CHAPTER FIVE
By the time they reached Bourbon Street, Serena was exhausted. They'd toured all their old haunts—the spot in Jackson Square where they met when she should have been spending the night with a friend. The shop on Royal where Nate had selected and bought her prom dress. Even the low-rent apartment she'd lived in.
Facing the memories, both good and bad, hadn't tired her. Neither had the heat. What had her muscles aching and her lungs sore was one simple thing—not touching Nate. Or more precisely, him not touching her.
The taste of his mouth, the feel of his rock hard body, still resonated through her. The musky scent of his cologne clung to her clothes, haunting every breath she'd taken since. He'd meant to surprise her up against the door and take control of the seduction she'd promised at Café du Monde. But she'd turned the tables and seduced him by taking the lead—a survival tactic meant to show him he couldn't use her passions to manipulate her anymore.
How wrong she'd been. The encounter had only stoked the lust she'd denied for years; the reality was that Nate could still make her body thrum with needs so distinctly feminine, so innately personal, that she remained ready for him. On edge. On fire.
Her arousal escalated as they toured the city. He'd been careful not to touch her or allow any contact with his hands or body. Yet, he'd stroked her with his eyes. Seduced her with words. His hot breath against her ear. His wild, irreverent laugh.
"How 'bout we sneak in here?" He pointed to a large building on the corner of Bourbon and Iberville, a place Serena had never seen before, a place Serena hoped was noisy and not the least intimate where she could regain her bearings. Knowing Nate, though, she didn't harbor much hope.
"Storyville?" she read off the sign.
"You want to know what's new and hot in New Orleans."
"Does your family own it?" she asked.
"No. The other family does."
Serena smiled, grateful she still knew enough about the rivalry of restaurant-owning families in New Orleans to not have to grill Nate about his comment. She also wasn't surprised that he'd frequent an establishment owned by the competition. Nate Archibald hadn't become a rich man by limiting his experiences. He tried most everything once, giving him a mixture of knowledge and worldliness that had attracted Serena when they were young and continued to now.
After a quick chat with the hostess, they were led through the Storyville Jazz Café to the Jazz Parlor, a room awash in crimson and tinged with forbidden romance. Cubes of candlelight flickered from the tables. A dozen fringed lamps glowed scarlet and amber from the polished wood bar. The concrete floor looked like softly tanned leather and the red velvet curtains, also fringed in gold, could very well have hung in the real Storyville, the red-light district of old New Orleans.
"This looks like the inside of a brothel," Serena said.
"Yeah, great, isn't it?"
The waiter delivered two old-fashioneds in short, squat glasses. Serena took a sip of the sweetened bourbon, allowing the icy heat to slide down her throat. Warmth infused her, relaxing muscles that had been tight with wanting all day long. "I can use this place in my layout. Very provocative."
Nate sipped his drink, obviously not needing to look around to nod in agreement. "Photographs, right?"
"Mostly. But the text has to be sexy, too. I've been reading romance novels to find a rhythm for my words. Those women have sexy under control."
He scooted his chair closer. His breath, scented with sugar and whiskey, caressed her cheek. "What would you write?"
"Depends on the photo."
"Describe the photo to me. I'll even close my eyes."
She watched his lashes flutter down, his bottom lip nearly pouting in expectation. "I don't know."
He licked that curved lip. "Come on, Rena. Let me help you start. You had a note on the jazz club listing in that tourist book you brought. You wrote "sweat" and "her thigh in his palm." What was that?"
Serena took another sip of her drink. She wasn't so surprised that he'd read her notes, but shenwondered why he'd taken the time to memorize the fanciful scribbles she'd made on the plane. "Dancing."
His lids drifted closed again. "What kind of music?"
"Something...hot."
"Jazz?" he asked.
"No. Louder. Frenzied."
"Zydeco."
"Yeah."
Serena couldn't help closing her eyes, too. It had been years, but the low country Cajun music, banged with spoons on washboards and pulled from frenetic accordions, always appealed to her. It was wild, fun, raucous, and earthy.
"Dance with me."
"The band's on break," she argued, missing a grab for his arm when he darted away from the table. Two minutes later and probably a few twenties poorer, Nate returned and held out his hand. The soft jazz background music faded as the band scrambled back into place. In a flash, the five men started thrashing out a zydeco tune complete with lyrics sung in Creole French.
The room, sedately low key in the late afternoon, immediately came to life. By the time Nate dragged Serena to the front, five couples were already swaying and hopping to the quick-paced rhythms on a spontaneous dance floor. Nate grabbed her hands and swirled her into a shuffling two-step. Years without music, years without dancing, melted away with the pressure of Nate's hands, the kick in his step, and the graceful yet masculine glide of his body.
He twirled her again, then pressed her close. Her body celebrated the contact. Her breasts, wet with sweat beneath her leather top, tightened. Gooseflesh prickled like a thousand tiny needles, but the result was pleasure, not pain. The bourbon, the music— the man— combined to make her giddy and carefree.
The band switched gears, slowing from a furious frenzy to a lazy bop. Nate turned her to face him; a full measure of music beat past until she realized his intention.
He swayed his hips with a subtle rock. Placing her palms on his waist, he injected her with his rhythm. Hot and slow. His stare captured hers. She bit her bottom lip. Without breaking the cadence of the dance, he slid his palm down from her waist to her thigh, then hooked his hand beneath her knee and lifted her leg, pulling her forward in one insistent thrust. He held her, her thigh in his hand, his erection to her hot center, while they rocked and rolled with the music.
Though the sun hadn't set outside yet, the room soaked up the darkness to come. Serena knew no one could see when Nate inched his fingers higher up her thigh, using the seam of her jeans as a path, touching her precisely in the spot that rocked her more than the music. A scarlet haze enveloped her, a combination of the music, the atmosphere, but mostly…Nate.
"I'm going to make you come," he promised, his whisper overriding the driving rhythm of the sultry bass.
"Not here," she begged, but her protest was too little, too late. With skilled pressure, he forced her over the edge. Her thighs clenched, but he yanked her full against him, holding her, hiding her release in the guise of the Natece.
When the music ended, Serena forced herself to look at him, fully expecting a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Instead, he kissed her. Softly. "That wasn't fair," she chastised.
"No, it wasn't." A strand of hair escaped her clip and Nate took his time tucking it back around her ear.
