How Beauty Met the Beast Page 2

  Now for her favorite part of the routine. She took hold of the metal, flipped and swung, piked and did the splits, flashing the audience in a way that would’ve made her parents pass out—all from ten feet in the air and to resounding applause.

  She backflipped off the lyra and sucked in air to sing the last chorus of her number: “There may be coal in my stocking, my old friends may be mocking, but baby, I lived every day. I got nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing! Ow! And I like it this way.”

  The crowd hopped to its feet as she bowed, flushed with her success and ready for more.

  * * *

  In the shadows at the back of the party, Hauk tried unsuccessfully to close his jaw. He was supposed to join Brayden in a backroom, somewhere safe from all the eyes. But his feet were rooted to the floor, his own eyes locked on a goddess of beauty incarnate. And not just beauty. The way she sang. The way she moved. Every straight man in the room was praying for a chance to be on her naughty list, and damn his scars, he was still a man.

  Albeit a foolish one.

  The dancer’s bright eyes flashed across her audience, soaking in their adulation, but they didn’t penetrate back to his dark corner. Not that he’d want them to. Not in real life, anyway, when they would look at him with disgust or fear or pity. No, he needed to take his hard-on back to the office and ask politely for a cold drink.

  But she was sauntering his way. He sank into the shadows as the dancer—Jolie, she’d been called—exited through the audience and back into the bowels of the building. Exactly where he needed to go.

  He waited a beat and then another, hoping to give her enough time to reach her destination so he could remain unseen. He debated donning his motorcycle helmet, just in case, but that made him ridiculous. He’d stick with ugly. He pulled up his hoodie to hide the phoenix tattoo on his skull and shadow the rippling pink and white welts dappling his face.

  His boots pounded like a machine press against the concrete as he followed Jolie’s path. A few steps in he found a threadbare white sheet slung up across a wire to make a changing room out of an alcove off the main path. Light from behind the fabric outlined Jolie’s curves as she shimmied out of her shorts. Once again he was stuck in place, frozen this time by a shadow.

  The shadow laughed a rich sound of warm honey and forbidden things. “You know,” she said, “the audience is supposed to stay in the other room. Following me back here is against the rules.”

  “I didn’t, er, follow you. I’m looking for...” Gods, why could he think of words? “Catrina. I didn’t mean to, uh, run into you.” Changing, possibly naked. Behind a thin sheet.

  “Aw...” He could hear her pout and it was damn cute. “And here I thought I’d inspired anarchy. Oh, well.”

  He took a step toward the sheet. “Oh, I’m an anarchist, all right.” Most people would call him and the rest of the Citizens of the Underlight a pack of dangerous anarchists. Hauk didn’t see it that way. He loved America, the heart and soul of her. But the reality of today was a crumbling façade of the freedom she espoused, and politicians and CEOs with an agenda most people knew nothing about—all members of Ananke—were holding the wrecking ball. America had become a valiant soul in a ravaged boe aa ravagdy.

  A lot like him. His own body may be beyond repair, but he’d be damned if he let his country rot when he could do something about it.

  A sultry “Hmm,” brought his thoughts screeching back to the woman in front of him. “So I was uninspiring, then.” She bent over to push her feet into boots, and her backside pressed against the sheet like a perfect heart. “How disappointing.”

  “Oh...” The word came out like a moan as he curled his fingers into fists. It took all the control he had to keep his hands off her perfect ass. “You’re inspiring, all right.”

  She froze for just a moment before she stood, suddenly hesitant. “You have a delicious voice.” She turned until her body pressed into the sheet again, this time from the front.

  From the waist up she was naked. Heavy breasts rounded against the fabric, soft mounds with the prick of a budding nipple. The details of her face were lost behind the sheet, but she turned her face to the side and the form was there in shadow: slim, upturned nose, high cheekbones, hair curling down the elegant column of her neck and back down to those breasts. He couldn’t keep his eyes off their perfection for long.

  “So, anarchist, what rules are you going to break tonight?”

  He took an involuntary step toward her. He couldn’t see her clearly, so she shouldn’t be able to see him either, at least not in a way that would scare her off. Another step, and he was within touching distance.

  Her hands came up, not to ward him off but to press against the fabric, framing her body. Mouth dry and breath erratic, he pocketed his gloves, reached a finger up and touched her palm through the thin cotton.

  “Oh!” she gasped as if startled.

  He drew his hand away, unsure. He didn’t mean to overstep bounds.

  But she laughed again, low and full of promise. “Feels nice.”

  Nice? It was profound. Even through the sheet she sparked with energy, with life. He brought his other hand up and slowly raked his fingers from her palm to her wrist and down to her elbow. “Gods, you are exquisite in every way.” His voice rumbled low and she shivered. He smiled, proud of himself, and braved a touch to her face, fingers tracing the contours of her brow and down the plane of her cheek.

  She sucked in a breath, and the sheet quivered between them.

  His fingers moved down her neck, barely touching. He longed to go further. “Say the word and I’ll back away,” he murmured.

  “Then I’ll stay silent for fear of saying the wrong word.”

  His body leaped to attention, begging for more touch, more connection. He pressed deeper and slid his hands down until his wrists rested against the top of her chest and he stilled. Her breath heaved, pushing her softness against him. With a groan he explored further.

  Wrists, palms, fingertips, each crested the curve of her breast, felt the rising tip through the thin cotton. The muscles in her stomach fluttered with each gasping breath and her back arched, pressing her tits more firmly into his hand. He cupped them and let his thumbs stroke her nipples as they continued to harden and grow under his touch.

  Gods, he’d died and gone to Valhalla.

  Her breath quickened and shallowed. Lust-drunk, he bent until his lips hovered over the hard peak of one breast and nge breastpuffed moist air against the sheet. At her whimper, he slipped his hand down to her slim waist and held her steady. His lips smoothed over her taut flesh once in a bare caress. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, urging him on. He took her more forcefully, tickling her with his tongue. At her plaintive moan he sucked the stiff point in, wetting her through the sheet, rasping her with the cotton as his tongue played with her.

  He moved to the other side and she began muttering words of praise to God, to him, to life. He sucked harder. He slid his fingers inside her waistband, followed it over the curve of her hipbones to the button then stopped, unsure.

  Miracles continued as she unfastened it for him. The sound of the zipper releasing was like Valkyries singing. But his hands couldn’t quite reach where they wanted so desperately to be, not without endangering the barrier that made this miracle possible. He nipped lightly at her breast before letting it go. He couldn’t help nuzzling the wet circle of the sheet where his mouth had covered her, proof that he’d been there.

  He had to gulp air before he could find speech again. “You’re going to need to push those down for me.” He fingered her pants through the sheet.

  “Oh.” The sound was a sigh. A breath. She hesitated.

  He wanted more; oh, he wanted it so very badly. But he wouldn’t push. “Or don’t. I’m happy where I am.” He nuzzled between her breasts, kissed the base where hard bone met soft flesh and sighed at how perfectly she was made. How amazing it was to touch her.

  “I don’t do this,” she said. “With str
angers, I mean.” He sensed that her voice quavered as much from nerves as arousal. Maybe he’d gone too far. “I know I sang that song and talked about breaking rules, but...” She laughed self-deprecatingly, and her hand brushed the edge of the gray hood he used to hide from the world.

  He tensed, but she didn’t push it away or reach for his skin. He relaxed back against the heat of her body.

  “You know,” she said archly, “I’ve never been turned on by a man’s footsteps before.”

  It was his turn to laugh. Thank the gods for small favors; he had nothing else to recommend him. He brushed a finger across her slender waist. “I break a lot of rules, but I’ve never done anything like this. You’re a dream I never dared have.”

  She groaned. “Oh, hell, I want this.” She slid her pants down the curve of her hips.

  He dropped to his knees in supplication, praise, wonder. Her hands rested lightly against his shoulders. He kissed her firm stomach, tongued the indention of her belly button and the metal of the barbell running from it. He worked his lips down until they reached the top of her panties. This close he could tell they were scarlet. Scarlet and narrow. He traced his fingers along the edge until they were between her legs, two scraps of fabric away from her sex.

  She was drenched. Wet and ready for him. He moaned against her skin, his own erection hot and harder than he ever remembered. Not that he’d get to use it, but touching a woman slick for sex as he reacted in readiness as a man was a sensation he hadn’t had in far too long.

  He pushed aside the fabric of her panties and fingered between her folds, soaking the cotton with her wetness. He teased her softly, worried about abrading her delicate skin until her hips rode forward and back, pushing harder against him. While his fingers played, he kissed down her abdomen until he could slide the tip of his tongue i’his tonnto the cleft of her sex. She moaned and rode his fingers as he sucked her through the sheet.

  With one hand he steadied her hips and pushed one finger, then two inside of her. She panted and cried out, begging him for more. His tongue found the tiny nub of her clit and flicked as his fingers pressed deeper.

  “I’m going to—I’m going to—holy fuck, I’m going to come.”

  He pressed harder, spreading his fingers as he tortured her sex with his mouth.

  “Holy fuck!”

  Holy fuck indeed; nothing had ever felt this good, and he still had his clothes on. She came with a cry they could surely hear in the next room. Her vaginal walls squeezed him, flooding his fingers with more of her wet heat. Her hands gripped his shoulders, squeezing in rhythm to the pulse of her body. His fingers and tongue continued their assault as her orgasm lengthened, forcing ecstatic whimpers from her mouth. Only when he’d wrung the last shudder from her did he ease up. But he couldn’t bring himself to let her go or back away. It had been too amazing, too perfect, and he wasn’t ready to go back to the cold life he normally lived.

  “I have to sit down.” She barely got the words out, her voice was so shuddery. How he wished he could lie down and pull her on top of him, hold her like a lover.

  How he wished he could take his damn clothes off and ask her to touch him. But he pulled away from the sheet and let her sit, proud of himself that he’d made such a sexy woman come so hard she couldn’t stand up anymore.

  She relaxed for a moment before kneeling next to him, once more a silhouette against the sheet. “That was amazing.”

  He smiled and smoothed the fabric against her cheek, wishing he could directly touch her skin.

  “Do you need me to...I mean...” she started, hesitating.

  The heat in her cheeks radiated through the sheet to his fingers. The naughty girl from the burlesque club was blushing. Hot damn. “I am honored for what you gave me and don’t need anything in return.”

  “Nothing?”

  He sucked in a breath and studied her silhouette with sharp eyes. “No. I do have one request.”

  She nodded.

  With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face up. “Something I didn’t do before.” He leaned down and touched her lips with his own.

  It was a chaste kiss through a layer of cotton, but still it rocked his world. The heat of her mouth against his, the softness of her lips as they morphed from surprise to acceptance to desire drove him crazy with want. Her hands pushed through the sheet to rest against the leather of his jacket front as her mouth moved against his, insistent.

  Gods, a stiff breeze and he’d spill in his pants. He had to get out of here before he lost all ability to think straight and yanked the divider down. He ended the kiss.

  Jolie hummed and licked her lips. “You continue to amaze me.”

  He brushed her face one last time. “That’s nothing compared to what you’ve done for me. And I mean that.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Jolie. And thank you.” It took all his willpower to step away, to put the distance he needed between them to have any hope of leaving with his dignity intact.

  “Wait,” she said, and of course he stopped, for his world now revolved around the wishes and whimsShees and of a strawberry-haired girl. “I don’t know your name.”

  That was one thing he couldn’t do for her. Wesley Haukon was a fugitive’s name, and the fewer people who knew where he was, the better. Lying didn’t sit right with him though, and it would be nice to hear his name spoken in her low drawl. He only knew her first name, and his was common enough that he didn’t see the harm in sharing it. “I’m Wesley.”

  “Wesley of the Divine Tongue, I shall remember you as.”

  He chuckled. “I like that. But I don’t think it’ll catch on with my friends.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. “They don’t know you like I do.”

  * * *

  Holy crap. Jolie sprawled on the ground, utterly spent, as the last of Wesley’s wickedly strong footsteps faded away.

  Had she really just done that? With a stranger? Who might be the most erotic thing to ever happen to her? She stretched like a cat and grinned. Seven months in Austin and she barely recognized herself, in a good way.

  Her whole life, Jolie had been told what good girls do and who society expected her to be, all meticulous grooming for a public image as fake as the pearly white caps on her father’s teeth or her mother’s nipped and tucked face.

  A few months ago she’d gotten her own first body modification, something that wasn’t a false front. Her smile turned more somber as she ran her fingers over the red and white rose petals tattooed across her stomach and hips as if they blew away in the wind. It was a play on her grandfather Marcel’s film company, Rosebud media. She’d gotten it on the morning of his funeral.

  Papa Marcel would like her tribute. With his dirty jokes, his open mind and his envelope-pushing films that her father loved to rail against as degrading public morality, he’d been nothing like the rest of her family. Despite her parents’ protests, Jolie had moved to Austin to spend The End with her favorite relation, and it was the best decision she’d ever made.

  She shook somber thoughts from her head. She had happier things to think about at the moment. God, Papa Marcel would laugh if she could tell him what she’d just done—laugh and ask her how she could leave a poor man hanging like that. It certainly wasn’t her usual MO. She typically had as much fun giving as getting.

  But hot damn... She wasn’t kidding when she’d called Wesley’s tongue divine.

  She glanced at the sheet and blushed at the soaked-in evidence of the encounter. When she was done changing, she should bring it home to wash. Then maybe have it framed...

  Giggling like a girl, she slapped on her bra. Her skin still ached from Wesley’s touch, and the lace rasped against her, sending new shivers of desire through her. God, with that explosive orgasm she should be sated, but she only wanted more.

  Like her hands on his cock. Could she do that without seeing him? Because the faceless thing, even though she’d give anything to know what Wesley looked like, had been damn hot. She shoved her hands in
to her sweater and yanked it over her head.

  Or his cock in her mouth. That sounded good, too. She quirked her lips as her dirty mind went into overdrive. She’d bet he was a mouthful. She couldn’t see details through the sheet, but she could tell his frame had been huge, well over six feet tall, maybe heading for seven. Despite her four-inch hhe four-ieels, he’d towered above her, and Jolie was far from petite. And his shoulders, damn! Broad as a bear, tapering down to narrow hips. He had to be gloriously handsome.

  What would fucking him have been like? She’d been so tempted to rip down the sheet between them and wrap her legs around those hips. When his fingers had spread inside her and she’d bucked against him (wildly, even shamelessly, she might add), she hadn’t wanted his fingers. She’d wanted him, hard and full, driving inside her.

  But she didn’t have a condom, and while she may be diving full tilt into bad-girldom, she wasn’t going to be an idiot about it. Plus, that was a new level of dangerous, a new level of strange, facing someone she didn’t know as they made love. Er, fucked. She’d never done that before, fucked a stranger or had a one-night stand. That rule made sense enough that she’d followed it so far...but maybe there was a guy or two out there worth making an exception for.

  She smiled as she piled her hair on top of her head and secured it with a jaw clip. Exceptions like Wesley of the Divine Tongue. She turned her back to the sheet as she gathered her notes for tomorrow’s 8:00 a.m. German exam. Jolie-by-day was working toward a doctorate in comparative literature at The University of Texas. As soon as she’d learned of Papa Marcel’s condition, she’d turned down Columbia and applied to UT so she could stay with him.

  Public education. One more way she blotted the Benoit family’s good name, but she’d found herself surprisingly happy there and had no regrets.

  Sighing for the way-too-early morning, she stuffed the notes into her leather satchel. With a zip of fabric across wire, the privacy sheet was ripped off the line.