Page 64 of New Orleans Rush

This thing with Huxley could be history repeating itself. He might falsely believe he didn’t need the poker games, but she trusted otherwise. Their time as roommates—cooking together, laughing, sharing his living room while she painted and he read or fiddled with his puzzle box—had proven just how wonderful Huxley was. She wouldn’t doubt him again. Their date would unfold as planned. In just five days.

She stood still, breathing hard. She heard him exhale, followed by a soft scratching. She imagined him writing her a love letter on the door, a note worthy of an epic romance. A pledge to be faithful. A promise to rock her world. A vow to use his magic hands on her body until she levitated.

She drew a heart on her side. Then a castle.

Then a prince with a large sword.

She groaned too loudly and his scratching ceased. Her fantasies didn’t. She imagined unzipping Huxley’s pants and touching the length of him, how hard yet silky he’d feel. Would his familiar growl fill the air? Was he the type of lover who would kneel above her to watch her every move, or would he press his chest to hers, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart? She couldn’t decide which she’d prefer. She wanted it all.

He moved, his footsteps traveling toward his room. Sighing, she tossed her overheated body on her bed, more wound up than before. She wouldn’t sleep tonight. Or for the next five days. Not until their promised date, and his promise to turn her boneless under his skilled touch.

But steps neared her door again, then stopped. She pushed up to her elbows, entranced. His shadow spilled under her door and into her room, a folded paper sailing over the floor. She scrambled to her hands and knees and crawled over the hardwood toward the gift. Maybe he’d sent her a note asking her to rate him from one to ten. Or a “Which Disney Prince Would You Bang?” questionnaire. Tangled’s Flynn Rider, please and thank you.

What she got was so much better.

Dearest Beatrice,

You may not think I’ve touched you yet, but I have. Every time I close my eyes, I drag my hands over your hips and down your thighs. I press wet kisses to every inch of your skin. I’m not sure how I ever stood still when music played, but those days are done. Thursday night is just the start.

Yours,

Huxley

Mine. He is mine. He was the scorching oxygen searing her chest, the wet heat pooling between her thighs. He was better than Flynn Rider or Prince Charming, or that swoony cartoon man who kissed Snow White. He was flesh and bone. Too good to be true. A magic man who penned one hell of a love letter.

22

Huxley guided Beatrice into the packed club, his hand on her lower back as they navigated the crowd. He hadn’t been sure where to take her for their first official date, only wanting to be somewhere he could touch her at will and feel her dancing body against his.

Brimstone didn’t disappoint.

The alcohol and perfume-scented air swelled with the band’s sensual beats, gold lights highlighting the crimson couches they passed. Whispering couples ignored them. He followed close behind Beatrice, guiding her to the bar.

Her gray eyes twinkled as she took in the mass of arms and legs on the dance floor. “This place is amazing.”

“Axel suggested it.” Huxley couldn’t remove his hand from the dip of her spine or keep from glancing at the curves displayed in her red dress. The fabric cinched her waist and flared at her hips, teasing him to what lay beneath. He waved the bartender down, needing something for his parched throat. “Manhattan for me, with an extra cherry, and a lemon drop for the lady.”

The bartender nodded, and Bea pressed closer to his side. “You ordered for me.”

“Is that okay?”

Instead of confirming or denying her feelings on the matter, she said, “You know what I like.”

He did know. He had quite the mental file on Beatrice Baker, every nuance catalogued and saved for future reference. She liked lemon drops and Long Island Iced Tea and learning odd animal facts. She hated ketchup and green lollipops. She loved foiling CSI criminals and taunting him with her wins. He hoped she adored dancing in this club with him, too, and falling into their apartment later.

Already, Huxley considered his place theirs. He liked being in the small space with her and had no intention of letting her move out. Lately, he’d stressed less over the building repairs, not even donning his plumber or carpenter hat on his one day off. It wasn’t easy, stepping back from the theater, but reading on the couch while Beatrice painted and they both tapped their feet to swing or jazz settled his soul in an inexplicable way.

Tonight they would do more than tap their feet.

If he wasn’t worried about Big Eddie’s threats, he’d already be lost to the heady atmosphere and their impending night. As it stood, he scanned the inebriated crowd, searching for a tall man, as Beatrice had described: goatee, slight paunch, dark hair. He didn’t find the seedy character, but his sights locked on another unsavory sort.

“I know that mustache…” Beatrice said, squinting at Oliphant, then her eyes widened. “That guy was at the bar the night we met.”

Huxley would never forget that night, but he’d rather not have his nemesis here as a reminder. He tried to focus on his date, who skimmed her hand down the side of his dress shirt.

She wetted her lips. “I don’t think I mentioned how dashing you look.”

He’d taken a page from Fox’s book when dressing tonight, finding a black button-down and slacks he hadn’t worn in ages. If it made Beatrice look at him like he was an ice cream cone, he’d have to dress like this more often. “All eyes are on you, Honeybee. Your red lips and dress make it hard for a man to focus.”