The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Not usually, no, but that’s because my mother is terrifying.”

  “She’d unleash the winged monkeys?” Sol picked up the wine menu and ordered something French from their waiter. It was probably very fancy, whatever it was, but she wasn’t particularly good at wine beyond the basics. It was another thing her mother had insisted she learn. “For society parties,” she’d said. “Important people like important wines.” Rain couldn’t have cared less about a bunch of old, dead grapes. She was far more interested in pouring them down her throat than dissecting the various and sundry parts of the wine, and why did they always have to sniff it first? That was so weird.

  “Do you sniff your wine?” she demanded.

  “No, I tend to drink it. Why?”

  Oh good.

  See, you are perfect.

  She smiled. “No reason.”

  “There is a reason. I can see it all over your face, but I won’t pry.” He smirked and offered her the bread basket. She hacked into the pumpernickel as she perused the menu. Ten minutes later, they had a plate of raw oysters. Twenty-five minutes later saw her eating a seafood casserole with a sweet sherry sauce and breaded crumbles on top.

  “Is this crayfish?” she asked, holding up a chunk of meat. “The travel websites said I should have it while in New Orleans.”

  Sol glanced up from his dinner, his eyebrows high, the corner of his lip curling. “What did you call it?”

  “Crayfish.”

  She had no idea why that amused him, but it did. “You’re such a Yankee, kitten. It’s adorable. It’s crawfish. Or a crawdad.” He chuckled. “Connecticut. Honestly.”

  She stuffed it into her mouth and shrugged. “Don’t care what it’s called. It’s delicious and I want to order it again.”

  “We’ll have as many ‘crayfish’ as you like, but not tonight. You’ll want to save room for dessert. They make a remarkable key lime pie.”

  It was an understatement. The key lime was the lightest, fluffiest decadence she’d ever had the pleasure to devour, and when it was gone, she had to stop herself from picking at the crumbles on her plate.

  And on her lips. She swept her tongue to the corners of her mouth to catch the last dregs of miracle food.

  “I should wash my face. I’m probably wearing more dinner than I ate.” A quick glance at the shelf of her bosom proved she’d gotten off light, with only a light splash of sauce on her dress, which was something of a rarity because she’d discovered over time that her chest seemed to exhibit a unique gravitational pull. All foodstuffs tended to land on or betwixt her sweater pillows, thus why she carried a miniature stain stick with her at all times.

  And then there was that time I leaned forward and put a whole boob in my soup bowl at Richard’s fortieth.

  The stain stick did fuck all then.

  Sol stood up. “The restroom is in the back. I’ll show you.” He cupped her elbow and maneuvered them around the packed-in tables. The long hallway was hidden behind a curtain of wooden beads, terra-cotta tiles on the walls and floors, and faux gaslight lanterns hanging from the ceiling and casting twisting shadows on the wall. The restaurant was small so there was one all-inclusive restroom. Sol ushered her forward, but instead of going back to their table as she expected, he followed her inside and locked the door.

  Rain blinked at him. She didn’t have to attend to anything personal—just clean her face—but it was unusual to have company all the same.

  “Is something wro—” He was on her before she could finish the question. His hands swept up to her hair, sinking into the silky mess to cradle her skull in his long fingers. His mouth swooped for hers, capturing, sealing, his tongue demanding entrance. For a moment, she worried about fish breath, but then she remembered he’d eaten fish, too, and really his fish breath and hers neutralized each other, so . . .

  This man knows how to kiss.

  Distraction. She dropped her purse onto the floor so she could pull him close, her hands slipping over his shoulders and locking behind his neck. She’d gotten over his teasing in the car, but apparently he hadn’t, and he backed her up against the glossy, granite-topped counter beside the sink. The hard edge of it pressed against her ass as his hands abandoned her hair to course over her curves, from shoulders to chest to waist and hips. There was a tug on her dress. He hiked the skirt up over her thighs, then his arms were under her, hoisting her. She groaned into his mouth as he plopped her onto the countertop, the smooth stone cold against her bare skin and through the thin fabric of her panties.

  It barely registered. She was rekindled.

  “I want you,” he groaned against her lips. “I have since the car. To be inside you.” He moved his kisses down to her neck, unerringly finding the pulse at the base of her throat. She shivered as he sucked on it before licking over her shoulder, his hands everywhere. Touching. Stroking. Pinching. Her sundress had a low, scooped neckline, and he reached inside it, finding her breasts, pulling them up from the bra cups and out, until they spilled over the fabric, pale and soft with their hard, pink nipples.

  The air’s cool in here.

  His mouth is hot.

  “Nnnnngh.” His teeth clamped down on her left nipple hard enough that she squeaked, but he immediately suckled the sting away, lapping at the nub until it throbbed, his fingers tormenting its sister. She could hear the jingling of his belt buckle as he worked it open, and seconds later, the sound of his unzipping fly.

  “Wh-what if somebody catches us?” she gurgled as his hand squirmed under her panties to cup her. She’d been wet in the Porsche, but the wickedness of being in a public place, of him desiring her so much he couldn’t wait to get her home, made her even wetter. He tugged the crotch aside, fingers delving into her. She was hot, molten, burning against him, opening as he prodded her, his finger curling inside the lip of her hole, knowing just how to locate that sensitive spot that made her buck. His thumb pressed above her clit, rocking back and forth. Her head stretched back, damn near colliding with the mirror, as her fingernails raked over his white shirt.

  In, in, in.

  Put it in me.

  Anything.

  “Part of the fun is the risk of being caught.” He buried his face in her tit flesh as he finger-fucked her, adding a second digit, going faster and faster until the noises got lewd. Her legs spread wider and he stepped in close as his head lifted, mouth pressing to her ear so he could whisper to her. “The idea of taking you here, of making you mine, with so many people just a hairbreadth away, has me so fucking hard. I want this.” His free hand slid to her middle to rub it, teasing her with a memory of his baby talk. Of his breeding talk. Of his . . .

  Everything his everything his everything . . .

  He nuzzled at her. “I want to walk out of here knowing you’re full of my cum. I want you to hold it in while everyone looks at you. Freshly fucked. Leaking. Is that what you want, too, sweetheart? Tell me.”

  “Just fuck me already!”

  She hadn’t meant to be demanding, and she was afraid, after all his talk of power play, that she’d broken a rule, but instead he laughed and stuffed her full, his long, fat dick sliding up into her in one thrust. His left hand settled on her thigh, squeezing it as he pumped her, panties still on but stretched to the side. His right hand slid up to the back of her neck so she had to look him in the face. His expression was intense, eyes fixed on her, his mouth open just enough she could hear how hard he breathed. His hips pistoned fast, not bothering with any of the niceties because she didn’t need them. She could swim in her own wet, and as he slapped at her, she began to moan, forgetting where she was, forgetting that there were dozens of people just around the corner.

  He didn’t forget, though. His hand abandoned the back of her neck to clap over her mouth, stifling her sounds as he drove into her again and again, pounding her pussy until it gasped rudely every time he pulled out.

/>   “You want to wear my cum, my sweet girl?”

  Oh God, don’t say that.

  Wait.

  No.

  Say it again.

  She had no idea why it turned her on as much as it did, but she whimpered into his palm, her body climbing because that’s what his command over her did. It forced her to rise until she had nowhere else to go, until the only thing left was to shatter into six zillion pieces when she came for him and around him. Her eyes watered as he slapped at her, as he fucked her so hard she slid back a few inches on the counter, the sink handle jabbing her in the hip.

  “Touch yourself until you come. Now. Do it now,” he ordered, and she complied all too eagerly, her hand slithering between their undulating bodies and working her distended flesh. Her clit was hard against her fingers, poking up and eager, and she practically howled against the silencing hand over her mouth as she rubbed herself, edging closer and closer to that point of ruination.

  “That’s it, kitten. Good girl. Good girl,” he rasped through gritted teeth, his skin pinker than before, his forehead sporting a thin sheen of sweat.

  He’s close to coming.

  Because I’m such a good girl.

  Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, yes.

  Explosion. Every muscle in her body clenched at the same time, her pussy gripping his invading cock. She thrashed like she was attached to a live wire. Her hips bumped against his, her shoulders colliding with the glass of the mirror behind her as her orgasm pummeled her, commanding all her resources, both physical and mental. He growled and shoved in response, jerking as he unloaded his sticky seed into her soft wetness. A few more hard thrusts and he slowed. He slumped against her as he fought to regain his composure, his forehead resting against hers, his breath as unsteady as her own.

  “I adore you,” he said simply.

  Rain smiled and closed her eyes, bringing her hands up to run through his silky hair. “I know.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SOL DROVE ALONG Bourbon, looking for a place to park so they could head to Reverend Zombie’s on St. Peter, when Rain’s phone began to ring. From the corner of his eye he watched her get increasingly nerved up as one buzz became two, which became ten, growing more urgent until she was practically flinching. She did a heroic job of ignoring it, but if she held off any longer he was sure she would explode, and that was definitely not on the schedule.

  “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, hands working in her lap, her small fingers fretting nervously over one another as the car glided to a stop at the curb. “I hate this phone, it vibrates even when I mute it. I’ll turn it off.”

  “Answer it, kitten.”

  The look she shot him before diving into her purse was one of pure gratitude, and he was aware of how good it felt to be looked at as though he were some kind of minor deity or wish-granting genie. He’d only had to permit a small rudeness on their date—not that he’d explicitly forbidden it, but Maddy would have had his balls on a platter for checking his phone without permission—and now she was as thankful as if he’d saved her from a burning building. He remembered how long it’d taken Maddy to teach him manners—how many lessons learned the hard way. Not that he’d minded.

  His kitten, on the other hand, was a natural. Intuitive. Well-mannered to a fault. So what did that make him? He checked to see if he cared whether Rain was a better sub than he was. He did not.

  As long as we’re both having fun, I don’t give a shit.

  Meanwhile, Rain texted.

  “Is it your mother?”

  “Yes? I mean no. It’s Richard. He thinks Mother’s coming to see me. He told Vaughan, so I’m getting messages from him, too.” Her phone buzzed again and her thumbs flew across the screen. She sounded harried.

  His own phone rang. “Yes?”

  Dora’s annoyance cut through his ear and directly into his brain stem. “Elise Barrington is here for you.”

  The name was a battering ram to his gut. The way Rain talked about Elise made it sound like the woman was one part society darling, one part corrupt politician, one part devil spawn, with devil spawn a dominating frontrunner. If she’d flown to New Orleans all the way from Connecticut, it meant she planned to change things, and Sol was against change. Change meant less kitten.

  No change.

  Change bad.

  “Well, that was quick. Tell her I’m indisposed, but if she’d like to make an appointment I can see her sometime around next year.”

  “Sol.” Dora sounded so murderously flat it was almost funny—certainly would have been, if it were directed at anyone else. “Mrs. Barrington insists on waiting in the lobby until you come. May I recommend clearing something off your schedule tonight?”

  “I’m on my way,” he said into the phone. “Call Cylan and tell him to handle her till I get there. Ladies love him, you know.” Sol dropped the cell into his pocket and muttered a curse. Rain glanced up at him, brows lifting, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “We have to go back to The Seaside. Your mother’s already arrived.”

  Her face fell. “Fuckadoodie.”

  What?

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, I’m so— It’s . . . nothing.”

  “No, what did you just say?”

  Rain fussed with the strap on her purse. “It’s a stupid term.”

  Sol loathed having to end what had been a splendid date. The prospect of dealing with marauding press and marauding Mother Barrington was disheartening to say the least, but the utter weirdness of the term “fuckadoodie” somehow made it more bearable.

  “Fuck-a-doodie or fuck-a-doodle? Like fuck-a-doodle-doo?” Sol pressed. “Like the chicken sound?”

  “Roosters crow, not chickens.” She paused. “And it’s doodie.”

  “I see.”

  And he did see, and it made him smile despite his insides feeling like someone was churning his guts with a hot poker. He started the car again, watching her shift in her seat, knowing she was still stuffed up with, well, him. Which also made him smile because he was a prick.

  She’s going to talk to her mother like that. Full of my spunk.

  Good.

  “Are you all right, kitten?” he asked as he eased out onto the main drive. “I know she isn’t your favorite person. I’m sorry she’s here, but I’ll do whatever I can to make this easier on you. Just tell me how to help.”

  Rain didn’t immediately answer, her focus on the window and the passing scenery. The sun had started to set and the gas lanterns on the streets were flickering to life. The bars had their doors open, the tourists in off-season Mardi Gras beads walking around with Hurricanes in hand. Soon, the titty-bar girls would be parading around in front of their venues, inviting drunk college boys in to spend their pocket money on lap dances and watered-down rum and Cokes. The street performers would be drumming on plastic buckets and painting themselves silver for pocket change. The psychics would be lined up outside the cathedral at their tables, offering card readings to the curious and gullible. The walking tours would be navigating the streets to point out the haunted convent, the LaLaurie mansion, and sometimes, Anne Rice’s former house.

  I want her to see all that.

  I hate you, Elise, and I haven’t even met you.

  “She’s going to try to bully me,” Rain said quietly. “She usually wins. She’s just so . . . it’s hard to win with her. She doesn’t allow for anything else. It’ll be easier with Vaughan there.”

  “So maybe you should ask him?” Sol offered gently.

  She nodded and did just that. Within a minute Vaughan was calling, in answer to her text, and Sol listened to Rain’s side of the conversation, which consisted of a lot of mmm-hmmms and I’ll see you theres.

  “He’s almost home. He’ll meet us,” she said when she was through, the phone tucked back into her purse.

&nb
sp; Yes, home. Say it’s home.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  Sol’s hands clenched the steering wheel. “We’re almost there.”

  Five minutes later, they were passing the front gates of the hotel and angling for the garage, driving past a stretch limousine that had almost certainly deposited Elise on his doorstep. The sea of reporters was revolting, a writhing swarm of Carl Willises who’d come miles—in some cases hundreds or thousands of miles—for photos of Rain in the wake of her gardener scandal. Or, perhaps, it was to see Elise reuniting with her wayward child in the wake of the completely fabricated split with Charles Harwood. Sol had a security staff; they’d handle it as best they could, but it was unlike anything they’d had to deal with before.

  Hiring spree it is. A night manager and a small army of uniforms.

  Fun.

  Rain was silent as he parked. She was silent as she climbed from the car and double-timed it toward the hotel. She was not silent when, upon opening the side door, her brother half jogged to meet her, immediately pulling her into a hug. Vaughan’s tattooed arms folded around her. His gold hoop earrings flashed in the hall light as he dropped his chin onto her shoulder. Rain squeaked, and it wasn’t the happy, pleasant squeal Sol had come to adore. It was strain.

  “We have a problem,” Vaughan said in greeting, his hand stroking Rain’s hair, his eyes glued to Sol.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “No, it’s bigger than that. Mom has her assistant moving Rain’s stuff out of her room. I have no idea how she got in, but I’m guessing housekeeping. I’d physically stop him, but I’ve already been charged with one misdemeanor today. Two they’ll find less entertaining.”

  Rain whimpered against Sol’s chest.

  Dora? You didn’t.

  Not Amanda all over again.

  “I’ll be back. Chin up, kitten. We’ll fix it.” Sol pushed past the clutching Barringtons to approach the check-in desk. Dora was on the phone, talking quietly, and seeing him, she lifted a finger indicating she’d be with him in a minute. Sol waited, but he didn’t like waiting, and found it impossible to suppress the drumming of his fingers on the counter.