I’m intoxicated.
“Stop fidgeting,” he says under his breath. I realize I’m tugging at my skirt and still fussing with my hair. “You look fantastic.”
“I like the sound of that.”
He leans in closer. “You look like you’ve been doing some very heavy petting with a guy you can’t get enough of.”
“God, I forgot how arrogant you can be.” But we’re both grinning. Once upon a jazz club, I took that attitude seriously. Now I know the difference between the ego he hurls at other people like a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball, and the teasing he uses against me. He’s making me so excited. I could pace with how much energy he’s stoking in me—a close second to my nerves.
“But here’s the deal,” he says as we follow a tuxedoed maître d’. “You have to try everything I order.”
“I know Louisiana food. You’re not going to scare me off with jambalaya.”
“I don’t even think jambalaya is on the menu here.”
The maître d’ seats me, then hands over menus and the wine list. What drink Jude chooses for us—no clue. It’s in French, which rolls off his tongue like honey. The maître d’ nods, appearing impressed, and leaves us to ourselves.
“Do you speak French?”
Jude shakes his head. “I can pronounce it N’awlins style. But the lessons never stuck. Addie’s good, though. She claims it’s like learning piano, just patterns and rules.”
“What did you say to that?”
He leans in, where candlelight from the little floating votive at the center of the table adds depth and drama to his features. “That I don’t play piano either.”
“She’s wonderful, you know. Adelaide.”
“Sure she is. Been playing since she was two or three.”
“No,” I say, spreading the napkin over my lap. “As a person. I’m really glad she and I were partnered.”
An easiness settles over his expression, and a placid smile over his mouth. “Good. I’m glad.” Then he huffs out a tight breath. Bouncing from one side to the other is a little disorienting. “Now if only I could get her away from that damn pervert of a professor.”
“She’ll come around.”
“Before it’s too late? I don’t know about that.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “Maybe you’re not giving her enough credit. I think she’s hypnotized by him. I know what that’s like.”
“I’m not married with a kid on the way.”
“No, but I don’t think that matters when hearts get involved.”
“Can we talk about something else?” he asks, voice tense.
I take his hand—which has curled into a fist—and unlock his fingers until he twines them with mine. “No problem. You can go back to telling me how great I look.”
“Mouthwatering, sugar.”
“That’s just your stomach talking.” I finally open the menu, only to be confronted with about a hundred French words. “Let me guess. You’re doing the ordering?”
“Yup,” he says with a smile that banishes his brief flirtation with darkness.
“And I have to try everything, even if I don’t know what it is.”
“Yup.”
The restaurant is high end, for sure. Chandeliers that I bet are made from real crystal hang over sets of four tables. Grecian statues stand watch over wide, wide windows that overlook the lush Garden District street below. Fresh flowers are probably wasted, because the smells from the kitchen are overpowering, especially when I’m ready to taste everything, try everything.
That means Jude too. He looks at me like I’m the main course. He promised foreplay, and this feels like part of it. He’s seducing me in the slowest, most courtly way possible. He’s making me laugh and making me wait and making me adore him in ways that are dangerous to think about. So I don’t. I enjoy the moment, especially when a waiter comes to take our order. More of that delicious French. I have no idea what I’ll be eating, but I’m convinced it’ll be mind-blowing. And if it’s not, I get to watch Jude when his eyes roll closed over flavor that leaves him floored.
I want to affect him that way.
“So . . . what do we get?”
“Let’s call it an assortment,” he says playfully. “Get used to that, sugar. Has anything changed? About tonight?”
“Full steam ahead.”
A dangerous grin shapes his mouth into playful wickedness. “You want to kiss me again, don’t you?” He laughs. “Oh, but your blush is precious, Keeley.”
“Quit.”
“No way. Admit it. You’re racking your brain to think of some way to set me on edge too.” He lifts my hand and brushes his lips across my knuckles. “You hide so much from so many people, but you want to be memorable to me. That’s gotta be quite a contradiction in your head. A constant war. I wonder which will win the day . . . and the night.”
“You think you’re so badass.” Laughing, I untuck my sheer chiffon shirt and, there in front of whoever’s watching, I whip it over my head. I ruffle my hair before smoothing it back into place, then hand the shirt to Jude. I’m chilly, which probably explains why he’s trying really hard to be inconspicuous about splitting his attention between my eyes and my chest. “You said you like small breasts,” I whisper.
“Mean, mean woman.”
“No. Generous, generous woman.”
“Mmm, very much so.”
I tilt my head. “This is a pretty posh place, Jude. What would happen if you met one of your business colleagues here, and here I am, all sweat-cooled from practice and wearing this camisole?”
“I’d introduce you, but I wouldn’t stand up to do it.”
A little part of me shrinks down, surprised that after the foul air we cleared, he would still hold something back. “Okay.”
“Keeley? Look at me.”
I do. His Caribbean blue eyes are shining with mischief and secrets. “I wouldn’t stand up because I don’t want the whole restaurant to know how turned on I am.”
I sputter into my napkin. Not the most graceful. Then I grin at him from the top edge of the starched cotton. “You’re mean too.”
“Just following your lead, sugar.”
The food arrives, but it seems like a complete distraction. The waiter is polite. He keeps his reaction to my change of attire down to a minimum. One appetizer is some sort of dome that has oysters and bacon, along with—to my surprise—absinthe from Switzerland, all under a pastry crust. Oh my God, it’s amazing. Then there’s gumbo, but not like the gumbo they serve on campus. That’s like saying a steak from a waffle house is the same as a filet mignon. This is flavorful, not just hot. There’s turtle soup too, which is the one dish where I hesitate.
Jude shakes his head. “Everything. An assortment, remember?”
“You’re not just talking about the food.”
“No way. If you’re giving me the whole night, sugar, you’re getting everything I have.”
I shiver. “Can I be honest and say that sounds a little scary?”
“I made you promises. I intend to keep each one.” He nods to the bowl in front of me. “Now give it a try.”
“And what, I’ll thank you for it afterward?”
“Absolutely.” He’s the most handsome, most infuriating, most incredible man I’ve ever seen when he unleashes his smile—all amazement and sensuality. “And I’ll thank you.”
Twenty-Nine
We don’t go to the hotel adjacent to the restaurant. I’m glad, even though he didn’t bring it up and I didn’t say anything one way or the other. Is he so good at reading what I need? That’s the best of daunting and wonderful, both.
Besides, I really want to see where he lives. I want to sink beneath his weight, onto a bed and into thick blankets that smell of him. A hotel for my first time sounded bold and even exciting when he brought it up bef
ore, although I’d been wary of him hiding things. Maybe we both need this to be . . . intimate. As private as possible.
That’s not an issue when he pulls the Mercedes into a crescent driveway that fronts a Victorian era mansion. I force my mouth closed. The façade is draped in ivy, and two great willows sway on either side of a massive wraparound porch. Twin columns stretch up from the top step to a second-story veranda that looks like it borders only one room. One big room. French doors lead out to it. I assume it must be his room. The view over a quarter mile of sweeping grounds would be magnificent. It seems like we drove forever to get here, but the grand old house is probably only ten minutes outside of New Orleans proper. Getting here is like driving back in time. Arriving is like lighting dynamite.
No more waiting. No more holding his free hand as he drove casually, confidently away from the city.
Lots of things are coming together now, although I can’t honestly say, No more time to back out. Something deep and trusting tells me I could change my mind and, in an instant, Jude would take it like a gentleman. Tonight, I’m willing to believe he’ll give me whatever I want. That’s heady. It’s probably unhealthy.
I’m thinking too much.
He takes the keys from the ignition and meets me on my side of the car. He’s still wearing that astonishing suit. I can hardly stand it. That the collar is scrunched up and his slight curls are tangled at his hairline makes my insides giddy and hot. We’ve done a lot, compared to what I’ve ever dared.
We’ve done hardly anything at all.
“I can’t keep up,” I whisper, knowing I said it in the practice room and I’ll probably think it another thousand times.
He bends his knees a little, so that he’s standing at my height. “We’re here with no regrets.”
Not a question. And I have no doubts when I reply. “You’re right. No regrets.”
“Do you trust me with this? I need to know, Keeley.”
“Why is it so important to you?”
“Because when you say you can’t keep up, I don’t know how to behave. Slow down? Press on and think you’re just psyching yourself out?” He presses against me, enfolds me, breathes against the hollow beneath my jaw. “If you try to catalog everything and make sense of it all as it’s happening—I know you’ll try—you won’t be able to relax. If you can’t relax . . .” He shrugs slightly. “It’s just better if you can. That means trusting me.”
“But . . .” I swallow when burying my face against his chest. I find a bare place revealed by the open buttons and nuzzle. “How will you know what I want or like or . . . anything?”
“I enjoy making women happy. You probably don’t want to hear that right now, because it means there’ve been women before you, but it’s true. I already know the sound of your breathing when you’re getting turned on. I know how you forget to touch me when I’m touching you. That tells me you’re engrossed in what I’m doing.”
“I don’t mean to, you know, neglect you.”
He pulls back. The lone wrought-iron lamp that hangs from the second story, down toward the front door, spreads warm golden light from one side of his face to another. He’s light and shadow this time, except I can see every delicate lash and the purely masculine confidence of his smile. “Believe me, sugar, I won’t let you. Come on.”
He leads me up the steps and into the foyer. The mansion’s subtle fragrance reminds me of him—mint, sandalwood, cinnamon, lemon oil. There’s a deeper musk too, as if the swamps out back refuse to be polite and hide away. This is a wild place, briefly tamed. I glance at Jude’s angular profile. He’s the same way.
I expect he’ll take me up to the room with the veranda and the astonishing view, but we veer softly to the left of the massive front staircase. It looks like something out of a movie set. It’s not. He lives here. Like seeing the suit, I’m hit again with the differences between us. I live in half a shoe box with Janey.
But it must get lonely here.
The room we enter—there’s no mistaking it’s Jude’s. The bed is an heirloom four-poster with a hunter green comforter. A pair of leather recliners take up space against the right wall, with a wrought iron and glass table between them. A low dresser of dark oak stands opposite, with a flat screen hanging just above it. Wood paneling adds to the richness of texture and scent, and keeps the room dark and intimate even when he turns on his nightstand light. This is a space for a man to rest.
The nightstand is that same wrought iron and glass, covered to toppling with business magazines and notebooks with creased pages and red ink scrawls. He lifts the whole bundle and flops it onto one of the recliners. He stops moving, his neck angled toward the bed.
I don’t know what to do. He said to trust him, so I do. I wait. I wait, even though it’s one of the strongest tests of willpower I’ve ever managed. I want to jump on him and follow him straight down onto the bed.
“Undress,” he says quietly.
I must’ve made a noise—God, I can’t tell anymore—because he lifts his eyes. Our gazes meet. He’s not haunted. I wouldn’t go that far. He’s in a deep place. Only then, idiot me, do I realize the truth. What I’m seeing is pure lust.
It’s happened to me before, but this is the first time I’ve felt it so suddenly, so purely: I go wet. Totally. The hotness in my belly turns liquid and slides down, down. I’m stunned, really. I didn’t know it could happen that quickly, especially with just a look. He could shove me against the wall and take me, right now, and I’d be ready.
I’m so not ready, in my head, but my body is saying, Bring it on.
“If I repeat myself, sugar, I won’t give you a choice about how to do it. I’ll strip you how I want.” He looks me up and down, devouring me as surely as if he used his mouth. “Undress.”
Part of me is terrified. Tell me I shouldn’t be! This is Jude, with his intensity on steroids. Maybe he’s thought about throwing me back on the bed too, and this is his way of keeping it . . . calm?
Completely not the right word.
Gentle. He’s trying to be gentle. My first time. He’s trying to honor his promises.
My hands are shaking as I pull the camisole up over my head. I grab my ponytail holder in the same move and shake my hair loose.
I reach to undo my jeans, but he cuts his jaw to the side. “No. Your bra.”
I’ll have regrets if I let this stay totally one-sided. So I ask why.
“There’s something so damn sexy about a topless woman still wearing jeans.”
I reach behind my back and grab the hook-and-eye closure. “You’re a guy,” I say, smiling some. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”
“Bra and panties.” His gravelly words are softened by his accent. It’s getting thicker with everyone sentence. “Might as well be a bikini. That’s not so special. But half dressed? Clothes coming off? That’s intimate.”
I think I get his meaning and decide to brave it out. I drop the bra to the floor. It is intimate. I’m bared from the waist up, for him alone—his relentless eyes. I arch my back, feeling languorous and sexy.
My tiny surge of confidence grows when I take off my jeans, then my panties. He stares at me like I’m a goddess. I could be one, for him.
He undresses without fanfare, but I take in every move as if he’s a man in slow motion. Tie slips free. Buttons unfasten. Zipper slides low. I’m burning up with each newly exposed inch of smooth, golden skin. The nightstand light accentuates his masculine curves and planes. High, strong muscles gleam. The shadows between them are deeper.
He slides his hand into his briefs and slips the waistband over his erection. The briefs slip to the floor.
I can’t breathe. Speak. Swallow.
But I can stare.
He’s . . . big. I’m liquid, eager, but the last scraps of fear won’t fly away.
“Come here.”
I obe
y without hesitation, when I would’ve sworn movement was beyond me. He’s a vortex, or a planet with its own powerful orbit. He’s gravity and the tide. There’s no denying any force of nature that powerful. Jude is one of them.
He stops me with hands on my hips. I flinch, then laugh—a bubble of release. He smiles indulgently. I love that grin. It’s nearly the smirk I first saw on his thin, perfectly shaped lips, but there’s no malice behind it. Just a shared moment. I can feel it. He’s sharing this amazement with me.
Surely, confidently, he pulls me nearer by slow degrees until his erection presses flat against my stomach. Oh my God, it’s so hot. And hard. It juts between our bodies in a way that almost makes me panic. My heart freaks out and starts some crazy rhythm that isn’t rhythm. He loops an arm around my low back, holding me there, forcing me to feel his pulse where it radiates from our exquisite contact.
He tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “Now you have proof. How much I want you. Are you still nervous?”
“Yes.”
“And you still trust me—here at least?”
“Yes.”
He places his hand flat between my breasts and presses, urging me to bow back against his supporting arm. He finds one nipple with his mouth. I gasp as wet heat circles and flicks. I never knew I could be so sensitive. Every nerve is made of electricity—especially there, where he sucks deeper. My other nipple is just as sensitive, as are the slight swells under each breast and the hollows above both collarbones. He plays my upper body like an instrument made for his firm lips.
I’m moving now. Shaking. Trying to get closer. He tightens his hold on my lower back, then slips down to cup my ass. His hand is almost big enough to span both cheeks in one firm grip.
“I could slide into you,” he rasps against my throat. “Any other time, any other moment, like this—and I will. Do you believe I could hold on to you? That we wouldn’t even need a bed?”
Blue Notes Page 20