Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  Then he straddled her, planting his knees solidly on ei­ther side of hers. Schyler's heart was fluttering wildly as she gazed up at him. His thighs looked hard and lean inside the faded jeans. From her perspective his shoulders looked broader, his arms more powerful, like he could break her in two if he wanted to.

  His belly was flat and corrugated with muscles. Copper nipples nestled in a forest of light brown hair. He was wearing no expression, bat intensity had made the bone structure of Ms face more pronounced. His eyes seemed to be the only spot of color in the gray room. They burned.

  She focused on them as he pulled her blouse open. Im­patiently he togged it out of the waistband of her skirt and pushed aside the flimsy lace cups of her brassiere. Her breasts lay softly upon her chest, but the areolas were wrinkled and puckered with arousal. Her nipples were very pink and very hard.

  Cash bent over her and stroked one with his tongue. Schyler's back arched off the bed. He touched her again and again with the pointed tip of his tongue, then he drew one of the shiny, wet nipples into his mouth.

  The pleasure was so exquisite, the heat so fierce, Schyler clutched at him. Her seeking hands came to rest on his upper thighs. Her thumbs settled in the grooves of his groin. He bridged her body with his stiff arms and dipped his head low over her breasts. His hair fell forward, tick­ling her skin.

  "Unzip me," he directed huskily between the soft, damp caresses he was giving her breasts. After a few moments, when it became apparent that she wasn't going to, he stood on his knees again and reached for his fly. He winced as he worked the zipper down. Schyler stared, fascinated, as the wedge widened. It filled up with body hair that was darker and denser than that on his chest.

  When the zipper was undone, he hooked his thumbs into the cloth and pulled the jeans down over his hips. Schyler caught her breath and held it, shocked by his flagrant im­modesty and the fullness of his erection. The tip was as round and smooth and voluptuous as a ripe plum.

  He reversed the position of their knees until hers were on the outside. He raised the hem of her skirt to her waist. Schyler closed her eyes.

  At that instant, she wanted desperately to call it off.

  But then he touched her there. His fingers lightly tweaked clumps of dark blond curls, then slid between the soft folds of her body and up inside, stretching into the wetness.

  He made a groaning sound before he said, "You'd better hold on. This is going to be a rough ride." He moved her hands to the iron rails of the headboard behind her head and folded her fingers around them. She gripped the cool metal.

  His hands spread wide on the insides of her thighs and separated them. She made a small, helpless sound. "Open your eyes. I want you to know who this is."

  Her eyes sprang open in direct challenge to his insulting words. But there was no doubt as to who drove into her. She was wet, but she was tight. She winced with momen­tary pain. He tensed with momentary surprise. Then he gave another swift thrust and embedded himself inside her with absolute possession.

  He withdrew, almost leaving her, before sinking into her again. "My name is Cash Boudreaux."

  "I know who you are."

  "Say it." He ground his pelvis against hers. "Say it." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Sweat dotted her upper lip. She tried to keep her hips on the bed, but involuntarily she raised them to meet the next plunging stroke of his strong, smooth penis. "You're going to say my name, damn you."

  He flattened his hand low on her belly, fingers pointed toward her breasts, and worked it downward until fee heel of his hand was at the very lowest point of her body. He rubbed it back and forth slowly. A low, choppy moan rose out of Schyler's chest. Warm sensations began to spiral up through her middle and radiate outward until her fingertips and toes began to throb with an infusion of blood. She gripped the headboard tighter.

  "Say my name." His forehead was bathed with sweat, his teeth clenched in restraint. He lowered his head to her breasts and nuzzled them with his nose. His stubbled chin rasped the delicate skin. His buttocks rose and fell with each rhythmic stroke. The heel of his hand caressed her until he felt moisture against it. He swept his thumb down­ward, over the tuft of hair, and into the source of that moisture. The pad of his thumb was soft and sensitive against that softer, more sensitive spot.

  Pleasure speared through Schyler. She gave a sharp cry.

  "Say my name," he panted.

  "Ca. . . Cash."

  Her eyes closed. Her neck arched. Her head thrashed on the pillow. Her thighs hugged his buttocks tight. Cash stared down at her. Yielding to an urge he had never had before, he lowered himself over her and buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. His hands joined hers on the headboard. Their fingers interlaced over and around the iron rods. His chest crushed her breasts. Their breathing escalated and turned harsher. He hammered into her. The walls of her body milked him.

  When the climax came, neither said anything coherent, but their moans of gratification were simultaneous and long.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  On the one hand, he stayed inside her far too long.

  On the other hand, it was much too brief.

  Cash eased himself away from her. He glanced down into her face. Her eyes were closed. Her face was smooth and still. Resisting an impulse to kiss her mouth, he slowly disengaged their arms and legs and rolled to one side of the bed. Automatically he reached for the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table.

  As he lit one, Schyler sat up and threw her legs over the opposite side of the bed, keeping her back to him and her head averted. She shoved down her skirt and groped among the twisted sheets for her panties. Finding them, she bent at the waist and stepped into them. She pulled them on in the same motion she used to stand up. She replaced the cups of her bra, clasped it, then rebuttoned her blouse. She didn't tuck it in.

  She turned around and looked down at him as though there was something she wanted to say. She swallowed visibly. Her lips opened but closed without uttering a single sound. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and stacked his hands behind his head in a pose that looked insolent and uncaring, especially since his jeans were still bunched around his thighs.

  He would have bet a month's salary on what she would do next, and he was right. She turned her back on him and left the house. He listened to her footsteps fade as she went through the front door and across the porch. Shortly, he heard her car's motor starting.

  He lay motionless for a long time, until the cigarette between his lips became a fire hazard. He ground it out. He took off his jeans, balled them up, and angrily threw them as far as he could. They hit the opposite wall and dropped to the floor.

  Naked, he rolled to his side and stared sightlessly through the screen. It was raining harder than ever. He could barely see the opposite bank of the bayou through the silver curtain. The limbs of the trees drooped with the weight of the rainwater.

  His eyes moved to the pillow beside his. He laid his hand in the imprint her head had made. It was still warm.

  "Schyler."

  Schyler. Cash remembered the day he first heard that name. He had thought it was a funny name for a baby girl. So had Monique. They had talked about it later, after Cot­ton left.

  It had been a cold November day. The bayou was shrouded in fog. Cash had made white clouds of vapor by blowing into the cold air. He had pretended he was smok­ing Camels like the older boys at the pool hall did.

  Cotton had caught him at it. "Why aren't you in school, Cash?" he had asked the minute he alighted from his long, shiny car.

  "Maman didn't make me go today. Are those dough­nuts?" He pointed to the white bakery sack Cotton was carrying. Cotton rarely came empty-handed. He usually brought something for both of them, like flowers, a trinket, a bottle of perfume for Monique; comic books, a sack of candy, a small toy for Cash.

  But he never gave them money. He had tried, but Moni­que would never take it. They'd had fights over it, but Monique always won.

  Th
ey didn't fight that day. Monique stepped out onto the porch, drying her hands on a dish towel. "You must have smelled my roux," she teased Cotton. "How can you always tell when I'm making gumbo?"

  Cotton smiled back at her. "Good day for gumbo." Then his light eyebrows furrowed. "Why isn't Cash in school?"

  Monique shrugged one shapely shoulder. "We slept late."

  "He should be in school, Monique. You'll have the truant officer back out here."

  She laughed her deep contralto laugh and bent down to hug Cash's disheveled head against her warm breasts. "I need him to deliver medicines today. Everybody's sick with the croup."

  "Medicines my ass," Cotton muttered, stamping the mud off his boots as he came upon the porch. "What you're selling folks is mumbo jumbo, voodoo bullshit."

  Laughing and sandwiching the eight-year-old boy be­tween them, she caught the lobe of Cotton's ear between her strong, white teeth. "It works on you, mon cher."

  Cotton sighed. "It sure as hell does." He kissed her long and deeply, rubbing her back with his large, work-worn hands. "When will the gumbo be ready?"

  "Hours. Can you stay that long?"

  He looked down at Cash. The lad read the gravity of Cotton's expression. "I need to talk to you about some­thing."

  At the table in front of the fireplace, while they demol­ished the doughnuts and a fresh pot of coffee, Cotton broke the disturbing news.

  "We're getting a baby."

  Cash, who had been licking powdered sugar off his fingers, quickly looked at his mother. Instinctively he knew that she would be distressed. She was. He watched her delicate hands come together. She interlaced her slender fingers and held them so tightly that her knuckles turned the color of bones.

  "A bébé?"

  "Yes. We're adopting a child. Macy. . . Macy. . ." Cot­ton sighed and stared into his coffee cup for a long moment before going ahead. "It appears she's barren. It eats on her." His blue eyes spoke eloquently to Monique. "Espe­cially since she knows about you. She wants children. Belle Terre needs children."

  Monique glanced down at Cash. "Qui, it does," she said quietly. "You should fill it with as many children as possi­ble."

  Cotton forced a laugh. "Well, we're only starting with one. It's a baby girl. Macy wanted a boy, but. . ." He shrugged. "This girl was born and she jumped at the chance to get her. Father Martin is handling the adoption for us. I had to agree to raise her a Catholic."

  "Better than a Baptist."

  Her teasing was as forced as his laugh had been. He cleared his throat noisily. "She's only three days old."

  "What does she look like?"

  "She was born in Baton Rouge, so we haven't seen her yet. But Macy has already named her Schyler."

  "A strange name for a baby girl. But pretty," Monique said with hollow enthusiasm.

  "It's a Laurent family name."

  Their mouths were saying one thing, but their eyes were communicating quite another. Finally both fell silent. The logs in the fireplace popped and crackled. Cash's eyes war­ily shifted between his mother and her lover.

  After a time, Cotton reached across the table and cov­ered Monique's clasped hands. "This doesn't change any­thing."

  "It must."

  "It doesn't. You know it doesn't. You know." She con­tinued to stare into his eyes, hurt and unsure. He continued to send her unspoken assurances. "When did you say the gumbo would be ready?"

  Her face brightened. Her jet-black eyes sparkled through unshed tears. "Can you stay?"

  "I can stay."

  "Until it's ready?"

  "Until I've had at least two bowls."

  She flew from her chair and threw her arms around his neck. They kissed with a passion made stronger because it was illicit. Then she hurried to get the fish, shrimp, vegeta­bles, and spices into the pot, where they would simmer together in the roux until they were tender and the gumbo was rich and thick and properly murky.

  Meanwhile Cotton helped Cash load the red wagon he was often seen pulling through the streets of town. In the back of it bottles of unguents and potions, salves and tinc­tures clinked together musically. His mother was a traiteur. He was her delivery boy.

  "You're not smoking for real, are you?" Cotton asked him, referring to the clouds of make-believe smoke he'd been blowing earlier.

  "No, sir." Monique had coached him on how to address Cotton respectfully.

  "Good. It's a nasty habit and very bad for you."

  "How come?"

  "It damages your lungs."

  "You smoke sometimes."

  "I'm a grown-up."

  Cash gazed up at Cotton, hoping that someday he would be that tall, that strong. "Will the new baby live in the big white house?"

  "Of course."

  Cash thought about that, envying the baby a little. "Will you still come to see us after you get her?"

  Cotton stopped what he was doing. He gazed down into Cash's earnest, anxious face. With a half smile, he reached out and touched the boy's cheek. "Yes, I'll still come to see you. Nothing could keep me from coming to see you."

  Cash gauged the honesty behind Cotton's answer and decided it was genuine. "What'd you say the baby's name was?"

  "Schyler."

  Cash laid his hand in the bowl her head had made in the pillow. Her wet hair had left the pillowcase damp. He closed his fist. It came up empty. There was nothing there.

  For Monique Boudreaux's bastard boy, there never had been.

  Chapter Thirty

  "You're restless tonight. If you don't stop pacing you'll wear a path in the carpet." Dale Gilbreath missed the dirty look his wife sent him. He had chastised her from behind his newspaper. He tipped the corner of it down and smiled at her in the patronizing manner she loathed. "Is something wrong, dear? Don't you feel well?"

  "I feel fine." Rhoda's strained tone of voice wasn't very convincing.

  "You've been on edge and out of sorts all evening." With only bland interest he scanned the page of newsprint he'd been reading.

  "It's the rain." Rhoda moved to the window and jerked on the tasseled cord. The drapes swished open. "God, the weather in this place is wretched. The humidity is so god­damn high, it's like trying to breathe lentil soup. It threatens to rain. It doesn't. Then when it does, it's a god­damn flood."

  "We traded severe winters for a little stickiness."

  Dale was on the receiving end of another whithering glance. She could do without his half-baked philosophy tonight, especially when she knew he hated the Louisiana climate as much as she.

  "Shoveling a few feet of snow wouldn't hurt you," she said snidely. "You're beginning to get a real gut. Which is no wonder since you sit on your ass behind a desk all day. Don't you ever feel the need to exercise?"

  Rhoda attended a workout class every weekday morn­ing. The strain and sweat and self-abuse was like a reli­gious rite to her. To point up to him just how superior her physical condition was to his, she sucked in her tummy, tightened her derriere, and thrust out her breasts.

  Dale exchanged his newspaper for a pipe and calmly began filling it with his special blend of tobaccos, scooping it from a leather pouch. "When you're right, you're right. I could use some exercise." He put a match to the bowl of his pipe and drew on the stem. Fanning out the match as he watched her through the rising cloud of smoke, he asked, "But do you really want to swap insults with me tonight, Rhoda?"

  Dale could get nasty. He didn't take pot shots but hit below the belt every time with well-aimed punches. Rhoda wasn't in a frame of mind to suffer one of his soft-spoken, but malicious attacks. Her ego was bruised. She didn't think it could withstand farther injury.

  Cash had told her he would call this afternoon and ar­range a time and place for them to rendezvous. He hadn't. She couldn't call him; he didn't have a damn telephone. She had often wondered if the sole reason he didn't have one installed was so he could avoid a woman when he wanted to. That was probably it. The Cajun was a class A son of a bitch.

  She would have
driven to his out-of-the-way house, but she wasn't sure where it was. He'd been aggravatingly un- specific about that when she had asked him for directions. As the dreary afternoon had worn on, she had given serious thought to gambling her reputation and sacrificing her pride for one roll in the sack with him, but damned if she was going to risk getting her BMW stuck to the hubs on one of the backwoods quagmires. They were called roads. Some even had designated state highway numbers, but she considered them pig trails that were to be avoided at all costs.

  Now, just thinking about her thwarted plans for the af­ternoon heated her temper back up to a slow simmer. And apparently Dale wanted to swap insults whether she wanted to or not.

  Casually he said, "For instance, I could start with this juvenile fixation you've developed for your latest lover."

  Rhoda's posture stiffened marginally, but she was adroit at controlling knee-jerk reactions. Dale wanted her to fly into a tirade of denial. He loved pricking her with innuendo and half-truths. He enjoyed provoking her until she blew.

  Slowly she turned to face him, affecting bewilderment with admirable skill. "Latest lover?"

  He puffed on his pipe and smiled around the stem clenched between his teeth. "You really should have pur­sued an acting career, Rhoda. You're very good. But I know you better than you know yourself. I can smell when you're in heat. You exude a musky odor like an animal."

  "Well I'm glad you didn't pursue a career as a poet. Your phraseology is revolting."

  "You're also very good at changing the subject."

  "I find your subject tiresome."

  Dale chuckled. "Rhoda, you and your lovers are never tiresome."

  "How do you know there is a current lover?" she chal­lenged. Hands on hips, she faced him where he sat in an easy chair.