“Am not. I just punched a guy for you.”
“No, you punched a guy for you.”
“False.” He smirked and leaned in close, the corgi sandwiched between their chests as he whispered, “Can’t leave New Orleans until this is settled. Ma can shit in her hat. Enjoy yourself.”
Rain didn’t think she’d ever be all right with someone doing violence to another person in her name, but at that moment, petty or not, she loved her brother and she loved his punchy fist. She hugged him close, pressing her cheek to his while the dog wriggled between them, squirming up to lick both their chins.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re right, I didn’t.” Vaughan winked as the police officer outside motioned him over. “But it was goddamned satisfying when I did. Talk to you soon, droplet.”
“So what happens now?” Rain asked Sol, who lounged across the table from her in a crisp linen suit. A bowl of soup steamed in front of her, something loaded with beans and pieces of sausage. She tasted it, pleased that the beans weren’t a major factor in the flavor. She had on more than one occasion called beans Satan’s Vegetable and tended to avoid them whenever possible.
“Our reporter friend presses charges or he doesn’t, but I expect he will. There will be bail. Since it’s a single punch, we’re looking at a misdemeanor battery charge. There’s usually a fine and some community service involved, but nothing major. Brutus’s only concern is Vaughan’s history. Military, martial arts training—they could pinch him for aggravated battery if they really wanted to.”
“And what does that mean?”
Sol hesitated, his spoon stirring his soup. “That is usually jail time, but we don’t have to worry about that quite yet. Vaughan has no previous record. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
If Vaughan goes to jail for me, I just . . .
I hate my mother. So much.
She whimpered quietly.
“It’s a needless worry right now. Honestly, the reporter took a picture six inches from Vaughan’s face, which could, in its own right, be viewed as a provocation. That flash is no joke. I couldn’t see for a good minute after he snapped me.”
Rain continued eating, trying not to let the grating sound of Freckles gnawing on his squeaky toy annoy her too much. Sol reached across the table for her hand, his fingers snagging hers. He smiled at her, and once again, his masculine good looks stole her breath away. His features were perfectly balanced, his brows silvery arches above olive-green eyes and edged with thick lashes. A rough square of jaw tipped his narrow face. And his mouth . . . oh, his mouth. Wide and full and capable of doing the most obscene things . . .
Her very own Prince Charming.
Spanky, licky Prince Charming.
Why, brain? Why?
“He’ll be fine. We’ll make sure of it. Brutus is phenomenal, I promise,” he said.
She squeezed his fingers before pulling back and motioning at his soup. “Eat something.”
“Are you the boss now?” His look was sly, but he did go back to his lunch, or at least the first course of it, and there were three laid out. Sandwiches with thin slices of roast beef and melted Swiss cheese on flaky croissants. Wedges of carrot cake with far too much cream cheese icing. Café au lait at the ready, always, in the New Orleans fashion.
“No. I’m simply making sure I don’t break you,” she said primly, to which he laughed and toasted her with his spoon before digging into his food.
“As you wish. I hope your day isn’t ruined. Vaughan was looking out for you in his way.”
“I know. It’s my mother, is all.” She didn’t like talking about her mother. It invited her into their dialogue, into their lives, and things were perfect in their Mama-less pocket of the world. Elise Barrington could and did make everything worse; she was a vampire who fed on the happiness of everyone around her.
And what did vampires do best?
Suck. Mama sucked.
Sol eyed her. “What about her? She’s in Connecticut still, yes?”
“Yes, but my mother is why Vaughan did what he did. She told us to come home and we . . . this sounds so stupid, but I guess we’re rebelling. He’s tying himself up with legalities so we have a reason to stay.”
“She’s really that bad?”
Rain moved on to her sandwich, trying to figure out how she was supposed to shove so much puffy pastry into her mouth without unhinging her jaw. The answer was to smoosh it flat and go in from an angle and pray to God she didn’t end up wearing Gustav’s mystery sauce. “She’s controlling. She wants me back, either to punish me for rebuking Harwood or to mend that rift. Either way, it won’t be pleasant. I’m having fun. I know it probably won’t last, but I’m enjoying it while I can.”
“Why won’t it last?” Sol’s voice was so very flat. He was a musical man given to drama, so to hear him muted communicated a level of displeasure she’d yet to experience. And she didn’t like it. “Is there something I don’t know?”
“No! It’s just that I’m from Connecticut and you’re here. I suppose that’s silly considering we can travel, though I’m sure my mother would do everything in her power to prevent it. But therein lies the problem. Her power isn’t insignificant.” Rain eyed her sandwich and decided it was too much work to engineer into her small mouth.
She also fidgeted.
He’s unhappy.
She started folding and unfolding her napkin, because no matter how she smoothed it, it didn’t match up at the corners. Sol reached out to put his hand on top of hers, squeezing her fingers, and she stilled.
Better.
That’s better.
“You’re almost twenty-four, Arianna. She doesn’t have the authority to allow you to do anything,” Sol said quietly.
She crammed a spoonful of carrot cake into her mouth. “I know.”
He said nothing. A few times he looked like he wanted to talk, but then he’d shake his head.
“What?” she demanded.
When he managed words again, it was to take the conversation to safer ground. “I simply hope we can work something out. I do like you, and as far as I can tell you like me.” He tore into his sandwich, the deep vee etched into his brow speaking to his annoyance. Or nervousness. Or something. His unhappiness was palpable, and it made Rain’s cake taste like ash. She put her spoon aside and reached for her coffee so she could hide behind her cup. She wasn’t necessarily aggravated, but her embarrassment about being so very limited because of her mother could quickly manifest that way and she’d rather not quarrel.
“I do like you. Very much. More than I should for such a short acquaintance. It’s just . . .” She paused to collect her thoughts. “I’m trying to be pragmatic. You could decide tomorrow that I’m too . . . ridiculous. Or too fat, or . . . something. I don’t know. Long-distance relationships are difficult enough when the people involved know each other well. We don’t have that benefit.”
Sol eyed his sandwich thoughtfully, like it held the answers to some great existential riddle. “I understand that.”
“It’s not a sign that I don’t like you.”
“I know.” He put the sandwich aside, his hand once again snaking across the table to claim hers. “I like how you are. So you have quirks. All the most interesting people do.”
She looked at his long fingers, her lacquered nails lightly skimming over his wrist. “I’m not giving up. I’m just wary. This is so fragile still.”
“Then let’s make it less fragile.”
“How?”
TWENTY-ONE
“OKAY, WAIT. WHAT’S a Sybian?”
It was one of the most endearing questions he’d ever heard. She tilted her head to the side with such utter guilelessness when she asked that he wanted to squeeze her. He explained the mechanics of the thing while he pulled off her clothes and tossed them aside, not rea
lly looking where they flew, which led to a two-minute interruption with a panicked corgi running around the apartment, a bra cup perched on his head like a war helmet.
Corgi saved, he motioned Rain closer, latching his thumbs into the sides of her panties and stealing a very quick, illicit suck of nipple while he pulled them down.
“It’s like a saddle, kitten. That vibrates. You sit on it.”
“Why do you have one?” she asked, stroking his ear.
“ ‘Why don’t you’ is the better question.”
The real answer was that most of his arsenal was left over from the Maddy days when their lives were blurs of sex and depravity. Maddy had heard about the Sybian on Stern and the next thing he knew, two of them were delivered to The Seaside, ready to rock and roll. Weighing in at twenty-two pounds apiece, the industrial-strength vibrators had been a pretty serious addition to Sol’s Closet of Fun, and had a lot of mileage left in them, as far as he was concerned. However, because he didn’t think Rain would want to hear the sordid details of tangled limbs past, he kept it simple.
Ish.
Simple-ish.
It was going fairly well until he pulled out the Sybian from the closet and plugged it into the wall. Rain eyed it like he’d asked her to straddle mechanized cancer, actually taking a step back from the black half dome like she was afraid. “It’s just round on top?”
“That’s all it needs to be.”
“But I thought sex toys all had penis thingies.”
Penis thingies.
He snorted and glanced her way. She stood on his bedroom rug looking almost demure, hands clasped over her naked stomach, jostling her weight from one foot to the other. It sent soft ripples through her abundant silky flesh. He took a step toward her and reached out to smack her flank with a flat palm, delighting in her yelp and the hugeness of her eyes. The flush stretching across her cheeks was an added bonus.
“There are ‘thingies’ that you put on top of them. Don’t fret. You trust me, yes?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
He leaned in to kiss her. Her lips parted for him and he took advantage, nibbling before his tongue delved in to tease and taste. Nothing overly aggressive, just a hint of naughtiness before he pulled back to procure the appropriate “thingie” for the Sybian: a nub for her to straddle, something to press on her sweet spot, while they had a nice chat. He positioned it on top of the vibrator and pointed.
“On that. Nestle it right in.”
“What?”
“Straddle it.”
She stared at the machine. He wanted to laugh at the combination of curiosity and mild horror on her face. It really was an impressive piece of equipment, looking more like something that belonged in a workshop than a bedroom, but it served its purpose, and as soon as she had a taste, he was sure she’d be a convert.
Everyone was. The Sybian was the king of sex toys.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, kitten.”
“I’m just . . . I’ve never . . . it’s kind of weird, Sol.”
“It is. But it’s effective.”
He sat on the couch in front of her, the remote control to the Sybian in hand, his thumb grazing the switches while she circled the toy twice in much the same way Freckles circled Squeaky Mouse or Squeaky Alligator before pouncing. Except instead of mauling the thing to death à la corgi, she gingerly sat on it, adjusting this way and that to balance herself, her knees resting on the carpet. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she clasped them on the front of the “saddle,” for lack of a better word, and stared at him.
“Is it all flush, kitten? I want it pressed against your clit.”
She reached down, and just the sight of her hand delving between her thighs made his cock twitch.
No. Not yet.
Unsexy thoughts.
Cylan bitching about expense accounts.
Surprisingly effective.
“I think so? I can feel it there.”
“Where?”
“You know. There.”
His grin grew. He could see her remembering to use her words as she swallowed down the lump in her throat and said quietly, “My pussy.”
“Good girl,” he said, and used the remote.
He loved her mouth. It wasn’t big, but her bottom lip was exceptionally full and there was a perfect divot on top, her cupid’s bow exaggerated in a cartoonish way. When she pursed her lips into an O, she looked like one of the dollies in the toy section of a department store waiting for its bottle. Except he wanted to plug that O up with something else entirely as she squealed, adjusting to the vibrations beneath her. The Sybian wasn’t a quiet toy. It roared to life with an impressive rumble, but it still wasn’t louder than her first long moan.
It wouldn’t be her last.
“So tell me where you grew up?”
“. . . uhhh.”
He smiled at her. She adjusted on the toy, squirming down at the bit of rubbery plastic wreaking havoc against her clit. “Connecticut.”
“Yes, where in Connecticut?”
“Oh. Greenwich.”
“And you have how many brothers?”
“Six.” Her tongue, small and pink, flicked out over her lips. “I’m the only girl.”
“Tell me about them.”
She didn’t particularly look like she wanted to discuss her brothers, but she wasn’t the one in control, either, so she sucked in a breath and nodded, her weight shifting on the foreign object between her legs. “The oldest is Richard. He’s forty. His wife, Elizabeth, died a few years ago. He has two children.”
“Their names?”
“Mia and Richard Jr. But everyone calls him Ban like Bruce Banner because he’s really big. Like the Hulk. He’s sixteen and she’s fifteen.”
“Mmm. Who else?”
“Mitchell’s the next oldest. He’s th-thirty—” She stammered on the word, adjusting on the Sybian and blowing a long torrent of air from her mouth. Her chest heaved, pretty tits jiggling as she did. “He’s thirty-eight. He and his wife, Demi, have three kids. Then there’s Vaughan, you know him. Never been married, ex-marine. Thirty-five. Desmond is the next youngest. He’s thirty-four and a minister. His wife is Susanna. They have a new baby named Kyla and live outside Boston. Carlton’s thirty-one. He’s the pretty one.”
Considering Vaughn and Arianna were both ridiculously attractive, Sol had immediate questions about “The Pretty One” Barrington. He tried to remember if he’d seen pictures in any of the gossip rags, but nothing was coming to mind, and if the man was that impressive, he was sure he’d have remembered him.
“The pretty one?”
“Y-yes. He’s not married. Women love him, though, and I can’t . . . no one ever has him for long. He has two children. One of them’s with Zoe T of the Hot Drop Girls. I don’t know if you know their music.”
He’d heard of them in much the same way he’d heard of Velveeta cheese. Widely known, widely consumed, and he’d never go there, for the sake of his own wellness. “I see.”
She sat up straighter on the Sybian. “And one with our former housekeeper, Marguerite. Mama fired her after the baby thing, but Richard made sure she’s taken care of.”
“Richard’s the one who got you down here, to meet me, yes?”
She nodded, stifling a moan. He let it slide.
“Then I like Richard,” he said. “So that’s Richard, Mitchell—”
“Mitchell’s an asshole,” she interjected.
Sol smirked. “Noted. So that’s Richard, Mitchell the Asshole, Vaughan, Desmond the Minister, Carlton the Pretty One, aaaaaand . . .”
“Tommy.”
She said it like this one word, this one Tommy, explained it all.
“And?”
“He’s Tommy.” She tossed her head, sending her golden h
air tumbling around her shoulders. More inability to sit still meant more wobbly Rain, the sway of her breasts nigh hypnotic. “He’s naive. He lives with his boyfriend, Nicholas, in Greenwich Village.”
Again she shifted. Her breath hitched as she redistributed her weight on the toy, her hands abandoning the edge to course over her thighs.
Oh, that’s nice.
“Well, thank you for that. Did you go to public school?”
“No. I was enrolled in . . .” Her voice trailed off as he turned the vibrations up a notch. She mewled, her eyes sweeping left and right, her body flexing with a sudden shiver. Her nipples went tight, coral-colored and proud on all that bouncy wonder. “. . . Greenwich Academy. It’s an all-girls school.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She exhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring. “I don’t fit in with m-most social . . . this is tingly.”
“Is it? Explain it to me.”
She was pink all over and getting pinker by the second. Her fingers returned to the edge of the Sybian while she rocked forward, just slightly, with a series of deep, shuddering breaths. “In my region,” she said.
“Your region.”
“Yes.”
He cranked up the toy and she gasped, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “My crotch! It’s not in . . . it’s everywhere. Not just . . . oh God.”
He took pity on her mostly because she looked overwhelmed and also because this was getting far too hot to continue for much longer. He’d had every intention of grilling her, but watching her response was affecting him, too. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.
And in other places.
Cylan’s expense reports were failing him.
“Why didn’t you like school, kitten?”
“The girls weren’t always nice to me.”
“Because you were a Barrington?”
“No, because I didn’t look like them. They all . . . Mindy McGarris had lipo at fourteen. I don’t even know if that’s legal, but it wasn’t . . . there were expectations and I didn’t always meet them. I had some friends, but not a lot.”
The King of Bourbon Street Page 15