by Kellie Hart
As the stage lights pulsate from purple to silver and back again, I offer one final spin, drop my fans to the floor, and turn to the side, giving everyone something worth writing home to their mother about—the curve of my breasts and the roundness of my ass silhouetted against a glowing backdrop. Then, I extend my right leg into the air. On the last four counts of the song, I reach backwards, grasp my ankle, and stretch my leg forward to make the heel of my shoe touch the back of my head in a move the club’s regulars have nicknamed the Rose High-buns. When I lean even farther back so my hair tickles the inside of my thigh, my breasts strain skyward. Though I can’t call myself dancer any longer, I know the effect I have on those who have paid to see the show. On cue, the audience goes wild.
But, I ignore them.
A tiny lift of my head brings Atticus back into view. His jaw is locked, his nostrils flared, and that finger is still tracing his lower lip. Before the entire stage drops into darkness, I free my right hand and quirk a single finger at the man I want to eat me alive.
Come lap it up, Atticus. The Coochie Buffet is officially open for business.
***
I make the movements through seven more songs, seven more costumes, and with each, I make sure Atticus knows I’m taking everything off for him and him alone. By my fourth number, Jacque and Fox disappear; during the fifth, it’s not hard to notice that Char and Chad have also made their escape. And then, at last, it is just me and Atticus in the moment.
When the curtain finally falls on my set at three-in-the-morning, I stumble back to my dressing room. I am exhausted and horny beyond measure, and in the quiet hopes he will stop by, I leave the door cracked for Atticus. While I wait, I busy myself putting away every binding piece of lingerie I’ve worn, and I slip into a soft robe. I tie it loose at the waist so it gently hugs my curves, but I leave on my wig. Just in case. It’s the last tie to the costume that gave me the strength to perform for Atticus tonight, and if I am so blessed for him to drop-in, I am going to need all the fucking fortitude I can muster.
A light knock from across the room sends a shiver down my spine; a second one follows when I find Atticus standing at my door. He casually leans against the wooden frame, a hand shoved into the pocket of dark jeans as the other runs through his hair. In the low light of the dressing room, his red shirt appears nearly black, and behind glasses, his hooded blue eyes are difficult to read. Long, dark lashes cast stark shadows across stubbled cheeks. His jaw locks again, and his nostrils flare. His mouth parts in a silent intake of breath, and I think he may speak, but he does not. He only touches a pointer finger to his bottom lip.
Atticus is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Fucking Handsome—a vision, a goddamn promise of things to come—but no sign of impending pleasure graces his beautiful face. He simply stares me down as if waiting on me to make the first move.
I tug a curl on my wig.
Sophia, give me strength.
“Feel free to come in,” I finally whisper.
Silently, Atticus comes into the room, closes the door, and locks it behind him. My breath quickens with each of his steps nearer, and when he’s only inches away, I want him to say something, anything, but he does nothing more than loom over me, inspecting the rapid rise and fall of my chest like he has discovered some great uncharted territory of the human body.
“’Ello, Carolina,” he speaks at last, and his voice is exactly as I remember it: deep and rich. Like velvet against naked flesh. And as British as a fucking crumpet. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Hello yourself, Atticus.”
Atticus chuckles, and a smile finally cracks his stoic expression. The sound of his laughter is delicious, made thicker and stronger by his accent. “I was hoping you would have more to say to me after your magnificent showcase. Your performance was for me, was it not?”
I bite my thumb nail. “How did you ever assume that?”
Atticus laughs again and pushes his glasses up a long nose. “Your efforts to seduce me are about as transparent as glass, Carey darling. However, before I pursue what you are offering, we were alone together on a few occasions when I was last here. Why now are you expressing interest in me? Is it my sudden return to New Orleans that has ignited your fancy?”
“No,” I speak quietly but more honestly than I have in a very long time. “I thought about you almost every day since Fox and Jacque’s wedding, but I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, especially when you left so abruptly the last time. When I saw you at the bakery, though, I knew I couldn’t stand having you so close and not doing something about it.”
“Please be so gracious as to explain how you will do something about me, Carey.”
The words are out before I know it.
“I want to sample your spotted dick!”
Dear God, fuck me. Not you, God. Atticus. Atticus, fuck me. Oh fuck. This is all wrong. So, let’s make this worse, and try again.
“Or maybe you can just take me home to Fucking-ham Palace!”
For fuck’s sake, just kill me now.
Seemingly unfazed, Atticus nods as if he’s taking in what I’ve said. His finger crosses the small space between us to trail along my lower lip. It takes everything in me to not suck it into my mouth and feast.
“To those ends, beautiful Carolina,” Atticus says, eyes to my mouth, “is your intent merely to fuck me and send me own my merry way?”
I gasp in disbelief. “You—you actually want to fuck me?”
“Would I have locked us within this tiny room if I did not want to enjoy your company?”
“That doesn’t mean fucking, Atticus.”
“Then, yes, I want to fuck you, Carey, and I hope you should like to fuck me as well.”
“I do,” I whisper, “wish to fuck, that is.”
Atticus’s eyes grow hooded again, and the blue morphs to hot, molten black. “Start by sucking me.”
As if he’s heard my cry from within, he pushes that index finger past my lips and lays it across my tongue. My lids flutter closed, and as if on instinct, my hands raise to clasp around Atticus’s wrist. I suck his finger hard, imagining that it’s actually his dick, hot and heavy in my mouth, and any doubt that I ever had about seducing him is obliterated by his moans of pleasure, his whispers of Oh my god, that’s perfect, Carolina.
When Atticus rips his finger from between my lips, he yanks me forward, spins us around, and presses me against my makeup counter. Another of his long fingers tugs at my robe’s sash to untie the bow holding it closed. Shivers overtake me as Atticus rakes nails over my shoulders, sending satin cascading down my arms. His hungry hands wander my tummy, my full hips, the under swell of breasts, but he’s not the only one in need. Goddamn it, I am starving, and his touch is fucking dinner.
Our eyes meet in the mirror seconds before he puts lips to my ear.
“You are the single most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon. Thank you for the invitation to enjoy that beauty.”
Atticus’s warm breath fans across my neck as he winds my wig’s curls around his fingers and snatches my head back. A warm tongue touches my neck, and I stare in awe at our reflection as he weaves a trail from my naked shoulder blade to my ear and back again. Over and over, Atticus tortures me until I am writhing, squirming against a full cock that presses into the crack of my ass. I push myself against him until I elicit the moan I’m dying to hear. His pleasure makes me groan myself.
“Shh, shh now, my darling,” Atticus soothes. “You are an eager little one, aren’t you? My turn will come soon enough. Now, this moment, is about you.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, but before I can speak, Atticus hoists my right leg against the counter. Crooked at the knee, my leg remains bent, pressed between my body and the edge of the cabinet. It’s painful as fuck as Atticus grips my thigh, his nails sinking into my skin, but I know the pain will made worth it when the next words pass from Atticus’s lips.
“Do you want my mouth or my fingers, Carolina?”
<
br /> “Your—your fingers,” I moan, my voice broken with need.
Without argument, Atticus sinks a finger into me. He strokes me gently, deliberately, as if he’s already played my body a thousand times and knows the exact tune I am meant to sing. Gasping for air, I lock my arms behind his neck as he adds another finger inside, moving in and out, sometimes deep, sometimes desperate, but always exactly where I want, where I truly didn’t know I needed him until now.
“Oh, God,” I whisper as Atticus takes my left nipple in his free hand and twists and turns that pebbled bud.
“Not God, Carolina,” Atticus says before his tongue darts into my ear. “Simply Atticus.”
“Atticus, I think I’m about—about to come.”
“Then, by all means, do so. Let us watch it happen. Open your eyes, beautiful one.”
As I watch myself get-off, I have never felt more desired, more attractive or alive. Atticus looks at me as if I am the only thing he was born to see, as if he is capturing the moment permanently for later inspection. As I ride his fingers, my clit grinding against his palm, the pull between us that lies deep inside, within my tummy, within my bones, snaps. I shatter like glass, and when I scream his name, it brings a wicked, beautiful grin to his face. When I go slack against him, he makes sure I’m still watching as he frees the fingers that have been within me and raises them to his mouth. With a groan, he sucks them clean. I swear to God: I’ve never seen anything sexier.
“Do you see this?” Atticus whispers against my damp skin before running a finger down my side. He gently grasps my chin, making sure I can’t look away from my own reflection. “Do you see how bloody gorgeous you are, Carolina?”
I don’t respond, but I lean against him until he lowers my leg to the floor, guides us to the little sofa in the corner of the room, and cuddles me to his chest. Stark naked against his flannel shirt, I am raw, exposed, but the close contact lets me feel everything trapped beneath his hipster costuming—full, round pecs and something similar to a six-pack lurking beneath ivory buttons. Eager to know what else he’s hiding, my fingers skirt along his shirt and land on the fly of his jeans. Short of the zipper, my hand is seized. Atticus raises my small fist to his lips and kisses each knuckle. I am not sure if I should be embarrassed or pissed off that he’s stopped me, but I need more of him. One orgasm from this man is hardly enough to sate the need roaring within me.
“As much as I want to feel my cock in your hands, Carolina,” Atticus says, his voice low and gentle, “I don’t want you to feel as if you owe me anything. Likewise, you are hungry, and to bed a woman whom I have not fed is simply ungentlemanly of me.”
“I’m not hungry for food, Atticus—I fucking want to eat yo—”
Atticus’s rich laughter fills the room when my tummy offers a loud and very disturbing MRRGRRMMMUUMMGGGAAGGFFFFLLLLAFFFF as evidence to support his hypothesis that I need fucking nourishment.
“Okay, so maybe I am kind of hungry,” I agree with a little smile.
Atticus pulls me to my feet and watches in silence as I redress, but I decide to keep on Sophia Pe-wig-lo. Back in my day-clothes, he and I are contrasting opposites—one of us is short, round, swathed in a garish wig, a childish graphic tshirt, and ripped jeans; the other is tall, regal, and a breath-taking mixture of the dark and the heroic. The part of me that is full from how he has given to me so freely yet taken nothing for himself begins to deflate. A fucking magnificent orgasm can only sustain a high so long when the goddamn truth behind it is now in front of you, clear as black and white. Atticus is fucking perfect, and I am the farthest from it.
His interest in me is fucking inexplicable.
“’Ello, you,” Atticus says, drawing his finger along my bottom lip. “Don’t give me that look ever again.”
“What look?” I ask, my voice cracking against my will.
“That look that seems to ask, Why is Atticus here?”
I shake my head defensively, and his hand drops to his side.
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
Atticus crosses arms over his broad chest. “I may not know you well yet, Carolina Grant, but I can decipher quickly enough when you are lying. Your brows pinch together, forming this incredibly adorable V, right betwixt your eyes.”
“They do not,” I say.
“Oh, but they do,” Atticus says, “and to make something perfectly clear, I am here, with you, because I desire to be in the presence of you. You are beautiful. You are intoxicating, and you haven’t strayed far from my mind. I am a fool for having waited this long to return to the reality of the memory that’s brought me so much joy in the months we have been apart.”
I swallow, wondering if I’m actually picking up what he’s putting down. “You’re in New Orleans for me?”
“Yes,” Atticus says with a heart-wrenching smile. “Does that seem impossible to you?”
“I—I don’t know,” I lie. “I mean, I’m not sure there is anything about me you would find interesting enough to fly nine hours for.”
“And the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
A black eyebrow peaks above Atticus’s tortoise shell frames. “Nothing. I figured since you were saying useless shite I should offer something as well. I also have stored away other fine ditties such as, How now, brown cow; the silly snake slithered slowly south successfully, and—my favorite of favorites—Money in your pocket, brew in your cup; poke her in the butt, and you won't knock her up!”
I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter. Atticus watches me again, and there’s nothing in his eyes but gentility and joy. Compared to the hunger I saw as he fucked me with his hand, the expression on his face, at this very minute, is my favorite of all. I think it means he is giving me the truth when he says he wants to be with me, and the idea that I am worth him being here, if even for a fleeting moment, means more to me than anything else he could offer tonight.
“What are you in the mood to eat?” I ask, and Atticus grins again, even wider than before.
Atticus claps a hand to his taught stomach. “How about some jambully?”
“You mean jambalaya?” I giggle.
“Yes, whatever, although I prefer my pronunciation. You speakers of the American English tongue are always butchering the natural beauty of our shared language.”
“If you can’t say jambalaya correctly, do you even know what boudin is? Or etouffee?” I ask, taking the opportunity to highly exaggerate the words with my accent. Boo-da-yun and Eht-too-fayay sound quite appetizing if I say so myself.
Atticus cringes, and he is fucking adorable. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Well, then, allow me educate you, and may I just say for the record, that in this duo, I am a master of the tongue?” I move to the door, still laughing, and slap his chest.
Atticus gives me a dark look and catches my hand over his pec. “I think that remains to be seen.”
I groan, but my stomach groans louder. Atticus and I share a glance then burst into laughter once more.
“Jambully?”
“Jambully!”
AT NEARLY FIVE IN THE morning, Atticus and I plopped down at the bar of Tujague’s, my favorite restaurant in the entire world. He did not ask to look at a menu. He told me to order whatever I wanted, but being that it was his first time here, I thought less of my bitching stomach and more of introducing Atticus to the cuisine that put my beloved hometown on the map. Eyes wide with excitement, Atticus dug into dish after dish I recommended, sampling everything yet finishing none. Until we hit the desserts, that is.
“That is more exquisite than a moist pussy in the mouth!”
Atticus squeals, and I do a spit-take, spewing what’s left of my third Bourbon Bat all over the mahogany bar top. Grumbling under his breath that he will need to buy a new mop after I’m finished, Montague Cotton, the finest barkeep in all of the French Quarter, slides me another drink down the long plank of wood. As the tumbler glides
to a stop in front of me, I dab my face with a linen napkin then throw it at Atticus.
With the napkin settled atop his head, Atticus lifts a ceramic dish to his mouth and licks it clean of the white chocolate sauce Tujague’s drizzles atop the french bread pudding. You might think Atticus’s response to this particular dessert is an overreaction, but I can attest to the fact the shit he has shoveled into his mouth in five bites is, quite literally, food crack, and Tujague’s is a hell of a fucking dealer.
When he is finished, Atticus places the plate ever so elegantly in front of him, rips the napkin from his head, and dabs invisible crumbs from his lips. He stretches long arms and pats his belly, a satisfied smile on his face. As I am fucking tipsy from the healthy dose of bourbon now settled into my tummy, his behavior is far funnier than it should be. I laugh, and I hiccup. Then, I laugh at my hiccups. Atticus cracks a wider grin as I search his plate for some remaining chocolate sauce, and I pout when there is none to be had.
