“I still don’t see why we have to travel so far in a pirogue to get water samples when we could wait till next week and do it in comfort by motorboat.”
Luc thought for a moment. The only sounds were of BeauSoleil’s latest album “Cajunization,” which was playing on a portable CD player on the counter, as it had been all through dinner. The music, like Luc, was outrageous, and soulful, and teasing, and fun.
“This is the best way, Sylv. We can maneuver the pirogue into some back bayous that aren’t accessible by motorboat. And there’s the element of surprise. No one would expect us to show up in Cypress Oil’s backyard while they’re looking for us. Besides, rushing in there by motorboat would be tantamount to shouting our presence with a foghorn.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” But she had something else on her mind now. All this time spent with Luc and she was failing to work on the most important thing in her life—the love potion.
“Why are you looking at me funny?” Luc asked.
“I was just wondering if I could take your pulse now…while you’re…uh, normal. I need to get a base pulse for you, to measure against those times when you’re…uh, not normal.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Sylv! What makes you think I’m normal now?”
“Give me a break. We’re talking about maps and pirogues and oil pollution. In the midst of all that dry stuff, you can’t possibly be…” She let her words trail off.
“Aroused?” He grinned.
“Yeah,” she snapped.
“Exactly what do you consider normal?”
“Oh, forget it,” she said. “I’ll take your pulse later, when you least expect it…maybe when you’re sleeping or something.”
“Don’t you dare sneak up on me when I’m sleeping. I won’t be responsible for my actions, then.”
Oh, the heck with it! She grabbed for his wrist and began to silently count the pulse beats. He had to be kidding about not being “normal” right now. A minute later, her eyes shot up to connect with Luc’s. His heart was racing a mile a minute.
“I told you,” he said in a voice gravelly with desire.
She dropped his hand like a hot coal and walked over to the counter on wobbly legs. While BeauSoleil belted out the rollicking swamp rocker “Tu Vas Voir,” or “Can’t You See,” she nervously flipped through the half-dozen CDs sitting next to the player. One of them caused her to arch her eyebrows and hold the disk up to Luc for inspection. “‘One Night With You’? Luther Vandross? You?”
Luc laughed. “Nah. That make-out music belongs to René. He brought a girlfriend here one time last year.”
On an impulse, or perhaps to be perverse, Sylvie pressed the eject button, took out BeauSoleil, and inserted the make-out king. Immediately, a clear, male voice rang out with the love song “Always and Forever.”
“Uh-oh,” Luc said.
“What?” She pivoted on her bare feet and watched him slowly and deliberately fold up the maps on the table, straighten the chairs, turn down the lights, then hold his open arms out to her.
She was the one then who said, “Uh-oh.”
“C’mon, Sylv. You can’t put on that kind of music and not dance.” Luther was now crooning “Endless Love.”
“Have you lost your mind, Luc? Dancing is not a good idea.”
“Yes, I’ve lost my mind. Dancing most definitely is a good idea. And it’s time for some paybacks, darlin’.”
Her head shot up at that last, and her heart skipped a beat, then went into double-time. “Now? You expect to be paid back now?”
“It’s as good a time as any.”
For the first time, it registered with Sylvie that she was alone—truly alone—with Luc. And the sexual tension that had been sizzling between them kicked up a notch. Bam!
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I like to dance, and I love dancing with you.”
“You only danced with me once,” she pointed out, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
“I know.” His face turned suddenly vulnerable as he added, “Didn’t you enjoy dancing with me, Sylv?”
“Of course, I did, and you know it, too.”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” he admitted with a shy grin.
Shy? Shy and Luc LeDeux do not go together.
He beckoned with the fingers of both outstretched hands for her to come closer.
She inched her way slowly, reluctantly, the whole time groaning inwardly. She had given her word to Luc, and she was not a person who went back on her word. But dancing? In a remote cabin? With Luther Vandross music? And Luc? And, oh, my God, in the nude! She did a full-body shiver as she stepped into his arms.
“Are you afraid of me, chère?” he murmured against her hair.
“Yes.” But not half as afraid as I am of myself.
“I’m afraid of you, too,” he confided, and the whisper of his breath against her exposed ear was excruciatingly sensual.
It was either kismet or total coincidence that Luther then swung into the torchy “One Night With You.”
Was that what Luc was hoping for?
Was that what she was hoping for?
Were they both nuts?
They were silent for a while, letting the music seep into their bodies, leading them in the rhythm of the slow dance. Her face rested against his clean-shaven cheek. Her left hand curved around the nape of his neck under his too-long hair. His right arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, aligning her body tantalizingly against his. His left hand held her right pressed up against his heart, which thudded madly.
Not once did Sylvie think of checking his pulse or pulling out her notebook. At some point, without thinking, she had crossed a line. She no longer fought the pull of Luc’s seduction. In truth, she was powerless to resist him now.
“I surrender, chère.” His lips were nuzzling her hair as he spoke in a voice gritty with sex. “I can’t fight these feelings for you anymore.”
Sylvie went immediately alert…or as alert as she could be in her passion-hazy condition. Were their minds really so well attuned? Would their bodies be attuned, too?
No, no, no, she couldn’t think that far ahead. They weren’t going to make love. They were only dancing.
Only dancing? Hah! Who was she kidding? Slow dancing with Luc was like making love.
As if to emphasize that point, Luc released the hand held against his chest. He had one arm still wrapped around her waist, but now used his free hand to roam her back and buttocks, the whole time persuading her with soft, barely coherent words to move even closer, perfecting the fit of their two bodies—breast to chest, groin to groin, and thigh to thigh. Every beat of the slow dance gave her proof of his arousal.
When Sylvie could stand no more of this exercise in torture, she rubbed her breasts against his chest…back and forth…just once.
A low hissing sound came from between Luc’s teeth, and she thought she might have moaned, but it was hard to tell, so overwhelming was the intense pleasure emanating from her nipples, which yearned for more abrasion. She wore the silk blouse and slacks she’d had on when they’d left Houma, but, oh, how she wished she were a more uninhibited woman. She would like nothing more than to feel her bare breasts against Luc’s chest…to have him kiss her there…and place his lips…oh, too many wicked thoughts and impossible wishes assailed her. Too much to assimilate, especially when Luc was moving his lips along her jawline, closer and closer to her mouth, which she clamped shut for fear he might hear the sound of her panting.
Sylvie should stop this now. She was way out of her league with a man like Luc LeDeux. If she didn’t put a halt to this, he would soon discover just how inexpert she was in love matters…how pathetic she was in her need for him.
“Luc, no, wait,” she tried to say as he whisked his mouth briefly across hers.
“Shhh, Sylv,” he said against her lips. “Let me…oh, please, just let me…”
Sylvie didn’t really want him to stop…she had to a
dmit that. Instead of pushing him away, she arched her neck and made a low purring sound deep in her throat.
The anticipation of his kiss was a carnal joy…a goal in itself. But, no, he was kissing her now, and she was wrong. The kiss itself was so much more than the anticipation.
With a sigh, she allowed his coaxing lips to open hers and kiss her with a hunger that would have frightened her with its ferocity, if it didn’t match her own.
Amazingly, the whole time this was going on, Luc was leading her in a sensuous slow dance…not around the room, but in a small circle…enough to still call it dancing and not foreplay. Except, it was that, too.
Luc was a really good dancer, she observed. But even more important, Luc was a really good kisser. Really good!
He touched her soul with the gentleness of his clinging kisses, then seared her libido with the rapacious appetite of his wet, open-mouthed kisses. She could not say which she preferred. When he buried himself deep in her mouth, and encouraged her to do the same with him, she felt as one with his arousal. He would not travel this erotic road alone, he was making sure of that.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he stared at her swollen lips through smoldering eyes, then nodded as if satisfied with his work. Before she knew what he was about, he moved to new territory, pulling her blouse from the waistband of her slacks, releasing the buttons in front, while he resumed nibbling kisses along the sensitive curve of her neck.
And the things he whispered to her then…wicked, wicked words of what he would like to do to her…caused Sylvie’s knees to go weak and almost collapse. With a joyous laugh, he caught her and held her upright.
They stopped dancing, and with the expertise of a cat burglar, Luc somehow managed to remove her blouse and bra. The soughing of his breath could be heard above the sound of Luther spinning his magic with “Your Secret Love.” All Luc said was, “Oh, Sylvie.” Then his T-shirt was gone as well, and they were dancing again, bare chest to bare chest, and nothing, nothing, in Sylvie’s life had ever felt this good. He used one hand at the small of her back to guide her in the dance, but the fingers of the other hand were doing delicious things to her breasts…skimming, kneading, thrumming.
Sylvie heard a low keening sound, and at first thought it was the background singers on the CD. To her embarrassment, she realized the continuous whimper was coming from her.
Luc was lowering his head to minister to her aching breasts. When he took one breast into his mouth and began to suckle, she dug her nails into his shoulders and cried aloud with one long squeal, “Luuuuuuuucccccc!”
He stopped, and she thought he was going to take mercy on her. But she could see by his beautiful sex-hazed eyes and moist, parted lips that he would not. He was even further gone than she was. With a low masculine growl of pleasure, he attacked the other breast, bringing it to an equal pitch of throbbing need.
Sylvie was mindless with passion, and therefore unaware of Luc making quick work of removing her slacks and panties. It was only when the rasp of his zipper rang loud to her ears that she realized she had come full circle. Luc was going to get from her what he had no doubt always wanted…what she had promised…nude dancing. He had won, finally.
And she did not care.
Where was the shyness that had always been the bane of Sylvie’s life? Why was she not mortified to be naked and exposed to a man’s thorough scrutiny? Who was this alien, uninhibited woman who had taken over Sylvie’s body?
When he took her in his arms to dance now, she relished the rasp of his chest hairs against her breasts, the whisk of his thigh hairs against her smooth legs, the press of her own hair against his raging erection. It was a dance like none she’d ever experienced before, or ever conceived possible.
It was sinful and soulful.
It was tender and raw.
It was lust and something she refused to name.
It was Luc as she, in her secret self, had always imagined he would be.
When he groaned and whispered her name in a pleading way, Sylvie arched her back and smiled. She was woman, and Luc was man, and, oh, what a wonderful, wonderful combination that was.
Somehow she found herself danced against the table, then pressed backward till she lay flat on her back with her legs dangling over the side. Wasting no time, Luc grabbed her knees, adjusting them so that her bottom was at the edge of the table and her legs flung wide. Holding her eyes, Luc pressed his palm against her and rotated. “So wet,” he murmured with appreciation. “Thank you, Sylv.”
“For what?” she choked out.
“For wanting me this much.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and barely audible. He separated her folds with two fingers, stroked her once, twice, three times, then brought his fingers out and up to show her the moistness.
She turned her face away in embarrassment.
He forced her face back to look at him, then put the two fingertips to his lips and made long, erotic laps with his tongue over the wetness.
Sylvie’s eyes went wide with surprise and a little bit of fear. Luc LeDeux was not going to be a genteel lover. He was going to be primitive and crude and rough, as he was in regular life, and he was going to demand the same of her.
But she had no time to dwell on that. Luc had dropped to his knees between her legs and was doing things with his expert tongue that would make a saint cry. She tried to rise up off the table, but he would not allow that. Instead, he plied her with fingertips, and tongue, and teeth till she was thrashing from side to side. While he worked that most sensitive part of her with his firm tongue, he moaned a continuous “Uhmmmmmmmmm, uhmmmmmmmmm, uhmmmmmmmmm….” which caused his tongue to vibrate against her and ripple inside her body up to her aching breasts.
Sylvie couldn’t see her toes, but she was fairly certain they were curled. And her hands were clenching the sides of the table with white-knuckled intensity.
Enough! she finally thought. I can’t take much more of this. Drawing on unknown reserves of strength, she reared up, shimmied her tush toward the middle of the table, and grabbed his hair in both hands, pulling him up toward her. If he wouldn’t let her down, then he was coming up.
Without protest, he settled himself atop her on the hard table and kissed her greedily. She tasted herself on Luc’s tongue, and should have been repulsed, but was not. This was sex at its rawest best. She’d never experienced it before, but she damn well intended to now.
Luc was out of control, as he’d never been in his entire life. He couldn’t believe he was making love with Sylvie Fontaine. Talk about getting lucky!
She was lying on the table, arms and legs outspread, hair wild, eyes luminous with passion, lips swollen and moist from his kisses. And she was staring at him as if he was the sexiest stud to come down the bayou since Dennis Quaid. A heady aphrodisiac, that. Not that he needed any more aphrodisiacs in his life.
With a low masculine growl, he took her hand and guided it to his erection, which pressed against her pubic hair like a steel rod. “God, I want you so much,” he said huskily.
She put her free hand to his face, cupped his cheek gently, then ran the fingertips over his parted lips. “I want you, too,” she confessed.
Sweeter words were never spoken.
With the other hand, Sylvie circled him and ran the circle up and down his shaft gently, which caused tiny explosions of red stars to burst behind his eyeballs. Then, without any prompting, she raised her knees so her feet were braced flat on the table, spread her legs wide, and guided him inside her.
He gritted his teeth, his neck reared back, and he groaned loud and long, “Oh…my…God!”
“Oh, my God!” she echoed. “You…you fill me.”
That about said it all. “Ah, chère, you are so hot…and tight…and wet.”
Her inner folds were welcoming him with little spasms that caused him to grow even more. This was heaven on earth, being inside Sylvie.
Her eyes kept going wider and wider, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening down bel
ow. He chose to take that as a good sign.
Sylvie’s body held him in such a snug sheath that he wasn’t sure he would be able to move. But he needed to move with an urge that was primordial and overwhelming. Bracing himself on straightened arms…with the greatest, most infinite care, he began to pull himself out, almost all the way…an excruciatingly pleasurable exercise, considering the way her muscles dragged on him to stay.
She moaned.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, stopping and gazing down at her.
She shook her head. “Am I hurting you?”
He laughed joyfully at the naivete of her question. “Yes, but only in the nicest way.”
There was no more talking after that as he began the serious business of making love with Sylvie. Lord, that had a good sound to it. Making love with Sylvie.
At first, his thrusts were long and deliberately slow. Sylvie caught his rhythm and met him stroke for stroke. Luther Vandross was still belting out his gooey love lyrics, but Luc much preferred the wet sounds of their lovemaking as they slid and smacked against each other. They could not keep this slow pace for long, though, and soon he was pounding against her, hard and fast. Sylvie held tightly to the sides of the table; otherwise, he might ride her right off the surface and onto the floor. At the very least, if they were not careful, there were going to be scrapes on his kneecaps and splinters in Sylvie’s butt from the hard table. But who the hell cared now!
Sylvie was moaning almost continuously now, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh…” When he felt her entire body go stiff, and her hips arch up off the table, he threw his head back, let loose with a guttural, masculine growl of supreme satisfaction, and thrust into her one last time. Sylvie convulsed around him, violently at first as he shot his very essence into her, then with progressively smaller spasms till he felt as if he’d been milked dry.
Luc let his weight come down on top of Sylvie, who looked like a rag doll spread-eagled on the table. A very satisfied doll with a Cheshire cat grin on her face. He kissed her tenderly.