Page 72 of New Orleans Rush

He stopped flipping and studied a page. “I need to make this snapper.”

Such a comment shouldn’t be considered seductive, but Huxley was half-naked, his hair still askew from her busy fingers. Everything out of his mouth was foreplay.

“I like fish,” she said distractedly.

His teeth scraped his bottom lip, an adorable move that made him look more boy than man. “The smoked paprika is a cool touch.”

“Yeah…cool.” What was cool? All she saw was the red mark she’d left on his shoulder.

He scratched his chest. “We’ll have taco night when you get back.”

Yep. Nibbling. Scratching. This was some serious foreplay, and talking tacos was definitely a euphemism. She stopped packing. “Why are you torturing me?”

He cocked his head. “With fish tacos?”

She gestured in his general direction. “With that.”

He looked down at his bare chest. “This?”

“All of you. It’s too much.”

The devil smirked. “Tell me more.”

If she started gushing about her obsession with him, she’d never stop. She thought about him constantly while working the market and couldn’t wait to perform with him on stage. The sex they’d had in her diva dressing room (all three times) had blown her mind. More of her self-portrait squares were being painted with Huxley as her muse, and waking next to him made smiling all day as natural as breathing. He’d cut gambling out of his life to make her feel secure and give their relationship a chance. His brothers felt like family. New Orleans felt like home.

She didn’t want to fly to New York.

“I should delay my trip,” she said. “I can start the commission later. It’s too soon to leave our nest. Lightning could strike the apartment while I’m gone, or you could get swallowed by an earthquake.”

He tossed his magazine aside and patted the spot in front of him. She was already dressed in her lucky polka dot top and pink pedal pushers. She shouldn’t wrinkle her clothes or muss her makeup by lying anywhere near Huxley Marlow. Her body, however, was beyond her control. He was the due north to her fluttering heart.

Once she lay on her side, facing him, he placed his palm on her hip. “You’ll only be gone one night. Nothing will change. The apartment will still be here. I’ll be here. There will be fish tacos and CSI reruns when you get back. But I’ll miss you.”

He was right. She was being silly. One night away was nothing. Yet unease prickled her neck. The last time she’d been this excited about something was for art school. That happy ending had resembled more of an oil spill.

She shook off the memory. “I’ll miss you, too, but it’ll allow us to have a prodigiously fabulous reunion. You can surprise me at the airport. We’ll run into each other’s arms.”

“Prodigiously?”

“The most prodigious.”

He did that thing where he looked at her like she was a unicorn. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. Anywhere but her Cherry-Bomb lips. “Will you manage to act surprised?”

“Seeing that look in your eyes always surprises me.”

This time his pupils flared. He claimed her lips, not a care to her lipstick or her impending flight. He kissed her deeper, and she gave as good as she got. In seconds, Cherry Bomb was smeared on them both. “We look like sex-crazed clowns.”

He smacked her behind. “Best get you cleaned up, then.”

Before she got up, she pulled an envelope from under her pillow. She’d removed spending cash from her commission advance and hadn’t bothered with a deposit yet. With all Huxley had done for her—offering her a home, cooking beautiful meals, paying for more than he should—she wanted to contribute.

She toyed with the edge of the envelope. “There’s eighteen hundred dollars in here. I want you to put some toward rent and food and use the rest to help fix the car.”

He didn’t move to accept it. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Your diva attitude doesn’t work with me.”