Tall, Dark, and Cajun

  He nodded.

  “How about you? Are you sure?”

  He grinned, that slow, sexy grin that she’d come to love. “Guar-an-teed!”

  She reached behind her to pull down her zipper when he put up a halting hand. “Let me,” he urged huskily.

  Was there anything more exciting to a woman than her being able to turn a man’s voice husky like that? Maybe it was a learned talent some males cultivated. She didn’t think so in Remy’s case, but if so, God bless an experienced man.

  “Just stand still and let me,” he said, drawing the spaghetti straps of her dress down so that they lay loose over her upper arms. He used his fingertips then to trace the line of her shoulders, from her ears, down the sides of her neck and over her collarbones. Then he traced the line across her bodice, just above the swell of her breasts.

  She could have swooned at the sweet sensations.

  “You have beautiful skin. Like satin.”

  That was a stretch, but who was she to argue?

  “Put your hands behind your neck. Please.”

  Oh, boy! What a vulnerable, completely erotic position to place myself in.

  I think I like it.

  He shifted a bit so their faces were level, and slowly placed his lips against hers—softly exploring at first, then more bold as his tongue glided into her parted lips. He tasted of bourbon and beer and hot searing arousal. While he kissed her, he reached around and unzipped her dress, undoing her strapless, lace bra.

  When he drew back to look at her, her dress dropped to her waist, and he pulled her bra the rest of the way off, flipping it over his shoulder. Then he gasped.

  She still held her hands clasped behind her neck. She had to hold onto something, for goodness sake! Rachel wasn’t surprised by the gasp. While she had lots of issues about her body, her breasts had never been a concern. They were larger than average, and surprisingly uplifted and firm, considering their weight. Probably due, in part, to years of physical exercise, and good genes.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Remy murmured as he cupped them from underneath and lifted them even higher. Still holding them in his palms, he thumbed the nipples to sharp peaks.

  She moaned softly at the instant streaks of pleasure that ricocheted out from them to all the important erotic zones in her body. There were lots of them, she discovered.

  “Do you like that, chère?” he whispered as he continued to stroke the erect buds, now pinching and pulling on them as well.

  She opened her eyes drowsily, unaware that she’d even closed them. Instead of answering his question, she said, “Take off your shirt. I want to see you, too.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.” He leaned forward and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.

  Hot liquid pooled between her legs, and she feared she might come. Luckily, he gave her breasts a temporary reprieve and shimmied her dress over her hips ’til it slid to the floor. She wore only lace bikinis and the high-heeled sandals.

  “You look like one of those old Vargas pinups that used to run in Playboy magazine. Almost too perfect.”

  “Remy, I am not perfect. My hips are too wide, and my—”

  “I know, your butt is too big,” he finished for her, grinning the whole time.

  “Exactly.”

  “Women don’t see their bodies the way men do,” he said, tugging her panties down to join her dress at her feet. “Believe me, from my view, your body is perfection.” His voice couldn’t get any huskier if he tried.

  “David didn’t think—”

  He put the fingertips of one hand on her lips. “David was a blind schmuck.”

  She would have responded to the remark, except that Remy had sunk down to his knees in front of her and was examining the tight curls between her legs, with just the tips of his fingers.

  “Red, too,” he murmured.

  “Yes, and I hate it,” she said fiercely.

  He laughed, and she felt his breath there.

  Oh—my—God!

  “You have no idea how much I am beginning to appreciate red hair.” Then, he said the most outrageously titillating thing. “Spread, darlin’. Let’s see how much fuel there is in this fire.”

  And she did. Where she got the nerve, she had no idea, but she spread her legs enough to give him access. When his fingers discovered the slickness of her desire for him, he made a grunting, male sound of satisfaction.

  Remy inserted one long finger inside her, and she yelped with surprise, backing up a step. The backs of her knees hit the bed and she fell back abruptly onto the mattress. Remy’s finger was no longer inside her, but he remained on his knees, planted firmly between her legs which he proceeded to spread even wider.

  For the next hour—or what seemed like an hour, but was probably only minutes, Remy used his fingers and tongue and teeth to bring her to the brink of orgasm. Each time, he stopped and whispered soothing phrases to her, promising satisfaction if she could just let him do one more thing. Meanwhile, she keened with need and writhed from side to side.

  Finally he used his thumb to vibrate rapidly over that engorged flesh where she craved his touch most. Over and over and over and over. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until her body was rigid with tension, her hips raised off the bed. Remy whispered, “Shhhh. Relax. Let it come.” She wanted to hit him, or jump on him, or something. But then the tension broke, and she rode the cascading waves of pleasure that rose higher and higher before breaking, then lower and lower.

  She lay on the mattress like a rag doll, legs spread, body sated. When she managed to open her eyes a crack, she saw that he stood over her, just watching her.

  Yikes! I must look like a wanton. And there he stands, fully dressed. “You better have those clothes off in two seconds flat, buster, or I’m out of here.”

  He began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, while she watched. “Darlin’, you’re not leaving now, come hell or high water. You’re mine till dawn.”

  Till dawn? Oh, my! “Is that a fact?”

  “That’s a fact.”

  Tit for tat

  How could a man who’d fought in a war, suffered through seventeen operations, lived dangerously every time he hopped into his helicopter be so freakin’ scared?

  Remy was unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Very slowly. He wanted so badly to turn off the lights, but he knew Rachel wouldn’t accept that after the way she’d exposed her body, with all her misplaced insecurities.

  Insecurities. Yep, that’s exactly what he had, too, but far more than she had and with better reason. Rachel had accepted his disfigured face, that was true, but half his chest, hip, belly, buttocks and thigh looked like raw meat. Repulsive, that’s what he was. It’s not that he’d never shown his naked body to other women in the past twelve years. Of course, he had. But Remy hadn’t cared spit about any of them, much less their opinions. They could take him or leave him, and vice versa, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was different. He didn’t want to blow it with her. Not this early in the game.

  With a long sigh, he pulled his opened shirt out of his pants and shrugged it off.

  Rachel had been leaning back on her elbows, watching him with a little Mona Lisa smile on her face. At first sight of the scars and twisted flesh on his chest, she sat up straighter. The smile disappeared.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me dim the lights.”

  She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  He toed off his boots, leaned down to pull off his socks, then straightened, undid his belt and slid open the zipper. “It’s really bad, Rachel. Really bad.”

  “Do it,” she demanded softly.

  “Hey, babe, gotta warn you. This sideshow is definitely not one of Playboy’s seventeen all-time best turn-ons,” he tried to joke. “In fact, you might say this will be an erotic buzz kill.”

  She looked angry all of a sudden and came smoothly off the bed to stand before him. “If I can subject my less-than-perfect body to your scrutiny, yo
u can do the same for me. Was my big butt an erotic buzz kill for you?”

  “No, but—”

  With a soft growl of impatience, she reached for his waistband and began to tug both jeans and boxers down over his hips so they puddled at his feet. Luckily—or not so luckily—his penis, which had been at half-mast, was deflated at the moment. No shocks for her there.

  Remy was no coward. He folded his arms over his chest and allowed her to examine his body in detail, walking all around, touching. On the outside, he probably appeared calm, even aloof, but inside he churned with apprehension.

  He hoped she wouldn’t throw up. A woman had actually done that one time. She had probably been drunk, too, but that was beside the point. His body had been the last straw to cause her to hurl.

  Rachel completed her examination and stood directly in front of him, waiting ’til he made eye contact with her. Only then did she say, “Big fat deal, Remy.”

  Tears immediately misted his eyes, which he blinked away. Rachel saw his badly mangled body—she hadn’t tried to hide that fact, thank God. But she chose to give the grotesque flesh little or no importance. How could that be? “It is a big deal, Rachel. To most people.”

  “I’m not most people, and it’s about time you understood that. You have a few scars and discoloration. So what?” Before he could respond to that ridiculous statement, she looked pointedly down at his penis. Stroking it slightly with a forefinger from head to base, she asked, “Any damage here?”

  His penis flexed and immediately started to grow. He shook his head. “None at all.”

  She arched her eyebrows at him. “Then, what are you waiting for, sailor? Let’s rock this boat.”

  Ship of dreams

  Rachel couldn’t believe her nerve.

  She’d never been brazen before. Never teased in the bedroom. Never used suggestive language. Never exposed her naked body for any length of time. Never taken the initiative in sex. In essence, she had always been a bit of a prude.

  Not anymore.

  Remy had been the catalyst that forced her to lose her inhibitions. My God, the pain he must have gone through to have sustained all that mangled flesh! It had taken everything she had to keep her face blank and her hands from shaking as she’d examined the scars in detail. She knew he watched her for signs of pity, something he seemed to deplore. Silly man! Caring about him and his suffering was not pity.

  At her teasing challenge that they rock the boat—How could I say such a crude thing?—Remy just stared at her open mouthed for several seconds, stunned. Then that slow, sexy grin spread across his lips and he said, “Hold onto the oars, baby. Here comes a wave.”

  Before she could say “Man the lifeboats,” Remy lunged for her, taking her by the waist, lifting her high off the floor, then throwing her back onto the mattress. He followed, landing on top of her.

  “Your surfboard’s caught in a sandbar,” she teased. There was, in fact, a hard object pressed against her cleft.

  “Not for long, honey,” he said, jiggling his hips from side to side so that his “surfboard” fit better between her legs. He turned serious. “Thank you, Rachel.”

  “For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”

  He chucked her playfully under the chin. “For not throwing up.”

  “Huh?” Please, God, don’t tell me some dingbat woman vomited when she looked at his body. No wonder he was so reticent about taking his clothes off.

  “Never mind.” He braced his upper body on his elbows, bracketed her face with his hands, then placed his lips over hers gently, testing and adjusting to get the perfect fit. Obviously, the man took his kissing seriously.

  “You’re a really good kisser,” she said against his mouth, when he had drawn back a mere hairsbreadth.

  “How would you know? We’ve hardly kissed at all.” He ran his mouth up her jawline to her ear and back again.

  “All it took was ’The Kiss’ for me to know how good of a kisser you are.” She arched her neck to the side to give him better access.

  “You think of it as ’The Kiss,’ too?” he asked with surprise. “That first kiss of ours, I mean?” He resumed brushing his lips lightly over hers.

  She nodded. “Whoo-ee, yes!”

  He just smiled against her lips.

  A smiley-kiss. Then she stopped thinking at all.

  He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her . . . every way imaginable and some Rachel had never imagined. Men just didn’t understand how much women enjoyed prolonged bouts of kissing. At least, most men didn’t. They’d rather skip to the good stuff. To Rachel and a gazillion females through the ages, kissing was the good stuff, too.

  When Remy finally began to move his attention down her body, Rachel said, “No!” She pressed hard against his chest to emphasize that she meant what she said.

  “No?” His lips were slack and his eyes glazed with passion.

  “Roll over on your back. I want to make love to you this time.”

  He exhaled visibly with relief. Apparently, he had thought she’d changed her mind about making love. No way! “Let me. Just this time, chère. I need to ease into somebody—you—touching my body.”

  He’s still worried about me being repulsed by his body. Foolish man! “Okay, but I’m not leaving here tonight without touching you—all over.”

  He smiled. “You’re not leaving tonight, period.”

  Now that is a tantalizing prospect.

  “You have beautiful breasts,” Remy murmured as he shifted to his side and rose to one elbow. Almost reverently, he traced their contours, observing how they grew firmer under his scrutiny and the nipples distended at the slightest touch. When he leaned forward to suckle her, she moaned and put a hand to his nape, holding him in place. With every rhythmic pull of his lips, she felt an answering tug between her legs. His right hand was lying flat over her tummy, and she sensed that he could feel the pulsing he had set up inside her. Then he moved to the other breast, which he suck- led as well, alternating the sucking with flicks of his tongue.

  When he began to go down on her again, Rachel slid her hips under his, taking him by surprise. Before he could grasp her intent, she had grasped his penis and was guiding him toward her.

  “Enough, Remy. I want you. Now.”

  Rebelling, Remy sat back on his heels between her legs. “I hoped to prolong the foreplay, to make this first time special for you.”

  “Oh, Remy. It will be special. . . because it’s you.”

  She led his hand to her moist cleft to show him she was ready for him. He ran a finger several times over the hard nub of flesh, which caused Rachel to about shoot off the bed with the almost too-intense pleasure.

  Chuckling, he took her fingers off his blue-veined erection and began to guide himself into her body. Rachel would have liked to watch his face, or touch his chest, or wonder about the incredible ecstasy that seemed to be sweeping over her, but she did none of that. All her concentration was centered on this one thing: Remy about to fill her body.

  He stopped suddenly and jerked his head in various directions around the bedroom, as if searching for something.

  Now what?

  “Where’d you put my bedside table? I need a condom. Quick.”

  She laughed, or as close to a laugh as she could come up with considering the pulsing he had ignited between her legs. “Don’t worry. I’m on the pill.”

  “Well, some women worry about diseases and stuff. I’m okay, though. Not to worry.”

  “Remy, I’m not worried,” she said, obviously amused by his nervous rambling. “Really.”

  “Thank God!” He plunged inside her effortlessly. For one long moment, complete silence filled the room, except for their soft breathing, the whir of the overhead fan, and the rhythmic lapping of the current against the houseboat outside. Life stood still, but for the movement of her inner muscles as they conformed in quick spasms to Remy’s size, allowing him to inch in even further. She savored the feeling of fullness, of being filled almost
beyond what was comfortable. She more than savored the sense of completeness their joining brought her, as if they were the only two people in the world who could fit together this well—as if they were meant to be.

  Remy sensed her mood. “This is not just about sex, Rachel.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  Then he moved.

  And, God above! She’d heard people talk before about the world moving when they had sex, but she’d never really believed it. She did now.

  When he pulled back, then ever-so-slowly filled her again, she felt waves of intoxication. Something important was happening here, her body told her. She bent her knees and spread her legs wider to accept him more deeply.

  He grunted his approval.

  Rachel leaned back on her elbows, wanting to see everything. Everything. The way he supported himself on straight arms on either side of her shoulders, arms highlighted by corded veins of tension. The way his mouth pressed together in concentration. The way his eyes held hers. The way he moved his hips against her expertly in a rhythm that was growing progressively faster.

  She raised her buttocks up off the mattress and entered in the dance, matching him point for counterpoint. Already her inner muscles convulsed around him in preparation for the final cataclysm—to Remy’s pleasure, she was sure, as indicated by his sharpened breathing.

  “Oh, oh, oh . . . ,” she moaned.

  “Uh, uh, uh . . .,” he moaned.

  Then he stopped and sat back on his heels between her legs, his penis only partially inside her.

  “Nooooo,” she wailed, trying to force him to resume the pace by bucking her hips against him.

  “Shhhhh,” he said. Before she had a chance to protest, he lifted her legs over his shoulders and began to pound her in earnest—the hard in-and-out strokes that caused her to cry out in bliss. She was losing control. In truth, this position had taken away her control totally, if she’d ever had it. Lying thus exposed, she had to allow Remy to do all the work.

  When he placed his thumb over her clitoris and began to strum, at the same time pumping rapidly into her body, she lost it. Moaning, crying, yelling, she rode the crest of the most incredible orgasm of her life. Who knew—who knew—that the female body could feel so many agonizing, wonderful sensations at the same time? Who knew the pleasure exploding in her female parts could ripple out with such intensity to every other part of her body? Even her hair and toenails felt erotically charged.