“I’m keeping you,” he murmured, kissing over her neck. “You’re going to love me.”
“Okay.”
It was that simple. For her, for him. He stroked his hands over her body, all silken honey from shoulders to breasts to waist and hips. His tongue swept over her sensitive spots. He nibbled on her earlobe, he teased at her throat, he sucked on her nipples until they were tight peaks. He worked her up until she was rosy and wet for him, and when he slid into her, his hands cupped her head, his nose touching hers. Green eyes gazed into blue, expressions mutually soft.
“Mine?” he asked, pressing soft kisses to her plump bottom lip, to the corners of her mouth, to the bow in her top lip.
“Yours,” she replied, smiling.
He kissed her, she kissed him back, and they each made good on their claims.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THEA DE SALLE wouldn’t be possible without a team of fantastic people supporting her.
S&S/Pocket Star has been nothing but wonderful, with special thanks to Elana Cohen and Lauren McKenna for their attention and guidance. Miriam Kriss is always a superhero and shall remain a Most Favored Human for eternity. Friends and family made the drafting and editing process much simpler with their constant love, support, and a never-ending caffeine pipeline. You are appreciated, you are necessary, you know who you are. And last but not least, a shout-out to the FMap crew, who may see a thing or two in these pages that’ll bring a (reminiscent) smile to their faces. At least, that’s the hope.
Much love to all of you,
TdS
Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE QUEEN OF DAUPHINE STREET
Volume Two of the sizzling NOLA Nights series
Available from Pocket Star Books May 2017!
ONE
AT THAT MOMENT, the name Kelly Adams Roberts meant nothing to Maddy Roussoux, but then, she was distracted by the Tongue flicking at her fun parts, so she had a good excuse. The blond girl beneath her was petite, barely five feet, with softball-sized fake boobs and a tattoo of a peacock on her tailbone. She’d been the cutest thing at Montgomery’s Bar and Grill with her short skirt and cowboy boots, so Maddy had done what Maddy did best, and two hours later they were in The Dallas Diamond Hotel, playing a rousing game of Who Comes First?
Spoiler alert: the blond girl did.
But it was Maddy’s turn just then, and her brown eyes narrowed as the mouth worked her, lathing back and forth. The girl had never fucked a woman before, but Maddy’s hands-on—or perhaps mouth-on was more accurate—instructions were detailed. The girl had learned fast. And well. And Maddy was edging closer and closer to a rather lovely come with . . .
Erm.
What’s her name?
Maddy’s head rolled back, her eyes fixing on the lovely patterned ceiling.
It’s a C name.
Carlie? Candy? Cameron?
. . . shit.
It didn’t matter so much in the moment, but it would later, when the pillow talk happened. Either Maddy had to rely on her go-to nickname of “dove” and hope it flew past the boards or she’d have to actually remember before any unfortunate gaffes that would let Blondie know she was the result of too much champagne and line dancing, but hey, thanks for the orgasm.
Orgasm. Right. I’m getting close.
Maddy’s breath caught in her throat, her nipples hardened. She murmured and licked her lips, grinding herself down on that pretty face with the off-kilter fake eyelashes and the Kardashian-esque contouring.
“Faster,” she hissed, grabbing a fistful of that Texas blond hair and balling it into a fist. She tugged on the girl’s soft tresses, hard enough that the girl’s eyes flew open. Maddy shifted her weight on her knees and whimpered. Higher, higher Maddy climbed, closing in on that perfect moment with the silicone-injected lips nestled right up against her clit. It was right there, right there, right there, and then . . .
BOOM.
“CARMINE! HA!”
Two seconds later she let loose with a howl as pulse after pulse rocked through her body. She humped down, drowning the girl beneath her in wet, before slumping forward, her face smearing into the hotel headboard, a torrent of giggles escaping her scarlet lips.
The name Kelly Adams Roberts still meant nothing when Maddy emerged from her penthouse suite, resplendent in her strapless red Versace dress, Valentino heels, and patent-leather Gucci purse. Carmine had left hours ago, to get home to her husband, she admitted, which Maddy found delightful. Either they had an open relationship, or Miss Carmine didn’t think the infidelity counted because it was with another lady. It was only two fingers and a tongue, after all.
She paused at the belly-high railing of the balcony on the top floor of The Diamond. It was a resplendent hotel, all chrome and glass, with black-and-white marble floors topped by oriental rugs, leather couches, and a fake fireplace along the back wall because Dallas never got hot enough for real fires. The check-in desk was centered before a two-story-high water feature, the cascading sheet of water skimming down over a rough, faux rock wall with decorative lights. Cherubs with gilded loincloths adorned the corners of the room, where ornate dentil molding met.
Alex DuMont—her former brother-in-law—ran the place. She stepped into the elevator so she could pay the man himself a visit. When Maddy was married to Sol, Alex had been a constant source of entertainment, though not really by his own design. He was a good Catholic who went to Mass every week and could have advised the pope himself on matters of church doctrine. Maddy’s hedonistic lifestyle made him twitch; she flew here, there, and everywhere, eating, drinking, fucking, and snorting to her heart’s content.
She’d quit the last after the nosebleeds started, but there’d been a time, early in her destined-to-fail marriage to Sol, when they’d had a little too much fun.
Lately, her fun was more slanted toward poking Good Catholics with sticks and watching them writhe.
I’m such an asshole.
A lovable asshole, according to her best friend, Tempy, but an asshole all the same.
The elevator descended to the base floor, the doors opening with a perky chime. She sauntered toward the black lacquered check-in desk. Behind the counter, a woman in a charcoal gray pantsuit and a black hijab was busily typing into a computer. Maddy could see herself in the reflection of the woman’s glasses, and she leaned forward, elbow perched on the counter, chin perched in her palm. She eyed the woman’s nametag: Najmah.
“Hello, dove. Looking for Alex DuMont.”
For a moment, it looked like Najmah wasn’t going to accommodate her—most requests to go straight to the hotel manager at high-end hotels were put to bed quickly and efficiently—but Najmah’s head tilted to the side and she smiled. “Miss Roussoux, yes?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Alex’s former sister-in-law. He loves me.”
When he doesn’t want to exorcise me.
If he wanted to exercise me . . . well, that was different. Alex is delicious. Too bad he’s such a fuddy duddy.
Najmah smiled again and reached for the phone. “I think Alex has a guest right now, but let me check.”
“Tell him I’ll wait until he’s free. And that I’ve rented his penthouse for the week and it’s his professional obligation to keep me happy so he can have more of my money.”
It didn’t take long for Najmah to get Alex live, and for a short but polite conversation to occur. Maddy gazed at Najmah the entire time, flashing all zillion capped, white shark teeth at the girl whenever they made eye contact. Najmah indulged her, matching the smiles, though Maddy was pretty sure in any other circumstance, Najmah would consider Macing her, which wasn’t really unwarranted. Maddy, at six feet in her heels, tended to loom, and she was a massive flirt.
“Of course, Alex.” Najmah hung up the phone and motioned Maddy to follow behind her. “This way, Miss Roussoux. He does have a
guest but it’s a friend.”
“Oh, goody. Someone new. We like new.”
Najmah led her past the waterfall and to a glass door artfully tucked off to the side and away, the lighting done in such a way that only those who’d know to look for the door would find it. Najmah slid a card through the security swipe and in they went, down a hallway with antique-looking rose-print wallpaper and polished hardwood floors. Decorative rugs, small tables with flowers in vases, and tasteful art gave it a homey feel, which contrasted starkly with the ultra-sleek, modern front of The Diamond.
“It’s a little bit country. How cute,” Maddy commented, her fingers brushing over the hip-height wainscoting.
“Mr. Dumont had it redecorated recently. He prefers a more relaxed aesthetic,” Najmah said, guiding Maddy to the last door at the end of the hallway. It was an oak door, thick and wide, much like the man behind it, Maddy mused. Alex wasn’t the tallest man Maddy had ever met, but he was perhaps the most solid. He was built like an ox, all muscle and girth, and more than once, Sol had referred to his brother as Saint Viking.
Which was hysterical considering Sol was tall and slim like a reed. He used to be able to fit into Maddy’s panties when he wanted to . . .
Or when she wanted him to.
Ah, my misspent youth. Or well spent, depending on who you ask.
Najmah stepped aside to let Maddy pass.
“Head right in.”
Maddy winked at her. “Thank you, dove. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course, Miss Roussoux.”
“Maddy, please.”
Najmah nodded but said nothing, ever so professional, ever so “not putting up with your shit, lady.” Maddy respected that in a person. She was, as Tempy often put it, perennially irritating.
She tapped on the oak door and was immediately met with a “Hello, Maddy.”
Alex had a deep, quiet voice, the kind that ought to make good music but . . . well? He was utterly tone deaf. She’d found that out at a festive DuMont Christmas party where she’d played piano and all three DuMont boys tried to sing Christmas carols and failed miserably. It had sounded like cats being fed into a paper shredder. Nash was particularly awful and ought not ever attempt music again while he had breath in his body, because his high notes could and would make the Baby Jesus cry.
“Alex! Darling!”
She swung open the door, ready for Saint Viking, only to find . . . an entirely different Viking. A very tall Viking. A very gorgeous Viking. Like, “the most gorgeous piece of human she’d ever laid eyes upon” type of Viking, and that was saying something considering her social circles of Hollywood greats and catwalk faces.
. . . who the hell are you and why aren’t I sitting and spinning on you yet?
He was so very tall. Green eyes, auburn hair cut just below his ears. She’d never been one of those people who ogled gingers, but oh, this one was worth ogling, with his square jaw, thin upper lip, full lower lip, long, perfect nose, and deep-set eyes. His brows had a perfect arch. His cheekbones were high and sharp and ought to be reproduced in clay. He had one of those worker tans, the kind that cuts off at his elbows and neck, from being outside all day. She only knew that because when he extended a hand to shake, his T-shirt rose up enough to flash a hint of his tan line along the curve of a bulging muscle.
He smiled, the rascal. It was a lopsided show of teeth and enough to make her moist.
Fuck I hate that word, but when it’s apt, it’s apt. I could float out to sea right now.
“Darren. Sanders, hi,” he said.
Maddy blinked stupidly for a moment before swinging her gaze over to the mahogany desk in the corner where Alex DuMont leaned, his arms across his chest, his legs splayed out before him. He was as thick as she remembered, his teal polo shirt stretched over his broad chest and shoulders, the color bringing out his eyes and the gold of his hair. His black slacks were pressed with a seam directly down the middle of the pant legs because Alex was anal retentive and anything off kilter probably would have resulted in a meltdown.
“Alex! I thought I was the only one to collect pretty things around here. Next thing you’ll tell me you have a tiger, too.”
“No.” He smiled tightly and shook his head, his gaze swinging up . . . and up and up. Darren had to be seven inches taller than him, and Alex himself was six feet. It was rare that five-ten Maddy felt short, but clasping Darren the Adonis’s hand, she felt just that. Short.
“Darren, this is Madeline Roussoux, heiress and poorly behaved human. Also my former sister-in-law,” Alex said with a wave of his wrist.
“True on all accounts, I fear.” Maddy fixed her attention on Darren and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, and then he pulled away, the tan hand with the hint of ginger hair at the wrist disappearing into a tight jeans pocket. His tan work boots looked worn at the edges, like they’d seen better days.
“Maddy, Darren’s one of my best friends. He also does a lot of work for me around here.”
“I’ll rent the penthouse for a year, then,” Maddy offered. “Your scenery is superior.”
Alex rolled his eyes, his hand going to cover his mouth. Probably to hide a smile, because smiling would threaten his reputation as emotionally distant and brick-like.
“Don’t mind her, Darren. She’s incorrigible.”
Darren chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, a faint flush topping his cheeks. “It’s fine. So you’re that Maddy Roussoux? From TV?”
Maddy flashed the smile—not the genuine one, but the practiced one that had graced most glossy magazine covers over the past ten years, including a few of the naughtier ones. “Guilty, I’m afraid. I’ve made ‘doing nothing but looking fabulous doing it’ an art form.” She could have gone into her father’s contribution to building modern computers as everyone knew them. She could have talked about her company’s place in Silicon Valley, her father’s suicide, her mother’s hospitalization, and how she alone kept the family’s ship afloat, but it was simpler to be what everyone knew: The socialite. The party girl. The walking, talking poster child for White American Privilege.
It’s what he expects so give it to him.
Darren cocked his head, his brows lifting so high, she thought they’d graze his hairline. “I don’t think doing nothing gets you on a Forbes list.”
She didn’t know how to answer him because no one—literally not one person in all of her life—answered her go-to, blasé introduction with a Forbes mention. It was always a laugh, an offer for a drink, an invitation to an event, pleasant chitchat, and “So what is X celebrity really like?” Darren blowing straight past the bullshit set her off balance.
“You read Forbes?” she decided upon, because that seemed safe. She crossed the room in three strides to pour herself a gin on the rocks at Alex’s sideboard. A glance at the clock showed ten thirty in the morning, and she hadn’t yet had breakfast, unless Carmine twice counted.
To hell with it. It’s twelve o’clock somewhere.
“You sound surprised. Suppose not too many country boys do, but the way I figure it, if you want to do big business, you have to understand big business. Forbes is big business.” Darren shrugged his shoulders, which she would have said were wide, but Alex was in the room, so all other men looked narrow by comparison, even gorgeous behemoths. “Country boys can read, you know, even if them there letters are hard sometimes.”
Maddy nearly spit out her drink. “No! Oh no, dove. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate—”
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Sorry, bad joke. I’m good at those.” Again, Darren rubbed the back of his neck. Again he flushed pink. This time, it wasn’t as endearing because she’d embarrassed him and it made her feel bad.
I was so busy assuming he’d underestimate me, I underestimated him.
Shit.
“He really does tell awful jokes. Tell her the one you
just told me before she showed up?” Alex said, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell phone and glance at it.
Darren perked up. “Which—oh! Okay, sure. Ready?” She didn’t think it was rhetorical, not by the way he looked at her, so she nodded and stole another sip of gin, the alcohol burning her stomach like acid. “Okay, okay. Want to hear a joke about construction? Wait, no, I can’t. I’m still working on it. Eh? Ehhhh?”
He paused.
She stared at him.
And then she laughed, a big boisterous thing that filled all corners of the room. The joke was so stupid, and yet so lovely, and she lifted her glass in a toast, draining it and shaking her head between giggles. Even Alex the Stoic cracked a smile as he pushed himself up from the desk and motioned at the door.
“We were just about to hit the restaurant for brunch, Madeline. You should join us.”
“Oh, should I?” She winked at Darren, abandoning the empty glass on the sideboard and smoothing her hair.
“Absolutely. How do you like your eggs?” Darren asked her as he pulled open the door and motioned toward the hall.
“Scrambled?”
“Nice! I prefer mine unfertilized.”
Maddy laughed again.
Alex groaned.
“Stop. Please stop.”
“Did you hear about the cheese factory that exploded?”
“I don’t—”
“THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT BUT de BRIE!”
Bwahahahahahahaha!
Want more steamy, too-hot-to-handle romance?
The next sizzling installment in the NOLA Nights series!
The Queen of Dauphine Street
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The King of Bourbon Street Page 26
