Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

He kisses me softly, his lips on mine as he holds my hand gently and spins me around the dance floor, and I’m in a world of my own.

The wedding is just about coming to a close by now; the rest of the band took off over an hour ago, to be replaced by the hotel’s sound system and a carefully curated MP3 playlist to keep the party flowing into the early hours. This is New Orleans, after all; the southern hospitality doesn’t stop until everyone has had their fill. Between the food and the drink and the dancing, the night has been perfect.

The day belonged to Lauren… but the evening has belonged to Jack. From the moment I saw him, he was the only thing on my mind.

I watched him play, just as I had that night at the Coeur de Vie. I watched him draw the audience onto the dancefloor, encouraging even the most reluctant to have a good time. I saw the glances he cast in my direction, as if making sure that I was still there, that I hadn’t snuck out the back door while he wasn’t looking.

But I wasn’t going anywhere.

And then the finale: ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been Jackson Robichaux, and it’s been my absolute honour to play for you this evening.’ The rest of the band making their congratulations and well-wishes to the bride and groom, and taking hearty backslaps from people who’d enjoy the performance. The slow drift of guests back to their cars, their Ubers, their hotel rooms for the night.

But not Jack.

He takes my hand in his – so tender, so gentle, like a tiny bird he’s trying not to injure between his dextrous fingers – and leads me out to the floor. I still find myself strangely reticent, but I’m easily swayed once Jack draws near. ‘You’re not one of those girls who doesn’t dance, are you?’ he asks, once we’ve already started.

‘Not when I have the right partner.’

‘And how am I matching up?’

‘You’ll do,’ I say. Oh, you’ll do nicely.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he says. The music is slow, the beats of it dwarfed by the manic thumping of my heart in my chest. To be this close to him, to have his body pressed so closely to my own, feels like the coda to a long and beautiful story. Can it really only have been four days? It feels like I’ve known Jack for a lifetime. We fit together too well for it to be anything but.

And so we dance: a slow undulation on the floor, two bodies in perfect sync. There are no fancy twirls, no theatrical movements. It’s just the two of us together, breathing in the other, barely speaking, barely believing that it has come to this, until one of us finally snaps.

‘Let’s go,’ I say.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks. ‘You don’t want to stay a while longer?’

‘Just a sec. Let me say my goodbyes.’

Lauren and Drew are off alone in a corner, like schoolkids at a prom, just sharing each other’s company. Well, damn, I think as I watch them, gazing longingly at each other. They really are perfect for each other. How the hell did I not see that before?

No matter. They made it. That’s all that counts.

‘We’re going to take off,’ I say. ‘Is that OK?’

Lauren smiles. ‘We only booked him until ten-thirty. What you two get up to after that is your business.’

~~~

The elevator ride to my hotel room seems to take forever, even though it’s only four floors. No matter how many times I tap the button, I can’t seem to will that little steel box to come faster. I’ve waited long enough. If I have to wait any longer – even a second – I might just explode.

Or you could just throw myself on him right here. Give whoever’s watching the security camera a real show.

Just as I’m considering it, the elevator deposits me outside my room, and then we’re alone.

There’s no hesitation this time, no expectation of gentlemanly conduct. As I turn my back to him, he immediately picks up on my signal; his gentle fingers trace down my arm, before sliding the zipper of my dress downwards. His hand lingers for a moment in the small of my back, and I savour his warmth.

Every inch of my skin feels as though it’s on fire, flushed with alcohol and good feelings. When he slips the dress down off my shoulders, revealing the matching lace underwear I had picked out especially for the big day – designed to give me a boost, to make me feel good, little suspecting that anyone would ever actually see it – I hear him let out a soft little groan. ‘Beautiful,’ he says. ‘You were the most beautiful woman at that reception. No contest.’

I smile. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s bad form for a guest to say that at a wedding, you know.’

‘Good job I’m not a guest then, eh?’ He spins me round, grips me tight, and kisses me again: a firm, lingering kiss that turns my knees to jelly.

I need him. I need him, and I think he needs me too. I can feel the hunger in his kiss, the desperation not just for sex but for me – the want, the sheer unbridled desire, billowing up until it threatens to overwhelm us both. Not that I’d mind that, of course.

He sweeps me off my feet and carries me towards the bed, bouncing me down as he undresses himself. The shirt is barely off, the firm brown torso barely revealed, before he’s on the bed next to me, kissing and kissing and kissing everywhere he can find. His lips trace paths along every inch of me, taking their time and exploring this new conquest, this new world of pleasure that awaits us both.

His hands join in then, the soft pads of his fingers running across the smoothness of my stomach, and then down to the panties. He pauses for a second, waiting for a signal from me – a nod of encouragement, a soft moan of enjoyment – and receives both.

And then I am naked before him.

‘Fuck,’ he murmurs, almost to himself.

‘Something wrong?’ I ask.

He shakes his head in the darkness of the hotel room. ‘No,’ he says. ‘God, no. Nothing at all. I just…’

I understand. I understand him perfectly. There’s a gap where words no longer quite seem to matter, where language just isn’t quite enough. It’s a gap where only contact will suffice.

Contact, and kisses. A nod of encouragement. A silent beckoning to continue.

I hear the sound of clothes being discarded into a haphazard pile on the floor, a small foil packet being opened, and then the weight of his body on mine.

Fuck…

Jackson Robichaux, Jazzman of the Coeur de Vie. My nerves light up for him. My body seems to dance to his personal tune. When he kisses me, I feel a spark of excitement, of need. I feel his tongue part my lips and my back arching up despite myself as he presses down on my hips – so strong, and yet so gentle.

I could, right now. It would be so easy for me to slip into orgasm. I haven’t felt so turned on in months – but it’s not his tongue I need. No, there will be time for that. Right now, in this moment, I need him inside me.

‘Please,’ I moan. The word takes everything out of me; breaking the silence of my own ecstasy is a herculean task. ‘Please.’

He doesn’t need to ask what I want. He knows. How could he not? We are in tune, perfectly; what’s mine is his. I feel him rise up, position himself at my entrance, and then I see his smile in the darkness. ‘Anything,’ he whispers softly into my ear. His voice is breathy with lust for me. ‘Anything and everything, for you.’

I only realise I’m holding my breath when I feel him slide into me, and exhale in one long, desperate moan of pleasure. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Anything and everything indeed.