Page 67 of New Orleans Rush

“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.