by MI
When he stood and stretched his back, Christie got to his feet alongside him. “Where are you going now?”
“You aren’t the only friend lost on the side of my road, son. Besides, I’ve said what I came here to say.” He began to walk away but then paused and turned around. “Go get the girl, Christopher Ryder. And say hello to Rousseau for me. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. You’ll see me again.”
Chapter Eight
He woke up to the smell of coffee and cornbread. Johnnycakes. He’d told Etta he loved them almost as much as pecan pie. She’d remembered.
Christie climbed off the bed and got to his feet, slipping on the boxers crumpled on the floor. He stopped off at the bathroom and splashed some water on his face before heading downstairs to join her.
That had been an oddly coherent dream. No vague symbolism in sight. It even made sense that it was the old man—whose name he’d never gotten, he suddenly realized—that had been the wise sage of his subconscious. There was just something about that guy that said he knew what he was talking about.
Christie knew what he needed to do. He and Etta were going to have a talk. They would sit down over breakfast and he would keep his hands off of her long enough to tell her that he didn’t want what was happening between them to end after next week. That he wanted more from her than—
He reached the bottom of the stairs and any plans for coherent thought flew out the window. Etta was sitting naked on his kitchen table, a bottle of maple syrup in her hands, a mischievous smile on her lush lips and the adorable beginnings of a blush on the golden skin of her cheeks.
“Good morning,” she said with sexy morning rasp he loved. “Hungry?”
Sweet, merciful Jesus. “Always.”
She hopped down and pulled out his chair. “I was hoping you’d say that. I had the wildest dream last night and I woke up with some serious cravings.”
“I had a dream too.” He sat down in his chair, his erection straining against the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. He should tell her about it. His dream, not his hard-on. But it was difficult to concentrate with all the blood rushing away from his brain.
She set a stacked plate in front of him and started to pour the syrup. “Say when.”
“When. What are you up to this morning? Where’s your plate?”
There was that smile again. “You’ve served me breakfast in bed twice now. My dream made me think about serving you. Eat. Tell me how you like it.”
Christie picked up his fork and cut out a bite-sized portion, placing it between his lips without taking his eyes off of her. He swallowed and shook his head. “It’s delicious, I’m guessing. How am I supposed to concentrate with a naked goddess standing over me? You’re planning something, she-devil. Confess.”
“I am.” Her tone was shy but playful. “I thought I’d serve you one of your favorite things for breakfast, while I had one of mine.”
Etta got on her knees, sliding under the table and between his legs while he watched.
“Fuck.” Christie dropped his fork. “This is what you dreamt about?”
Her hands caressed his thighs, plucking at the cotton hem of his shorts. “Not exactly. In my dream you weren’t wearing these. We were at dinner and I was under the table at Gautreau’s. Did I ever thank you for taking me there? They made the best blackberry shortcake I’ve ever had.”
She was rambling, but the image she’d drawn in his mind was graphically carnal. He remembered looking over at her in the soft light and wishing they were alone so he could touch her. Now that memory was replaced with an accidentally on-purpose spoon drop. In his mind, she bent down as if to pick it up and disappeared beneath the linen tablecloth before anyone noticed what she was up to.
Jesus, how impossible would it be to keep the lust out of his expression so none of their fellow diners would know she was on her knees with her greedy, luscious mouth full of his cock? “Fuck.”
Etta tugged on his shorts again so he helped her by pushing them down until they fell around his ankles and she took them off completely.
“That’s better,” she whispered against his bare skin, making him inhale sharply at the sensation.
“Etta, we should go back to the bedroo—oh God, baby.” He dropped one hand to his lap, his fingers clenching in the tight silky curls on her head. There were no teasing licks, no hesitant open-mouthed kisses. She lowered her mouth as far as it would go, until the head of his cock was touching the back of her throat. Then she swallowed. “Ah. That must have been one hell of a dream.”
She moaned in agreement against his flesh and the vibration sent jolts up his spine.
“I’m jealous,” he growled. “Mine wasn’t this good. Damn, it’s so good. Have I told you how much I love your mouth, Etta baby? How hot it makes me to see you like this? On your knees for me?”
She shuddered against his legs and he smiled. In the last few days he’d made it his job to learn what turned her on. Near the top of the list was what she called “dirty talk”. She loved to hear him tell her what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do. He had to admit he liked doing it. Watching her react so intensely to his words was a hell of an aphrodisiac.
She was every fantasy he’d ever had come to life.
His food forgotten, Christie pushed the table away enough that he could see her head in his lap. He slid his other hand into her hair, holding her head as she worked her magic.
“You are hungry, aren’t you, baby?” His jaw clenched when she nodded, her teeth lightly scoring his shaft. His hands tightened on her and his hips rocked upward, his body on fire for her. “What else did you do in your dream? Did you touch yourself? Or did you let me lift you up onto the table and spread your legs for dessert while everyone watched?”
She whimpered and his response was rough with need. “Because that would be my dream. I can’t get enough of you either, Etta. The way you taste on my tongue. How hard you come for me when my head is buried between your thighs.”
He wanted it now. Wanted to be inside her with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Wanted everything. He tugged her curls, pulling her off him with a growl. “I need to be inside you, baby.”
“There’s one on the table,” Etta panted, the green in her hazel eyes bright with a need that matched his own.
He forced himself to focus until he saw the foil square beside the bottle of syrup, then reached for it and ripped it open with his teeth. She started to move but he kept firm pressure on her head, holding her in place. “Here. On the floor. On your knees.”
Christie slipped the condom on, knowing he was losing control. She’d driven him to the edge with her lips, with her dreams. He’d never get enough of her. Of this.
He stood, kicking the chair backward and dropping to his knees beside her. He kissed her lips, tasting himself there, then released the hold he had on her hair, turning her around until her back was toward him.
Through the haze of lust he saw the swiftly healing tattoo, the stark outline of a slender tree blooming with cherry blossoms. Still as beautiful as its owner, but unfinished.
Etta bent over and placed her hands on the floor, her ass high in the air, and he moaned her name. He may distract her from her fear of needles, but she was his distraction. His addiction. His love.
He wanted to be hers.
Christie curved his body over hers and slid his hand between her thighs. He sighed with relief when his fingers slipped through her arousal and he knew she was with him. Already close. Already ready for him. She was always ready for him.
His damp fingers curled around her narrow hip while he guided his erection between the folds of her sex, and both of them groaned when he began to fill her. “Etta. Oh, baby, I love how you feel around me.”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Christie, please.”
He started to pump his hips against her, gripping her shoulder with one hand. “Please what, baby? Do you want me to stop?”
“No, don’t stop. I can’t…please.�
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He understood. He was too far gone to play. Too far gone for words. His grip tightened and he started to power into her, faster and harder. Again and again, deeper and deeper, and God, it was so fucking good.
Being inside her was like coming home. Coming. He was already close. He had to wait. Had to hear her shouting his name and feel her muscles tightening on his cock the way he loved.
And then it was happening. She screamed, “Christie. I’m coming! Oh God, yes.”
He loved it—her shouts ringing in his ears, her body squeezing him so tight. His orgasm ripped up his spine and sent him exploding into outer space.
“Love you,” he groaned almost incoherently as his body shuddered against hers. “My Etta. Fuck, I love you so much.”
It took a while for the waves to stop crashing against his body. For him to be able to leave her body and slide off the used condom. He collapsed on the floor beside her and reached to pull her into his arms. “Good morning, my sweet Henrietta.”
He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he realized how quiet she’d been since they finished. How still.
He swore silently and closed his eyes. He’d planned to tell her how he felt today, just not like that. Bad timing, jackass. The worst kind of timing and he knew it. Was that why she wasn’t talking or cuddling closer? Did she doubt the words said in the heat of the moment? Or was she wishing he hadn’t said them at all?
Take a risk, the dream had said. Christie pulled her closer and took a steadying breath. “Etta? Honey, we need to talk.”
“We do?” She sounded wary. Shit that wasn’t what he wanted, but he was knee-deep in it now.
If she lived in town, maybe he could wait it out, see where it went. But he doubted it. He knew where he wanted it to go. He had no idea if she felt the same.
“Don’t we? One of us should probably say something before you head to the airport next week with no return ticket to New Orleans.”
“Why?”
That stopped him cold. He let go of her and sat up. “Why?”
She sat beside him and pulled her knees up to her chest, intently studying a spot above his left shoulder. “There’s no reason to. You don’t have—I don’t expect any promises. We knew what we were getting into.”
He reached for his balled up boxer shorts and stood, slipping them on in with angry precision. “Well, damn, baby, you’re way ahead of me. I’m glad you know what’s going on because I had no idea what we were getting into. Didn’t know we had rules. Hell, I just thought I was falling in love for the first fucking time in my life.”
He saw her short, silk robe on the kitchen counter and strode toward it—hating that he’d said the words in anger, hating that she was curled up defensively as if he would hurt her.
Christie covered her shoulders with her robe and sighed, stroking her beautifully tangled mass of curls with his hand. “Etta, baby, I know I’m screwing this up. My timing sucks and you deserve better. Flowers and candlelight and fucking violins. But I meant what I said. I’m falling in love with you.”
She was leaning back against his legs. Softening. It was going to be okay, he thought, the knot in his gut starting to unwind. She was going to be his. “I know you’ve been hurt, I’m new at this and we’ll have to figure out the distance thing. It’ll take a little effort and more time in the air than we’re used to, but I think we can make this work.”
Etta’s body tensed and she yanked her head away from his hand so quickly he stumbled back in surprise. “Etta?”
She got to her feet, slipping the robe on and crossing her arms. The look in her eyes pierced his soul. “You know I’ve been hurt? Is that another thing you know about me?”
“What? Etta I didn’t mean—”
She shook her head, backing away from him. Backing away and he didn’t know how to stop it from happening. “Is that what this has been about? What we’ve been about? You’re all about fixing broken things since you’ve gotten back. Do you think I’m like your car or this house, that when you get around to it, with a little elbow grease and a new coat of paint I’ll be perfect? Well, you already have your hands full. You should at least finish one project before you start another.”
The silence after she spoke was deafening. Christie didn’t know a man could still stand upright after that many body blows. That he would be able to notice how shocked Etta seemed by her own words. Horrified. He started toward her, instinctively wanting to soothe her, but stopped just out of arms reach.
She whirled around and headed for the stairs. “I have to go.”
“Etta.”
She froze.
The weight on his chest made it hard for him to breathe. But he couldn’t let her go like this. “Take a few days before you decide to throw this away.”
She turned her head slightly and nodded. “I will.”
Maybe by then he’d have patched up the bloody hole in his heart.
Chapter Nine
“Yes everything went fine—Marcella is well and thoroughly baptized,” Etta said into her phone. “Patricia, I keep telling you to come for a visit.” She paused. “I live in North Carolina too, but I came. Your brother Celestin isn’t a sexual deviant, Angelique is happily married and your mother is over the moon. The only thing wrong with them is that they are missing a family member.”
Etta rocked the baby in her arms, cradling the cell phone between her ear and shoulder. She’d offered to set her new godchild down for a nap when Marcella got tired of the party and started to fuss.
“We can talk more later, okay? Everyone is downstairs enjoying the food Tia Theresa and I put together, and I have to get this angel settled before I can join them.” She paused again. “I know. Love you too.”
She managed to turn the phone off and set it on the windowsill without losing her grip on her precious cargo. Thank heaven for small favors.
Etta gathered her close and walked across the room, swaying Marcella in her arms.
“Enjoy the peace while you can, baby girl,” she crooned. “Pretty soon there’ll be no other two-year-olds to distract your big sister from coming up here to see what kind of mischief she can get you into. And if your Aunt Angelique ever has a child, I’m sure Ariel will be calling her cousin to gossip about you when you all grow up, too.”
She kissed the baby’s fine, red curls. “But if your cousin is as good at sidestepping as I am, then Ariel will never find about certain things. Things like a voodoo priestess coming to the house after your baptism to chant over you in front of a room full of unfairly attractive people who seemed to think that was perfectly normal. Or that yours truly was sworn to secrecy by your innocent-looking grandmother.”
She sighed, thinking she might still be a little bit in shock. Or maybe it was just this day. It had been harder than she imagined it would be. But Theresa had been especially attentive, letting her know that she was nearby if Etta needed someone to lean on. Letting her know she was loved.
Love. An image of Christie instantly flashed in her mind but she shook it away. Not yet. She couldn’t think about it yet.
“Look at how pretty this room is, Marcella.” She knew she was talking to the baby to distract herself, but she was willing to do whatever it took at this point.
Christie…
No. She wasn’t thinking about her conversation with Christie right now. She’d barely gotten through the last few days, the time he’d given her to think about what he said.
She’d gone to Midnight Ink to have Rosie finish her back tattoo. She didn’t need any distractions, not anymore. While lying there, she’d avoided all questions concerning the absent Christie and focused on her friend’s love life instead—the details of which would make the most unapologetic sinner blush. But there was more. Etta had heard something in Rosie’s voice she couldn’t remember hearing before. Was she falling for the man she’d met on New Year’s Eve? The questions had helped to distract her from dealing with her own feelings about Midnight Ink’s owner. Her own questions.
/> Today was the fourth day, and from the moment she woke up, she’d been focused on her family. Her godchild. She’d gotten through the baptism, the disconcerting second baptism, and she would get through this party without giving in to the impulse to call him. To go to his house and ask him to tell her how he felt about her again and again, until she believed.
But she couldn’t. Not because he’d given her any reason to doubt his interest, his desire for her—she couldn’t deny what was between them. It was real. When she was with him…
She’d never had anyone look at her like that before. Never had anyone make her feel the way he did.
But he didn’t know her. Not everything. He knew the woman she wanted to be. Tried to be. The smart, strong, passionate woman who’d made something of her life.
He told her he was falling in love with her.
She held the baby closer.
The woman she used to be—the one she hadn’t quite shaken yet—had married a man who never used the word love in her presence. Why should he? He’d been forced to marry her. That woman had given in to her parents prayerful bullying to stay true to her vows even when the man she’d promised to cherish in sickness and in health raised his hand against her.
And she’d stayed even after the baby that had bound them together died five days after his birth.
Etta closed her eyes and bit her lip hard. She was still grieving months later when, after admiring a memorial tattoo on another woman, her husband had invited a friend over to give her one as a gift.
Only when it was done did she realize that what was on her back wasn’t the name on her baby’s birth certificate. It had been that word. The awful word that he said would remind her and anyone who saw it what she was and why she had lost his baby in the first place. He’d placed the other mark on her leg himself, with his friend’s noisy, homemade machine. Dug in so deep that her skin had been scarred. So deep she’d passed out from the pain.