The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Do you like being a hotel owner?” she asked.

  “Most of the time, yes. It suits me.”

  She scooted up on the bed until they were face-to-face, tracing circles over his shoulder with her fingertips. He craned his head to press a kiss to them as they brushed by his mouth.

  “I never thought about doing anything else. My father built the business. We moved here when I was young, directly to The Seaside, in fact. We all lived in this apartment. Mom, Alex, and Nash have their own suites now, but this particular one was where we lived. My old bedroom is my office now.”

  Her fingers moved to his face, her pointer traveling down his nose and over the curve of his lips. “It’s home?”

  “It is. It’s funny.” He shifted so one of his arms propped his head, his damp hair clinging to the back of his neck. “I nearly lost it all during Katrina. We survived the storm, but when the government had to rebuild the levees, this section of the street was marked for potential demolition to improve city infrastructure. The proposal got shot down, but just barely. Every once in a while it’s brought up again and I cringe. I love this place.”

  “That must be scary,” she said.

  “It is, but so far, so good. I trust Brutus to keep us afloat. New Orleans suits me best, I think. I have everything I need within walking distance, and I enjoy the hospitality business right up until I have to listen to a screaming patron. Fortunately, we’re good at avoiding that, bats in the hair aside. Don’t ask,” he said, when she looked like she had questions. “It’s a long story best summarized by ‘my brother is an idiot.’ But yes. I like my job. I like Louisiana. I don’t know how you do New England. Snow is awful. I’d do anything to avoid it. Nash hosted family Christmas last year in Chicago and I thought my balls would freeze off.”

  Rain giggled, her nose crinkling in an adorable way that required kissing. He clasped her cheeks in his palms and peppered her face, delighting in her squeals and wriggles.

  She’s sweetness incarnate and I butt fucked her an hour ago.

  “Snow’s the worst. We had it up to my butt last year, and a few years before that, it was stacked taller than me. Four or five storms back to back. We had to shovel poopy paths for Freckles or he would have suffocated.”

  “Poopy paths.” Sol shook his head and looked out through the open door of the bedroom. Freckles was sprawled out on his back, asleep, paws pointed at the ceiling, his noisemaker dog toy abandoned in a slobbery pile beside him. “Look how happy he is here, kitten. He’d never drown in snow. You should move down here and do your . . . thing. What is it you planned to do? Your master’s was in psychology, yes?”

  She nodded. “My master’s is in social work, my bachelor’s is in psychology. My mother says I’d be best suited running a charity.” She paused. “She’s recommending it for the tax write-off, but I was considering opening a women’s shelter because I think I could do some good. I haven’t decided where yet, or gotten further than thinking about the services to provide, but . . .”

  “Do it here,” he said, rolling her onto her back. “You’d do a lot of good here. And just think,” he said, his lips skimming over her shoulder, raising goose bumps, “if you relocated, I could wreck you every night until you fall madly in love with me. It’s a win-win, really.”

  It was supposed to be a throwaway comment, something light and airy and funny, but the softness on her face told him it wasn’t lost on her. She cares, he thought, and he did, too, but the confirmation that he wasn’t the only one caught in the orbit of their attraction eased his doubts.

  She lifted her hand to touch him, tracing his nose and brow bone. He gazed at her, his hair sliding down to frame his face and, because of their position, hers, too. “It’s like a curtain,” she said, flicking at it. “I have curtains around my bed in Connecticut, like that.”

  “Do you now?” He tipped her chin up and pressed his lips to hers, enjoying the smile he felt against his mouth. Enjoying her coo, and the hand that slid around to cradle the back of his head, holding him close.

  “Okay,” she whispered, their mouths still touching.

  “Okay what, kitten?”

  “I can do it here. I can stay.”

  The temptation to tie her to his bed and keep her there until neither one of them could walk was overwhelming, but Sol realized two things. First, she’d come to New Orleans to do tourist things, and thus far, thanks to a steady diet of fucking, she’d done precisely nothing touristy. The second was that he didn’t want to overwhelm her to the point that she got scared and fled. He wanted to nurture this seed. To watch her bloom, in every sense of the word.

  He’d meant what he said. He wanted her to stay.

  He wasn’t an idiot. A few days wasn’t enough time to say that they’d cemented anything other than a mutual appreciation for sex, but many people started off in a far worse place than physical compatibility. That she made him laugh with regularity, that she was smart, that she was sweet—all were points in their favor.

  It could last.

  Or maybe it won’t because Maddy didn’t, but I survived that.

  “Let’s go into the city. I’ll show you around,” he said.

  She looked outside. “Isn’t it near suppertime?”

  “New Orleans comes alive at night. That’s the best time to go.” He kissed her on the head and rolled out of bed, retrieving his underwear and slacks from the floor. As both looked worse for wear, he threw them at the hamper and went to the closet to dress. He could see her from his vantage point as she stretched out, back arching in a bow, before slithering out from the sheets to retrieve her clothes. She regarded them in much the same way he’d regarded his: nooooope.

  “You could have your things moved in here,” he offered. “Or at least some of them? It might make recovery easier.”

  “Recovery? Oh.” She clutched her wrinkly shirt to her chest. It covered her from breast to upper thigh, but barely, and lent her a cheesecake pinup look he couldn’t help but admire.

  Maybe we should go back to bed?

  No. It can wait a few hours, you savage. She’ll chafe. Stop thinking with your dick.

  “All right. That’s . . . you don’t mind Freckles staying here?” she asked.

  “We’re old friends, Freckles and me. Look at him. He’s licking his balls in my living room and I don’t mind one bit. If I could lick my balls so efficiently, I’d never leave the house.”

  Rain looked horrified. Then she burst into giggles. Freckles stopped midlap, looking up at his human audience like he hadn’t the faintest clue why he was suddenly so interesting. He rolled over and padded Rain’s way, wiggling from head to toe. Not bothering with bra or panties, Rain pulled on her slacks before stooping to pick up the dog. When he reared up to kiss her face, she let out a “Blech!” and tossed him onto the bed.

  “No thanks. You have ball mouth.”

  Ball mouth.

  Yes, she said that.

  Sol snorted.

  “I’ll need a few minutes to change,” Rain said. “Do you want me to pack for the room change now or later?”

  “Later. If we hurry, I can get you into St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 to see the voodoo queen’s tomb before they close.”

  “Oh, I read about that! Yes, I’ll . . . be right back. I want to check and see if Vaughan called, too.”

  She practically sprinted from his room to get dressed. Sol threw on some simple clothes—a white button-down shirt and black slacks—and after a quick pat to radial corgi ears, he slipped outside for a smoke. He eyed the Mississippi from his terrace, the summer sun beating down on his head as it crept toward the western sky. They’d have another three hours or so of daylight, but the cemeteries closed at five. They could sneak in, sneak out, and grab a bite to eat before he took her to some of the voodoo shops. Maybe they’d round out the night at Harrah’s. Tomorrow or the day after they could take t
he ferry up the river to the Audubon Zoo.

  Lorelai was less his personal chauffeur and more a service driver available for Seaside guests, so it was likely she wouldn’t be available for a last-minute outing as she’d been before. He’d take Rain in the Porsche instead, an antique red affair his mother had given him for his thirtieth birthday. It was garish and overdone and exactly the kind of thing he’d have picked if left to his own devices.

  He left the suite to Freckles’s care and pounded on Cylan’s door. There was an audible sigh from the other side followed by soft footsteps. Cylan opened the door, standing in a robe, a pair of pajama pants, and bare feet, a Wall Street Journal in one hand and his glasses in the other.

  “Yes, hello. What.”

  “Hi!” Sol smirked. “I’m going out for a few hours. And all day tomorrow. Would you be kind enough to put out any fires while I’m away?”

  Cylan looked down at his pajamas. “It’s my day off.”

  “Please? I’ll be close by. Dora can call me if anything happens. Tomorrow’s more important.”

  “Fine, but if you’re going to be spending more time with your girlfriend, and I’m assuming you are, you’re going to need to hire a night manager. Like I told you to do three years ago. I’m an accountant. I’d like to actually count things.”

  “And just think, for three years I’ve managed to run my own hotel and spared myself the expense of a needless extra salary.” Sol shrugged. Cylan rolled his eyes. The world turned. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell the front office to post a job opening. She’s agreed to stay, by the way.”

  “Oh? For how long?”

  Sol’s shit-eating grin was answer enough.

  Cylan lifted a brow, his mouth doing that straight-line, half-grimace guppy thing it did whenever he had thoughts he didn’t want to share.

  “What?” Sol demanded.

  “It’s early,” was all Cylan offered.

  “Yes, but so far so good. I’m willing to hedge some bets.”

  “Fine, but be sensible. Do you even know if she’s on birth control?”

  A glib response flirted with Sol’s tongue, but it got tangled somewhere around the realization that he wouldn’t mind if she got pregnant. The idea of knocking her up was sexy as hell, as terrible as that was to admit, but there it was. He loved the idea of a piece of him growing in her.

  She’d look so beautiful.

  It was something he’d wanted with Maddy years ago, but she’d said she wasn’t ready yet. “My figure, dove,” and so they’d waited, thinking they had all the time in the world. Then time ran out. Rain was, perhaps, new hope for a family. Yes, he had to talk to her about it first—he’d never in a million years deny her the choice—and yes, he probably should have considered it sooner, but now that Cylan had mentioned it, the possibility did things to him. It made him yearn.

  So much hope is dangerous for a man.

  “She’s on it, by the way. I asked because I know you get too caught up and forget,” Cylan said blandly.

  “Ah. I love it when you test me. These little games are so much fun.” Sol turned on his heel and made for the elevator to meet Rain at her room. He wasn’t necessarily angry with Cylan, but he didn’t appreciate being patronized, either.

  “It’s not a test,” Cylan said to his back. “I just wish you’d think of these things before you act. You’re rash.”

  “You’re a rash. I’ll speak with her. Thank you for taking my calls tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  Cylan’s door slammed. Sol frowned. The elevator dinged.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “SOMEONE PAINTED IT Pepto-Bismol pink a few years ago,” Sol said to Rain as she snapped pictures of Marie Laveau’s tomb in No. 1, the city’s most famous cemetery. It was a white plaster aboveground structure that looked a whole lot like the other tombs around it save for the offerings left on the ground and a commemorative plaque. Google told her it was the second most visited tomb in the United States, which she found fascinating if only because she knew nothing about the voodoo queen outside of what she’d seen on American Horror Story.

  Not that having a television education was a point of pride. But. Well. It was something.

  “It was a huge desecration,” Sol continued. “Though to be honest, the tour groups had done a number on it before the pink incident. They encouraged tourists to steal a brick from nearby tombs and offer it to the voodoo queen, then to carve three Xs into the tomb, spin three times, and make a wish. It was nonsense. The archdiocese had to step in.”

  Rain looked in Sol’s direction, catching a glimpse of her reflection in his shiny sunglasses. He stood a few feet back, dispensing snippets of local lore every time she neared him to take another picture from another angle. At one point, a pretty brunette sidled his way, her glance appreciative, but he neatly sidestepped and came to Rain’s side. His arm circled her waist. His chin rested on top of her head.

  “Do you like seafood?” he murmured.

  “I do.” She was scrolling through her new pictures when Sol plucked the phone from her grasp and pointed it at them. He brushed a kiss to her cheek as he pressed the button, capturing her surprised, delighted expression. He eyed his selfie handiwork before returning her cell to her. “Perfect. See? We’d make beautiful children, kitten. Speaking of which.”

  “I’m on birth control,” she blurted, as she’d already had this conversation twice, and what could a third time hurt?

  Why is everyone so fascinated with my ovaries?

  “Cylan mentioned that. I’m sorry he asked such a personal question. He’s overprotective. He means well.” Sol guided her out of the cemetery and back to the Porsche, holding the door open while she tucked herself into the ridiculously tiny seat. She shoved her dress under her thighs and he closed her in. It wasn’t a new car, but with its glossy interior and freshly polished leather seats, it may as well have been. She didn’t want to touch anything for fear of sullying it with fingerprints.

  It’s so neat and tidy.

  “I know he does. He wants me to be careful with you,” she said, watching him pull his long legs into the cramped Porsche footwell. “It’s strange to think about me having to look out for you and not the other way around. You’re so confident. I’m the one who’s new to all of this.”

  “I’d like to think we’ll look out for each other. But I know what you mean. Cylan is convinced I’m teetering on a precipice. He’s not wrong that the possibility is there—I had a breakdown after my father died—but I’ve leveled out. Admittedly, I’ve been in a slump lately, but then a ray of sunshine rolled into my life and has me thinking about things. Long-term things.” He paused. “Like children one day. Do you want them? Not now, obviously, but someday?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. If they were considering a commitment, she owed it to him to be honest, and children were part of her future with or without a devoted lover. “I grew up with a big family. I’d like one myself.”

  She could tell he was pleased by her answer, by both the warmth of his smile and the way he rested his hand on her knee and then slid it up over her butterfly-print skirt to touch her middle. All the major pleasure centers in her body sparked to life at once. Her nipples hardened in her bra cups. Her thighs squeezed together. Her core throbbed, reminding her of all the things he’d done to her over the past few days. One raunchy memory bled into the next, culminating in an intense, slutty montage of tastes and textures and sounds and feelings. “Good. I like the idea of it, kitten. It’s sexy. You have no idea.” He leaned across the seat to press a kiss to her earlobe, then sucked it between his lips.

  “Do you think you’d like that?” he asked, low and husky, lips teasing her skin. “Being fucked full of my baby?”

  “Probably!” Her voice was an octave too high.

  “I know I’d like doing it.” Another soft bite, this time to her neck just beneath her ear
. “Breeding you.”

  Oh my God.

  He didn’t just say . . .

  Yes. Yes he did.

  Her whimpers turned into a full-blown squeal when his fingers tickled over her stomach—a taunt about the children they could one day have. Her mouth fell open, wide enough a fly could have used her tongue as a landing pad.

  Just do stuff to me.

  Any stuff.

  Anything.

  “I’m not going to be able to concentrate at dinner,” she confessed.

  “Good!” He winked at her over his sunglasses and retreated to his side of the car, like he hadn’t just obliterated her composure with a few well-placed suckles and a handful of filthy sentiments. She eyed him with a mix of fascination and horror as he latched his seat belt and started the Porsche, veering onto the busy street.

  The grid of the French Quarter was familiar to him; he zipped along, comfortable with the quick turns, one-way streets, and people who never seemed to look for cars as they crossed intersections. Rain was sure she’d be terrified to drive it, but Sol was at home among the postcard chaos of the old city. She tried to follow his path, to better understand how the network of streets mapped out, but she was too distracted by the thrumming need racking her body to make much sense of anything.

  When he parked the car, the porno reel inside her head diminished thanks to the good food smells wafting from the restaurant. A white fish-shaped sign with gold paint welcomed them inside of a stucco front building with floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a tiny place, but there was a line out the door all the same. Sol pulled her to the front with him and whispered to the host. The young man nodded, smiled, and checked his list.

  They had one of the twelve tables a few minutes later.

  “You called ahead?” Rain asked.

  “I rarely have to. The young man up front? That’s Javier. I cut his sister a break on the reception room at The Seaside for her quinceañera.” He smiled as he spread his napkin over his lap. “Besides, you’re here. A Barrington probably never has to wait.”