Phantom of the French Quarter. Colleen Thompson
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from hers, only to dip his head to slide softer kisses along her neck, behind her ear, as, reverently, his hand skimmed along her ribs and waist, then found the sweet flare of her hip.
Her breaths were coming faster, as hard and quick as his own. Her soft fingertips feathered light caresses at his jawline.
With their bond a starved man’s sustenance, Marcus could have feasted all night, feeding at the subtle notch beneath her pulsing throat, the willing heat of her mouth. But his impatient body had its own imperative, and before he knew what he was doing, he was untying and loosening the bodice of her peasant blouse.
Caitlyn pushed his hand away and sucked in a startled lungful of air. Jerking back, she fixed wide eyes on him, with passion, confusion and regret all playing staccato-swift through her expression.
“No.” She slipped around him to clamber out of the bed. “No, I can’t. This isn’t me, for one thing. And Reuben’s waiting, worried. I have to go. I have to.”
With each word, she backed farther out of his reach.
“Caitlyn, it’s all right,” he said, though his body grieved her loss already. “There’s no need to be upset.”
Beyond listening, she turned from him, scrambling to unfasten the door’s cheap chain and deadbolt.
“Don’t go,” he said. “I’ll call a cab, like you told Reuben, and then I’ll see you to it. You have a head injury, and this neighborhood’s not safe for—”
But it was too late. Door swinging wide, Caitlyn blazed straight through it, not hesitating for an instant before she raced out into the sultry Crescent City night.
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