She liked that notion. She especially liked the notion of exploring those possibilities with Peter.
“Where would you like to go?”
She shrugged. “Somewhere with food.”
“That rules out The Spotted Cat,” he said as they passed the crowded club just up the street from The Dubious Concoction. Music spilled out onto the street, a lively zydeco beat that made Kelsey want to dance.
She stopped walking and began to sway in place. “Maybe one set?”
“Thought you were hungry.”
She wanted to deny it, faced with that enticing music and the prospect of maybe dancing with Peter, feeling him lead her around the dance floor, spin and dip her like a puppet.…
Her stomach growled loudly enough to be audible even over the music and the street noises.
If her knees were going to buckle on her tonight, she could think of far better reasons than low blood sugar. Dancing with this cocktail of jazzy charm would have to wait until she wouldn’t end up weak from hunger. “I’m starving,” she admitted, “but the band’s so much fun.”
He took a quick glance at the sign on the door. “These guys are local. We can catch them another time. And I’m hungry myself.”
She liked that he said we, not you. Probably the kind of smooth talk that went with the whole Sinatra-Crosby-Astaire style, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t exciting.
He steered her up Frenchman Street, then down a couple of side streets into a quieter neighborhood that mixed residential and commercial buildings. They were farther from the river now, though the water scent still hung heavy in the air. A sweet floral fragrance she couldn’t identify replaced the pervasive piss-and-beer smell of Frenchman Street. The small front-yard gardens still bloomed. The flowers weren’t the mums and asters she’d expect back in New England at this time of year, but in the dark, she couldn’t tell what plant might produce that tropical perfume.
With Peter’s hand still on her back, guiding her, she wasn’t inclined to spend too much time wondering about botany anyway.
Before long, Kelsey’s skin was sticky, and she suspected wisps of her dark hair were escaping from her French braid and curling into a fuzzy aura around her head. A wet spot was forming where his hand rested on her, concentrating heat, but she wasn’t about to move away from his touch.
When he turned off the street into a small alleyway, she blinked.
She saw no signs. No signs at all.
Oh shit, her charming musician was a rapist serial killer weirdo after all. She pulled away, ready to bolt.
A door opened. Music and delicious smells spilled out, and in the light that poured out with them, she saw a small sign that read THE JOINT IN THE ALLEY.
“It’s the kind of place you have to know about to find,” he explained. “I should have warned you. Going into a dark alley with a strange guy is the kind of thing every mother warns their girls about, and with good reason.”
“Wasn’t scared,” she lied.
He was kind enough not to laugh.
In contrast to the open, high-ceilinged, elegant Dubious Concoction, this was an old-school dive: cracked red vinyl booths and bar stools, worn linoleum floor, decades-old dark paneling that had absorbed every molecule of scent that passed through the place, for good and ill. It wouldn’t pass health department muster anywhere in New England and they probably had to slip a few Benjamins toward inspectors even in this more relaxed area.
But an old-time New Orleans jazz combo set the cramped space on fire with trumpet and piano, and spicy, fatty food and bottles of Abita graced every table. It didn’t look like a bar fight was about to break out, but drunken shenanigans were definitely taking place in some of the darker corners.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” she said as Peter guided her to a table.
* * *
This was a bar that only got jumping after midnight. Peter spotted a couple of seats toward the front. Still, he headed toward a back corner far from the band, where there was a prayer they’d be able to hear each other talk.
This was one of the rare occasions when his primary interest wasn’t the music. Kelsey intrigued him, and not just her pretty brown eyes or the autumnal tattoos on her olive wrists or her hard-to-miss curves. Those all had merit, but what captured his attention was the way her eyes had gone wide and she’d seemed to melt when he’d meant to take her hand back at the club and grabbed her wrist instead. Maybe it was simple attraction and any contact would have gotten her attention. But he had his suspicions…
Soon two beers appeared on their table as she squinted at the menu hand-scribbled on a chalkboard over the bar.
“Let’s get an alligator po’ boy and boudin balls,” Peter suggested. “We can split them.”
She smiled. “I’ll go with your suggestions.”
She might have been talking about food, but she made it sound like she might mean more.
“I haven’t eaten since lunch,” Kelsey continued. “They offered me food when I got to work, but I was too keyed up to eat at first and then it got too busy.”
He threw in an order of fried okra when a harried-looking waitress in a Saints T-shirt and cutoffs came for their order. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized he was already acting like she was his sub, ordering for her as if he knew what she wanted. “Hope you like okra,” he added hastily.
She shrugged. “If you say it’s good here, I’ll try it. Like I said, I’m hungry.” The last bit felt tacked on, like the important part was less the hunger and more that she trusted him.
He was probably reading too much into it. Wishful thinking could get a guy slapped. He’d bet his second-favorite hat she’d be open for some clothing-optional fun, either tonight or once they’d gotten to know each other better. But it was a big jump from interested in hooking up to interested in being tied up.
Time to take advantage of the relative quiet and get to know her better.
And not jump right to juicy kink-related questions, no matter how tempting it was.
He decided to keep it really light at first, chatting about music and movies and favorite foods—it turned out she’d never had okra before—until their meal arrived.
Once the plates hit the table, though, he changed tactics. It was easier to talk about anything remotely serious over a plate of deep-fried goodness.
“How did you end up here anyway?” Peter asked between boudin balls. “I get the feeling you’re new in town.”
“I’m from Gloucester—that’s an old fishing port north of Boston—and I went to grad school in Providence. Last year, I came down here on a vacation with some of my grad school friends. They mostly wanted to hang on Bourbon Street and cut loose after a tough semester. I explored more of the city and fell in love with it—the music, the atmosphere, the combination of beauty and seediness. They went back to Providence with shot glasses and beads. I went back with a list of things I needed to do to move down here.”
I knew there was a reason I liked you—beyond the hotness and the hint you might be kinky. “Good choice.”
She laughed. The notes of her laughter were sweet, but he thought he caught a bitter edge. “Maybe, maybe not. I love living here, but I’m not sure how sustainable it is. My ‘professional’ job”—she made air quotes as she said professional—“is at the aquarium, but there was a funding glitch and my hours got cut back almost as soon as I figured out a few good places to get lunch, which isn’t exactly hard in New Orleans. So I’m tending bar at night and worrying about making my loan payments, applying for jobs here like crazy and occasionally shooting off an application for one in Massachusetts. I don’t want to crawl back there with my tail between my legs but I’m just employed enough they’re not going to let me off the hook on my loans.”
His heart sank. His heart didn’t have any reason to be invested at this stage of the game, but he’d heard this story too many times from too many people who should have known better.
He’d be the first person to a
dmit it could be tough making a living in this crazy, beautiful place. But damn, why did he always like the women who didn’t stay here? Keep it light, Lyons. You just met Kelsey and she’s cute and has a spankable ass. Anything else is old baggage making you worry about things that have nothing to do with this moment. He forced a smile but found, looking at Kelsey, that he didn’t actually need to force it. “You can’t move back north! We just met.”
Nice job. He’d taken his moment of weirdness and turned it into a line Sinatra or Astaire would say to some dame in a movie: mostly flirtatious with a hint of truth.
He had a feeling they’d both miss out on fun if she left too soon. That was all.
“I’m staying as long as I can. I hope that’s a long time. Especially since we just met.” Teasing but not completely, like he’d been. “The job applications in Massachusetts are mostly to appease my mom.” She shrugged. “You know moms. She misses me, so she has these fantasies about me moving back to Gloucester and living with my family.”
Peter nodded knowingly. “I was still getting that until about a year ago, and my parents only live across town. Parents want us to be grown-ups, but they want us safe too.”
“We’d kill each other if I moved back in with them and we both know it…but she misses me. I miss her too, but I’m not anywhere near giving up on New Orleans. Besides, my supervisor at the aquarium promises me they have funding committed again, but it’s going to be a few months before it comes through.”
She was still holding her fork, so he covered her left hand with his. “Good. I hope The Dubious Concoction will let you hold out until then. It’s not always the easiest place, even if we call it the Big Easy—but it’s the best city on earth.”
She sighed and moved so their hands could cup together. Her touch felt uncannily right.
Maybe it was the big brown eyes or the curvy ass under that little black skirt or the fact she was trying to stick it out here despite the financial challenges, but he had to push it. Had to do a little test to find out if Kelsey might be more to him than a bartender he’d sport-flirt with between sets, without it meaning anything but friendship and word games.
A simple test, something she might not even catch if she wasn’t kinky. He’d ask questions if he got the reaction he hoped to get.
His hand move to circle her wrist. This time, unlike when he’d grabbed it without thinking in the bar, he did it slowly and with intent, looking into her eyes.
* * *
Peter’s hand on hers had felt solid, yet teasingly sexy. She wasn’t sure if it hinted at a hookup tonight or merely punctuated an evening of banter and the start of a flirty friendship.
His fingers closing on her wrist felt as if heaven had opened its gates and sent all the jazz greats of times past winding down the street in a second line for the ages. The first time had made her shudder, and that had been a careless touch. Seemed she hadn’t been the only one who wondered if the heat and possibility she’d sensed might mean something more. Something more that included whips and rope and Peter’s sweet, stern dominance?
Oh God… Maybe it had been more than her lively imagination.
She met his steady blue gaze and the blue was now that of the heart of a flame. He glanced down at their hands and back up at her.
She wasn’t imagining it. He was playing her as skillfully as he played his sax.
A beer and a long day blurred what she usually thought of as common sense but at the moment felt more like a dulling of animal instincts. She was far from drunk, but she was relaxing in the spicy, music-laden heat. She blurted out, “I like that.”
“The food?” He grinned deliciously, making it clear he knew that wasn’t what she meant.
“No. Well, yes, I do like it; it’s delicious. I meant the way you’re touching me.”
“Why?” The grip tightened. Not enough to be menacing, just enough to send a message she hoped she was reading correctly.
She was going to answer him, damn it. She’d gone this far. She might as well keep going.
Either her instincts were right and they’d have a very interesting evening, or they’d be wrong and they’d have an awkward one. She just hoped that if she made an ass of herself, he’d pretend he’d forgotten all about it the next time they were both working at The Dubious Concoction.
It wasn’t something a Sinatra character would do, but a Cary Grant or Astaire one might.
“It makes me think about you taking charge. Holding me down in bed. Maybe tying me up. Damn hot thoughts.” She swallowed hard. Had she actually said that?
Yeah, she had. And she meant it.
Peter Lyons’ smile was worthy of the predator his name suggested. Her pulse beat hard against his confining fingers and a matching rhythm picked up in her pussy.
“It’s nice to know my instincts are still good.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it was a combination of luck and wishful thinking. I took one look at you and started imagining what color of rope would suit you best.”
“What did you decide?” She sounded sultry and a lot more confident than she felt, as if she were being taken over by the persona of some brassy Jazz Age dame.
“I couldn’t decide, with the tattoos and the olive skin and the red streaks in the dark hair. So, undyed hemp. It looks good on any skin tone.”
“I love the way hemp feels on my skin.” The words popped out before she could censor them, but why should she censor them when she liked where this was leading? Still, maybe she should make it clear she wasn’t super-experienced. “I haven’t felt it nearly often enough, but when I did, it was amazing.”
“I’d be honored to give you another experience with it. Tonight or another time.” He snorted, a reassuringly human note from someone so confident and elegant. “I’m greedy. I’d prefer tonight and another time. But we did just meet and I understand if you want to get to know me better before getting kinky.”
That was the right thing to say, the words that let her tell the truth. “We can talk more on the way to someplace with rope and a bed. I’ve been dreaming about your hands on me since the minute I saw you.”
“Normally, I’d say your place or mine, but the rope’s at my place.”
“That’s good. I have two roommates and one of them sleeps in what’s supposed to be the living room. Not the best place to bring a lover.”
He raised her hand, kissed it, then ran the tip of his tongue between her second and third knuckles, a surprisingly sensitive spot. “Do you want to call anyone? Safe calls are smart.”
Any lingering doubts dissolved. “First one of my roommates, so she doesn’t worry if I don’t come home. Then a text to my friend Vincent.” Who was in Boston, but Peter didn’t need to know that. “I’ve been his safe call before; it’s time he pays me back.”
Chapter Three
Peter didn’t kiss her lips until he was about to open the door of his small one-story house.
Then he set the saxophone case down on the steps and drew her against his body.
Damp linen and a hardening cock tantalizing her and a mouth that claimed, took her will prisoner, left her no doubt at all that she wanted to be there, with him in the hot darkness.
Music from a neighbor’s place teased her ears. She wasn’t a fan of most rap, but this song was passionate and its cadence made her think of rough, hard sex. Not that it was difficult to push her thoughts in that direction with Peter’s hands on her body, Peter’s tongue in her mouth, playing her as delicately as he did his instrument. She rubbed against him like a cat, her arousal heightened to urgency. If she could have, she’d have stripped there for him there on the street.
But the ropes were inside.
His home, which turned out to be half of the old shotgun house, made his priorities clear. The living room was jumbled with sheet music, instruments, CDs and vintage vinyl records, the tools of his trade and passion. No TV, but excellent compact speakers with a connection for an MP3 player and an old-school stereo system with a turntable. He turned on the more
modern music system as they passed through the room, sending a bluesy, sultry jazz selection she couldn’t place, but immediately liked, to fill the space. The kitchen was a nook off this music area; it looked functional, though cramped, and the coffee pot had obviously seen plenty of use.
At the back of the long, narrow space was the bedroom, the only other room besides a small bathroom.
It was mostly bed, a huge platform that looked like it might be bigger than a standard king. The low bed made the ceiling look even higher. The armoire on the far wall might have been original to this space, tall and dark and definitely old. It wasn’t a fancy antique, but a piece of furniture that had been well loved over the years, scuffed by use. She didn’t see any closets. His suits must live in the armoire and everything else in the drawers in the bed frame. A music stand stood in one corner, as if even in the bedroom he’d want to practice.
The only other furniture in the room was a small bench or large stool with a padded seat. She’d have thought it was an ottoman, but since there were no other chairs, it must be where he perched to put on his shoes, or tossed laundry before he put it away. Across from it was an old umbrella stand full of canes and a couple of long-handled whips.
She swallowed hard.
Maybe she was in over her head. They’d talked about limits as best they could in the bar and on the walk over here. She trusted Peter, as far as you could trust someone you’d just met. The way he’d encouraged the safe calls and asked smart questions about her sexual likes and dislikes made her comfortable. But despite their best efforts, their expectations where kink was concerned might be as far apart as Boston and New Orleans. This could be the hottest night of her life or a flaming disaster.
The Lion of Frenchman Street Page 2