Page 66 of New Orleans Rush

Fuck. He couldn’t slow his pulse or let her go. He also didn’t want to scare her. She’d already complained that his vigilance was making her crazy. “Five minutes away from you is too long.”

“I found a good-luck penny,” she said, too adorably sweet for him to stay stressed. “And I ate your extra cherry.”

He slowed his breath and stretched his neck, gradually easing his hold on her. “That’s why I got the cherry, and I hope you made a wish.”

“I did.” They settled against the bar, her shoulder nestled into his side. She sipped her lemon drop and swayed her hips. “A man asked me to dance.”

“Did you find this man handsome?”

“Ugly as a star-nosed mole.”

Her ridiculous animal knowledge relaxed him further, and he forced himself to quit scanning the room. She was safe. Nothing would happen to her with him around. He couldn’t ruin this night with his overreactions. “He didn’t look so bad from where I stood,” he said, focusing his attention on the prettiest woman in the club. “A bit hipster, but no star-nosed mole.”

She lifted a hand and traced his burned eyebrow, then the scar on his cheek. “He was boring. Bland as every man in here. Except you.”

“I have scars on my body.” He blurted that truth before the thought had even crossed his mind. He couldn’t understand how a woman as fascinating as Beatrice Baker found his ugly mug attractive. He also didn’t want her to be surprised when they got home.

Her eyes drifted to his chest. “Della mentioned it.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I have a birthmark above my belly button. It’s shaped like a wilting daisy. Will that bother you?”

Heat sped his blood. “I can’t wait to meet this wilting birthmark of yours.”

She tipped up her chin, her eyes so full of emotion he was sure an illusion had vanished every other person in the club. “I can’t wait to meet your scars.”

Where did I find this woman? Except he knew the truth. He hadn’t found her. She’d keyed her way into his life and heart. Because of her, he’d been spending more time with his brothers and less obsessing over the theater. The Marvelous Marlow Boys were performing to a full audience. He’d still like to find a way to entertain kids again, not just horny women, but he’d finally found some balance. Beatrice was the magic ingredient.

She shifted her hips, subtle moves timed to the slide guitar. They ordered another round. His worry dissipated. They talked. She danced against him, her body matching his subtle cadence until he was leading her to the dance floor, every step fueled by Brimstone’s sultry mood and his need to have his hands on his woman.

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.