, we decided to lose our virginities to each other. I suppose we both saw our innocence as something that needed to be shed in order to fully step into our independent lives as adults. It was a one-time, emotionless thing, and I never saw or spoke to him again after the class ended.

I thought losing my virginity was what I needed to feel like a woman, to have the life I’m only starting to have now five years later. But those ten minutes didn’t do much for shedding my innocence or creating the confident, independent, in-control woman I’d hoped to become. It wasn’t enough time, or maybe just not the right person. It was my first failed attempt at growing up or rebellion, as Aidan would call it if he knew the truth. And, shortly after, my parents died. Thoughts of them make me stop touching myself, as is the case every time I try to find some sort of release.

I groan, wishing I knew how to get past this roadblock. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve watched movies, even a little bit of porn. And the books I read, well, they’re very descriptive. But I just can’t get out of my head enough to go to that magical place where orgasms live. Maybe it’s because my first sexual experience is so closely tied to my parents’ deaths? Maybe it’s because I haven’t had the right inspiration or teacher—partner? Something about the way Damon touches me makes me think he could teach me a thing or two. Hell, I’m already learning. Apparently, I like to be spanked.

The thought makes me giggle and has me bringing my hands to my body once more. This time I move them between my legs. I trace the outline of my folds and then move to my most sensitive part. My mouth opens as I let out a soft gasp. As I touch myself, I wonder what other things Damon Dupont could teach me. Though reality quickly steals my fantasy. We’d probably argue the whole time. Patience is not his strong suit. And what if he’d be too rough? He’s made it clear I’m not exactly his favorite person, and he’s not on my short list either, or long list.

Frustrated, I give up and push myself out of the tub. That asshole isn’t worth being a part of my fantasy anyway. Just because I like the way he touches me doesn’t mean I like him. At that, I grab a towel from the hook on the wall and wrap it around myself. I promised myself a Damon-free weekend and it starts now, well, tomorrow, because it’s bedtime.

12

Of all the places in New Orleans, Anastasia finds the one I hate most to spend her Saturday night. She is seated at a tiny bistro table on the floor in front of the stage while I retreat to the second-floor wrap-around balcony. It’s crowded enough up here that I shouldn’t have a problem blending in. Although, being surrounded by drunken tourists doesn’t exactly help with my sour mood. Neither do the number of men who ogled Anastasia in her short, tight floral-print skirt the whole way here. Part of me wanted one of them to try something just so I’d have an excuse to knock their teeth out.

Finding a place close to a wooden column, perfect for hiding behind if she decides to look in my direction, I watch as she adjusts her low-cut light blue sweater. It’s nice to see her in something other than pink for a change, but this one might be a bit too revealing for my comfort. It shows off her cleavage and the little definition of her upper stomach as the fabric bunches up, framing her chest. God, I’ve got to get a hold of myself. I can hardly complain about other men when I can’t tear my eyes away from her myself. Though maybe that’s why I don’t like others checking her out. I take a deep breath and, doing my best to focus on the mission rather than her body, stretch my arms out against the wooden railing of the balcony and give the joint a once-over to try to clear my mind.

The perimeter is clear of any lurkers. By lurkers I mean people who, like me, are more interested in the patrons than the musicians about to take the stage. Next up, I take a look at the tables closest to Anastasia. Nothing but couples out for a date night or groups of girls looking for someone to end the night with. No threats perceived, except for the waiter who just delivered Ana a beverage the size of her forearm. What is that? A Long Island Iced Tea? A Hurricane? Whatever it is, my baby bird approves, taking several large gulps.

“Easy there,” I whisper as if she can hear me. With her giving half her dinner to the little fur ball she, thankfully, left at home, it won’t take much to get her drunk and then I’ll have no choice but to step in. Hauling a drunk Anastasia six blocks back to her cottage could be some kind of fun or some kind of torture depending on what alcohol does to her. Either way, I’m going to need a drink of my own.

I stand tall, motion for the waitress, order a bourbon, and tell her to keep them coming. I down my first one just in time. As the blue and purple overhead lights flash, the audience erupts into a fit of applause. I give Anastasia another glance, doing my best to find respite in her smile before giving in to the invisible string pulling my gaze from her to the stage.

I should’ve known she’d find her way here. It’s only one of the most famous music venues in one of the most famous music cities. It also happens to be where my dead-to-me father plays the trumpet as part of the house band. The sound of the trumpet is inescapable in the French Quarter where street musicians are found on every corner. Despite the enjoyment I get from Anastasia’s hatred of my music, the real reason I play it so loudly is to drown out the sounds that remind me of him.

Aside from my summers with my cousins, watching my dad play was the highlight of my childhood. There were even times he’d sneak me backstage if I was too young for general admission. But all of that was before I knew the truth, before I was strong enough to stop him from beating my mother, before I lost him. Being here only amplifies the memories of my past and the pain I felt when I realized I didn’t know the man standing before me and I sure as Hell didn’t respect him. It still hurts, so much so my hands shift into fists as my eyes narrow in on him. They ache with every punch I didn’t get to throw because my mother kept the truth hidden from me and her brother who would’ve had my father killed if he knew.

I was eighteen when I finally saw the bruises for myself. He took his insecurities and failures as a man out on my mother. He couldn’t help but compare himself to her family, the wealthy Amatos. He could never compete and so he sought to destroy. When I finally learned the truth, I didn’t tell my uncle Domenico, not until I’d handled it myself. He was mine to deal with. And yet, a decade later, I’m questioning if I ever truly did. I told my mom she either had to leave him or I’d kill him. Either way, he was dead to me. She left, breaking her marriage vow—the only reason she’d stayed in the first place—just so I wouldn’t have my father’s blood on my hands. She died a few years later in a car accident, and here he is, hasn’t aged a bit in the ten years since I last saw him. Now all I can think about is how much I’d love his blood on my hands rather than in my veins.

I hate him, just as much as I hate what he did, just as much as I hate that I lost him, and almost as much as I hate the parts of him he left in me. I get my height from my father and my gray-blue eyes. If it weren’t for all my tattoos, I’d still see him when I look in the mirror. But changing your insides isn’t as easy as inking your skin.

In my line of work, it’s important to be strong, dangerous, even cruel and ruthless at times. My job is to protect by any means necessary, and I do not shy away from what that may entail, including torture and murder. It’s so easy for me to flip that switch and become the monster I must to protect my charge. I can’t help but wonder if part of that has more to do with my blood than my training. And, if so, does that mean I could flip in a relationship too? That I could become dangerous to the one I love? Not necessarily in terms of physicality. I would never lay my hands on a woman. But my temper is another matter. I don’t cross certain lines when it comes to emotional intimacy because I don’t want to find out. I don’t want to get attached or have someone get attached to me. I don’t want to hurt the person I love because of a darkness in me I can’t control. But, even more so, I don’t want to fall in love with someone and lose them like I lost my mother. My fears have created a desperate need for consent, boundaries, safe words—control. What I need most is control, control of myself and the situation.

When I’m around Anastasia, I’m anything but in control, as is evident by my actions yesterday. She challenges me at every turn and I love it. I love everything about her—her feistiness, stubbornness, her perseverance, her intelligence, her drop-dead gorgeous looks—even though I didn’t think it was possible. Maybe she entices me so much because of all the women I’ve known, she seems strong enough to handle me—temper and all. She’s a flame not easily snuffed out. No matter what challenges she faces, she overcomes them, as is obvious in just the short amount of time I’ve known her. But I know I’m getting too comfortable. Sometimes I don’t know how to handle it—being her secret protector or just simply being around her. Everything about this assignment—about her—has me on edge.

Being here tonight, mere feet away from the man I swore I’d never see again, makes me question how much more of this I can take—watching Anastasia in secret, teasing her, toying with her, trying to drive her away while secretly hoping for another chance to touch her. She is fire and I’m the match that wants to feel her warmth. The thing about fire is it’s not meant to be played with. How many more lines will this assignment and her beauty tempt me to cross?

* * *

I’m not sure how much time passes or how many bourbons I’ve mindlessly consumed when my waitress approaches me with a check. As if pulled from a trance, I hand her a credit card while my eyes search the thinning crowd for Anastasia. There’s nothing and no one at her table except a black check holder, which her waiter swoops by to grab.

“Fuck!” I curse.

Clusters of people flood out the exit as the musicians head backstage. I try to spot Anastasia’s red-orange curls among them, but it’s no use. Everyone looks the same all huddled together, especially under these blue and purple lights. Remembering the tracker she unknowingly installed on her phone when she downloaded the app for her so-called security company—i.e. me—I pull out my phone and check her location. My brows furrow. That doesn’t make sense. It says she’s right in front of?—

“I never realized New Orleans was such a small town,” Anastasia says, drawing my attention from my phone to her. I let out a sigh of relief and place my phone back into the pocket of my jeans. Though, remembering my role as her number-one antagonizer, I do my best to stifle my smile and look annoyed instead.

“Anastasia Cross, just couldn’t stay away, could you?” I lean back against the wooden column, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I could say the same about you,” she says, jamming her finger into my biceps. Even the simplest of her touches makes my blood boil with desire. Though it reduces to a simmer as a man bumps into her from behind. She lets out a gasp as she falls toward me. Quickly, I let my arms fall to my sides. I grasp on to her hips to steady her before she crashes into my chiseled chest. That definitely wouldn’t feel good—for her. She looks up at me then, our bodies only inches apart. There’s something about her that’s different than before. Maybe it’s the way she stares into my eyes with curiosity rather than disdain. Maybe it’s the way her lips part with what looks like excitement rather than shock or horror. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t scramble to get away from me or shove my hands off her hips. Oh, right, my hands… I retract them from her body and shove them in my pockets for safe keeping, prompting Anastasia to take a step back. She lowers her gaze to the floor as a small smile tugs at her lips. Desperate to see more of her, I lift my finger to her chin, forcing her to return her attention to me. Her cheeks blush red, and I notice the glassiness in her eyes. Aha! She’s drunk. I guess in losing track of time and my own number of drinks, I also neglected to keep track of hers. That explains the slight change in her behavior. Although, what does it say that drunk her doesn’t hate me?

“It’s okay, sweetheart. No need to be embarrassed,” I tease her. “I make a lot of women weak at the knees.”

Her brows rise as her eyes widen. “That’s not— That guy—” she stammers, turning around in search of the person who bumped her. As she does, the waitress reappears with my credit card. I quickly sign the receipt, leaving her a hefty tip.

“Come on. I’m walking you home,” I say, grabbing Anastasia’s hand. She stumbles, once more gripping on to my biceps for support as I pull her, a bit too harshly, to my side. I should probably be more gentle, but I’m not taking no for an answer. She’s been drinking and it’s my responsibility to make sure she gets home safely. I glance down at her to make sure she’s okay. Having her this close to me makes me realize even more than before how tiny she actually is. She is my baby bird.

“Damon Dupont is offering to walk me home? Why? You hate me,” she says then, though she does not move from my side or release her grip on my arm. She looks up at me, surprise furrowing her ginger brows.

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