Fleur was pretty much alone at Bayou Rose with Brother Brian that afternoon. He was upstairs in the study, working out plans, via a conference call, with his fellow Apostle, Jake, Mother Jacinta, and some others. Fleur had declined to participate, feeling like one of the soldiers, not a leader, in the missions, as it should be, the only way she’d want it. Instead, she worked once again at the kitchen table on Tante Lulu’s herbal book.
Grace O’Brien, the ex-nun whom she’d yet to meet, had done some preliminary work organizing Tante Lulu’s folk medicine recipes a few years back, and she’d been better qualified than Fleur was, having studied alternative medicine while she was a practicing nun. Grace’s work formed a base from which Fleur worked now, making it easier to organize all the data into separate folders.
The ceiling fan whirred overhead. The pot of jambalaya on the stove simmered softly, and two loaves of homemade bread were rising on the counter, both exuding wonderful aromas of the dinner to come.
Aaron had gone to work before noon; three flights to the oil rigs, and one bayou air tour, he’d told them all. Afterward, he would meet with Luc to discuss some continuing issue he had with the FAA. Plus, he planned to stop by the hospital to see how Samantha was doing. Before leaving, he’d leaned in and given Fleur a good-bye kiss. A quick one, which he’d laughingly called a fly-by kiss.
She’d threatened to smack him for taking liberties. Where she’d come up with such an old-fashioned word, she had no idea. Well, yes, she did. Too much hanging around Tante Lulu.
“Oh, baby, if you only knew the liberties I’d like to take!” Aaron had declared.
Tante Lulu had shaken her folded Richard Simmons fan at the two of them. “No drinkin’ wine before the gospel.”
Fleur had been afraid to ask what that meant.
“We have a saying about wine back in the Old Country,” Brother Brian had begun.
Everyone groaned at his continual spouting of proverbs, triads, and whatnot, except Tante Lulu, who had developed a kindred spirit with the priest.
Undeterred by the groans, Brother Brian had told them, “Wine makes good women wenches.” But then he added, “Actually, I think many countries have claimed that proverb, in one form or another.”
Aaron had put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ve been on the wagon since I met Fleur.”
“Huh? What wagon?” She wasn’t sure if he was referring to alcohol or women. “I never asked you to go on any wagon.”
On the way out, Aaron had confided to Brother Brian in an overloud whisper, “I think she’s starting to like me.”
Everyone was amused by the thrust and parry wordplay between the two of them. That was all she needed, to be the source of entertainment for a madcap group of people forced to hide out together in a bayou mansion! And she was feeling the most madcap of them all. Or maybe she was just going mad.
She was still reeling from Brother Brian’s suggestion that she and Aaron might run some temporary shelter for a dozen rescued girls right here at Bayou Rose. That assumed a relationship, or some kind of tie, between her and Aaron. And it certainly meant a longer stay here than she’d imagined.
Really, though, the man was getting totally out of hand. Not just the fly-by kiss, or the kiss on the swing, but every time he passed by he felt the need to touch her. Nothing too personal, but alarming nonetheless. When she’d asked why he kept doing it, he said, “I can’t help myself,” followed by a wink and a laugh, and a comment/warning: “I’ve got you in my carnal crosshairs, darlin’.”
Having no filter, Aaron made such outrageous statements in front of everyone. Like watching a ping-pong match, their heads kept swinging back and forth as they followed the banter.
And since when did Aaron get all Cajuny with the exaggerated “darlin’” nonsense? He was right about one thing. He was a master at this seduction game.
Once Aaron left, Aunt Mel decided to go grocery shopping, again, after she dropped off an overnight bag of requested items for Samantha at the hospital. Fleur offered to pay for some of the food from the dwindling fund she’d been given by Mother Jacinta, not having yet received her first pay from Tante Lulu.
Aunt Mel had declined, saying guests did not pay for their meals.
“Guests” was a misnomer, in Fleur’s opinion, and she’d pointed out that visitors and fish start to smell real quick, as the old saying went.
“I got a sayin’ fer you,” Tante Lulu had shot right back. “Doan look a gift horse in the mouth, or a saint offerin’ a plenary indulgence.”
“What saint?” Fleur asked.
“What’s a plenty indulge hands?” Aunt Mel wanted to know.
Neither of them got an answer.
Turned out, Tante Lulu had also offered Aunt Mel money to help with the groceries . . . five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Which Aunt Mel had refused to take, as well.
Daniel was long gone, of course, having decided to put in a few hours at the medical center. He would visit Samantha later and stay through the dinner and visiting hours.
Tante Lulu went up to take a nap, telling Fleur to make sure she woke her if something unusual happened.
Fleur wasn’t about to ask her, “Like what?” Everything that had happened to her since her return to the bayou had been unusual, to say the least.
Even Ed, the contractor guy, drove off with Lily Beth and their respective kids for a day at the beach. It was hot enough. Eighty-five in the shade, last time Fleur had checked. That dimwitted pool idea of Aaron’s was beginning to sound not so dimwitted.
Fleur worked diligently on the old receipt books for more than an hour, getting up occasionally to stir the pot and check on the rising bread. There was a small TV on the counter, but she had no desire to learn what was going on in the world or to watch one of the daytime soaps. Her life was becoming too much of a soap opera all on its own. The silence was soothing.
But not for long.
“Looks like we’re alone, Fleur. People are wonderful, but solitude is a blessing,” Brother Brian pronounced, as if he’d read her mind. He was coming down the back stairs, followed by his tribe of animals, who were surprisingly silent. He must have put some celestial spell on them. The priest whisperer, she thought with a smile. They immediately settled near the open doorway, probably in wait for him to take them outside.
Instead, he walked over to the fridge, his flip-flops slapping on the slate floor, and took out the pitcher of sweet tea. He poured himself a glass which he drank, leaning back against the counter. His only concession to the heat was the removal of the clerical collar from under his Hawaiian shirt. “It’s moments like this, the quiet in the midst of a storm, that I feel the presence of God most. Don’t you agree?”
She thought for a moment. “I guess. Life is so hectic, and downright sordid at times, that we forget what’s important.”
Brother Brian nodded and took another sip before adding, “And sordid it is, at times.”
She didn’t know if he referred to her past, the present sex trafficking business, or his own history, of which she knew almost nothing.
“So many times since I’ve become a priest, I’ve run into people who have no faith, no belief in the existence of God. They want proof. To me the proof is all around us. Sunshine on a new day. Rain to replenish the soil. A baby’s first smile. The love between a man and a woman.”
She didn’t know if that last was a prod at her regarding herself and Aaron, but maybe not. “I see the proof in the human spirit being able to survive some of the most horrendous experiences, like soldiers coming back from war, or children rising out of extreme poverty to become lawyers or doctors or scientists,” she told him, adding, “The complexity of the body with all its working parts is more than science, in my opinion. And, yes, babies are too miraculous to be mere bits of scientific particles. Hey, I even get a shiver when I see a rainbow.”
“Me, too,” Brother Brian said with a smile. Then out of the blue, he asked, “Would you like me to hear your confession?”
When her head shot up and heat flushed her face, he said, “Just kidding. I always get a kick out of people’s reaction when I ask that question. Not that I couldn’t offer you the Sacrament of Penance if you’re so inclined.” He tilted his head in question.
“I’m not inclined,” she blurted out, so vehemently that she immediately had to add, “Not that I’ve committed any big sins lately. It’s just, well, awkward to bare your soul to a friend, or acquaintance.”
His eyes twinkled at her. He had been teasing. Maybe.
“So, have you made a decision about taking vows?” he asked, throwing her with another unexpected question.
“No. Not yet.”
“Don’t do it, lassie.”
She inhaled sharply. “What? Now you’ve really surprised me. Isn’t it a priest’s duty to encourage everyone possible to fill all the religious orders?”
“Not always,” he said. “I know, it’s intrusive of me to butt in where I haven’t been invited for an opinion, but if you haven’t made a decision by now, it was not meant to be, my girl.”
“You think this is about Aaron, don’t you?”
“You mentioned him, not me.”
“I gave up on a man in my life—a normal family—a long time ago.”
“Ah, child, have you not yet learned? God moves slowly, watching while we stumble through treacherous fields, but eventually His grace comes to us.”
She frowned, not sure what he meant. “Are you saying that my kidnapping, the rescue, my work with the sex trafficking missions, meeting Aaron . . . all this was meant to happen?”
Brother Brian shrugged. “Who can say? I do believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, after a tragic event, we say, ‘Ah, so that’s why it happened.’ More often, we have to wait until after death to discover the hidden truths.”
“And, you, Brother Brian, has nothing happened to you that made you question everything?”
His blue eyes that were so often warm and mischievous turned suddenly grim and glazed with pain. “Yes, it has.” He seemed to be deep in some memory for several moments, but then he said, “Back to you and taking final vows . . . if you have a true vocation, there’ll be no doubt in your mind. Please, do not enter the convent as payment for your rescue, or as a safety net from a sinful world. That will only lead to unhappiness, whether you stay in the order the rest of your life, or leave eventually. It’s a spoon that soon sups sorrow for many a priest or nun.”
More proverbs! “Wow! You don’t paint a very inviting picture of religious life.”
“Sorry if I’ve done that. It’s a wonderful path for those who are chosen.”
She noticed his emphasis on “being chosen,” rather than making a choice.
“I’ve already exceeded my limit for unasked for advice, but I’m Irish and my tongue has a mind of its own. So, I’ll go one step further. The biggest boulder in your recovery is lack of forgiveness.”
“For Miguel and his crowd? I suspect that I’ll eventually forgive those who kidnapped me and the abuse I suffered under their hands. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to rescue the girls, or put the slimeballs out of business.”
“As it should be, but I was thinking more of your family.”
She stiffened. The priest had gone too far.
And he knew it, as evidenced by his immediate apology. “I did not mean to offend you, Fleur. Even priests can be fools. I’m reminded of that old adage that the silent mouth is musical. Obviously, I’m tone deaf.”
At first, she considered going back to her work without a response, but then she said, “That’s all right. Your intentions are pure. But I have to tell you, I don’t hate my parents for refusing to let me come home. Not anymore. Mostly they just disappointed me. And Mama died soon after that of uterine cancer. Last I heard, Daddy was on disability with back problems from all those years of shrimping. He’s in constant pain.”
“Are there any of your brothers and sisters still at home?”
“I don’t know. The youngest would be Frankie, who is seventeen by now. There might have been more children born after I left.” She shrugged.
Brother Brian just stared at her. Not in an accusing manner. More like understanding. And that hurt more because it ate away at her defenses. If she didn’t think about her family, they couldn’t hurt her.
Thankfully, he decided to change the subject. Or rather the subject was changed for him by the ringing of his cell phone. He glanced down and said, “Ah. Mother Jacinta again.”
He spoke to the mother superior for several moments, mostly saying, “Yes,” or “I understand,” or “Good,” or the ominous “Oh, no!” After a few moments of this, he handed the phone to her and said, “She wants to speak with you.”
“Me?” Fleur furrowed her brows at him, then put the phone to her ear. “Mother?”
“Fleur! I have been hearing so many good things about your progress.”
Really? From whom? Probably Tante Lulu, the old busybody! “I’m trying,” she said.
“I’ll be able to judge for myself when I get there. With Sister Carlotta.”
“You’re coming here?”
“Yes. With Jacob.”
“Jacob?”
“Yes, Jake, the Street Apostle. Didn’t Brother Brian tell you about that?”
Ah, Jake the ex–Navy SEAL. But what did she say? They were all coming here? “No, Brother Brian didn’t tell me.” She shot the priest an accusing glare. “You’re all coming here?”
“The plantation sounds like the perfect spot for our planning headquarters . . . and a temporary refuge for some of the girls we rescue.”
Brother Brian had made a similar suggestion this morning, but Fleur wasn’t aware that any decision had been made. Even then, the only thing mentioned had been the possibility of a landing place for the girls until something better could be arranged. This was the first she’d heard about a planning headquarters. Oh, my! “Did Aaron agree to this? Or Daniel?”
“We—Brother Brian and I—figured you would be the best one to convince them.”
Fleur shot Brother Brian a dirty look, but he was pretending to be reading Tante Lulu’s receipt books. “Me?”
“Of course, I’ll have to return to the convent before the exchange takes place, to handle those wounded birds who land here. But Sister Carlotta can stay with you until you get the right professionals in place there. Perhaps a social worker, maybe a nurse. A psychiatrist would be wonderful, or else a psychologist. I leave it up to you, dear one, for offering to do this.”
I offered to do this? When?
“Tante Lulu says that her niece Charmaine could even come in to help the girls with self-esteem issues. You know, advice on grooming and clothing before they return to a normal world.”
I should have known the old biddy was involved in this scheme. And Charmaine? Good heavens! Charmaine relishes her self-proclaimed title of “Bimbo with a Brain.” A bimbo teaching ex-prostitutes how to be normal? I have landed in bizarroland.
After ending the call, Fleur chastised Brother Brian for his rash actions involving her and Aaron in his plans, without first seeking permission. He wasn’t at all apologetic and quoted some hogwash, “Needs must when the devil rides.”
Click, Click, Click! she said to herself. Otherwise, she would have blistered the priest’s ears with a few choice swear words.
She was overwhelmed with all the decisions that must be made. She needed a shoulder to lay her head upon, just for a moment till she could regroup. It was no surprise that the broad shoulder she envisioned was on a man who wore size twelve cowboy boots, footwear better suited to a rodeo than the hot Cajun sun or the bayou skies he flew over. She decided to wait for the cowboy in his apartment out in that separate garçonniére, or bachelor quarters.
It was only later—too much later—that she wondered, “What was I thinking?”
Which one of the three bears was he? . . .
Aaron didn’t arrive home until after six p.m., what with his flying schedule running late, followed by his meeting with Luc regarding the FAA. Then, he’d been forced to ooh and aah with Dan and Samantha in front of the nursery window at the hospital. No, not to check out their babies, which were still nestled—rather playing football, according to Samantha—in her ever-growing, big belly.
“Does that mean they’re boys?” he’d immediately asked, figuring they must have decided to look at their ultrasounds after all.
Dan had shot that idea down. “No. We don’t know. Samantha just means that it feels as if they’re kicking a ball around in there. Right, honey?” He’d gazed at his wife like she invented football.
She’d gazed right back at him, as if he invented something equally fabulous. Like maybe sex. No, for women, it would probably be designer shoes, or in Samantha’s case, a spiffy method for refinishing antique furniture. Different strokes!
On more than one occasion, observing their sappiness, Aaron had been nauseated, but then he felt the warm fuzzies just knowing his brother was happy after all of those years of being . . . well, not happy. The bond between twins was powerful; they cared a lot about each other. He hoped Dan and Samantha’s twins would share the same connection.
“Do you want to feel them move?” Samantha had asked him, arching her belly out even farther. To his amazement, he’d actually seen a ripple of movement where the fabric of her thin robe strained against her breadth. Holy crap! It had been like pec bounces on a steroid-loaded bodybuilder.
Eew! “Um. I’ll pass,” he’d demurred, not because he was repulsed by a woman’s gut, not even a big blimpy one, but to touch his sister-in-law there while she was in Madonna mode seemed kind of incestuous.
Dan had laughed at his discomfort. “Now, honey, don’t tease Aaron. You know he’s afraid he’ll catch the baby bug.”
What? He hadn’t even thought about that. But suddenly the image of Fleur with a baby growing inside her—his baby—posed a certain allure. Yeah, she’d told him that she probably couldn’t have kids, but then he wasn’t sure he wanted any himself.
He’d blinked several times to clear his head. Must be that damn sun melting my brain, he’d thought.
In any case, they hadn’t been standing at that nursery window gawking at Dan and Samantha’s twins, but at every other squaller born at the hospital the last day or two. Everything from scary puffballs of hair à la Don King to shiny cue ball heads, even a Donald Trump do. Big, little, fat, puny, black, white, and some so pitifully homely with squashed faces that they were cute.
But now, he was home. Or almost home.
As he drove up the horseshoe-shaped driveway to the mansion, he had to admit that it did feel like home, and not just because Bayou Rose was growing on him. Fleur was here.
He had it bad.
But he couldn’t rush right in. He was a bit ripe. His smell alone would turn her off, if his overenthusiasm didn’t. He’d only been gone for eight hours, and the buildings he’d been in, along with the copter, had been air conditioned, but going in and out of the scorching hot sun today had worked up a sweat which he needed to shower off before being in anyone’s company. If a Southern belle glistens (rather than sweats), then this Southern beau is one big, oiled-up diamond in the rough. He smiled at his fancifulness. Once again, he blamed the sun, which was still hot as hell as he emerged from his pickup truck. Or maybe it’s the prospect of seeing my girl. He smiled some more, knowing what Fleur would say if he referred to her, out loud, as “my girl.”
He took the steps two at a time up to his apartment, which was on the upper floors of the garçonniére. Dan had lived here when they first bought the plantation, while Aaron had stayed over at the mansion. Later, after the marriage, they’d exchanged places. This smaller pad suited Aaron, for now.
He almost bypassed the second floor living area and was about to climb the stairs to the third-floor bedroom and bathroom. But then he did a double take and stopped.
What the fuck!
The air here was blessedly cool, or at least not hot, thanks to a window air conditioner. That must be what had attracted Fleur.
Yes, Fleur!
In my man cave!
Be still my racing heart!
She was lying on one of the side-by-side recliners, in the way-back position so that it was almost horizontal. The nightly news was playing on the television, low volume, but she was fast asleep. The faded peach sleeveless dress she was wearing had ridden up to midthigh, and one of her leather thong sandals had fallen to the floor.
The dress had tiny buttons running from the neck to the waist. He did a quick count. Fifteen. He couldn’t help but smile. He was real good at counting . . . and other things. Like buttoning. And unbuttoning. A skill he’d learned in kindergarten and perfected over the years.
One of her arms was thrown above her head, showing a clean-shaven armpit. A vulnerable position and female body part that caused the testosterone in his body to amp up about a thousand percent. (Can anyone say hair-trigger arousal?)
Was this how the three little bears felt on first seeing Goldilocks in their bed? Nope, they were too young for hard-ons that could drill concrete. But, really, he’d just been thinking “man cave,” and now it was “bear cave.”
Is there some kind of woo-woo synchronicity or something going on here?
Nah, it’s probably sunstroke.
For a brief blip of an insane moment, he considered going over and arranging himself atop her body and waking her with a slowly drawn drawl of “Honey, I’m home.” Better yet, a growly, “Who’s been sleeping in my bed . . . uh, recliner?”
But no, he couldn’t shock her awake like that. Besides—he paused to take a whiff of one of his own pits—time to shower first.
He practically tiptoed up the stairs to his bedroom, removing his clothes as he went and dropping them wherever. Then he almost had a heart attack when his cell phone rang, sounding as loud as an explosion in the silence. He quickly checked the ID. Tante Lulu. That was just great. He clicked on the phone before the second ring.
“Yeah?” he said in a soft voice, but ruder than he intended.
“It’s Tante Lulu.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know.”
“Ya doan hafta be snarly jist ’cause yer frustrated.”
The woman knew too much! “What can I do for you?”
“Where are you?”
“In the closet.” And that was actually a partial truth. He was in front of his closet, with the door half-closed to muffle his voice.
“I knew it! I allus thought it was Daniel who might be gay, but it was you all along. Not that I have anything against homo sapiens.”
He gritted his teeth before saying, “I am not gay.”
“Jist kiddin’.”
“And, by the way, it’s homosexuals, not homo sapiens.”
“I know that, idjit.”
“You’re getting on my nerves, old lady. What do you want?”
“Are you callin’ me old? I’m not so old I can’t whup yer be-hind fer bad manners.”
He rolled his eyes again. This must be how Luc, Remy, René, and John felt when they were ten years old and were caught misbehaving. “Sorry.”
“Anyways, I jist wanted ta alert you. Fleur fell asleep up in yer apartment. Yer Aunt Mel went over ta call her fer dinner, but she was zonked out. Mel decided ta let her sleep. Poor chile is wiped out from all the stress . . .” She paused, before adding, “. . . and frustration.”
“I can only hope,” he murmured.
“Whadja say?”
“She’s still asleep.”
“Well, dinner’s in the warmin’ oven when you two are ready ta eat. I’ll prob’ly be asleep by then.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s only six thirty.”
“A gal’s gotta get her beauty sleep. Besides, tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day.”
He wasn’t going to ask what she meant by that. She’d no doubt tell him. In detail. There was a long silence. Finally, he asked, “Is there anything else?”
“I fergot what I was gonna say. I hate when that happens. Oh, I know. Are ya gonna do yer thing now?”
“What thing?”
“Yer moves, boy. Everyone up and down the bayou knows you got moves.”
Oh, good Lord! Is she asking if I intend to have sex with Fleur? “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”
“At my age—and, no, I’m not callin’ myself old—nothin’ is too personal. Anyways, you been draggin’ yer feet, boy. Time fer some action.”
He put his free hand up to his forehead and counted to five. “Is that all?” he asked, and immediately realized that he should have counted to ten because, of course, she always had something else to say.
“I could give ya pointers. Time was, I knew a lot about hanky panky, way more than I’ve ever admitted to. Not jist with my fiancé, either. And I keep up ta date, too. I read Cosmo in Charmaine’s beauty shop. And whoo-boy, the things I learn. In fact, didja know . . .”
Way too much information! “You have got to be the most interfering busybody in all creation.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing ta care about people. Back ta that Cosmo article. If a man has veins bulgin’ out of his you-know-what durin’ the slip ’n’ slide—that means sex ta young folks—it can be real interestin’. Do you ever get veins? If ya don’t, I could ask Tee-John ta teach ya. He knows stuff like that.”
For the first time since he’d met Tante Lulu, he hung up on her. He was still shaking his head with amazement at the things that came out of her mouth as he took the fastest shower in history. Not bothering to shave, although his nighttime stubble could use some work, he brushed his teeth, donned a pair of black running shorts and a plain gray T-shirt, and headed back down the stairs, barefooted.
Fleur was still asleep, thank God, and Tante Lulu was right about one thing. She was probably exhausted from all the stress of what had been happening.
He leaned over her and was about to whisper something super sexy in her ear. He had no idea what, but it was gonna be good. That was when he accidentally hit the vibrator button on the side of the recliner, and it immediately began to do its thing.
He jerked back, not wanting to be accused of doing it deliberately. That would be perverted. Wouldn’t it? Like taking advantage of a woman when she was sleeping or blitzed.
But she didn’t even wake up. Instead, she smiled in her sleep and jiggled her body around a little to better fit into the dips in the leather caused by his own body.
Praise the Lord and pass the gumbo! Even that unconsciously sexy realignment revved his engine, which was already humming along nicely.
Her movement caused her dress to ride up higher, and the buttons to strain across her chest. He could swear he saw the outline of her nipples.
And, oh, man, did I just get a peek at white panty?
No, it was the flicker of light from the TV.
I am pathetic.
He noticed some beads of sweat . . . um, glistening . . . on her forehead. And she was breathing kind of heavy through her parted lips.
Maybe she’s having a wet dream. Do women have wet dreams?
Well, she’s definitely hot. Yep, it’s warmer in here than I thought.
I could turn up the AC.
Or, I bet she’d appreciate it if I unbuttoned one, or two, or three buttons.
I am losing my freakin’ mind.
He patted the bulge between his legs and thought, Down, boy, down! It was losing its freakin’ mind, too.
But then, as the vibrations continued, she raised her other arm, to join the one already above her head, and she arched her back slightly. The final nail in his coffin was the soft moan that escaped her lips.
He moaned, too, and forced himself to say, “Hey, Fleur.”
Her eyes opened slowly and she smiled. She smiled!
That’s it! No more Mr. Nice Guy! “Move over, darlin’,” he said and eased himself onto the recliner beside her. It was a tight fit, but with them both almost on their sides, facing each other, they fit. Real nice.
He waited a moment for her to shriek and shove him off, or to say “CLICK!” real loud, but instead she just stared at him, rather dazed. Whether from being still half-asleep or by his magnetic charisma or some other bullshit, he didn’t care. He was where he wanted to be, where he had wanted to be for a long, long time.
And, just FYI, the sweet vibrations under his hip weren’t too bad, either.
“This is a bad idea,” she murmured as he nuzzled her neck and inhaled a light lily of the valley scent. Samantha’s body wash. Despite her words, she tilted her head slightly to give him better access to her neck.
“Uh-huh,” he agreed—or the best bad idea I ever had—and licked the skin to see if it tasted as good as it smelled. It did. Moving up to her ear, he took the tiny lobe between his teeth and tugged. Then he deep-kissed the ear itself using the tip of his tongue and his lips. Afterward he softly blew the inner whorls dry.
She melted against him. Really, that was how it felt to him. And somehow—he swore he didn’t know how—eight of her fifteen buttons were undone and he was kissing the bare skin of her chest right down to the center panel of her bra. Forget the damn buttons. He leaned down and took as much of one breast into his mouth as he could, dress and bra and all, and began to draw outward until he had the hardened nub between his teeth. Then he flicked it with his tongue repeatedly like a bleepin’ snake.
She let out a tiny shriek, which caused him to pause. He wanted to make sure she was awake and willing. No way would he force himself on her. But then, she sealed the deal by putting her hands on his head, holding him in place. “Glorious, glorious!” she said.
Her eyes were closed and for a moment he wondered if she was praying. After all, she was an almost-nun. Which should have stopped him in his tracks.
Not a chance! Instead, he pulled out his entire arsenal of tricks for breast play. Alternating between one and the other, he palmed them, pinched them, licked and suckled until she was keening in one continuous, “Ohohoh, oh, oh, oh . . . !”
He could feel her tense and then relax in a soft climax. Her eyes got wider and wider as her lower body spasmed. “What was that?” she asked with wonder afterward.
Huh? She had to know perfectly well what that was. It wasn’t her first orgasm.
Or was it?
No, that had to be impossible.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He had his own situation to take care of. While she was still in a sexual euphoria, he arranged himself atop her body, spread her thighs with his legs, and managed to get his hands on her buttocks under her dress to rub the silky fabric, the whole time pressing his erection against the cleft of her panties. One, two, three times, he thrust and shot his wad.
Man, it was the best dry fuck he’d had since he was a teenager. Good thing he’d thought to put on briefs under his shorts. He wondered how soon he could try again, this time inside her body, maybe up on his bed. A little wine, before or after, would be nice. And food. He could bring the warmed-up dinner over here, and they would eat it in bed. Afterward, they’d tiptoe over to the mansion and try out the rainforest shower. Happy times!
His fantasy—and, yes, it was a fantasy, apparently—was interrupted by Fleur shoving his shoulders and knocking him over and onto the floor. “Guess this was how the three bears felt when Goldy gave them the old heave-ho.”
“Huh?”
“Have you lost your mind?” he asked as he got up from the floor and shot a glower at her.
“I must have. To let you manhandle me.”
“Manhandle? Is that a nunly word for making love?” He was rubbing his behind as if he’d hurt himself, which he hadn’t, of course. It was only his pride that was bruised.
“Making love? Hah!” She was sitting up but having trouble getting the vibrator device to turn off.
He almost smiled. Her dress was hiked up to her thighs, and it was still half unbuttoned, with two wet spots dead center on her boobs. He was probably in no better condition, except his shorts were dark, and he didn’t give a damn. “Oh no! You are not going to lay this on me. Although, yes, I almost got laid.”
“Very funny! Not!”
“Hey, you wanted me as much as I wanted you.”
“You tricked me.” She’d finally turned the vibrator off and was working steadily to reclose the gaping dress.
“I wasn’t the one all splatted out like a sexual buffet in the apartment of a member of the opposite sex who has a raging hunger.”
She gasped.
That was crude. “Not that I didn’t appreciate the buffet.”
“CLICK!”
He grinned.
“I was asleep, for heaven’s sake!”
“Only at first. You know what this is, don’t you? Morning after regret. Typical! Females hook up with a guy, then get all embarrassed the next day, or afterward. The only way to save their pride is to blame the fool who banged them. If they could, they would demand an unbang. Well, darlin’, there is no unbanging this.” He waved a hand before the half-hard-on that still bulged at his crotch. Almost immediately, he regretted his words which had to sound chauvinistic and crude. He had to remind himself that Fleur was different from other women. He had to watch his language.
Her mouth had dropped open with amazement, whether at the crudeness of his gesture, or his ramble, he wasn’t sure.
He was pretty amazed himself.
“Did you learn that from Dr. Phil?”
“No, an old Playboy magazine. Dan and I used to collect them.” He paused. “When we were ten years old.”
Not even a twitch of a grin. “You took advantage,” she said in a small voice, realizing that she was losing the argument.
But he wasn’t giving an inch. “Maybe you took advantage of me.”
That gave her more food for thought.
Which made him think of food food. “Why don’t I go get the dinner Aunt Mel and Tante Lulu saved for us and bring it back here? We can talk.” Before she started to protest, which she was obviously going to do, he added, “You must have come over here for a reason.” He wasn’t delusional enough, yet, to believe she’d come deliberately looking for sex. It had to be something else.
“You’re right,” she admitted. “Have you talked to Brother Brian today?”
He shook his head. “He left several voice mails, but I haven’t had a chance to return his calls yet. It didn’t sound urgent.”
“That figures, that he would leave it to me,” she said with disgust. “I need to tell you about today’s happenings and what’s about to happen tomorrow. For some reason, he and Mother Jacinta think I can convince you to—”
He put up a halting hand. “Wait. I’ll get the food and be back in a sec.” He thought about adding an apology for upsetting her with their little make-out session, but decided he wasn’t sorry. Not one bit.
Grabbing a pair of flip-flops that were under the coffee table, he was headed toward the stairs when he heard Fleur go into the bathroom, close the door, and then let loose with a loud shriek. He figured the mirror on the back of the door must have given her a floor-length look at herself, especially the wet spots on her dress that were like carnal headlights. To her, they would appear like neon Scarlet Letters of shame.
He should feel sorry for her, and he did, but he would bet his bottom dollar that he looked even worse, like “a horny goat caught in a barbed wire fence,” as Tante Lulu was wont to say. He laughed at his thinking of the old lady at a time like this.
She must have heard him and misinterpreted the laugh because, instead of her usual click nonsense, she said, “FUCK!”
Oh, yeah!