Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  Lucien debated. The room was in almost total darkness. And hair was hair, wasn’t it? Certainly his wouldn’t feel much different than any other man’s. She’d never recognize him by his hair. “Yes, cher, I’ll take off my scarf if you’ll do me an immense favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Will you help me undo those damned pins holding up your trousers?”

  “I’ll help you, with that and with anything you ask.” He could hear the smile in her voice and pictured it on her wonderfully sensuous mouth.

  Lucien propped himself on one locked arm, then reached around to untie the tight knot at the back of his head that held his scarf in place. He threw the scarf on the floor and ran his fingers through his slightly damp hair. It felt good to let his scalp breathe, though freeing his hair to do as it pleased—in this humidity and without the assistance of a comb—would make it an unruly tumble of curls. Dandy Delacroix always kept his crop neatly brushed, the springy waves tamed. Surely she’d not make a connection between the two of them.

  Together they undid the pins holding the trousers to her chemise. The room was silent as they single-mindedly worked to remove another barrier to their mutual pleasure. Silence, except for the quick fan of their breath mingling in the air between them.

  Mindful again of slowing down the delicious process of seduction, Lucien turned his concentration to the generous swell of her breasts before removing her trousers. He held one breast in his hand, then bent his head and, through the thin material of the chemise, took her nipple in his mouth. He twirled his tongue around the hard bud, pulling and pushing gently with the ridge of his teeth.

  He heard the hiss of Anne’s breath, felt the tug of her fingers in his hair. It hadn’t taken her long to find a home there, among all those curls. She moaned with unmistakable pleasure, which increased his own enjoyment tenfold. She arched against him, her legs moving restlessly. Lucien responded by slipping a leg between her two, lifting his knee to nudge them apart. Then he eased himself atop her till they were connected intimately from head to toe, his erection against the rise of her mons.

  “There are too many clothes between us, Anne.”

  “Y-yes. Too many.”

  “Are you ready, then?”

  “To …?”

  He chuckled. “To take them off, of course.” He felt a little nervous, a little green. He assumed she was a virgin since she was well born and generally well protected. It had been a long time since he’d had to consider the complexities of making love to a virgin. It was humbling, too, if he was, as he hoped, the first man for her. He didn’t want her to be frightened, or to feel rushed. He waited.

  She reached up and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. The way her fingers brushed against his bare skin underneath made his breath catch. Soon his shirt was open, then she was tugging on it, pulling the tail out of his trousers. He smiled through the exquisite agony, glad she wasn’t shy.

  He shrugged out of his shirt and sent it flying through the air to find a resting place somewhere on the floor with the scarf. As he braced above her on the bed, her hands moved without hesitation to his chest. The feel of her palms pressing against his chest, moving slowly down to where the thin line of hair disappeared into the band of his trousers, nearly sent his control completely out the window. God, how would it feel to lie with her completely naked?

  The thought inspired him to ease gently away from Anne’s questing hands and off the bed. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, then he sat in a chair and struggled out of his boots. They were damned difficult to remove without a bootjack or a manservant to help, and he wasn’t feeling particularly patient. Then, without ceremony, off came the trousers, too. He thought, rather sheepishly, that maybe it was a good thing Anne couldn’t see how rigid he was. It might scare the living daylights out of her.

  While Renard took off his clothes, Anne wasted no time. Her head felt fine—all of her felt fine—and she had no intention of lying about like a helpless female. She sat up in bed and pulled off her jacket, dropping it on the floor by the bed. Then she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her trousers and pushed, scooting out of them, inch by inch. The trousers slid over the bedcovers and onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

  She pulled off her stockings and tucked them under the pillows. Renard had apparently taken her boots off when she was unconscious. Dressed as she was only in her chemise, she felt the air hit her exposed skin like a dip in the cool sea. She debated whether to take the chemise off, decided that Renard might think her too forward, then lay back on the pillows and waited.

  The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down on the edge of the bed. His shadow loomed above her in the dark. She sensed his hesitation, his regret. “What is it, Renard?”

  He sighed. “I wish we could do this with all the candles blazing. I want to look at you, Anne.”

  She thought of asking him to trust her. To light all the candles. To reveal himself to her, figuratively and literally. But she didn’t. He wasn’t ready. So she said instead, “It doesn’t matter. We can see each other with our hands and our lips and … our hearts.” She propped on one elbow and reached out to him with her free hand. And he came.

  They sank down together into the pillows. The impact of bare flesh against bare flesh—legs tangled, hearts beating wildly—made Anne weak with desire. He was a patchwork of textures, rough here, smooth there—satin and sandpaper. He bent his head and kissed her deeply, their tongues twining and teasing, his hands in her hair.

  At this most intimate moment, Anne again thought of Delacroix. A fleeting memory of his kisses intruded. She remembered the similar way they incited her passion, but she thrust the thought aside. Delacroix had no place in bed with her and Renard.

  He rolled her to one side, putting enough distance between them to caress her. He smoothed his hand along the swell of her hip, down into the valley of her slender waist, then up where the narrow sleeve of her chemise rode the delicate cap of her shoulder. He hooked his thumb under the fragile material and tugged, gently slipping the chemise down her arm. He eased her onto her back and did the same to her other shoulder, moving the chemise down till the wide neck of the garment bared her breasts.

  He bent and trailed his lips along her collarbone, lingering at the base of her throat, where her pulse fluttered like a frightened bird. But she wasn’t frightened. She was mad with wanting him, with needing him to hold her closer and closer. The weight of his manhood pressed against her stomach, suffusing her womb with honeyed heat. There was a wetness between her legs, a tremor in the muscles of her thighs.

  Then he moved lower still and took the tip of her breast in his mouth, the nipple tender and engorged. He suckled there, the titillating play of tongue and teeth making her stomach contract. He moved to the other breast and did the same. She buried her hands in his hair, her fingers clutching in the lush curls.

  Her head fell back, her body wallowing in the pleasure of it all. She heard herself moan, and wondered at the power of this joining of man and woman. Images of the slaves at Congo Square, their writhing, rhythmic mating dance, floated through her consciousness. She could feel the beat of the drums in her blood.

  Anne knew she was ready. She regretted nothing. Whoever Renard really was, she loved him. Though she had freely shared her own feelings, he had said nothing of love. He desired her, and for now that would have to be enough.

  Suddenly he surprised her by rolling onto his back and pulling her atop him. She splayed her hands on his chest, half-reclining, his erection still pressed against her stomach, her legs straddling one of his powerful thighs. As he did—possibly more than he did—she wished for a room full of blazing candles. She could tell, just by touch, that he was beautiful.

  He seemed to be waiting. His long fingers were curled around her upper arms, unmoving except for the slight up and down motion of his thumb along her sensitized skin. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly anxious. Everything ha
d seemed to be going along wonderfully. She’d loved every minute of it, so far. She knew they weren’t finished. They couldn’t be finished. Her nerves still sang like telegraph wires. Her body was heavy and aching. But perhaps, just at this point, she was expected to do something.

  “Do you want to touch me, Anne?”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant. Hadn’t she been touching him all along? Shyly she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Without me … distracting you, would you like to … er … explore a little?”

  “Oh.” Now she understood. And she couldn’t be more pleased. “Yes, I do. I do want to touch you.”

  She’d start with his stomach. Sitting up, she straddled his hips. His manhood slipped between her thighs, its long hard length pressing against her woman’s core. Wryly she wondered how Renard could think she’d not be “distracted” by a little detail like that. Later, if she stoked up enough courage, she was going to explore that part of him as well. She felt her face warm at her randy thoughts.

  His abdomen was hard and flat. He held his breath while she lingered over the perfectly segmented row of muscles that flowed from hips to ribs. And his chest was wonderful, every tendon and sinew gloriously defined beneath the light dusting of hair. By touch, his shoulders were even broader than they appeared to be, and fluid with strength. He was ideally suited for an artist’s model. Oh, he was beautiful!

  Now she reached up to touch his face, reconciled to being allowed access only to his mouth and the square angle of his jaw. Her fingers explored the contours of his lips, soft yet firm. For a moment she paused, overcome with a sense of familiarity, as if she were acquainted with the shape already. Not just from last night, but from another time.

  Her hands stilled, her thoughts trying, by twists and convolutions, to organize into something cohesive. But how could she think straight when her muscles were strung like a tight wire, her heart was pounding like a trip-hammer, and the very core of her sexuality was wet and burning with need? He lifted his hips just then, his manhood rubbing against her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  “Oh, please, don’t move,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” he asked, a teasing note in his husky voice.

  “You know why. Because I’m not done exploring, and if you keep that up, I’ll soon be reduced to a state of idiocy.”

  “You and me both,” he confessed, chuckling. Anne liked that. She liked knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. And he wasn’t afraid to tell her so.

  Her fingers had wended their way up the sides of his jaw, expecting any minute to feel the coarse cloth of his mask, but it wasn’t there! It wasn’t there! She gasped.

  In a state of cautious delirium, she slowly moved her fingers over his cheekbones. High and sharp. Aristocratic.

  Then the bridge of his nose. Straight, no bumps. And the tip was just right—not too long.

  His forehead was high, expansive. She smiled. A gypsy would look at that noble brow and say he was intelligent and philanthropic, but she knew that already.

  His brows were thick and arched. She could imagine them waggling wickedly.

  Her fingers fluttered down to his eyes, carefully testing to make sure they were closed first, then skimming her thumbs over the lids. Deep-set, the lashes long and thick.

  She sighed. “You’re beautiful.”

  He gave his head a little shake. With a mix of embarrassment and amusement he said, “Men are usually called handsome, cher. You’re the one who’s beautiful.” He let loose a ragged breath. “Are you finished exploring? Because I don’t think I can refrain from distracting you much longer.”

  “Well, there’s just one more part of you I’d like to explore.”

  “One more?”

  She sat back, scooting down till she straddled his knees. Then she ran her hand up his thighs—the muscles hard and taut, just like the rest of him—found the coarse cluster of hair at the apex of his thighs, and wrapped her fingers around the proud jut of his sex. He was hot and tumid, marvelously male.

  He groaned, and in one fluid movement had her flat on her back. “Anne,” he rasped, “you minx! You’re as curious as a monkey!”

  “But a little more attractive, I hope. N’est-ce pas?”

  He growled again and kissed her smiling mouth. And then all conversation was abandoned, every teasing remark, every light thought forgotten as they kissed and caressed each other with the reverence and intensity of first-time lovers. Anne felt a rising tension in her stomach, a tremulous languor in her legs. That most private, sensitive part of her suffused with heat and pleasure.

  A piece of her wanted their lovemaking to go on and on, but she knew, logically, unavoidably, there had to be an ending to such bliss. She’d go mad if she remained in such a state of pleasurable delirium for too long. Even now her body cried out for release. She clutched him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

  “Are you ready, cher?” His voice was strained, as if he was barely in control.

  “Yes,” she whispered, going very still.

  “It will hurt a little the first time.”

  She felt a small tremor of fear, but nodded her understanding, and tacit consent.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he soothed, stroking her hair as he braced above her on an elbow. “I’ll be gentle.”

  She nodded again, trusting him completely. He moved his free hand down between her thighs, kneading the tender skin beneath the crisp curls. To be touched in such a private place was so intimate, yet felt so right. Another wave of pleasure shuddered through her. Reflexively she arched against him.

  “Patience, sweet Anne, patience,” he crooned. His fingers touched the hot, moist core of her. It felt so wickedly good, she thought she might pass out. She was so tense, so slick with need. Then he slid one long finger into the narrow channel of her womanhood, probing, stretching, preparing for her consummation.

  “Please, Renard,” she begged him, hardly knowing what she was pleading for. “Please …”

  But he knew. He settled himself between her legs again, elbows braced at either side of her shoulders. He shifted forward, then slowly entered her.

  She was filled with him, the wonder of it suspending her somewhere between agony and ecstasy. The power of their joining overwhelmed her with emotions, until she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from joy.

  Then came a quick thrust of his hips, and he was deep inside her, past her virgin’s barrier. Anne gave a gasp of pain, and he held her and kissed her till it abated, till the pulsing demands of her body came to urgent life again, stronger than ever. She lifted her hips, taking him even deeper inside her.

  She heard him groan. “Sweet Anne,” he whispered hoarsely.

  He began the rhythm, plunging, then pulling back. Again and again. Anne was in heaven, every part of her blissfully lost in the consuming act of love. It only got better and better. Too good to endure for long. Too sharp, too intense to last.

  Her core exploded with sensation. Muscles convulsed, expanded. Her mind slipped. The world contracted. Waves of intense pleasure washed over her. Blood surged into all her extremities, her fingers and toes pulsing with tingling warmth.

  “Renard!” she cried out, holding him to her.

  She felt the muscles in his chest and arm pull taut as he cried out her name. Then one last powerful thrust, and, shuddering, he filled her with his seed.

  Later, lying side by side, they clung to each other in the dark. Outside, the crickets sang their courting calls to the heavens, the moon rode the sky, and daybreak came inexorably closer. Anne knew that if she slept, she’d wake up alone. The room would be filled with light, and Renard would be gone.

  But still she smiled. Everything was changed. She belonged to him, now and forever. Contented, she watched the lilting dance of the firefly, hovering jealously outside the net. Then she closed her eyes and slept.

  Chapter 13

  When Anne awoke,
the room was filled with the hazy semilight of approaching dawn. She wasn’t alone, as she’d expected to be, but it wasn’t Renard who hovered over her. And it wasn’t Renard’s hand brushing against her temple. It was a black man’s. It was … Armande. She’d been right about him. He was the same man she’d seen last night while she waited outside Mrs. Cavanaugh’s Boardinghouse, and the same man she’d nearly run into at the cemetery on All Saints’ Day.

  He wasn’t looking at her when she first opened her eyes; he was fussing with the thin linen strip that held the gauzelike square of cotton against her wound. He was being very gentle. She watched him with overt curiosity. He was something to look at, all right, despite his worn and baggy clothing. The dun-colored shirt and trousers were a far cry from the natty outfit he’d been wearing on Camp Street, but the humble clothing didn’t take away from his attractiveness. This morning he looked like an extremely handsome but down-on-his-luck farm worker.

  Then it hit Anne like a ton of bricks. He was the farmer from last night, the one who had driven the wagon! Armande was Renard’s trusted cohort, a well-rounded fellow who could drive rickety wagons full of slaves and tobacco hell-bent-for-leather down the muddy Louisiana roads, and still mix up a potent tea that cured a headache within minutes of drinking it!

  His gaze shifted, and he looked straight into her eyes. He showed no surprise. “You’re awake.”

  A delayed sense of modesty made her look down to check that she was covered. She was, from neck to toe. And underneath the light quilt, she felt the soft lawn of her chemise. She hoped it was Renard who had put it on her. She swallowed her embarrassment. “Yes.”

  He nodded, a small, serious smile nudging his lips upward. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel wonderful, thanks to Renard.” She’d meant no double meaning, but she blushed anyway. Trying to cover her confusion, she rushed on. “And thanks to you. It was your mix of herbs that got rid of my headache last night. How did you learn such witchery?”