The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Look at me, kitten.” He paused his ministrations, fingers there but unmoving until she complied. She blinked him into focus, his face looming, nose so close it nearly touched hers. “Good girl. Very good.” For her compliance, he slid his fingers up, nestling them above the hood of her clit and gently rocking them back and forth. She thought her knees would give out, but he pressed closer, propping her up with his body as he rubbed.

  And rubbed. And rubbed. Until her breath came in pants and her eyes closed of their own volition. Oh yes, she’d come before, but the climb had never felt that good.

  “I said look at me.”

  Again the hand stilled. Again she opened her eyes.

  It was easier when she wasn’t looking at him. Easier to go with the flow, following the pleasure without actually considering it. Her looking at him, meeting his gaze, made her an active participant in their sex. She’d chosen this. He’d asked, she’d given permission, and now she was as responsible for their tryst as he was.

  It made her shy in a way, but hot, too; she’d picked this lurid thing.

  She’d picked letting him pick her.

  He’s trapped me and I let him.

  I like it.

  He went back to working her, his green gaze fixed on her blue one, knowing just how much pressure to exert and when. Soft at first, and as she grew wetter—I’m going to float out to sea on my own juices—pushing harder. He experimented with his touches, seeing which ones she responded to, ovals or flicks, and in the end it was flicks that pushed her up the mountain.

  “Please.” She fixated on his beautiful face, like he was the only thing that mattered anymore. He was the sun and she was drawn into his orbit, pulled by him in ways she couldn’t control and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  He leaned in close, lips grazing but not kissing, fingers slicking through her sopping valley, the rude, wet noise of labia shoved apart and then pushed together punctuating his hand’s artistry.

  “Come, kitten. Come for me,” he rasped, gravel lacing his honeyed tones.

  And for the first time in her life, Arianna Barrington’s body yielded to another’s touch, her spine arching like a bow string as she screamed out her orgasm.

  SEVEN

  IT’S PERFECT.

  So fucking perfect.

  Sol leaned against her, his hand pressed to the wall above her head. He let her arms go, gently, so the blood rush wouldn’t overwhelm. She gasped for air, cheeks pink, lips swollen from his kisses.

  He reached for her chin, tilting up her face, his lips seeking hers. Their fingers entwined once more, and he guided her toward his room, both a plea and a demand. Her arms snaked around his middle, and he paused to nudge at her mouth with his own. He wanted to show her everything, to take her to bed and fuck her until the sun chased away the night, but then Cylan walked out of his room and shit.

  “I heard a scream. Everything all—oh. Oh. Goddamn it.”

  There was a flash of dark head when Cylan opened his door, but then he was gone, retreating to the accountant hole that birthed him. The two-second intrusion was enough to cast a pall on the magic they’d made, the illusion of a world that was theirs and theirs alone shattered. She reddened, her eyes big, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my fault,” he managed through clenched teeth.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “No, no. I was loud. I . . . oh.”

  She looked so painfully lost that he gathered her close, her pretty face tucked against his vest. She nuzzled him, but then she pulled away, and he wasn’t such a bastard as to push his advantage. He wanted to—his cock was as hard as granite—but no. Not with her. She was different. Special. Precious? Maybe. His instinct was to take care of her however she needed to be taken care of.

  He stooped for her shoes, offering them to her one at a time, his fingers smelling like her sweetest, most intimate juices. She braced against his shoulder to slip them on, regaining the lost inches. She wouldn’t look at him, and it made him uncomfortable—had he gone too far? Was it too much? Had he spoiled everything?

  She picked up the purse, her full lips tilting up into a beatific smile.

  “I had a lovely time.”

  Oh, thank Christ. Thank you, Christ.

  “So did I. I wouldn’t presume upon your time—”

  Yes, I would.

  “—but would you like to come to brunch tomorrow?”

  Say yes, kitten.

  “I’d like that very much.”

  No hesitation. He ran a hand over his mouth, hiding his smile, and led her back to the elevator. She cast a furtive glance at Cylan’s door as they passed.

  “I should apologize.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. He should know better by now. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t appear to know what to say to that, so she stayed quiet, her fingers toying with the strap on her purse. He pushed the button for the elevator and waited by her side, his fingers twirling in her heavy gold hair, tugging the curls and letting them bounce back into shape.

  When the doors opened, he made to walk with her, but she shook her head and stepped in without him.

  Damn it.

  “Eleven tomorrow?”

  He nodded before lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. As his teeth brushed her pink skin, a shudder wracked her body.

  “Tomorrow.”

  And then she was gone, her form disappearing with the descending elevator. He stalked back to his room, agitated in every possible sense of the word. He had to stop himself from slapping Cylan’s door as he passed; he’d ruined it even if he hadn’t meant to. But no, Sol went straight for his suite. Two steps past the threshold, his hand fumbled with his pants. Six, his cock was out. It wasn’t what his body craved, but it sufficed, especially with her taste, smell, and feel so fresh in his head. He came hard, a half dozen pulses given over to his handkerchief when all he wanted to do was paint Arianna Barrington with it inside and out.

  He tucked himself away, feeling like a too-taut spring despite the release, so he picked up his phone and called Maddy. Cylan was too emotionally closed off to talk about silly things like feelings and relationships even if he was only one door away.

  “Don’t move or I’ll know. Darling boy!” The first comment wasn’t aimed at Sol. The second was.

  She always knew how to make an entrance.

  “Bad time?”

  “Never. How was it? Is she delicious?”

  “I don’t know. And yes.”

  “Which don’t we know, dove. Tell Maddy everything.”

  And so he did, from the date to the Jackson Square intimacy to the quivering pile of sex he’d ground against not fifteen minutes ago. Maddy was a good listener, and after he’d exorcised the worry demons about his possible misuse of a lovely girl, she sucked in a breath.

  “She’s not my flavor, you realize.” Her voice was quiet. “You’re looking at something completely different from what you’re used to.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to her, Sol. Tell her. She’ll play or she won’t. You asked, she acquiesced, you’ve done nothing wrong. You know if you need anything, I’m al—a moment. What did Mama say about moving, pet?”

  There was rustling on the other end of the line, and then a hard smacking sound followed by a thud. Maddy tittered when she returned to her phone—Sol knew that laugh. It said she was being the best bitch she knew how to be, and he found himself smiling despite his trepidation. “You know if you need anything, I’m always at your disposal,” she finished.

  “I know, and thank you for that.”

  “You know that cliché about the best bottoms being the best tops.”

  H
e smiled into the darkness of his apartment.

  “Yes. I suppose I do.”

  “I see we’re at the ‘fuck all’ portion of the programming,” Cylan said in greeting the next morning. Sol was up, showered, and shaving his face all before nine thirty, which was nigh miraculous, but Cylan was not about to compliment a commonplace feat.

  Sol examined Cylan in their shared reflection in the bathroom mirror, one half of his face smeared in shaving cream, the other freshly smooth. The razor glinted in the off-track lighting. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “She’s only here for two weeks. You can’t tell me you’re not fucked up after the divorce. This has all the makings of a terrible idea. A Barrington is not good rebound material.”

  “I recall you saying something similar yesterday so I have to assume you’re worried about me.” Sol worked at his jaw, clean, smooth sweeps of the blade following the grain of his hair. He tapped the soiled razor on the side of the sink. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  Sol arched a brow. “I could say the same. I like her. I’m a divorcé, not dead.”

  “You crumble under pressure. I don’t think I have it in me to pick you up off the floor for the umpteenth time.”

  Sol’s razor slipped, the blade nicking him at the edge of his jaw. A rivulet of blood dripped into the foam on his neck. He pressed his thumb to the wound to staunch the bleeding. “The day I stop trying to be happy is the day you might as well put a bullet in me. I want her, she wants me. I’m willing to see where it goes even if it’s only two weeks of fun.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror a second time. Cylan looked away first, sighing, his fingers sweeping over the silvering hair at his temples. “I am worried about you. I’d hate to see you hurt again. At least she seems like a nice girl.”

  “She is a nice girl. Smart, too. I hope she doesn’t realize how much better she can do than me.”

  Cylan murmured something unintelligible and wandered off to the office. Sol finished shaving, the conversation niggling at him. Could he get hurt? This early on? Yes, probably. He’d been listless for a while. The first thing to spark his interest going sour would burn, even if she was a temporary thing.

  Maybe she won’t be.

  An idle musing, but one he took with him as he dressed for brunch. She knew so little about him, and yet he felt like he was getting to know her quite well. Enough to say she was fantastic. Enough to say she’d be an apt pupil.

  If she wanted to be.

  “Every relationship has a power dynamic, kitten.”

  They sat in Gustav’s, in the private nook, the curtain drawn to keep prying eyes away. She looked like a frosted pastry—minty-green sundress with a white folded collar, a coordinating hat she’d put on the chair beside her. She wore little makeup, but she was one of those women whose natural beauty was stunning without adornment. She was fresh faced and pretty, the perpetual girl next door.

  She was also all smiles—no worse for wear from last night’s game. Pleasantries were easy, banter easier, and when their food arrived, he broached the thing that was, to him at least, the elephant in the room.

  “How do you mean?” A forkful of eggs Benedict disappeared between her lips. Hollandaise dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and the notion of licking it off himself didn’t seem far-fetched until she dashed it away with a napkin.

  “Family, friends—someone is always leading. Someone is being led. Do you agree?”

  She nodded, her eyes intent. He had her attention. He seemed to always have her attention, like he was the brightest star in her sky. He liked that. It made him feel important. Wanted.

  “I like to toy with that dynamic. Exaggerate it.” He put down his fork and entwined his fingers, resting his chin on them and smiling. “I liked you against that wall. I had the sense you liked being against it. You liked my control.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, her tongue swept over her bottom lip, leaving a glossy trail behind. It had no business being as sexy as it was. “I liked it.” A hint of rasp in the words, her volume so soft he could barely hear it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I suppose the question is, what’s next? I’d like to see you again. If you’re amenable, do you want more of last night? Less? Communication is important.” He slipped from his chair and into the one beside her at the table, moving close, until their bodies pressed together. His hand lifted to her hair, stroking the silk, enjoying the thick texture against the pads of his fingers. “I would like nothing better than to explore your limits with you. I want . . .” He paused, leaning in close to nuzzle at the shell of her ear.

  Her eyelids fluttered, her lashes casting long shadows down her cheeks. “Yes?”

  “I want last night, and tonight, and then the next after that if all goes well. How does that sound?” He punctuated the question with a bite to her lobe. Perfume, or maybe a good shampoo, something with a hint of roses and musk. He wanted to bury his face in it and breathe it for the rest of the day.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Yes, what, kitten? Use your manners.”

  Her fork clattered to the table. “Yes, please. More.”

  EIGHT

  A LINGERING KISS to her pulse, no tongue or teeth or suction, just pressure, and then he was gone, back to his side of the table to finish his breakfast. The moment was over—she’d agreed to whatever illicit thing he was proposing, they could carry on with their meal. Only she couldn’t. She couldn’t look away from him, the food cooling on the dish before her was all but forgotten.

  What was I doing?

  “Eat your breakfast, kitten.”

  Oh, right. That.

  He’s sensible.

  She ate, catching herself smiling and blushing in turn. She wanted Sol to return to the chair beside hers. She wanted to feel his heat and hold his hand, but he seemed content to keep his distance. It was disappointing, but she also recognized it for the tease it was. Why give her the whole cow when a taste of milk was enough to pique her interest?

  She also understood some of what he’d said—power dynamics between people fluctuated. Sometimes you were a star in a roomful of people content to let you shine. Other times, you stepped back and let another person shine, or were simply overwhelmed by their brilliance and naturally fell into a more docile place. She’d read theory in her sociology classes about how power dynamics worked, about how social perceptions and behaviors intersected with gender and race and age and everything else, but she hadn’t explored it much in the real world. Toying with it—and Sol—sounded intriguing, even if she didn’t know exactly what she’d signed on for.

  She figured she could ask questions later. She had no reason to think he’d push her into something she didn’t like. Not when he asked her permission before touching her every time.

  Vaughan would probably know more about what he was getting at, but I’m not sure asking him is a good idea.

  Which reminded her that she hadn’t talked to her brother in over twelve hours.

  Oops.

  “I should probably check in with my brother. I haven’t heard from him since yesterday.”

  “I think he left with Amanda. The desk girl. She’s sweet even if she has an appetite for pretty guests.” Sol flashed a grin before dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

  He has that bow in his upper lip . . .

  Focus, Arianna.

  “Oh. So, like you.”

  He eyed her and then laughed, a full head-tilted-backward affair, hands on his middle like he had to hold his guts inside. “Touché, though hers is more epidemic. You’re the first guest I’ve ever made come in my hallway. He’s probably her twentieth.”

  Oh God.

  Heat in her face, and neck, and everywhere, and he knew it, the bastard. He winked at her as he stood, offering his hand.

  “Two o�
�clock in my suite? We’ll do lunch.”

  She managed a nod. He guided her through the restaurant, the foyer, to the elevator. When they reached her floor, she wanted him to follow her, to make her feel half as good as he had last night, but he pressed a dry kiss to the back of her hand and let the elevator take him away. She stared at the closed metal doors for a good two minutes before realizing what she was doing.

  Oh come on now. This is ridiculous.

  She ran her fingers across her brow, her hat clutched in her hand. She’d squeezed it so tightly she’d creased the brim, the straw coming free of its weave.

  “Shit.”

  Pardon my Fr— No one’s here, you twit.

  She drifted toward Vaughan’s room, rapping her knuckles against the door. There was a groan followed by a thunk. Shuffling. Zombie noises. Door opening. Her brother’s eyes were narrowed to cat slits, his coloring . . . bad. Her brother Mitchell would say he looked like he’d been shot at and missed, shit at and hit.

  But then, Mitchell was a dick. So.

  “You drank last night,” she blurted. Something toxic oozed from his pores, tequila or vodka if his home proclivities were in attendance. He smelled like a cross between a medicine cabinet and old gym socks.

  “Correct, Watson. How was dinner?”

  “Lovely. We just had brunch, I’m having lunch with him at two. Who’s Watson? Oh, do you mean the Sherlock man? I like Jude Law.”

  She winced.

  Focus.

  “Right. So, call Mom at some point? She’s blowing up my phone.”

  Rain shriveled inside her skin, the tingly daze from Sol’s company replaced by anxiety. She didn’t hide it well; Vaughan shoved open the door and motioned her inside. She followed, stepping over rumpled khaki pants, a white shirt with a strange orange stain on it, and a purple pair of panties she was fairly certain didn’t belong to him. Or maybe they did and Vaughan was more interesting than she’d given him credit for.

  Whatever the case, she put her purse aside and started picking up his clothes and folding them into neat stacks, gingerly collecting the underwear, only willing to touch the very tippy top of the waistband. Vaughan reached out to stop her, snatching the underwear and throwing them onto the corner chair.