Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
NIX
I’m never going to get enough of her.
Never.
Never enough of her goodness or her beauty or her grace or the way she makes me feel so safe, so at home. And so damned horny it would be embarrassing if she didn’t feel the same way.
But she does…
Thank God, she does.
“More,” she begs, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nix, please. More. Harder. I need you harder.”
“Fuck, Charlotte, you feel so good.” I grit my teeth, sweat stinging in my eyes as I thrust in fast and deep. I keep it up, drawing a groan of relief from both our chests as she meets me with frantic jerks of her hips.
This woman…
She strips me to the bone, leaving me wide open, defenseless to pretend that making love to her isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The most primal and sacred and meaningful and perfect.
“So perfect,” I pant as she grips my ass, tugging me even closer, deeper, but I already know it will never be close enough.
Even with my chest crushed against hers and her breath hot on my neck as she clings to me, making those “about to come” whimpers that drive me crazy, it’s not enough.
I want to crawl inside her. I want to be her conjoined twin.
I want to erase all the fear and anger inside and replace them with this—heat, passion, connection, and the sound of Charlotte crying my name as her pussy begins to pulse around me.
Thank God for thick walls, and the white noise machine blaring by the door, ensuring none of our guests can hear her.
Because that cry?
It’s mine. Only mine.
“Yes, baby,” I rasp, my voice rough as I near the edge. “Love it when you come for me, Strawberry. Love it when you drench my fucking cock like this. So good, sweetheart, fuck. Fuck, Char, I’m so close.”
I slam into her even harder, faster, pleasure building at the base of my spine like a high diver reaching the apex just before the fall.
I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
Hips stuttering, I bury myself deep one final time and spill into her with a bliss that’s almost painful, my entire body seizing, every muscle pulling tight as the release shakes me back and forth in its teeth, violent and sweet.
So sweet…
I sag on top of her, my heart hammering against my ribs, gasping for air like a man who doesn’t run several miles on the daily. But running isn’t nearly as exciting as fucking this woman.
My woman.
Fuck, Char, I think, all I want is to know you’re mine and I’m yours and this isn’t going to end in goodbye. I don’t ever want to stay goodbye.
I pull back, staring down at her flushed face, wanting to say the words aloud so badly, it hurts.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, brushing my hair from my sweat damp forehead.
“Just thinking I probably need another shower before bed,” I lie.
Her forehead twitches toward a frown. “Are you sure? If you want to talk, we can. I don’t want you to think I’m not up for talking.” Her lips curve into a crooked smile. “I just needed to fuck you first.”
“I love that about you,” I say, my tongue cramping at the back of my throat as it tries to hold back the next part.
The tongue errs on the side of caution, but the heart…
The heart demands I add in a whisper, “I love everything about you.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen. “You do?” she whispers back.
“I do,” I confirm. “I love your mind and your gorgeous body, but mostly I love the way I feel when I’m with you.
I love how life makes sense in a way it never did before.
How hard things feel easier, and good things are so much better.
How growing into the man I’ve always wanted to be suddenly seems inevitable not… impossible.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the green as her eyes begin to shine. “It was never impossible. You are a good man, maybe the best one I’ve ever met.” Her lips twitch again. “Certainly, the best one I’ve ever fucked.”
“What if I want to be the last one you ever fuck?” I ask, my throat tight again. “I’m willing to do the work, Strawberry. To be the kind of man who’s worthy of a class act like you.”
She cups my face in her hands, her palms cool against my heated skin.
“Are you crazy?” She searches my gaze, fierce and tender all at once.
“You’re already worthy. God knows I’m not perfect.
I screw up and fall short and get sucked into petty bullshit all the time.
” She rolls her eyes. “Like fake dating you to make my ex jealous. I mean, how did that ever seem like a good idea?”
I shrug, lips curving as I say, “I don’t know. I’m kind of a fan of a little petty now and then. I wouldn’t be buried inside you right now without it.”
“Valid.” She bites her lip, vulnerability flashing in her eyes as she adds, “But I don’t care about any of that anymore, Baylor. I just want you. And I want you to want me, even when I’m not a class act. Even when I screw up or fall down.”
I lean in, kissing her softly, reverently, pouring every ounce of my devotion into the brush of my lips against hers. When I pull back, I murmur, “It’s a deal.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I vow. “If you fall down, I’ll scoop you up, carry you inside, and check you for ticks.”
She huffs. “Ticks?”
“In my fantasy, you fell in the grass,” I say, kissing her cheek, then her jaw. “In the summertime, right when the grass is long and the ticks are at their fucking worst.”
“Oh no,” she murmurs, looping her arms loosely around my neck. “That sounds perilous.”
“So perilous,” I agree, continuing to trail kisses down her throat to the top of her chest. “But don’t worry.
I rush you inside, gently strip off all your clothes, and check every inch of this gorgeous skin for ticks.
It isn’t easy with all these adorable freckles,” I add, skimming a finger across the freckles above her breasts, where her peach nipples are already pulling tight for me.
“But I keep at it, doing a very thorough job, making sure you’re safe. ”
“Then, you fuck me hard?” she asks, breath stuttering out as I close my lips around her nipple, sucking gently.
“The very hardest,” I whisper against her skin. “I promise.”
And then I flip her onto her belly and prove it, fucking her from behind with all the feral love in my heart.
Tuesday morning passes in a friend bubble, Makena and Elly lingering until well after noon to make the most of their day of “playing hooky” from real life.
We take advantage of the chaos as Mack pulls her truck out of the front yard to sneak out the back gate, down to where Charlotte moved her SUV late last night.
On Thursday, I drive the girls to their recording session and hang out in the waiting room, drinking coffee and reading a book, deliberately keeping my cell on silent. Three hours later, they’ve locked down not only the tracks and instrumentals, but worked up a rough mix, as well.
Bea invites me into the booth to hear it, and I cry a little. But it’s a happy cry. A proud of the amazing, talented, artistic, strong-ass women in my life cry.
The rough mix is fire. By the time the final song is ready later that night, there’s no doubt in any of our minds that it’s something special, and the producer, studio owner, and Bea’s publicist seem to agree.
They insist this song is the perfect way to launch her as a solo artist, while showing the world that Beatrice is her own woman and her story belongs to her.
Plans are made for a small “soft launch” party for the track the next afternoon.
Meanwhile, Blue has continued to run into brick walls in his investigation and the AI authenticator firm said they won’t have more information for me until Monday.
But…that’s okay.
Maybe it’s Bea’s song or the phone call she has with Voodoo management Friday morning—the one she assures me went very well, and she really thinks will help end this unfair suspension sooner than later—that has me feeling Zen again.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m too high on happy love chemicals to feel any pain too deeply at the moment, but I’m not anxious anymore.
I’m just…peaceful, certain things are going to work out for the best.
And if they don’t, we’ll deal with that, too, with our friends and family behind us. Mom and Dad are on their way here from Scotland as we speak, with plans to stay with Beatrice at my place, while I’m at Charlotte’s, for as long as she needs them to be her buffer from the chaos.
All in all, we’re lucky people, and I think Beatrice is starting to feel that way, too.
She’s practically glowing as we step into The Spotted Cat on Friday afternoon, even though it’s a chilly day for New Orleans and the sky is full of gunmetal clouds.
But inside the tiny dive in a quiet part of the French Quarter, a place with music soaked into the plaster and floorboards that groan with history, we’re feeling no pain.
It’s packed, but not with the usual jazz-thirsty tourists.
This is a private event filled with NOLA music industry people, musician friends, and me, Charlotte, and Blue, who watches Charlotte perform with a focus we both usually reserve for the ice.
But this is his zone of genius, too, and reverence is the appropriate response when you’re in the presence of a master in your craft.
Beatrice is a master, a fact she proves by following the debut playing of the track with one hell of an acoustic performance.
It’s just her, in a dark green flowing dress, on a stool on the small wooden stage with her guitar, but that’s all she needs. That and her voice, talent, and the kind of soul that leaves a room in stunned silence as her final note fades away.
The room is dead quiet for a long time. Not the polite silence of an audience waiting to be sure the song is over. No, it’s the stunned silence of people who just witnessed some seriously awesome, game-changing shit.
Then, the guy from the local radio station stands up and starts clapping.
A beat later, the room erupts in applause, shouts, and a long, sharp finger-whistle from the producer, who obviously couldn’t be prouder.