by Nancy Warren
Then their words were lost as they kissed deep and hungrily, the leather seat thumping in an age-old rhythm, as they launched each other over the edge of the world. She felt as though she’d plunged right into that dark, rippling bayou. As though the water had closed over her head and she was in some quiet place of throbbing sensation. And then she was rising, up, up, breaking the surface, flying through space.
She felt his mouth kissing her even as he spoke to her. It didn’t matter what he said, she heard him on some deeper level where skin spoke to skin, body to body. The message was given and received.
For a long time they stayed like that, bodies still connected, hearts talking to each other in Morse code while they caught their breath. Wow, she wanted to say. Just, wow.
When they’d cleaned up and put themselves pretty much back together, Claude drove them back to the road. “That was convenient,” she said, “that that quiet spot was so handy.”
Wry humor laced his voice as he answered. “I grew up here, Lucy. I know all the spots.”
She chuckled softly. “You really are a hellion, aren’t you?”
“Was, cousine. Was. I haven’t been down that road in years.”
Six
They drove back to the Garden District at a more sedate pace, but there was no question that they’d be stopping off at his place.
When they pulled into the circular drive, she took a quick look next door and was relieved to see no lights on. Clearly, his mother was still partying.
“It feels weird having sex next door to your mother,” she said, climbing out of the car and being reminded by a sudden breeze up her skirt that her panties were still in Claude’s pocket.
“Don’t worry. She won’t be home for a while. Mother has her own friends, too.”
“Are you saying that she’s out doing . . . what we’re about to do?”
“She’s fifty-six years old and single. Why shouldn’t she enjoy her life?” He took her hand and walked her to his front door. “The last couple of years with my dad, they weren’t easy on her. He was sick with cancer and she did all the nursing herself. They’d always done everything together.” He was silent for a moment and she felt his grief. “We both still miss him, but it’s good to see her getting on with her life.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’re a good son.”
He smiled down at her. “It’s hard sometimes, you know? I don’t want to think of anybody but my daddy with her. But I’m trying.”
When they got inside the house she felt suddenly like she’d jumped into that bayou without even checking to see what alligators lurked. In the morning she knew she was going to worry about what she was doing, but for tonight it was too late. The water felt good, far too good to climb out before she was ready.
So, when he took her face in his hands and kissed her slow and deep, she responded fully.
His tongue was warm and inviting in her mouth, bringing her simmering desire back to full boil.
He pulled back and she could see the effort it cost him. “Do you want something to drink?”
She let him see exactly what she wanted, let it all show in her eyes. “No.”
“Good.” He took her hand once more and led her up the stairs.
They didn’t race, though they wanted to. Didn’t stop to kiss because then they’d never make it to his bedroom.
She followed him, feeling her excitement build with each rising tread of the stairs. At the landing, he turned her to the right, to a room that she recognized the instant she saw it was exactly right for him. The furniture was rich early American. The bed was obviously new—since she didn’t think a lot of early Americans had king-sized beds—but made to match the antiques. His bedding was maroon and navy, and a plush Turkish rug in the same colors graced the wide-planked floorboards. The atmosphere in the room was masculine but luxurious. On the walls were two paintings she recognized as Southern artists—very collectible.
“Are you always this neat or were you planning to bring me here?”
“I’m always this neat.” He grinned at her. “But the towels in the bathroom and the sheets on the bed are fresh. That was in case I managed to get you up here.”
“Well, if we’re being honest”—she reached into his breast pocket and pulled out her silk and lace panties—“I don’t pull these on unless I think somebody’s going to see them.” She tilted her head back, put her panties around the back of his neck, and used them like a rope to pull him down for a kiss.
“This time,” he said, when they came up for air, “I want to take our time.”
“Mmm.”
“This time, I want to see you.” As he spoke, he slipped a spaghetti strap off her shoulder, kissing the spot where it had sat.
She pulled off his jacket, tossed it to a nearby armchair in front of the fireplace. He tipped down the other strap, kissed her other shoulder.
Off came his tie. He held out his wrists so she could remove his cufflinks. Black ones, jet or onyx—more of those antiques he couldn’t pass up, she imagined. Being with this man was like stepping back in time.
The shirt next. She took her time with the studs, letting herself savor each new inch of tawny flesh she uncovered. The little clicking noises as she dropped them onto a ceramic dish on his night table punctuated the sounds of their breathing.
She couldn’t help recalling the first time she’d seen him shirtless and damp with exertion. She’d wanted to touch him then; on some cellular level her body had known the need for him. Now, he was finally hers.
He gave her his patience, and she knew it was a gift from the way she sensed the short leash he was keeping on himself. She realized that patience was near its end when she felt his hands at her back and then heard the slow hush of her zipper. The dress started to slide and she let it go, feeling the silk stroke her skin as it slid slowly to the floor. Claude watched it all the way. She wore no bra and her panties were long gone, so as the dress sighed its way down her body, she was completely exposed. His breath sucked in when her breasts appeared. He gave a guttural grunt of satisfaction when she was naked.
Small, Claude thought. Her breasts were small as he’d known they’d be. But they were perfect. Round as plums and tipped with up-tilted nipples. Her belly was runner-lean, the muscles striated but feminine. The dip of her waist curved to the slight roundness of her hips and then came those long, stong runner’s legs.
He couldn’t get his breath, or take his eyes off her.
“I’m not exactly voluptuous,” she said with a shrug as he continued to stare, speechless.
He found his voice then. “You are perfect,” he said, and to him she was.
He stripped the rest of his clothes off, unable to wait.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her spine supported against one of the posts, and watched.
Her hair hung in loose curls as she sat there regarding him, her cheeks pink with desire and her eyes big with interest.
He was glad she wasn’t shy. He wanted to see the body he’d already been inside, watch her as he entered her and when she came. He wanted to know and see and savor everything with this woman. It was a new experience but he was getting used to it. He’d always known this would happen someday. He’d see a woman and be lost. His daddy and mama had been like that and he’d never known a happier pair. Now wasn’t the time he’d have chosen—in fact he couldn’t think of a worse moment to fall in love—but when fate threw a woman like Lucy in your path, you didn’t say no.
He tossed the last of his clothes on top of his jacket and walked to the bed, and she watched him all the way.
“I am crazy about you,” he said, lifting her and placing her on the bed he’d made up with such high hopes this morning.
When he had her laid out against the crisp linen sheets, he realized how good she looked in his bed. She had a timeless beauty and elegance—she was like the best pieces of furniture that never went out of style but were cherished generation after generation. In this room of the favorite trea
sures he’d come across in his career, she fit right in. She belonged.
“Is there some reason you’re smirking at my naked body?” she asked, sounding a little pissed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was thinking you fit in with my antiques.”
She stared at him for a second and then reached behind her for a pillow and whacked him with it.
Shoving up an arm, he laughed. “It’s your coloring,” he said, grabbing her wrists before she could launch anything else at him. Her eyes were sparkling with warmth, but he explained anyway. “Your hair, the first time I saw it, I thought of how the richest woods glow when they’ve been around for a while and been taken care of.” He let go of her wrists long enough to push his fingers through her hair, loosening the rich strands so they spilled around her on the pillow.
“Everything in this room is special,” he said, kissing her lightly. Her eyes searched his and he knew he’d startled her, but after her suspicions about Isabelle, he wanted to reassure her. With Lucy living next door driving him mad with wanting her, how could he have gone with another woman?
Maybe he was talking too much. He’d do better to show her. He kissed her again, deeper this time, and felt her sigh as she opened her lips beneath his. Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer until his skin was touching hers, their bodies pressed together. There’d been no time before, no room to maneuver, and their desperate haste had been too greedy. Now that they’d taken the edge off, he felt better able to take his time. To see her, touch her everywhere, savor and explore her. And he intended to take his time.
Her body was glorious, her skin warm and silky, the muscles firm beneath. He kissed her breasts, trailing wet circles around her nipples and finally drawing one into his mouth. He loved the sounds she made, the sighs and whispered phrases. French phrases. He couldn’t believe it. Had he unconsciously triggered her tongue to switch or did she, like him, make love in French?
He made more discoveries. When he licked her nipples, her fingernails dug into his arm. When he trailed his lips down her belly, she giggled helplessly, so he felt the ripple of muscle under his mouth. When he parted her knees, she sighed, and when he kissed her inner thighs, her toes curled tight, like a ballerina en pointe. She was slick and beautiful, her curls darker down there. When he took his tongue to her, her body arched with the supple grace of an athlete. He took his time, exploring her thoroughly, loving her with his mouth, and she relaxed into his rhythm, letting him build her up slowly until she shattered in a satisfying rush.
He kissed his way back up her body, feeling her tremble and sigh, and when he entered her she was as soft as melting butter.
“Where are you going?” Claude’s voice was muffled with sleep.
“Next door.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I don’t want—well, I want to talk about this with your mother first.”
He chuckled sleepily. “That conversation I would love to hear.”
“You won’t.” She walked over to the bed and kissed him. He tasted sleepy and rumpled and warm. “See you later.”
He grabbed her butt and squeezed. “Count on it.”
Dawn was beginning to streak the sky as she padded next door, hoping very much no early rising neighbors were hanging out their windows drawing the obvious conclusion about her actions.
Well, that was just one more development in her trip to Louisiana that wouldn’t make it into the family newsletter.
The smell of coffee and bacon had Lucy speeding down the stairs later that morning. It was eight. Late for her, but then she’d had a pretty active evening the night before.
She felt a quick qualm of nerves. She wasn’t exactly sure what to say or how Beatrice was going to react. Her “good morning” sounded a tad too cheery and carefree to her own ears. Lighten up, she scolded herself.
He was a grownup. His mother knew he had sex. But maybe not always with her houseguests?
But Beatrice looked as happy to see her guest as she appeared every morning. “You slept in,” she said, handing Lucy coffee.
“Yes, I—” She glanced up to find a broad grin on her hostess’s face.
“God,” she said, dropping her face in her hands, knowing she was blushing like a fool. “This is so awkward.”
“Honey, I could see from the way you two looked at each other the first day what was in the wind.”
“Well, I don’t know that it’s anything serious. I mean . . . um . . .”
“Oh, I know. It is what it is. You all take sex a lot more casually than we used to.” She cracked eggs into a skillet and handed Lucy a plate of toast to butter. She shot Lucy a shrewd glance. “It’s not so very casual with you two, though, is it?”
“I—I can’t say for Claude.”
“I can. Not to scare you, honey, but I’ve never seen him look at anybody the way he looks at you. First time I saw it? I’m big enough to admit I had a twinge of jealousy. Imagine. Thinking he could find a woman he’d love more than me.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not—”
“Maybe not. Don’t get yourself worked up. I’m his mother. What do I know? I think you’re feeling something, too, though.”
Lucy buttered every square inch of toast. It gave her something to do. The eggs sizzled and Beatrice bustled around the kitchen. “I don’t sleep with men casually, Beatrice. I gave myself all kinds of reasons why I wouldn’t sleep with Claude, but”—she shrugged helplessly—“some things you can’t help.”
“I know, honey.” Beatrice laughed softly. “Don’t I know it.”
“How was your evening?” Lucy asked, determined to change the subject.
“Wonderful. I had a nice chat with—I forget her exact position—some bigwig with Tulane. I told her all about you and your research and she said to tell you there’s a position opening up in the history faculty that you might want to apply for.”
“Really? I hadn’t thought of . . . well. Maybe I will.”
“It never hurts to look into every opportunity,” Beatrice said cheerily.
“No,” said Lucy. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”
In truth, she’d seen the position posted at the university and she’d been toying with the idea of applying.
She was still thinking about it, but one thing she was sure of was that she couldn’t make a career decision based on a man. Still, she’d be foolish to impede her own career for the same reason. So, she was thinking about it.
Since it was Saturday, she wasn’t going to the university. She was sitting outside with her laptop, writing her mother an e-mail. She got as far as typing, “I think I’ve found the skeleton in the family closet,” when the skeleton said from behind her, “So, did you tell her?”
Claude. Her heart skidded at the sound of his voice. She turned her head, glad of her sunglasses so she could stare at her new lover hungrily without him knowing.
“Beatrice? Yes, I told her.”
He looked altogether too good. He was dressed in his usual business casual work gear and all she could think about was getting him naked. And soon.
“And?”
“She’s okay with it.”
“Well, that’s good.” He tweaked her ponytail. “Maybe you can stay over the whole night next time.”
She tilted her head so she could look at him over the top of her glasses. “Maybe.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m going in to work for a few hours. I usually go Saturdays.” He sent her a mock serious glance. “That’s when we make a killing on the tourists.”
“I bet.”
“Come by the main store later and I’ll give you a daylight tour, then we’ll grab some dinner somewhere. After that I’m taking you to Preservation Hall for some of the greatest jazz you’ll ever hear.”
“Tourist stuff, huh?”
“You’ll like it. Oh, and Lucy? Bring your toothbrush. You won’t be making it home.”
Seven
Lucy was having trouble concentratin
g on her research. She’d done it. She’d taken her resumé and a nice letter and she’d officially applied for the position of assistant professor, tenure track. She needed to get hold of her mother and get copies of reference letters and a few other things.
And, she admitted, she needed to let Claude know what she’d done. If he freaked out, well, that was a pretty clear indication that their romance was strictly short-term in his mind. That was fine, too. She’d decided that whatever happened with Claude, she wanted this job.
Somehow she needed to tell him, though.
She took the streetcar home and walked the couple of blocks to Beatrice’s place. She let herself in with her key, noting that her hostess’s car was gone. She was alone, which was fine by her. She needed to think about how she was going to tell them—him. She might not even get the job, but she already knew that Beatrice and Claude knew everybody and if word got out she’d applied, well, she wanted them to hear it from her first.
She slipped off her shoes and thought she’d run upstairs, get her calling card, and then phone her mother.
A slight noise from the living room made her stop. Beatrice was out. Wasn’t she? Unless her car was being serviced or she’d lent it to someone.
“Beatrice?” she called, walking into the room.
She stopped dead in her tracks, all the blood draining from her face so she felt like she might faint.
“Claude,” she said, and the weight of disappointment was so great she could barely get the word around the lead weight clogging her throat.
“Merde. Lucy. I thought you were at the university.”
“Obviously.” She found she was shaking so she sat down.
He was crouched beside an open safe she hadn’t even known about since it was inside a chest she’d assumed was pure furniture. In his hands was the three-string necklace with the giant emerald she’d seen on the thin, rich woman at the historical society party.