by Sylvie Kaye
"And open season for us trappers.” Max nodded.
"What did Bigfoot do?” she asked, changing the subject from the swamp rat back to the swamp thing.
"His eyes gleamed yellow in the spotlight. We stared at each other for long seconds. When he jerked his head and lifted his arm, I scrambled for my gear and my truck. By the time I backed out and my headlights shone across the bayou again, he was gone. Where I don't know? But I didn't stick around to find out. I hightailed out of there."
"Smart man.” Zack would've done the same.
Max flipped on the radio to call shore. “We'll be docking."
When the boat wound around the next bend in the bayou creek, the sweet scent of wild azaleas wafted on the breeze. Ahead of them, glinting rays of sunshine bounced from dense green trees, thick green underbrush, and plush green ground. All that greenness reflected on the still water giving it a green appearance.
Haloed in a shimmer of sunlight a small, raised plantation house came into view. Two galleries supported by pillars overlooked a garden and the river.
The brick-elevated wooden villa was weathered, peeling, and in need of paint. In other words, in the world of the wealthy, the house was shabby chic and vogue.
And soon to be his and Jilly's love nest.
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Chapter Twenty
"Name's Oscar.” Wearing a red-white-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, Big Al's crony introduced himself to Jilly at the landing. “How's your old man doing?” He smothered Zack in a bear hug.
"Big Al's always fine."
"Good, good,” Oscar mumbled, examining the hotel light fixture before signaling a worker to haul the carton and their luggage up to the house. “Saab running okay?” he asked. “Like I said, the car's at the townhouse. Use it any time."
"Thanks, sir.” Zack pulled Jilly close. “Jilly's especially fond of the convertible."
Oscar's grin widened, the gums of his dentures showing. “When you mentioned a guest, I assumed you meant your cousin, Bob. Glad I was wrong. She's prettier.” He winked, grabbed hold of Jilly's arm, and led her toward the plantation house where the Cajun sound of a fiddle and accordion played. Zack tagged alongside of them. “You two are right on time for the crawdad boil."
The fishy, spicy smell from the boiling pots hung heavy on the motionless air. As the three of them approached the back lawn, the party looked to be in full swing. Groups of people huddled everywhere, eating, dancing, laughing.
Oscar introduced them around, leaving abruptly when a tall, dark woman dragged him onto a wooden dance area set atop the grass.
"Please,” he called to them, “have something to eat."
"Is it time to eat already?” Zack crinkled his nose.
"Don't look so eager.” Jilly laughed. “Do I have to hand feed you?"
He stared at her graceful, skillful hands, felt his eyes glaze over. “That would help."
But it didn't. He dragged his sneakered feet, reluctant to hold out their paper platters to be piled high with crawfish. Jilly balanced boiled red potatoes and corn-on-the-cob on another plate.
"Fried alligator, Cajun-fried turkey, Creole tomatoes?” she asked as they passed by the servers.
"No, no, and, no.” He shook his head at each supposed delicacy, then circled several wooden tables before settling down. No sooner did he plop their plates onto a newspaper-covered tabletop than he popped back up. “Drinks. I'd better get us drinks."
But he wasn't going anywhere. From somewhere behind him, an efficient pair of male hands plunked down full pitchers of soda pop and draft beer before retrieving the empties. Paper cups were stacked nearby.
Slowly, Zack sank back down onto the bench. “I guess you'd better show me how to eat this.” He held up a reddish crawfish by the tail. Its long antennae dangled. Its beady black eyes glared. “He doesn't look like he died happy."
Jilly tied a paper bib emblazoned with a snappy, dirty-dancing crawfish around her neck and one around Zack's. His Adam's apple bobbed in dismay. He wished she'd kiss his neck until the throbbing calmed, but that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with arousal.
She kissed his forehead. “It'll be okay."
"Kiss me again, in case.” He leaned over and planted a succulent, smacking kiss to her lips. In a flash he hungered for more than mudbugs.
Mudbugs first, he told himself. Jilly later.
She fished a crawdad out of the pile. “Step one, twist and separate the tail section from the rest of the body."
He did as she did and held up the two parts. “Now what?"
"Some enthusiasts enjoy sucking the spices from the head section."
"I'll pass on the enthusiastic part."
"Then discard it.” She tossed the remains onto a stack of newspaper opposite them. Zack gladly did the same. “Hold the tail at the base like this.” She demonstrated a firm but light grasp. “With your other hand, pinch along its length to loosen the meat. Now you can either pull the meat out from the shell with your fingers or suck it out while pulling on the base."
His large fingers broke the meat into smidgens when he pulled too hard.
"It takes practice.” She showed him both the pulling and the sucking methods once more. “The process is wet and messy, but rewarding. Kind of like sex,” she murmured.
His eyes met hers. Hunger that had nothing to do with food shone in them. “When you put it that way, I have renewed interest."
He went back to pinching, sucking, and pulling, but not without struggling. Apparently to keep him from becoming discouraged, she fed him a piece of spicy, sweet, meat she'd extracted. His tongue licked her fingertips to spur on her generosity. It worked. She continued to feed him. The rough texture of his tongue and the smooth feel of her fingers were a turn on. Not long into it his mouth felt slick and hot. He let out a low whistle to cool them.
"I forgot to mention that the spices eventually burn your lips. That's the reason for the cold drinks.” She slid the paper cups his way.
"Let's go it sober.” He poured them each soft drinks from one of the pitchers. Awareness would work better for both of them later on.
She sipped her root beer while he chugged his down in thirsty gulps.
Gradually, he got the hang of pinching and pulling. Soon he fed her, letting his fingers linger on her lips, and waiting while she licked his fingertips.
Watching her eat whet his appetite for more than food. Her mouth, her teeth, her glistening lips. He recalled the taste of her kisses and the feel of her body all too well. Tonight, he planned to play and tease her body, awakening the chakras through a sexual yoga position that induced emotional fire.
Until then, he'd settle for food. He went back to eating. With buttery lips, he looked up from the corn-on-the-cob he'd started in on. “Great food, huh? To think I was scared."
"Yeah, a big guy like you.” She straightened his bib.
When he kissed her to show his thanks, she flicked her tongue over his lips. He glanced around. Amongst the pungent, spicy, fish smells, love was in the air. Everywhere people ate with their fingers, licking fingers and lips, kissing, drinking, and laughing. Others danced, close and slow and intimate.
"Care to dance?” Zack craved to feel her heat and supple body next to his.
"Care to swing?” she asked.
He raised a brow.
She pointed to a hammock strung nearby between two willows. “Aw, too late. Another couple already got the jump on us.” A man and woman circled the hammock, hopping on and swaying in each other arms.
"There's a hand pump where we can wash up.” He gestured toward a rusted iron water pump beneath a shady umbrella of oak trees edging the yard.
They washed and splashed, then dried their hands on his cotton shirt. She rested her soft hands on his hard chest, the thud of his heart, pounding heavy beneath her gentle touch. Lifting her hands, he kissed her palms, lightly. “Let's watch the dancers for now."
"For now.” She repeated, her tone a
seductive promise. “This is my first weekend away from my aunts, ever."
With a knowing nod, Zack sank down onto the grass and leaned against the rough trunk of a leafy oak. He patted the ground between his straddled legs. “Better sit here so the bark doesn't snag your pretty dress."
She reclined against him, nestling her butt firmly between his thighs. “Snags aren't fixable but grass stains are. Aunt Vinny uses an old wives’ molasses rub to remove them.” Her silky hair tickled his neck as she glanced up at him. “I promised Ann on Marie Laveau's grave, the most powerful Voodoo Queen to live and die in New Orleans, not to mention my aunts and to concentrate solely on you for the next two days."
"Ann's my new best friend,” he said.
They listened and watched as the Cajun tunes changed from sad to happy and the dancers switched from waltzes to two-steps and reels.
"That sounds like a polka,” he said, when a rub board player replaced the fiddler and the rhythm changed to a lively tune. The dancers picking up the pace.
"He's playing a frotoir. The corrugated tin tunic is made from a washboard. The music's Zydeco."
"What's he using to strum it?"
"Spoons and thimbles.” She grinned up at him. Her face close to his jaw, her scent familiar. “He's talented, huh?"
"Yeah.” Zack waggled his foot back and forth to the beat.
"The rhythm makes a body want to move.” She drummed her fingers on her tummy.
"I guess we should give it a shot,” he said. “I may never have a chance to showoff my jig again."
"Jig?” She laughed.
"Mine's the Milwaukee version."
"Oh, this I have to see."
Lazy time was over. They stood and brushed the grass from their clothes. He took Jilly's hand in his and led her onto the wooden platform.
Her world didn't stop or even slow with Zack on the move. He caught on fast and imitated the other dancers. As Jilly danced her dress swayed, the hem teasing her calves seductively. The dress, the music, and Zack made her feel sexy and alive and carefree. The day and weekend stretched ahead without a responsibility in sight.
By the second song, he held her a lot closer and tighter, like hugging to a slow, sultry rhythm. Heat hovered—from the dancers, the boiling fish pots, the swamp. And from her and Zack's bodies. The tightening of his jaw, the flex of his stomach muscles, the hardening between his legs were telltale signs of his need. A need Jilly knew and encouraged by grinding her hips into his.
Abruptly, the music and dancing stopped.
Arms around her waist, he stepped back and they looked at one another in surprise, then at the bandstand.
The beautiful, dark woman Jilly had seen Oscar with earlier tugged him toward the microphone. The band struck up a well-known song and everyone joined in. “Happy Birthday to you,” rang out from the dance floor, the tables, and the lawn. The song deafened the bayou.
When the singing wound down to the last, “Happy Birthday, dear Oscar,” applause drowned out his thank you.
"Thanks,” he began again, “for coming to my little Fais do do.” The crowd laughed. Oscar's dance party was anything but little. “I have to leave on business, but stay and continue to celebrate."
A loud “Awww” echoed throughout the group.
"Hope you all had a finger pricking, head sucking, tail squeezing good time.” More laughter and applause. “Good friends, good neighbors, Laissez les bons temps rouler."
"Let the good times roll,” Zack shouted along.
The noisy crowd was interrupted by a loud whomp, whomp, whomp as a helicopter landed. With a final farewell, Oscar boarded and took off amidst more waves and shouts. Despite his wishes to the contrary, as soon as he lifted off, the party thinned out.
Gradually, neighbors and friends said their goodbyes to one another and drifted off toward the dock and their boats or the parking area and their vehicles, mostly four-wheel drive trucks and SUVs which edged down the crushed shell drive toward the swamp road.
Within the hour, only the caterers and she and Zack remained. The catering staff busied themselves cleaning up and loading their trucks. They watched the bustle from willow rockers on the verandah.
Kicking off her shoes, she pushed the rocker into motion with her toes. Zack didn't bother. He looked tuckered out. Heat and humidity did that to a person until they got used to the weather.
When the last white catering truck pulled away, the only proof of a party was a hint of stale beer and crawfish on the still air.
"I could go for a cold drink and a cold shower. In that order.” Zack forced himself from the lazy comfort of the rocker and stood up. “I'll see what I can scrounge up by way of drinks."
She did give a thought to helping him, but decided to save her strength for more important things, like scrubbing his back. She'd never showered with a man before, and her thighs quivered with expectation. The image of him wet and sudsy raced her heart like the convertible's engine on the Interstate.
"Look for an onion bar while you're in the kitchen."
With a creak, the screen door stopped instead of snapping shut. “Onion bar?"
"Sometimes I forget you're from the North. An onion bar is a rectangle of stainless steel. If you can't find one, a stainless butter knife will do for the shower."
"A stainless steel knife in the shower?” Zack continued holding the door open and waited. He looked ruggedly handsome, but confused.
"Rubbing your fingers over the metal helps rid the crawfish odor."
He grinned now. “I did notice a peculiar aroma, but I figured it for some new kind of perfume."
"Eau de’ Moldy Sock,” she said laughing as the screen door snapped shut and he disappeared inside.
When he came back onto the porch, he handed her a tall, frosty glass of iced tea and a butter knife.
"Only one? You'll be sorry if I don't share,” she warned. “When I smell like a rose and you still smell like, like—"
"Like dirty laundry,” he finished for her.
"Yes, you'll beg to use my stainless steel knife."
"I want to share your knife and your shower.” His husky voice moistened the crotch of her new Victoria Secret ivory satin panties.
He gulped down a long swig from his glass, his throat exposed and tempting, his mouth wet. Afterward, he held out his hand to help her up from the chair.
She swallowed her mouthful of tea, ice chips and all.
But nothing less than Zack would cool her down.
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Chapter Twenty-One
Jilly's blue dress draped the foot of the dark-wood canopied bed along with her neatly folded ivory bra and panties.
She'd taken her time undressing. She had no need to rush.
Wrapped in a fluffy white terry towel, she was enfolded in Zack's toasty arms while he breathed warming life into her. His kisses were that powerful.
At first she shivered, chilled through the bone from the cold shower. They'd stayed too long, but it was difficult to leave the soapy slickness of his body in the close confines of the tiled shower stall. Her lips felt numb and her teeth chattery by the time he insisted on carrying her into the plantation's lilac bedroom.
A wicker ceiling fan stirred the humid air in the room, but Zack's body heated her the fastest. When they were together like this, naked and close, she was in a hurry to feel him, hard and hot, filling her. But he wanted to savor the experience so she'd agreed. Now she struggled to breathe slowly and hold back her panting cravings for the gratification she knew he could bring her.
Her body didn't cooperate. Her lips coaxed his with steamy, open-mouthed kisses. Her towel fell away as both her arms and legs embraced his nakedness. Her blood strummed through her veins with desire for him.
"Let's take it easy.” He rolled away to stretch out alongside of her. Idly, his finger traced gentle circles over her breasts and nipples.
Her body tingled, not willing to let go so easily. “Why?” she murmured.
"So we can become intimate."
She thought they were well on their way to becoming very intimate.
"What did you have in mind?” Her voice sounded gravelly, thick with her sexual need. Her nipples perked beneath the light strokes of his finger. “Shouldn't I be doing something?"
She hoped so. Going slow was exquisite torture. Maybe she could speed things along if he let her lead the way.
"Play, Jilly. You never take time to play."
What did he mean by play? The kids at the preschool had toys when they played. Did Zack expect her to have a sex toy or two packed in her suitcase? If so, Ken and Eric had left a serious gap in her shopping spree.
She hated repeating herself, but she didn't know what else to say. “What did you have in mind?” This time the husky tone in her voice was replaced with confusion.
He stopped stroking her. “There are a lot of things we can do. We can dance again, naked this time. Or we could read romantic poems to each other. Better yet, make up our own."
His suggestions sounded like fun, but a waste of time. Why bother with the kind of playful closeness he was after when they'd both go their separate ways eventually?
"Come on, Jilly, give it a try,” he taunted, toying with a strand of her hair, tickling her neck, coaxing her on.
She nodded her half-hearted agreement. Dancing in the nude could become more seductive than playful, fast. “Let's dance."
He hopped off the bed and held his hand out to her.
He was a magnificent male specimen. Tall, muscular, handsome, and gentle. But she preferred lusting over his physical features than being enamored by his gentleness. She didn't have a need or a place right now in her life for a gentle man. She didn't really trust that side of a man to last beyond the initial dating stage anyway.
He started humming some sultry Cajun tune the musicians had played earlier in the afternoon. Deciding she could handle playing with the sultry side of him, she took his hand. The windows were shuttered and the late afternoon sun sliced through the slats onto the wooden floor, striping their legs and their feet.
She hummed along with him while his strong arms pulled her ever so near. He enveloped her, making her almost one with him as they moved in sync to music of their own making. He stroked her hair, relaxing her, allowing her to melt into the crook of his neck. He smelled soapy and masculine.