Page 70 of New Orleans Rush

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.”

The vixen read his thoughts. He lifted her hips and seated himself to the hilt. She released a small cry. His rough grunt chafed his throat. Their hips were flush, but it wasn’t enough contact. Nothing would ever be enough. He dropped to his elbows and caged this fascinating woman. He rolled his pelvis.

“God, Huxley.” She rocked, meeting his languid strokes.

“You feel so good. So perfect.”

Each rotation got better, hotter, wetter. Her breasts were crushed to his chest, her knees hitched high. He dragged in and out of her, again and again. The same steady rhythm, but there was nothing stable about his spiking pulse or the heat fisting his gut.

Heaven had nothing on Beatrice Baker.

She clutched the back of his head and claimed his mouth in a blistering kiss. “Faster.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Not if you want this to last.” Sweat gathered along his spine, each rolling thrust intensifying his pleasure. He was strung taut, a minute from exploding, desperate for their connection to be earthshaking for her.

She ground against him, urging him on. “Next round can be slow.”

He was so intent on enjoying every second with her, he’d forgotten this was just the beginning. They’d have endless days to explore each other and eat her awful breakfasts and watch reruns on TV. To perform at night, then come home and make more magic between the sheets.

She clenched around him, an internal squeeze that lacerated his resolve. Slow was no longer an option. Lifting to his knees, he canted her hips and gave her all he had. All his angst in the past years. All his fear that someone wanted to do her harm. All his gratitude for her appearance in his life. Nothing had ever felt this right.

“God, Huxley. Yes. Like that. Yes!” She came on a cry, incoherent sounds that shot his ego to cloud nine.

His body tensed, more pleasure than he’d ever felt barreling up his thighs in a mind-numbing rush, the strength of it flooring him. His release came in shuddering waves. His arms shook. His body spasmed. The last snap of his hips winded him, and he barely kept from collapsing on her.

Soft kisses on his face returned him to reality, as did the gentle strokes on his back. “That was a whole lotta wow.”

He nipped her neck. “You read my mind.”

“Be my valentine,” she whispered.

He chuckled, fighting not to slip out of her yet. “Valentine’s Day isn’t for nine months.”

She hugged him tighter. “I know.”

Ah.

Beatrice wanted to be his, not just for tonight or a few months. She wouldn’t take off because the mood struck her, like he’d worried. She was his zigzag girl. His watermelon woman. She was looking ahead, seeing him in her future, and he’d be an idiot to mess this up.

He felt himself thickening again, his lust growing with the swell of his heart. “I’d love to be your valentine.”