“Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me and I’ll come for you.”
It didn’t take long for her to explode. Cry after cry as that strong little body bucked up off the bed, nearly throwing him off her back with the force of her orgasm. He reached for her hair, fisting it at the nape and pulling her head to the side so he could see her beautiful face. She was ecstatic; her lips parted with her screams, her nostrils flared, her tears slid down her flushed cheeks.
She’s mine. She’s gorgeous. And she’s all mine.
EIGHTEEN
RAIN’S FACE WAS smeared in tears and spit. She didn’t remember drooling into the mattress, but she had, and now she felt gross. Sol uncuffed her and rolled her onto her side to face him. Seeing her mess, he reached for a tissue beside the bed and dabbed at her cheeks and chin, cooing sweetly as he cleaned her.
“How are your wrists?”
“Fine,” she warbled. She wanted to smile and sob at the same time. It was another harsh dichotomy of emotions that shouldn’t have worked together and yet did.
I have no idea what he’s doing to me, but whatever it is, I like it.
Her hand slid around his waist. He was muscular, but he was almost too trim, and she realized she hadn’t seen him eat much since their meeting. He’d skipped dinner altogether and lunch was a sampling of appetizers and nothing else.
“You’re so thin.”
“Years of cocaine will do that to a person.” Sol chuckled, but he tensed beneath her touch like he was afraid of censure. “I haven’t touched the stuff in years, but I thinned out and never really recovered. My brother Nash looks like I did . . . say, six years ago?”
“You need to eat. I’d hate for something to happen to you.”
His nose nuzzled at her hair as his hands explored her back, her ass, everywhere. It didn’t feel sexual or possessive, but soothing. Long sweeps of fingers. Soft caresses. He took her wrists and rubbed them. Blood whooshed to her fingers so fast they tingled.
“I’m supposed to take care of you now, not the other way around,” he said quietly.
“Don’t be a dickhole and eat something and I won’t feel compelled to . . . I’m sorry. You’re not a dickhole. Pardon my Fr— Damn it.”
Thanks for that really disgusting term, Vaughan.
You dickh—
Ugh.
“I am a dickhole, kitten. The worst dickhole. Will it make you happy if I order room service from Gustav’s?”
Yes.
“If you want.”
Eat something, please.
“Mmm. I’ll get you a dessert, too. Something decadent and chocolatey. You deserve it. You were a good girl.”
“Good girl” did things to her. She clenched, she shivered, she buried her face in his neck and breathed in his scent. She couldn’t help but think of his midfuck praise—the whole fuckpet thing and how hot it was to give voice to those dirty things. She melted against him, eyes closed. Her mouth skimmed over his shoulder, lips pressing dry kisses to his skin.
“You make me think about things, Arianna.”
Sol’s voice was quiet, deep with a buttery drawl, and when he talked so intimately to her, using her Christian name, she wanted to wrap herself in it and close out the rest of the world.
“Oh?”
“Us dating more. It’s early, I know. But it’s been so good I can’t help but hope there’s something here. I hope me saying that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she replied, just as quiet. “These have been some of the best days of my life.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Rain had never been one to mull over her future because doing so stressed her out. Other society girls planned their weddings in Cancún or Los Angeles or London, but not Rain. The people her family associated with always found her . . . not ridiculous, but not right for her circumstances, either. She was pretty enough, but she was short and curvy, and socialite daughters always seemed so very sleek in their designer labels, doing socialite things like attending Fashion Week in Paris and New York. People didn’t know what to make of a billionaire heiress in flip-flops and simple cotton sundresses who had a penchant for saying strange things at strange times, who simply couldn’t stop herself from organizing any and all clutter in her vicinity. Every boyfriend she’d ever had? Friends of one of her brothers. Friends of the family. Some of them were nice, but some of them weren’t, and Rain had, after the tenth or eleventh awful blind date, figured out that her mother wasn’t setting Rain up for a happily-ever-after. She viewed Rain as a bargaining chip—as a way to establish a Barrington tie to rich, important associates. Mama kept throwing Rain at possible matches in hopes that someone would take to her regardless of her “social peculiarities.” Rain had tried to put a stop to that once and for all with Brett the gardener and the alleged sex tape, but . . .
I have to tell him.
“There’s no video,” she confessed. She pulled her head back to look Sol in the eye, catching another whiff of his delicious cologne. “The blow-job thing. It doesn’t exist.”
“Oh?” Sol’s hand stroked her head and neck, his fingers kneading along her spine. “You know I wouldn’t care if it did, yes?”
“That’s sweet, but it really doesn’t exist. I made it up. It looked like I recorded it. I held the phone out, but I never pressed the button. I just told my mother I did so she’d leave me alone about Harwood. I’ve probably destroyed my reputation, but if Charles goes away it was worth it.”
Sol looked delighted. “So you did call in your own scandal. Clever thing.”
“Yes. To E! Entertainment. I’m probably a jerk.”
Sol held her tighter, and then laughed, raining kisses all over her face, from her forehead to the tip of her nose to her cheeks and ears. She tilted her head back for him, enjoying the affection.
“Oh, kitten. You evil genius. You’re wonderful.”
She slept like the dead. No dreams, no movement, leaving a Rain-shaped dent pressed into the mattress from maintaining the same position all night. She was so exhausted she could have slept all day, but then Sol rolled out of bed, scaring her half to death in the process. She wasn’t used to sleeping with a man—she’d never gotten to that point with anyone before, so the disturbance was noted and, if she was being honest with herself, jarring.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Penis.
Okay, what is . . . right. Sol. Sol’s penis.
All good.
She groaned, burrowing her head beneath the pillows to avoid both the rude morning light and a dick being the first thing she looked at upon waking. Unfortunately, the cocoon of down wasn’t enough to block out the insistent voice from the other room as well.
“He’s been here for hours.”
Cylan.
“Keep your pants on,” Sol said.
“Put your pants on. And stop turning off your cell. You have a business to run.”
She wriggled farther beneath the blankets.
“No, you have a business to run.”
“Sol.”
“Cylan.”
The closet door slid open, fabric rustled. Rain peered out from her nest to see a flash of tanned butt before Sol pulled on pinstriped slacks and a white shirt. He hustled through the room fastening buttons. She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and realized too late that the bedroom door was wide open and Cylan the scarecrow accountant stared in at her from the hallway.
Damn it.
She yanked the coverlet up over her bare boobs and blinked. And blinked. And only sort of wished to spontaneously combust.
Sol glanced at the bed.
“I’m sorry, kitten. I thought you were asleep. You saw nothing, Cylan.”
The gaunt man averted his eyes and sighed. “Not even your naked girlfriend. Go, Sol. Brutus is waiting. He has papers for the bat sui
t.”
“God save us all from the bat suit. This is utterly ridiculous.” Sol shook his head. “Why isn’t Alex handling this again?”
“Because the woman called Alex an asshole when he offered her a free week as compensation. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She insisted she’d only deal with his boss after that. You’re the closest thing to a boss he has, which is sad to think about. You’re not even wearing underwear.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” Sol hopped around on one foot, donning his shoes one at a time. “Remind me to mail him a tarantula later.”
Rain sank into the blankets until only eyes and the top of her head were visible. Sol whirled around to smile at her, swooping in so he could press a kiss to her forehead.
“I shouldn’t be long, sweetheart.” He made to leave, but Freckles chose that moment to charge into the bedroom and demand his immediate attention with barks and yips and irate canine hops. Sol smiled at him indulgently. “Cylan, take the dog out so he doesn’t explode? This bat thing shouldn’t take more than an hour. I hope.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He stepped over the dog and strode through the suite, whisking from sight after a hard clatter of closing door.
Cylan stared at her.
She stared at Cylan.
“I’m naked,” she blurted.
Cylan looked from her to the dog. Freckles spun in an impatient circle that Rain recognized as his please take me out to make dooky maneuver. Cylan scooped him up, a deep flush climbing his cheeks. “I’ll take him out while you get dressed.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can in a minute.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I . . . yes.” He scurried off.
“Thank you!” Rain called after him. Another slam. She scurried out of bed to look for her clothes. It was the worst game of hide-and-seek ever. Panties on the bureau knob. Bra strewn over a chair. Dress in a tangled lump in the hall.
Messy.
She folded them into a neat pile and darted for the shower. Hot, steamy water washed away the evidence of last night’s antics save for a few tender spots on her flanks that she didn’t mind as much as she probably should have. She scrubbed herself pink, taking advantage of the huge collection of soaps and bottles littering the shelves above the bath. Lotions, potions, gels—he had it all. All the better to pamper herself, sniffing this, sampling that, until her skin was baby soft and her hair smelled like lemon verbena.
She stepped out of the shower to wrap herself in Sol’s robe. He was tall, she was short, so it trailed behind her like the train of a wedding dress. It wasn’t a viable solution for nudity in Cylan’s presence, so she dressed in last night’s rumpled clothes. It would have bothered her more except she hadn’t actually been in the clothes very long because Sol DuMont was alarmingly proficient at getting her naked.
As she slid into her high heels, Cylan called her name from the main suite, nearly startling her out of her skin.
I never heard him come back.
Is he a ninja and an accountant?
“Coming!”
She opened the door. Freckles burst in, circling her legs with excitement because he weighed two pounds less than he had when Cylan took him out. Cylan trailed behind, carrying a breakfast tray with café au lait and a plate of still-steaming beignets with powdered sugar.
“Breakfast? I didn’t know how you liked your coffee so I brought milk and sugar on the side.”
“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. You’re considerate.”
He placed the tray on the coffee table before sinking into one of the armchairs. Freckles padded over to him and hopped into his lap like they were old friends. Cylan’s hand stroked tall corgi ears, a faint smile tilting his thin lips. “The legalities will take awhile still, so Sol asked me to feed you. He likes you.”
She settled on the couch and reached for a beignet. “I like him. And thank you again for taking care of Freckles. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.”
“He wasn’t. He’s a nice dog.”
“He is.”
Silence stretched between them, which wouldn’t have been so bad, but in her hunger she’d crammed too much beignet in her mouth, so to her ears, every chew sounded like a log being fed into a wood chipper.
That’s ladylike.
She pretended she knew how to eat like a human and sipped her coffee daintily, forcing herself to count to ten before she took another bite.
“So, how long have you known Sol?” she asked.
“I don’t even know anymore. A long time. We went to the same prep school. He was in the room next to mine freshman year and he decided we’d be friends. I tried to escape, but he grew on me like mold. He does that. Creeps up on you.” Cylan sucked in a breath. “And then when my scholarship fell through, his family loaned me the money to finish Yale. Sol orchestrated it. He’s good people, but don’t tell him I said that. He’d be even more insufferable.”
She indulged in another beignet, fairly sure she had powdered sugar all over her face and also fairly sure she didn’t care. The damned things were delicious. “You two seem so opposite, demeanor-wise.”
Cylan considered that for a long minute before answering. “Yes and no. We’re both performers in our fashion. He’s flamboyant, trying to create an illusion of an unflappable bon vivant. He’s much more sensitive than he lets on. I’m . . . I do the same, but in a different way. I grew up in a bad neighborhood. You learn early to keep your head down and your mouth shut if you want to get out. If it’s not your peers, it’s the cops. It’s my go-to, even now. It never quite leaves you.”
It made sense, though she couldn’t help but notice that when Cylan talked about Sol’s flamboyant mask, he pointed out the counterpoint sensitivity. When he talked about how he presented himself, he never belied his true nature. Maybe the inference was that he was sensitive, too? But she couldn’t ask that without coming across like she was interrogating him about his feelings, so she aimed for something safer.
“You must have worked really hard to wind up in prep school with Sol.”
He was quiet for long enough that she started to get nervous she’d offended him or somehow violated his sacred privacy. “I worked hard, yes. There was luck involved, too, but mostly I give credit to my mother. She was so smart. Talented, sharp, relentless—she did everything she could to help me get into prep school, did all the research on which schools would really make me use my brain. There was no scholarship so small that she wouldn’t make me try for. She worked too many jobs. She took crosstown buses every week to find mentors and resources for me, even though she had to cut into her resting time to do it. I miss her.” He looked up at her through long, dark lashes, and Rain felt a weird momentary pang of jealous sympathy that made her feel sad and guilty at the same time.
Poor man. I can’t imagine having a mother like that, let alone losing her.
Not that he wants my pity, probably.
“I’m sorry,” she said. He nodded.
“It’s been awhile now. It doesn’t hurt the same way it used to.”
She reached over to pat the back of his hand. A pause ensued, then he pointed to the beignets on the plate. “May I?”
“Please do. If I eat them all I might die. That’s probably weird to say. I won’t actually die. I’ll just be bloaty.”
Oh no, he’s staring. Quick, change the subject.
So she did. To the first thing that came to mind. Which was never a good idea.
“Do you happen to know if Sol tans? I noticed he had no tan lines, not even on his butt, and I worry about melanoma. My father had to have a thing taken off his forehead last summer.”
Cylan regarded her like she had two heads.
Oh why? Why did I say that?
Recover, Arianna. Recover!
“All the power to him, but I’m thinking maybe I should tell him about my father. He definitely used those tanni
ng beds. They’re dangerous.”
Cylan tilted his head to the side.
“I think he does, yes. It’s probably worth bringing up.”
His lips twitched.
I have no idea what he’s thinking right now.
Oh God.
Change. The. Subject.
“So tell me more about you two!” she exclaimed, examining the greasy divots in her beignet because they were less mortifying than Cylan’s dazed and bemused expression.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve worked for him since his father died. Him and his brothers, though I’ve known them for far longer. We’re all close, like family. Or, well, we might as well be family. Sol introduced me to my wife while we were at Yale. I’ll owe him that debt for the rest of my life.”
Rain smiled. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Nia. She died a few years ago.”
“Oh no. That’s . . . I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Cylan toyed with Freckles’s ears, bending them this way and that and touching his paws. The dog offered his furry belly for scratches. “Thank you. She was a good person. Beautiful. Kind. But Sol . . . well. What can I say about him? He’s generous and petulant and impulsive and bossy. You’ll figure him out soon enough.” He paused. “If you stay.”
There was weight to how he said the words. She sipped her coffee, considering a reply that could and would match his gravity.
“I have no intention of going anywhere. At least not for a few weeks and if things keep going how they are going, who knows? I’m enjoying myself.”
Cylan continued to pat the dog, his dark fingers worming into Freckles’s various floofy parts. “He and Madeline were almost too close for a while, which I know you probably don’t want to hear, but believe me when I say that ship has sailed. When Sol’s father died, Sol fell apart. I picked up the pieces, but by the time I put him back together, Madeline was part of his past, not his future. She’ll probably always be his friend. She changed him.” Cylan shifted in his seat, suddenly looking uncomfortable with the course of the discussion.
The King of Bourbon Street Page 13
