by Blake, Toni
She shook her head, casting a sweet, sheepish expression. “I’m just not sure where to go from here. This isn’t usually me—taking off clothes, making suggestions.”
“Not a problem, beb. I’ll be happy to take over for you.”
She tilted her head, a lock of blond falling across her face, and looked so pretty he could have died.
“Lie down with me,” he said, all playfulness fleeing the scene. “Let me make you feel good.”
She lowered her head back to the pillow and he rolled to his side to look down on her. When he’d first seen her soaring toward him in that leaky old pirogue, he’d felt intruded upon. He’d never wanted to share this place with anyone—it had belonged to him alone. But now that he peered down on this woman, at once so sensitive and so damn determined and strong, he was glad he wasn’t alone anymore.
Dropping his gaze from her eyes to her chest, he gently skimmed one hand up her smooth, pretty stomach and onto the lower curve of her breast. He played lightly with the hard bud of her nipple jutting through the lace before bringing on more kisses. Tender at first, then infused with a deeper passion than he’d meant to set free. He wanted to kiss her senseless, wanted to kiss her until neither of them could think. He wanted to lose himself in this lush body.
But whoa, slow down. You’ve got all night. And you’ve got a woman who needs you to be tender. Even so, his breathing hitched when he tried to soften the kisses. “You doin’ okay, beb?” he whispered, their faces an inch apart.
“Mmm, yes, good.” Her voice came high-pitched, fluttery, aroused.
He sighed his relief, glad his little loss of control hadn’t taken her anyplace she didn’t want to go. “You get me so hot,” he breathed as he began raining kisses over her throat, chest. You make me want you more than I’ve ever wanted—
But no, he couldn’t go there; he successfully stopped the thought midway through. Don’t think, damn it. Just feel.
He kissed his way onto the lace that covered her, loving the rise and fall of her breasts, her breath audible and lovely. But that quickly, he couldn’t bear having the lace between them anymore. Memories of earlier kisses to her bared flesh made him slip his fingers beneath the bra strap, then whisper, “Can I take it off?”
Her eyes glazed with pleasure even as her lips trembled. “Yes.”
Reaching behind her, he deftly unhooked the bra with one hand and slowly eased it away. Tossing the lace aside, he swallowed at the delectable sight. “Just as pretty as I remember, chère.”
Like earlier, he started out just kissing her there, delivering gentle licks, but soon he was suckling. Her sighs came faster as she arched her breast upward, deeper into his mouth. Her responsiveness aroused him more than it would have with any other woman because this was Stephanie, sensitive Stephanie, Stephanie who was afraid of sex. Afraid, but so damn sensual at the same time. He loved drawing it out of her, loved making her want more—making her need it.
Only he had the sneaking suspicion he wasn’t responsible for that. He thought she’d probably always needed it. Just like the woman in his dreams. Wanted it, needed it—but could only get it from him. She was the woman in his dreams. He’d known that, of course, just never let himself fully accept it—because it added to his guilt, and it also begged the question: how the hell had he dreamed her before he’d met her?
His hands left her breasts to roam and explore, wanting to learn every inch of her. His touch gently skimmed her neck and shoulders, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, the lushness of her thigh. It was pure instinct that led his hand onto the cotton between her legs until he was cupping her warmth, molding his palm to her, kneading softly.
Her breath grew more labored and her eyes fell shut, color suffusing her cheeks.
He couldn’t not go further.
Easing his hand beneath the elastic below her navel, he grazed his fingertips across the smooth, satiny skin that led through a light thatch of hair, then down farther. He groaned as his fingers sank into her, gently beginning to stroke. Her sigh was one of abandon. He couldn’t have asked for more.
Nipping lightly at her breast, he eased up near her ear. “You’re so wet for me.”
She only moaned in reply, lifting to his touch. His fingers dove deeper. He wanted to swim inside her.
When he curled his fingers into the elastic at her hips, she rose automatically and he drew the panties down her thighs and over her knees.
If he’d thought she looked lovely and passion-filled earlier, against the wall at the LaRue House, it was nothing compared to how utterly erotic she looked now, naked on his bed, thighs parted so he could kneel between. “You take my breath away,” he whispered into the warm night air, then bent to lower a kiss just above the clump of hair that shielded her most intimate parts.
She whimpered needfully, sounding impatient, and he couldn’t help grinning as he peered up the soft planes of her body, into her eyes. “Goin’ slow for you, beb. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But what?” He blew on the moist flesh just below his mouth.
And she shut her eyes, looking tortured. “But . . . God, please.”
“Tell me you want me to kiss you there, chère.”
She nodded wildly against the white pillowcase. “Yes,” she moaned. “Please, Jake. Kiss me. There.”
Her words echoed through him hotly as he raked his tongue through her sweetness. Mmm, yes, so good. Even better than earlier, because something had changed since then. Hell, a lot of things. He knew her so much better than he had just a few hours earlier.
She moaned in response, and he dipped back for more, soon dragging the tip of his tongue over the swollen nub he knew lay at the center of her sensitivity. She sighed, lifting to him, and though he’d had every intention of taking this slow, making it last, giving her a gradual rise to climax—he couldn’t hold back.
He let the taste and scent of her fill him as her body jerked reflexively. Her hands curled in his hair and she let out a small, heated cry at every stroke, her sounds driving him.
He instinctually pushed one finger inside her warmth. A heavier sob met his ears, but she kept moving with him, and soon he slid in a second, eliciting a hot whimper. “Oh God,” she breathed above him. “Oh God.”
The ceiling fan whirred above them, cooling his back, and Dusty Springfield crooned “Son of a Preacher Man” from one of his grandmother’s old records, and he gave himself over to pleasing her completely. No thinking. No planning. Just doing. Just getting lost in her warmth, in her soft, sexy noises.
“God, Jake, God,” she said, louder.
Yes, beb, come for me.
Her wild moan had her convulsing around him, thrusting, thrusting, climaxing against his tongue and fingers—and when she stopped moving and only the music remained, he stayed very still, too.
He couldn’t quite believe it, but he knew if he moved a muscle, he’d explode in his pants. And that just wasn’t good enough here. Even if it meant falling asleep with a hard-on, he didn’t want to spend himself this way. Just in case. In case she wanted it for herself. He didn’t think she would—he knew he was damn lucky to have taken her this far without her retreat. But even so, if he came tonight, he wanted her to be fully aware she was making it happen. Otherwise, it seemed empty. And he just couldn’t abide that—not with Stephanie.
When the threat of eruption had passed, he moved from between her legs to crawl up beside her on the quilt. Their eyes met, hers filled with the last embers from the flames. “Good?” he whispered.
She bit her lip, casting a coquettish smile. He’d never seen such a sexy look on her face. “Amazing.”
He returned a soft grin, leaning in for a slow kiss.
“Thank you.”
He spoke deeply. “My pleasure.”
“No,” she said. “The pleasure was
definitely mine.”
“A different kind of pleasure on my end, beb. The pleasure of tastin’ you, hearin’ you, watchin’ you.”
She flushed slightly, her cheeks going pink in the pale light. “I’m just so glad . . .” She blinked prettily and met his gaze. “Glad I didn’t . . . do what I usually do. Glad I didn’t make you stop.”
“Mmm—me too.”
She looked around the room, seeming to take it all in. “I feel a world away from New Orleans,” she said, and he knew what she meant. When he was here, it seemed as if no other place existed. It was just him and the water and the cypress trees.
“This bed is extraordinary,” she said, looking up above them at the thick headboard of dark pine.
He barely noticed it anymore, but her words reminded him that when he’d first started coming back out here a couple of years ago, it had struck him the same way, as if he’d never even seen it before. “When I was a kid, my dad and me made it for my mamère.”
“Your mamère,” she repeated slowly, trying out the word.
He delivered a soft smile. “My grandma.”
She sat up, turning to study the wood. His dad had gotten the heavy pine in trade for repairing somebody’s car in Houma, where they’d lived at the time. You gonna help me make your mamère a pretty bed for her birthday, boy. Gonna make her somethin’ nice, he’d said, slapping his hand flat on the wood. He’d been pleased his father wanted his help, and together they’d spent hours, his dad teaching him the right way to hammer a nail and operate a jigsaw.
“I can’t believe you made this, Jake.” She ran her hand over the hand-carved design in the center of the headboard.
He laughed. “Not me alone, chère. Like I said, my dad and me. Mostly him.”
She looked him in the eye. “Tell me about this place. Where are we?”
“My mamère lived here all her life—the place was built by her père.” He stopped to laugh at his tendency to think everyone understood him. “Her father,” he translated. He paused to look around the room then, same as Stephanie had been doing, wistfully recalling all the ways this little house had become such a large part of his life. “My dad left my mother and me when I was twelve, so we came to live here with Mamère.”
He appreciated the sadness that filled her expression. “Where . . . did he go?”
“Don’t know. You’ve heard the old story—went out for cigarettes one day and never came back? That’s exactly how it was. Haven’t seen him since. Over twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He bent to lower a soft kiss to her smooth stomach, summoning an acceptant smile for her. “Not your fault, beb.”
“Where’s your mom now?”
“She lives in a little shotgun house in the Ninth Ward. Cuts and sets old ladies’ hair in her kitchen and drinks too much. I used to try to take care of her, but . . .”
“But what?”
He shook his head and wondered when the hell he’d decided to open up to Stephanie Grant. “It’s . . . not easy. She tells me she’s gonna quit drinkin’, then I go over and find her drunk ’cause some old guy she was datin’ did her wrong. I get where I can’t handle it.” He’d been in the can’t-handle-it mode for the last two years, only going over when his hair got so long it started bothering him or when she got on a kick to call him day and night because she wanted to make him a pot roast and act like the two of them were a normal family, when they were anything but. “All I know is there’s nothin’ I can do to make it better,” he added without quite meaning to.
Merde. What was he doing spilling his guts to this woman? Usually, he was real good at keeping his troubles to himself—something Tony claimed was “part of your problem, man—part of why you can’t move on.” But he liked keeping things to himself just fine, and decided to go back to doing that, starting now.
Time to turn the focus back to what he wanted from Stephanie, and what he knew Stephanie wanted from him. That was easier. Well, in a way—if only she didn’t make him feel so damn much.
But it felt too good to want to push that part aside right now.
He dropped his gaze to her body, enjoying the simple fact that there was a naked woman lying beside him in bed. He bent to nibble at the taut peak of one breast. “Enough about this old place,” he murmured, blowing coolly on her nipple and watching her bite her lip at the sensation.
She rolled to her side, her breasts swaying with the movement. “But I like this place. I . . . feel you here.”
“Even so,” he said with a grin, “I’d rather get back to feelin’ you here.” He ran one hand over her bare hip, letting it rest in the valley of her waist. Then he leaned close until they were chest to chest, her beaded nipples raking teasingly at his flesh.
He rolled to his back, taking her with him, so that she lay atop him, the crux of her thighs nestling his erection through his worn jeans. Anchoring one arm around her and lifting his other hand to her cheek, he reached up for a kiss—and instinct made him slide his hand from her back to her ass, pressing slightly, bringing her closer against him. A soft moan escaped her, washing over him in a wave of warmth. “Want me to make you come again?” he whispered.
She replied just as low. “No.”
“No?”
“I want to make you come now.”
He blinked his surprise, taken aback. But then he remembered—she was the least predictable woman he’d ever met, constantly catching him off guard. This one topped the heap of things he hadn’t expected from her, but the deep pleasure of anticipation settled into his bones as he lay back and smiled. “Won’t take much, beb.”
Stephanie’s heart beat a mile a minute as she raised off him to kneel at his side. Her body still reeled from orgasm—hell, she was reeling from everything, the whole night. And now, here she was, hovering over him, wanting to do things she’d never wanted to do before.
Somehow, when she’d least expected it, things had turned easy with him.
No, not easy. Scary as hell, in fact. But her want truly overrode her fear tonight, and the pleasure he’d brought her was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Now she wanted to please him, too.
The truth was, though, she barely knew how. She was more accustomed to being a recipient than a giver of sexual favors. But she was going to follow her instincts. She bit her lip, staring down at the thick bulge in his jeans.
She felt him watching her, studying her every expression and move. It should have increased her worry, made her feel she’d been placed in a spotlight—that’s how it usually was with her and sex, when she deigned to have it. But with Jake, his penetrating gaze only made her want to please him that much more, made her want to be some sort of sexual vixen for him.
“Don’t be afraid, chère.”
She took the words to heart. Don’t be afraid, Stephanie. Not now. Just follow your instincts. And tonight, she realized happily, there was no selling it, no asking herself to be something she wasn’t, no masquerade of any kind. Tonight, it was real—she was a woman who wanted to be with this man, in every way.
Reaching down, she undid the top button of his Levi’s, hissing in her breath as she drew the zipper down to reveal white cotton straining from what lay within.
She touched him through his underwear, let her fingers close gingerly around the large columnar shape. Big. He was big. She gasped softly and prayed he hadn’t heard since he was watching her hand now, his eyes gone glassy, his breath heavy.
She was probably the only woman on the face of the planet who took a man’s pants off hoping he was small, but the realization made her understand: Jake was so right about what scared her, that the night she’d heard her parents arguing made her fear pain. And Jake was probably bigger than any man she’d been with.
That’s okay. Because you aren’t going to have sex. He said so. Just fooling around. That’s all you’re going to do
.
And like before, it was that affirmation that allowed her to push every ounce of trepidation aside and relish him.
Glancing from his erection to his face, she said, “Lift,” and he did, allowing her to lower his jeans. Underneath, he wore snug boxer briefs that barely contained him, his stiffness stretching the top edge of the underwear. Next, she reached for the elastic and he rose up, helping her push them down. Her womb contracted with need at the sight of him.
She didn’t bother taking his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off—just reached down and ran the flat of her palm up his length, letting his gasp of pleasure fill her. She slowly began to stroke him, thinking how amazing the male anatomy was. But wait, no, not every male. This male’s anatomy was amazing, moving her in ways she’d never expected to be moved. How could he feel like satin and steel at the same time?
She lowered her mouth, kissing his tip.
His groan traveled the length of her body and made her want to give him more, so much more—so she followed the unfamiliar urge to sink her mouth onto him.
She moved slowly, feeling her way, sensing his pleasure. His hand wove through her hair, holding it back from her face. He murmured deeply in French and she savored knowing he watched her.
She was not a virgin at this, but it was the first time in her life she’d ever wanted to do it, ever felt the urge to give a man that gift without any prodding on his part. She hoped he could sense what it meant to her, how freely she gave, and as their gazes met, she believed he could. “Mmm, ça c’est bon, beb. Oui.”
She wanted to take him where he’d taken her, to utter ecstasy—and within a few moments, his labored breath had turned to moans, until he uttered, “Now.”
She rose off him, wishing he were inside her, wanting to feel him there—but before she could even weigh those thoughts, his rough groan permeated the air and his warmth splashed across her stomach.
She gasped, looking down, and he reached for her, kissing her wildly, his tongue plundering her mouth as he pulled her tight against him. “Mon Dieu,” he whispered breathlessly between kisses. “Mmm, merci, chère. Merci.”