by Sandra Hill
John stared at her, remembering the Celine he’d met for the first time in high school. She hadn’t been bad-looking then, but she’d been a little chunky and worn geeky clothes and had an attitude. Oh, she thought he was the one with an attitude, but it was the reverse. At least, it had been back then.
She’d been so frickin’ smart. Not that he was a dummy, but she and her crowd had looked at him and his friends as if they were low-level cretins. Okay, maybe they had behaved that way at times.
But look at her now. Holy sac-à-lait! Even without makeup or hot clothes, she was stunning. Not beautiful, but very, very attractive. The blue eyes with the dark brown hair were especially compelling.
And she had a nice figure, showcased by tight jeans and an abdomen-hugging white tank top, covered with an unbuttoned, faded blue denim shirt that matched her eyes. Her hair was held off her face with barrettes on either side of her face.
He wanted her.
Which was insanity.
Tante Lulu had told him earlier about Celine’s father having committed suicide soon after her mother died of cancer. Thinking back, he realized that it must have been just before she’d come back to Houma to live with her grandfather, just before starting high school. Had he been unconsciously unkind to her? At the least, he hadn’t been sensitive to what a troubled kid she must have been. No wonder she had been so aloof . . . not stuck-up, like he’d thought at the time.
All this insight, combined with this new appreciation for her physically, was giving him the hard-on from hell. He searched his brain to think of something to break the thread of irresistible attraction.
“It just occurred to me, Celine. When you were all upset about being cut off from your family, you never once mentioned Derrick being able to contact you.”
“Derrick? Oh, right. Derrick.”
In that moment, as pink stained her cheeks, he knew. There was no fiancé.
And like a virtual video in his head, he saw a huge window of opportunity open. The question was: Did he care?
Hell, yes!
Would it be a dumb move?
Hell, yes!
Would he dare to jump through?
Hmmm!
Who said dancing is a form of foreplay? . . .
It was only eight P.M. Another hour of daylight before they would be forced to their beds by the hordes of mosquitoes practically salivating at the prospect of virgin skin.
Virgin? Hah, skin was the only thing virgin around here. John for sure had been around the block a time or two or hundred. She, on the other hand, was hardly promiscuous or even very experienced, but she could not claim to be lily white. So why was sex between two consenting adults, meaning her and John, so wrong?
Well, duh! How about how different we are? How about us being in conflicting professions?
How about him practically kidnapping me? How about him being my son’s father . . . and not knowing it?
John had erected his small tent with mosquito netting over to the side of the equipment tent where they had been working ever since dinner and where a sleeping bag had been laid down for her, covered with netting, of course. Now he was fiddling with a tape player and a mixture of songs. Patti LaBelle started to belt out “Lady Marmalade.” Definitely Charmaine’s kind of song.
Well, John’s, too, if the swing of his hips was any indication. And, oh, my, he was swinging his hips her way.
She backed up a few steps. “What are you doing?”
“Checkin’ out your window, chère.” Meantime, he was dancing closer, and she was backing up more. Pretty soon she would be landing in the mud pudding again, but, no, she did a backward left turn.
He laughed and snapped his fingers in tandem with the beat of his hips and the music. “I love to dance. Do you like to dance, Celine?”
There was no right or wrong answer to that question. If she said yes, she would be bee-bopping with the Bayou Lord of the Dance. If she said no, he would be offering to teach her to dance. But maybe it was one of those loaded question thingees, where he was saying “dancing” but really meant something else. Oh, Lord, why am I double thinking everything?
“I like to dance, but I’m no expert, like you.”
“There’s no such thing as an expert when two people dance together. C’mon.” He held both hands out to her, beckoning.
Taking her hesitation for assent, he swooped in, lifting her up and swinging her around in his arms, spinning like a top. When he set her on her feet, a little bit dizzy, he started to dance around her, urging,
“C’mon, Celine, show me your moves.”
He probably expected her to protest that she didn’t have moves, but she did. Oh, nothing like his, but moves nonetheless, and she was tired of being thought of as a sexless geek.
And so, she shimmied up his front. She undulated against his back. She rolled her shoulders, swung her hips, and shook her bootie. He matched every one of her moves and showed her some new ones.
All to the drumming beat of “Lady Marmalade,” then James Brown’s “I Feel Good,” Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock ’n Roll.” That Charmaine sure had an eclectic taste in music.
They were laughing so hard they fell against each other by the time the music went slower. Now it was BeauSoleil’s Cajun ballad, “La Fleche D’amour.” They stilled abruptly, as if zapped with a Taser, when her breasts hit his chest. Without pulling apart . . . his hands were on her waist, hers were on his shoulders . . . they stared at each other, the air thick with a tension that was clearly sexual. With an unspoken question in the air, he finally made a decision for both of them by hauling her into his embrace. The slow dancing they engaged in then was foreplay as sensual as an intimate touch.
Again they danced from one song to another, but with each progressive song, their embrace got closer, their dance moves slower. Still BeauSoleil, but now “Les Blues de Chaleur,” or “Hot Blues,”
and that classic “C’est un Peche de Dire un Menterie,” better known as “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.”
At what point they had stopped dancing, she had no idea. All she knew was that John’s eyes were closed, the beautiful black lashes fanned out on his tanned cheeks, and his mouth was moving toward hers. She couldn’t turn away, being still in his tight embrace, but she didn’t want to.
All of her senses were heightened. She smelled his minty breath; he’d been chewing gum earlier.
She heard his breathing, even though it wasn’t heavy. She felt his body pressed against hers; they were thigh to thigh, belly to belly, breasts to chest, despite his being four or five inches taller. Well, no wonder! His hands had somehow managed to be cupping her buttocks, lifting her up onto her toes. And now she was going to taste him.
“Celine,” he whispered against her lips. “Open for me, darlin’.”
At least he knew who he was kissing. But she wasn’t about to be a submissive here. “You, too.
Open for me, darlin’.”
He smiled against her lips, then nipped her bottom lip for mimicking him. It was a lazy kiss that followed, a long leisurely exploration that went on forever. The kiss was gentle, but wet. Very wet. The boy could kiss, she’d give him that. In fact, if she wasn’t careful, he would make her come, just with a kiss. On a groan, she pulled away, staring at him with dismay. To her embarrassment, she was panting.
And he appeared totally unruffled. Well, no, that wasn’t true. His eyes were half-hooded with arousal, his lips parted and moist, his breath hot, and yep there was something long and hard making its presence known down yonder.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, hauling her back into another kiss.
She was too weak and confused to protest.
This time, he let her have the full arsenal of his renowned expertise. His lips demanded, his tongue plunged, his teeth nipped. Without words, he coaxed her to mirror his actions. They soon had an incredible rhythm going with their tongues, hers going into his mouth, and his following its retreat int
o her mouth with his own tongue, over and over in a smooth, unbroken exercise in the most delicious torment. If he hadn’t been holding her up, her legs probably would have given out by now.
But suddenly he jerked back and started slapping the back of his neck and bare arms. Belatedly, she realized that dusk had fallen, and they were being eaten alive by giant kamikaze mosquitoes.
“C’mon, honey, let’s get out of here.” John grabbed her hand, dragging her toward his tent. He shoved her in, then ran back to the equipment tent, picking up a few items, then zipping them in when he returned. “I brought some calamine lotion,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”
Whaaat? she squealed mentally.
Her surprise must have shown on her face because John rose from where he’d just turned on a small battery-operated lantern to cast a soft glow, and said in a gravelly voice, “Or do you want me to take them off?” The tent was so small his head brushed the top of the canvas. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped closer and walked his fingers from her shoulders to her knuckles, turned her hands over, and kissed both palms and wrists. An extremely erotic thing for him to do!
She sighed.
He smiled.
Celine had that out-of-body feeling, as if she were standing above, watching, not a real participant.
It was odd, really. She and John didn’t even like each other, but here they were, about to have wild monkey sex, and that’s what it would be, too, no doubt about that. In that blip of a second while her mind had wandered, John was down on his knees, and he’d managed to slip off her shoes, socks, and jeans, slicker than a cat burglar. A remarkable feat when you considered that she usually had to lie down to get into this particular pair of jeans.
“Spread, baby.”
She did, a little bit.
And now . . . oh, my God! . . . he was kissing his way up her legs, slowly, instep to knee to thigh, bypassing her bikini-brief clad groin, then down the other side. Before she could say, “Do that again,”
he was behind her, doing strange things to the back of her knees . . . licking, blowing, nipping, kissing.
Over and over ’til her knees started to buckle. A gurgling, incoherent sound came from her mouth.
Chuckling, he rose and yanked her T-shirt up and over her head. Then he stepped back and studied her body.
Her underwear was nothing fancy. Just white silk with an edge of lace. But he looked at her as if she were a Victoria’s Secret model.
Her bra and panties joined her other clothes on the ground under his deft fingers. He let the backs of his fingers brush over her breasts ’til the nipples pearled, then he stepped back again. “I want to make love to you so bad my bones hurt. If I touch you again, I won’t be able to stop.” He tilted his head in question at her.
She tried to laugh, but it came out a gurgle. “John, I think we crossed that line back with the slow dancing.”
The smile he gave her then was so sexy it was her bones that ached.
“Undress me,” he urged.
Oh, boy! “I’m not sure I can maintain my composure that long.”
She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud ’til he said, “Oh, darlin’, composure is the last thing I want from you.”
With a lack of inhibition she’d never shown before, Celine removed John’s clothing in the same way he had hers, starting at the bottom, kissing his legs, even the back of his knees, encouraged by soft compliments and words of advice. By the time she’d removed his boxer briefs, his erection was something to behold, and she told him so.
Laughing with pure delight, he fell back onto the blanket, pulling her with him. Then he rolled so that she was under him. “Are you as excited as I am?”
“I don’t know. Let me check.” She pretended to be glancing down at his body.
That was the last time she joked for a while.
She reached up to caress his chest, and he swatted her hands away, instead arranging her arms above her head. “Not yet. Let me go first.”
Any notion she’d had earlier of an out-of-body experience evaporated then. She’d already accepted that John LeDeux kissing her had been quite an experience. John LeDeux suckling her breasts was beyond bliss. But John LeDeux going down on her was a Holy Moly!-screaming-hell-pounding-body-arching-two-orgasm experience.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?”
Her eyes shot open from where she lay splatted out like a spread-eagled pancake. “For what?”
“The main event, baby. The fuckin’ main event.”
Her eyes probably rolled back in her head. She hoped she wasn’t drooling. She for sure was having trouble concentrating through the erotic haze that surrounded her. Did he just use the F-word to her?
During foreplay? Did she care?
But then he knelt between her legs, slipped on a condom, and pulled her up and on him. On . . .
him! Celine was being bombarded with so many sensations, she felt as if she was in the midst of an erotic whirlpool. Totally out of control.
“Don’t move,” she ordered him as he filled her and then some. “I need to concentrate.”
“Concentrate all you want.”
He didn’t exactly move. But the brute did flex inside her.
And Big O number four slam-dunked through her, or was it five?
He started slow by rocking her. Then he pushed her onto her back again and began long, long, long strokes.
Celine had read a sex study a few years ago that said in the average sexual encounter the man thrusts one hundred and ten strokes. She’d pooh-poohed the idea at the time as mere male delusion, but now she wasn’t so sure.
He stopped suddenly, embedded in her farther than any man had ever been. “Tell me how you feel,” he husked out. “Tell me what you like.”
She put both hands to her hot cheeks. She’d never been into verbal sex play, but . . . but suddenly the idea excited her . . . a lot.
“C’mon. Show your wild side.”
Like I have a wild side! “Okay,” she agreed, wetting her lips nervously. “I like . . . I like how you fill me so much I stretch.”
He put a forefinger under her chin and lifted so that she was looking at him. As a reward for her honesty, he drew back, then slammed into her.
She gasped and rippled around him.
“I like the way you clasp me so tightly,” he told her.
She squirmed from side to side to show how much she appreciated his compliment. To her immense satisfaction, he trembled with the tight rein he was attempting to hold on his arousal. When he got himself under control, he said, “Continue.”
“I like your stamina.”
He choked out a laugh. “I’m not feeling much stamina right now.”
“Really? Believe me, your staying power is phenomenal. I haven’t had that many experiences, but I’ve never had sex last this long.”
“Me neither.”
Was he trying to say that they made a good combination? Or they were a fluke? Or maybe he just hadn’t had sex for a while. But, no, he would probably not be able to hold out very long in that case.
She had no chance to ask those questions because John said, “Brace yourself, Celine,” and they were off to the races. Or rather the finish line.
Soon John strained his shoulders back, the cords standing out on his neck, and he released a long, loud masculine howl of satisfaction. She joined him in the end.
Sated, he fell asleep on her, his face nuzzling her neck, his penis still half-erect inside of her.
She was stunned. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. The amazing sex had to be an anomaly. She wasn’t sure what it meant, if anything, and her brain was too fuzzy, her body too exhausted, to think right then. One thing was certain, and it was not good: she was starting to care for the lout.
John’s weight was heavy on her, but it was a pleasant heaviness. She could take it . . . for a short time.
There was something important she needed to discuss with John. They were not going to engage in an a
ffair. This was a one-time thing. No regrets, but no return events, either. She would wake him in a minute and set the record straight.
But first . . . she fell asleep.
Chapter 12
Get along, little cowboy . . . uh, cowgirl . . .
John was so embarrassed.
He’d never conked out on a woman after sex before. But Celine Arseneaux had knocked him for a loop, in more ways than one. Every cell in his body felt satisfied. The endorphins in his body must have gone haywire, but he was supremely relaxed now. Like a wet noodle.
Well, not entirely relaxed or not entirely a wet noodle, he realized in amazement as his dick sort of raised its head . . . the dick that was still inside Celine, for the love of Dieu! . . . and gave him a silent high five, with the message, “Rev up the engine, big boy! Time for the next lap.”
Carefully, he raised his eyelids to see if Celine was laughing at him for falling asleep . . . or too crushed by his weight to speak. But, no, she was thank-you-God asleep.
He smiled to himself, inordinately pleased that he could have knocked her out like this. Forget about the fact that he had been knocked out, too.
Man, I am good! With that brain-dead thought in mind, he let Mr. Happy go to town. Just a twitch and some swelling . . . damn, he loved the swelling.
Celine’s eyes shot open, disoriented at first. But it didn’t take long for her to realize one of her least favorite men was on top of her with his cock practically up to her tonsils, ready to party again.
It was like a slideshow, watching the changing expressions on her face. First, surprise . . . to see him. Then, shock . . . at what she had just done . . . done well, if he did say so himself. Then, embarrassment . . . at what she had just done. Pretty soon she would be phasing into the “What was I thinking?” mode. Preempting her, he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips. Holy shit! I don’t want to be around when she gets a look at her kiss-swollen lips. Or the bite mark on her shoulder. Or the fingerprints on her breasts.