Page 68 of New Orleans Rush

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.”