The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

  “I got it, droplet. You don’t have to organize my stuff.”

  “Oh. Well. Okay. Is your friend still here?” Rain edged her way toward the bed, but seeing a strange stain there, too, she opted to lean against the end table in hopes that it was a slightly more sanitary spot than the rest of the room.

  It smells like perfume and vomit in here. Gross.

  “I’ll see her tonight after her shift. You don’t have to actually call Mom, you realize. Send her a text and tell her to talk to Richard.”

  “She won’t like that.”

  “She’ll get over it. It’s two weeks. What’s the worst that can happen?” Vaughan padded over to the kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You’re on the pill, right?”

  “Vaughan!”

  “Are you?”

  She squirmed, refusing to look him in the eye. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. And we haven’t slept together, so it’s a nonissue.”

  “Droplet?”

  She looked up. Her brother regarded her over his coffee cup, the hotel robe pooling at his elbows to show off lean cords of muscle and colorful tattoos.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s been two days.”

  Vaughan drained his cup and circled back around to her. He pulled her in for a hug, arms looping around her middle. Up close, she could tell he’d more or less drowned in tequila. Oh, and that he’d worn the Tom Ford cologne the ladies liked so much. It was a rank combination.

  “I know you don’t just do what I do. Or what any of the boys do. So if you’re spending time with someone, we notice. One word of advice, yeah?”

  She tipped her head back to peer at him, blue eyes so like her own (only bloodshot and with puffy red bags beneath—why does he do this to himself?) staring back.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell Mom about DuMont. Enjoy yourself and keep your mouth shut.”

  At a quarter to two, Rain was in a fresh white dress, her hair pinned on top of her head, her nails polished mauve. She’d been ready for a half hour, but she didn’t want to go upstairs too early, afraid to look overeager. Afraid he was busy and she’d interrupt. Afraid he’d figure out she had no idea what she was doing.

  She rationalized, as she wore tracks into the rugs, that there were levels of fear, and not all of it was terrible. There was horror movie fear, and then there was the fear she had thinking about her mother. Neither of those felt good, but they were different from each other. One was jump-level scare, one was a malaise that gave her a headache. With Sol, it was baseline nervousness. Ants in the pants, her nanny used to say when Rain wouldn’t sit still. You’re going to wiggle right out of your skin.

  Excellent! Sol had reduced her to an infantile version of herself.

  A horny, infantile version.

  She paced until five-of and then, and only then, did she dare leave her room. She was fretting about getting into the top suite without Sol’s security clearance when he appeared outside the doors of the elevator as if summoned, flourishing a bouquet of pink and yellow lilies. He beckoned her inside with a single crooked finger. She stepped in close and he leaned down until their noses touched.

  “For you.”

  For a moment, she forgot about the flowers, especially when his lips skimmed her cheek and slid up toward her hairline. But then the bouquet rustled against her arm. She accepted it with a squeal, inhaling the heady, sweet scent, caressing the delicate lily petals with her fingertips.

  “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

  “I’ll have a vase sent to your room later. I hope you like tapas.”

  “The one time I had it, it was shit, but I liked the concept—pardon my French.” She colored, examining the floor so he couldn’t see her embarrassment. “I have six brothers. They have mouths.”

  Sol leveled a look upon her that was hard to read. Amusement? Disgust? Interest? She couldn’t decipher it, and so she maintained steady eye contact with . . .

  Well. The lilies.

  Coward.

  The elevator opened to the hallway haunted by the memory of his touch, immediately inducing a squirm. She tottered behind her tall host, breathless, her sandals scuffing the rug. He reached back to cup her elbow, steering her forward, his other thumb swiping down yet another keypad. He pushed open the door and guided her in, his hand soft against her back while she took her fill.

  It was a lovely place, similar to hers by design if not by layout. A black, white, and gold kitchen occupied the right side, the walls decorated with peeled wine wrappers and art deco tiles. Chrome fixtures, a bar with four coordinated but not matching barstools with jewel-toned fabrics, and an overhead wine rack looked efficient, if not overly large. The doorway beyond that led to a bathroom, the next opening up into an office with an enormous desk and walls of bookshelves and filing cabinets.

  The living room was painted deep red, gold and purple decorations creating a rich, opulent atmosphere complemented by the tufted leather couches and armchairs. Bookshelves, a bar, a pool table—it was perfect for entertaining with the big TV above the mantel and a baby grand piano tucked into the corner, the black lacquer flashing.

  To the left was a closed door—his bedroom? Don’t blush, you dolt—and then his own wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors. One set of doors opened up to a private terrace different from the one she’d seen him on when she’d first arrived. This was off to the side and facing away from the courtyard, with a Jacuzzi on the left and a round dining table with wicker chairs to the right.

  Food waited for them on delicate crystal china, silver lids keeping the plates warm. Sol took the flowers from her and placed them in his sink, the stems submerged in water to maintain their liveliness. He shrugged off his suit coat, leaving him in a white shirt, a white vest, and a baby-pink tie with black dots. He didn’t look at her as he unbuttoned the vest and shucked the tie, his fingers fiddling with his cuff links so he could roll his sleeves up to his elbows. His black slacks had a perfect crease running front and back.

  “I hope you’re hungry, kitten.”

  His voice startled her. She’d been watching him strip away the formality, and she’d liked what she’d seen. How could she not? He was an arresting man with his icy blond hair, long legs, and golden skin—he could have graced magazine pages, if he wanted—and she was fortunate enough to see him casual, in his environment, looking totally at ease.

  “I could eat,” she croaked.

  “Good.”

  He guided her to the terrace and to the cushioned wicker chair. It was warm out, but there were fans suspended from the overhang above and the shade would keep them cool. Her legs tucked under the table. The silverware was out of order, the spoon on the inside of the forks, the salad fork tucked all the way to the right instead of the left. She rearranged it, putting everything in its proper place, before reaching for her napkin. Sol dashed it from her fingers and motioned at the covered plate before her instead.

  “That first.”

  She didn’t understand until he lifted the silver lid, revealing a steel cock on her platter.

  NINE

  THE PLAY OF emotions across her face was everything he’d hoped for: shock, embarrassment, excitement. She stared at the toy, hands clasped in her lap, her petal-soft lips parting as she sucked in a breath.

  “That’s a penis.”

  “No, it’s a cock.”

  “Oh?”

  She didn’t understand the difference, but she would soon enough.

  Sol circled behind her chair. She’d worn her hair up—convenient—and he sunk his teeth into the sweet spot at the crook between shoulder and neck. She stiffened before going liquid, her bones melting. His hands dropped to her shoulders, then down to her biceps, rubbing gently. Squeezing.

 
Hosanna for strapless sundresses.

  “Say it, kitten. Say ‘cock.’ ” His mouth latched on to her earlobe and sucked, his fingers digging into tender skin. She squirmed, daring to touch the thing, all six inches of seamless steel gently curved to fit the female body, not thick, but serviceable at an inch around. He only wanted to tease her. Just fill her until she lost her mind and begged for a fucking.

  “Cock,” she managed. He traced his fingers from her shoulders to the ticklish insides of her elbows. A flush crept over her skin, dappling her chest red. He liked that, knowing how easily he could pull her strings, and he growled against her ear.

  “Good.” He pulled the chair back, untucking it from beneath the dining table. His hands never stayed idle, roaming, exploring over heavy curves and into warm valleys, acquainting himself with the crevices beneath each of her breasts. She sucked in a breath, the muscles in her abdomen contracting beneath his touch.

  It only worsened when he pulled the chair out farther. A few feet between the table and the girl, him stepping into the open space. She whimpered, watching his every move, and he grinned as he knelt, his palms settling on her knees, thumbs brushing against the flirty lace hem of her dress.

  “I want to touch you again, kitten. May I?”

  She nodded, her hands gripping the armrests of the chair. He wasted no time, jerking the dress up to her hips, revealing thick, soft thighs.

  I want to bury my face between them.

  But he didn’t, not yet. He had a plan.

  The spread was languid. He took his time pushing her knees apart, delighting in the choked sound she made and the trembling of those short, shapely legs. He nearly moaned when he had her fully splayed, showing off a pair of white lace panties that managed to be virginal and slutty all at once. His fingers latched in the sides, and she threw her head back, eyes swinging to the ceiling fan above, death grip on the chair never loosening.

  “Do you want me to touch your pussy, Arianna?”

  Another wordless nod. He eased the panties down, just a dash, not far enough to reveal her.

  “Ask me.”

  The sharp command in his voice made her jolt.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please what?”

  “. . . touch me.”

  “Ask me to touch your pussy, kitten.” She’d have to lift her ass for him to get the panties off, and he’d tell her to, but not until she’d acquiesced to the process. Not until she’d performed her function as his new best toy.

  “Please. Touch my pussy.” She was so quiet. His fingers danced over the outer curve of her hips, rubbing circles into the flesh.

  “Louder, kitten. If you want my fuck, you will ask for it. I want all the dirty words. Cock. Pussy. Cunt. When you want something from me, you will ask for it explicitly, and there will be no pardoning your French, do you understand?”

  Her head lolled to the backrest like she was drunk, but her focus never wavered.

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Good, kitten. So what do you want?”

  “Touch my pussy. Please.” Her voice broke, and he tore the panties down as far as they’d go without her hips up off the chair. A golden triangle of trim hair, gleaming for him, the lips below pink and sweet and oh so tempting.

  His mouth went dry. “Ass up. I want to please you.”

  She complied, so fast, so earnest, so completely absorbed in him and his instructions. Up she went, and he tugged the underwear off, frantic to reveal her to his greedy eyes. He wanted the folds and dips and glistening hole. He wanted to look up at it, to slick his fingers in it, before feeding her every inch of that silver dick.

  The lace floated to the floor, as light as a butterfly’s wing, and he reached between her legs, settling his long fingers on the insides of her thighs, shoving her wide, until her knees hooked on the outside lip of the chair cushion. The dress shifted down, starting to cover her, and he growled, forcing it back and tucking it behind her so her weight pinned it.

  It was a perfect pussy. Plump, thick lips, a bold, red clit poking out from her hood. Wet. So wet. He looked into it, absorbed it with his eyes, inhaled its soft scent. She was warm enough he could smell her arousal. He wanted it all over him, slicking his cock, his face, his hand—everywhere.

  Not yet. Breathe.

  He breathed, his right hand delving into the sodden softness. She lifted one of her hands to her mouth to suppress her yelp, but he guided it back to the armrest.

  “I’m making a rule, kitten. One of those rules is you will never mute yourself. I may mute you, but you won’t deny me your sweet sounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sol had expected things to feel different on the other side of the sub-dom divide, and it did. The thrill of not knowing what would happen next was replaced by the pleasure of seeing her writhe for him at the slightest word or touch, and it was good. He liked everything about it: her eagerness to please him, the soft yield of her body, the discipline of acknowledging his desires without acting on them—at least, not yet. It was oddly satisfying.

  He didn’t think his dick could get any harder until she called him sir.

  I was wrong.

  Fuck.

  His hand quaked as he pet her moist folds, her deepest secrets, learning her shape and texture. He’d touched her last night, but this was so much more open. She was exposed and raw, and oh how he liked it.

  She did, too, if the copious wet was any indication.

  “What a fine hole we have. Kitten has a pretty hole, doesn’t she?”

  Her eyes squinted shut.

  “Yes. I . . . yes. Oh my God.”

  “Not God, but close. Sol.”

  He dragged his longest finger up to her hood, flicking back and forth and sweeping circles over the nub. She writhed so he kept it up, his pace and pressure determined by what yielded the best results. Mewls, leg trembles—they belied exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it, and he used her responsiveness to his advantage, drumming on her sweet spot until she pleaded for more.

  “Sol . . .”

  His name sounded like a prayer.

  He reached for the toy. It wasn’t steel, but rather a much lighter steel-colored plastic. There was no need to lubricate it when she’d produced enough wet to dew her lips. It glistened on her thatch and sparkled on her thighs. The dildo was cold against her molten skin; when the tip grazed her, she gasped, fingers curling over the end of the armrest. He nudged it against her opening, the tight recess blossoming hot, her juices already smearing the pristine surface of the faux cock.

  “Do you want it inside you?”

  “Y-yes. Yes. Fuck, yes, please.”

  “Only because you said please.”

  He pushed it in slowly, continuing his clit ministrations, watching the length disappear inch by inch until only the base was outside her. Six inches deep, her walls squeezing around it. He let it go, watching the toy slide back out, slicked over by her wet.

  He shoved it back in. She gasped. He let go. It oozed out.

  For a good minute he teased her thusly, working it in as far as he could and then letting gravity do its work. He never stopped touching her sweet spot. She never stopped asking for more. The pleas were quiet, barely above a breath, but they were there and they were for him, and he found her so fucking hot like this, splayed for him, her body taking what he fed it.

  Before she could come, he wedged the toy in all the way and forced her knees closed, trapping it inside. He pulled his hands away from her to reach for her panties, guiding her sandals through the leg holes and tugging them up to her knees, her thighs, and then her hips when she lifted for him. The panties were back in place, the sodden crotch holding the dildo so it couldn’t slip out.

  So obedient, my kitten.

  “Tapas,” he said.

  “Tapas?” she repeated s
tupidly.

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “. . . B-but.”

  He stood, ignoring her plaintive tone. He could practically feel her eyeballs boring holes into his skull as he walked behind her seat and pushed her back into place at the table.

  “I can smell you,” he announced casually, finding his own chair. “On my fingers.”

  She looked mortified.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  To illustrate how not sorry she should be, he met her befuddled gaze, and lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. She was tangy and sweet and everything he hoped she’d be—a perfect appetizer for the meal ahead.

  “Th . . . that’s . . . fuck. Pard—no, wait. Please?”

  He pulled his napkin onto his lap, removing the dome from his platter and revealing a selection of fine Spanish finger foods. She never made a move, simply gawked at him with her furiously beaming face, twitching every once in a while. He divvied up the meal, half on her plate, half on his.

  “Are we going to finish after lunch?” she rasped.

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe, she mouthed.

  “Eat, kitten.”

  She never spared a glance for the plate itself, picking up the first thing her wandering fingers discovered and shoving it in her mouth. He smiled pleasantly, toasting her with . . .

  “Beef barbacoa. Perfect. I love the piquillo marmalade.”

  “. . . Oh.”

  A small squeak.

  Don’t laugh. She won’t understand.

  “I’m fond of the chorizo as well. Wine?”

  “Sure? Yes. Okay.”

  She’s so addled. It’s adorable. And hot. Stuffed up full for me and not a protest.

  He poured two cold glasses of a nice moscato and sipped one. She was oblivious to its existence until he picked up her glass and put it in her small hand.

  “Drink, sweetheart.”

  She drank.

  “I think . . .” He let the thought linger, focusing intently on his eggplant frittata. He flicked a piece of green garnish off it and popped it in his mouth. “You may go back to your room after lunch. Toy inside.” Another pause when she slurped on a breath. He glanced up, appreciating the furrow in her brow, the pink cheeks, the pursed lips. “You’ll make yourself come with it. And then you’ll call me from your room and tell me every dirty detail. I want to know how it felt. How it sounded. I want to know what you thought about. New rule, kitten. You may only come when I tell you to—with or without me in attendance. I own those comes now. Agreed?”