New Orleans Rush, page 20
Bea was entranced. Bodies filled the dance floor, wrapping them in the club’s heady rhythm, like they were part of a vital organ, writhing, pounding, pumping. This music was lust incarnate. The air reeked of it, the smoky sounds an aphrodisiac of the highest order. Bea was high on the sexy atmosphere. She was even higher on Huxley Marlow, a very marvelous Marlow boy.
His muscular thigh was between hers, one of his large hands branding her lower back. The other stole feels of her ribs, the outer swells of her breast. His hips hit every beat as he led, guiding her body like she was a guitar and he was a guitar master. She twined her fingers through his hair. He snuck tastes of her neck, her ear. She ground herself against him, daring and dirty. Forget femme fatale. She was a siren seductress intent on hypnotizing her man.
Huxley’s body replied, his thigh wedging more firmly against her. Pressure built in her core. His own arousal was thick and hot against her hip. The feel of him—excited and hard for her—sent her to the moon. Her high heels positioned her perfectly, allowing her to trail wet kisses across his collarbone. She dipped her tongue into the groove at the base of his neck, tasting salt from his sweat-glazed skin. An approving rumble vibrated against her lips.
The tempo changed. It turned more provocative, faster, inebriating. She closed her eyes, sure she’d disappear into the notes, get lost between the steely drag of the slide guitar and steady pulse of the bass. Tipping her head back, she arched with the movement, curving her spine over Huxley’s forearm. He followed her flow, like they were connected, his heart drawn to hers. He kissed her jaw, her neck. The cleavage swelling from her dress.
Then he kissed her mouth.
It wasn’t a tentative taste that grew as they moved. The sensual dancing had made sure of that. This was a rocket-blast kiss, scorching from the first touch.
Their tongues made up for weeks of neglect, curling around each other as their hands clutched and bodies rippled. Even when they came up for air, their lips wouldn’t disengage. They shared each other’s oxygen, breaths tinged with the sweetness of alcohol, laden with desire. His tongue darted into her mouth, a quick flick that grazed her upper lip. She nibbled on his lower one. They pressed their foreheads together, teasing tastes stolen as they rocked.
Bea had folk danced and belly danced and breakdanced, but she’d never become the music, lost her mind in a sweeping of lips and limbs.
One song bled into two, then three. She was slick between her thighs. Huxley was a steel rod against her hip. When she couldn’t handle the foreplay any longer, she clutched his shirt and said, “If you don’t take me home right now, I’ll get arrested for indecent exposure and that mug shot I’ve avoided for twenty-eight years will become a reality.”
23
Bea’s feet were floating off the ground, figuratively and literally. Huxley had her pinned against his chest as he kissed her and kicked the apartment door closed.
“You’re skilled at multitasking,” she said while her lips traveled across his scarred cheek. She tongued the edges of his damaged ear. He groaned in reply.
She’d heard his vulnerability earlier, when mentioning his scarred body. His tentativeness had pained her. She wished he could see himself through her eyes, how his imperfections were the very things she adored. This man was beautiful, inside and out, but telling him wasn’t enough. She’d have to show him.
He, however, had other plans.
“You’re mine tonight,” he said as he carried her into his room and laid her on his bed. “I plan to kiss you senseless, use my tongue and fingers until your spasms shake the walls. But that’s not all.” He knelt in front of her and lifted her left leg, his two-toned eyes wild with need. He unbuckled her high-heel strap, then kissed her foot and the knot of her ankle as he slid off her red shoe.
“What else will you do?” Her breathy voice sounded desperate.
“Oh, Beatrice. What won’t I do?”
She squeaked at his gravelly promise. Her breasts felt fuller, the ache between her thighs heavy. She squirmed on his navy duvet. “I want details.”
She wanted to listen to his rumbly voice all night.
Not complying, he repeated the reverent treatment to her other foot, finishing by caressing her calves and lifting her dress until his fingers skimmed the edges of her black thigh-highs, the lacy ones she’d purchased from the vampire shop. “I do love these stockings of yours. You tortured me that day in the store with them. I’ve imagined slipping them off of you for weeks.”
“What else?” She needed specifics. She wanted to read his mind and learn what depraved thoughts had kept him up at night.
He smiled indulgently. “I plan to kiss every inch of your legs while I spread your thighs and feel how wet you are. Would you like that, Beatrice?”
“Is the sky blue?”
He chuckled. “But that won’t be enough, will it?”
She shook her head, words no longer an option. But God, she loved hearing her name tumble from his lips in a velvet slide. Watching him wasn’t half bad, either. Light filtered in from the living area, casting enough color to illuminate his aquiline nose, the elegant cut of his jaw. His burns. His scars. There was nothing unhandsome about Huxley Marlow.
He rolled one of her stockings down, eyes hooded, long fingers adept. “I plan to bury my face between your legs, get drunk on the taste of you.” Everything inside her clenched, but he didn’t stop there. “I’ll feast on the swells of your breasts, learn every flick and lick that turns you on. Then, and only then, will I bury my aching cock inside you. And make no mistake, Beatrice, it is aching.”
Dear God. It’s me, Beatrice. Thank you for inventing dirty talk.
“Are you sure you only read romance novels? Or do you write them under a pen name, too?”
Smirking, he rolled down her other stocking. “I’ll never tell.”
He lavished her legs with attention, tracing her calves with his nose, marking her with his teeth. He neared the hem of her dress, then ghosted away. Tempting her. Teasing her. Driving her mad. She wasn’t the only one. If Huxley’s effusive moans were any indication, the fancy five-bladed razor she’d purchased had indeed made her legs silky smooth.
When he had her writhing, he stood and held out a hand. “As stunning as that dress is, it needs to come off.”
Weak with need, she eased her fingers into his palm and tried to stand, but wound up stumbling into his arms. “You’ve made me clumsy.”
Intensity sharpened his features. “I’ll always catch you.”
Her heart pressed against her breastbone.
A fresh make-out session later, her lips were bruised and he wrenched away. Color suffused his cheeks. He spun her around and brushed her hair over her shoulder.
“Stunning,” he murmured as he unhooked the clasp at her neck. The top half of her halter dress fell to her ribs, revealing her strapless bra. Cool air brushed her exposed skin, his warm breath caressing her nape. His arms circled her from behind, and he cupped her lace-covered breasts. “You should always wear red.”
She let the back of her head fall onto his chest and arched into his large hands. “I’ll paint my body red if you keep touching me like this.”
“We’ll paint each other. But not tonight.” He massaged her breasts with such reverence she mewled. “Tonight, I see only you. No forced smiles. No bravado. No colors to hide behind. Just you.”
Her languid body stiffened. Had he sensed her reservations the past week? How nerves had flooded her one moment, desire the next? She didn’t think her cheery outlook was a bad way to navigate life. It kept her moving forward and stopped her from dwelling on unchangeable things. It had helped her quit worrying Huxley might gamble again and derail their fragile footing. Yet here he was, asking her to look deeper, be vulnerable. Acknowledge her hint of reservation that still lingered: once they slept together he would own a part of her heart.
He released her and gripped the zipper at her back. Shivers descended her spine as he dragged it down. When the dress pooled at her bare feet, he whispered, “Turn around.”
She didn’t move. Her pulse rattled in her neck.
“Beatrice.” The tenderness in his voice washed over her. “Turn around, Honeybee.”
Honeybee. Beatrice. The name he called her didn’t matter. The yearning in his plea mattered. His patience the past month mattered. He mattered.
She turned around, embracing this moment, their future, whatever it held.
His jaw slackened. “Look at you.”
Haziness softened his eyes as his gaze raked over her red lace panties and strapless bra. Every inch of her skin. He almost appeared drugged. An expression Huxley never wore. He was the planner. The thinker. The surly brother who plowed through whatever life tossed at him.
“Do you need to lie down?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I just need a minute.”
“You can touch me.”
Instead he touched himself. “Fucking aching.” His words grated out.
He still wore his pants, but he gripped his erection through the straining fabric and gave himself a few rough strokes. The sight immediately made her feel drugged, too. Aroused to the point of delirium. She did this to him. She reduced him to pleasurable pain. Releasing himself, he blew out a harsh breath and stepped toward her.
Her body responded with throbbing need, but she held up her hand. “I want to see you first.”
Eyelids heavy, he licked his lips. “…Don’t you want me to kiss that wilting daisy?”
The lust in his steamy gaze hadn’t changed, but a hint of hesitation delayed his reply. Her birthmark. His scars. He was worried she wouldn’t want that kiss once he bared himself.
An impossibility.
“Take off your shirt.” She donned her diva personality again, making demands for her pleasure alone.
He blinked three times and fisted his hands briefly. Never breaking eye contact, he toed off his black oxfords and removed his socks, working methodically. She enjoyed the show and his current state of dress. There was something about a man in bare feet, the casual ease of it—all black slacks and stylish shirt up top, unfussed repose below.
He untucked his shirt next, then slipped the top button through its hole. Then the next, and the next. By the end, the edges of his black shirt hung open, exposing a column of skin and smattering of chest hair. It wasn’t enough. “All the way.”
“Demanding.”
“It’s the dressing room. You’ve turned me into a diva.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your temperamental nature.” Smirking, he let his shirt drift to the ground, and her knees liquefied. Not because puckered skin covered a football-sized section of his left ribs or most of his abdomen. Not because of the angry scar slicing from his right pec to his waist. He was showing her his battle wounds, the pain he’d endured, the colors that had shaped the man he’d become.
This was his self-portrait and she wanted to kneel at its beauty. Honored didn’t describe how his vulnerability weakened her in the very best way.
She closed the distance between them and touched the wrinkled skin over his ribs. “A burn?”
“Yes.” The reply came out like a whispered secret.
She traced the long scar down his midsection. “And this?”
“A stab wound.” The soft light articulated his muscles as his abs tensed under her explorations. “Can I touch you now?” he asked.
“I’m not done yet.”
His fingers twitched. “I can’t wait.”
He grabbed her hips and pulled her against him. “Unless you want the rest of my skin to burn, I suggest you let me grab that glorious ass of yours.” He took handfuls of her behind, his head tipping forward as he ground against her. “Glorious,” he murmured.
His reaction to her curves made her happy she’d never swapped bodies with Emma Stone or anyone else. It also shattered her composure. Studying his self-portrait could wait until later. She was flammable. She needed his skin on hers, his hands kneading her flesh like he’d never felt a woman before. They had weeks of pent-up longing to obliterate.
They kissed and moaned, hands groping, teeth nipping.
“Pants,” she said as she dug her nails into his shoulders.
Unwilling to stop kissing his neck and chest, removing his pants involved some laughs and hopping. Then he was against her again, his boxer briefs barely containing his magical sword. It was as large as she’d drawn on her door. She tried to climb his body.
Chuckling, he walked them to his bed. “The bee is also a monkey.”
“Do you think now is a good time for bee jokes?”
“Anytime is a good time for bee jokes.” Manhandling her hips, he tossed her onto his mattress. But she wasn’t having it. She needed to feel him. Touch him. She pushed to her knees and dipped her hand into his boxers. She sighed as he groaned.
He swayed on his feet. “Stop.”
“No.” The silk-hard feel of him shredded her sense.
He growled and pulled away, then shucked his boxers, giving her the view she’d imagined on repeat. Curls of blond hair dusted the unburned sections of his chest—the same hair that trailed toward the sword her prince wore proudly. His length twitched. Wet heat pooled between her thighs, and she couldn’t look away. Huxley wasn’t a bulky man. He was the naturally trim sort with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He stood with unabashed confidence, his strong thighs flexed, no longer hesitant to let her see his body. That alone turned her molten.
He joined her on the bed, his purposeful movements forcing her to lie back. Kneeling between her legs, he spent his promised time nosing and kissing her ugly birthmark before removing her bra and easing her red panties down. He hovered over her, proud cock twitching. Every inch of her pale skin was exposed.
He traced circles around her nipples, then lazy shapes downward. He palmed her center. “Red really is my new favorite color.”
She wasn’t sure if he was referring to her discarded lingerie or the curls he was toying with. She didn’t care. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“Please.” She wasn’t above begging.
Her knees fell wider, and he caught his breath. “So wet for me.” He stroked her, reverent glides that drove her mad. Kneeling fully, he gripped the base of his shaft as he worked her, like he was stemming his desire. When he pressed his thumb where she ached most, her hips spasmed. “Stop teasing me.”
“I can’t.”
“Huxley…”
“Beatrice…”
Her hips jerked again, everything inside her coiled tight. She’d never been so responsive to someone in bed. She’d never felt like she had family, until this prince of a man had welcomed her into his. She never wanted to please someone so badly, to be the reason he cried out in pleasure. But it was she who cried out. He pushed two fingers inside her, his thumb working overtime, all teasing gone. Like on the dance floor, he directed her body, controlled her moves. He kept his distance, though. He watched as a twist of his fingers made her gasp.
His eyes flared. “My expressive Honeybee.”
His crooning undid her, and her belly furled into a feverish knot, tingles blooming at the edges. She bit her lip. His magic fingers worked her over until she dissolved under him, because of him, his rapt attention stretching out her pleasure.
If she painted her self-portrait now, she’d be a vivid rainbow.
She trembled. “You’ve done that before.”
“No.” He pulled out his fingers and stroked her swollen flesh. “Never that.”
Her heart squeezed. She understood what he meant. They weren’t virgins. Nothing they would do tonight would be a first, but it would be new. It would be earthshattering, because it was them.
She reached for him, needing more. “I’m desperate to feel you inside me.”
24
Huxley didn’t think he could want Beatrice more, but the need in her breathy voice blinded him. Which was unacceptable. He needed to see every shudder of her body, every arch of her back. He licked the fingers he’d had inside her, stealing a taste, a meager tease that would have to suffice. As much as he wanted to feast on Beatrice Baker, his willpower was waning.
He grabbed a condom from his dresser and dropped it beside her. “If you’re desperate, I’m a lost cause. But I still have some business to attend to.”
Business that included worshipping her spectacular breasts. Everything about Beatrice was soft and lush—her glorious ass, the generous swells he now cupped. He had large hands, and she was more than a handful, pale pink nipples puckered just for him. He rolled his tongue around them. He sucked and kissed and squeezed until his vision blurred.
Her frenzied hands tugged his hair. “Now,” she begged.
A demand he couldn’t deny. Condom in hand, he fitted himself between her thighs and tore the packet with his teeth. “You’re mine, Beatrice. All mine.”
She scratched her nails down his thighs. “My magic man.”
His throat burned at the declaration. “Yours alone.”
She’d owned him since the day he’d sat in her car, inhaling her watermelon scent, marveling at her eccentric paintings. He’d be hers as long as she would have him.
He rolled down the condom and positioned himself at her entrance, holding still for a beat. Her red hair was haphazard, her creamy skin a vision on his dark sheets. She wasn’t looking at his burned flesh or the gnarly stab wound cleaving his torso. Her rainstorm eyes were locked on where they were about to join. She was panting for him, disfigured body and all.
“Yours,” he repeated. A decree. A law he’d like to pass.
Then he pushed in.
Her hot pressure wrapped around him, inch by glorious inch. They both groaned, potent sighs they’d waited weeks to unleash. Sighs of pleasure. Sighs of rightness.
Sighs of fucking perfection.
Her face tightened then softened. He stroked her cheek. “Okay?”
She nodded. “Deeper.”
