Page 69 of New Orleans Rush

“Do you think now is a good time for bee jokes?”

“Anytime is a good time for bee jokes.” Manhandling her hips, he tossed her onto his mattress. But she wasn’t having it. She needed to feel him. Touch him. She pushed to her knees and dipped her hand into his boxers. She sighed as he groaned.

He swayed on his feet. “Stop.”

“No.” The silk-hard feel of him shredded her sense.

He growled and pulled away, then shucked his boxers, giving her the view she’d imagined on repeat. Curls of blond hair dusted the unburned sections of his chest—the same hair that trailed toward the sword her prince wore proudly. His length twitched. Wet heat pooled between her thighs, and she couldn’t look away. Huxley wasn’t a bulky man. He was the naturally trim sort with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He stood with unabashed confidence, his strong thighs flexed, no longer hesitant to let her see his body. That alone turned her molten.

He joined her on the bed, his purposeful movements forcing her to lie back. Kneeling between her legs, he spent his promised time nosing and kissing her ugly birthmark before removing her bra and easing her red panties down. He hovered over her, proud cock twitching. Every inch of her pale skin was exposed.

He traced circles around her nipples, then lazy shapes downward. He palmed her center. “Red really is my new favorite color.”

She wasn’t sure if he was referring to her discarded lingerie or the curls he was toying with. She didn’t care. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“Please.” She wasn’t above begging.

Her knees fell wider, and he caught his breath. “So wet for me.” He stroked her, reverent glides that drove her mad. Kneeling fully, he gripped the base of his shaft as he worked her, like he was stemming his desire. When he pressed his thumb where she ached most, her hips spasmed. “Stop teasing me.”

“I can’t.”

“Huxley…”

“Beatrice…”

Her hips jerked again, everything inside her coiled tight. She’d never been so responsive to someone in bed. She’d never felt like she had family, until this prince of a man had welcomed her into his. She never wanted to please someone so badly, to be the reason he cried out in pleasure. But it was she who cried out. He pushed two fingers inside her, his thumb working overtime, all teasing gone. Like on the dance floor, he directed her body, controlled her moves. He kept his distance, though. He watched as a twist of his fingers made her gasp.

His eyes flared. “My expressive Honeybee.”

His crooning undid her, and her belly furled into a feverish knot, tingles blooming at the edges. She bit her lip. His magic fingers worked her over until she dissolved under him, because of him, his rapt attention stretching out her pleasure.

If she painted her self-portrait now, she’d be a vivid rainbow.

She trembled. “You’ve done that before.”

“No.” He pulled out his fingers and stroked her swollen flesh. “Never that.”

Her heart squeezed. She understood what he meant. They weren’t virgins. Nothing they would do tonight would be a first, but it would be new. It would be earthshattering, because it was them.

She reached for him, needing more. “I’m desperate to feel you inside me.”

24

Huxley didn’t think he could want Beatrice more, but the need in her breathy voice blinded him. Which was unacceptable. He needed to see every shudder of her body, every arch of her back. He licked the fingers he’d had inside her, stealing a taste, a meager tease that would have to suffice. As much as he wanted to feast on Beatrice Baker, his willpower was waning.

He grabbed a condom from his dresser and dropped it beside her. “If you’re desperate, I’m a lost cause. But I still have some business to attend to.”

Business that included worshipping her spectacular breasts. Everything about Beatrice was soft and lush—her glorious ass, the generous swells he now cupped. He had large hands, and she was more than a handful, pale pink nipples puckered just for him. He rolled his tongue around them. He sucked and kissed and squeezed until his vision blurred.

Her frenzied hands tugged his hair. “Now,” she begged.

A demand he couldn’t deny. Condom in hand, he fitted himself between her thighs and tore the packet with his teeth. “You’re mine, Beatrice. All mine.”

She scratched her nails down his thighs. “My magic man.”

His throat burned at the declaration. “Yours alone.”