Page 89 of New Orleans Rush

She nipped his bottom lip and pulled back, a shy grin on her face. “I actually painted you something, too. It was going to be a surprise.” She wiggled away from him and pulled a small canvas from under the couch. “I mean, I guess it’s still a surprise, but if you don’t like it, it’s okay. I wasn’t quite finished.”

He was ready to tell her he’d love anything her hands touched, but the second he saw the painting, he couldn’t speak. This portrait wasn’t like her others. There were no tiny squares or funky details. Beatrice had painted a candid image of his father, his head tipped back, a glint in his eyes and sly smirk rounding his cheeks, as though he were about to share a secret. “I’ve never seen this picture before,” he said, his voice rough. “Was it from a photograph?”

She picked at a rip on the couch. “Edna had some old albums. She let me go through them, and the second I saw this picture, I fell in love with it. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

He laid the painting gently down and pulled her onto his lap. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He buried his face in the curve of her neck. The non-bee-sting side. “And we should probably burn my painting. It was an embarrassment before. It’s atrocious now.”

She slipped her legs around his waist and nestled against him. “Never. I love it. And I’m sorry I didn’t read your other texts.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled against her skin.

He cradled the back of her head, his other arm latched around her waist. He couldn’t hug her tight enough or hold her close enough. His ribs felt like they were cracking, his chest shifting below his skin. It was a familiar sensation, this invisible tearing of his tissue. It reminded him of his near-death beating.

Much of the incident itself was hazy, but the hospital afterward was hard to forget. The stabbing pain. The operations. The itching that had made him want to rip off his skin.

Healing often hurt more than injury.

Like now.

He hugged Beatrice closer and replayed the sound of the gunshot, her ketchupy body prone on his floor. How she couldn’t breathe. That he’d almost lost her to his idiocy.

His bones shifted invisibly again.

Yes. This was the pain of healing. Yes. This was the start of something better.

He didn’t ease his grip. “I want to kiss you, but you need rest.”

“I’ve rested plenty.”

He pulled his head back. “You sure?”

She answered him with a soft kiss. It had only been two days since he’d last tasted her lips, yet he was parched. Dehydrated from missing her. Her sparse clothes were the perfect cure. He caressed her thighs and round ass. He flipped them over and lay her gently down. “Can you handle more than kissing?”

“I’ll hurt you if you stop. Just not too rough.”

“Oh, Honeybee. I plan to make love to you slow and deep. Does that work for you?”

“It definitely does,” she whispered. “But maybe not on this crappy couch.”

He laughed and carried her into his room. The second he had her down, her knees parted for him, inviting him in. He was hard, wanting to grind against her and mark her skin with his teeth. But this wasn’t a moment for abandon. This was the time to show Beatrice the extent of his love. Prove he’d bow at her altar for as long as she’d have him. He stripped her leisurely, covering her in kisses. He stroked and caressed her and worshipped her body with limitless devotion.

He hated parting from her for a second, but he left to grab a condom, returning swiftly. He groaned at the sight of his gorgeous woman lying on his bed. The left side of her neck was swollen, her eyes puffy from crying. She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

His clothes joined hers on the floor, then she sat up and rolled on the condom, fisting him and guiding him to her. Guidance he didn’t need. She was his North Star, a steady light in an ever-changing sky. He pressed in slow as a summer sunrise, letting her heat wrap him, her color blind him. The promise of a new day ahead.

He nosed the tender flesh of her neck. “Don’t ever fake die again.”

A tear slipped out as she canted her hips, taking him deeper. “Don’t ever buy ketchup again.”

“Never,” he murmured.

They moaned as they met. They held their breath as they parted—a reminder to always find their way back. They made love slowly, tenderly, their briny kisses bitter and sweet.

31

Bea stood at the kitchen counter, tapping on her phone. “Is it okay if Della comes?”

“Sorry, did you say something?” Huxley had her caged from behind, his insatiable mouth busy on her collarbone. Only the counter kept her from toppling forward.