Remy was barefooted, too, and his narrow, high-arched feet were oddly appealing to Rachel. Perhaps she had a foot fetish just like Remy did. Well, not a fetish, but an appreciation. Yeah, a foot appreciation. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
“Why are you smiling?” Remy asked, coming up on his feet in one fluid motion.
“I was thinking about perversions,” she said.
“Really?” The grin on his face showed decided interest. “Care to share?”
“No.”
The slow, ultra-husky sound of Barry White came out of the tape player, a slow, sexy love song. Remy held his arms open and did a slow dance of invitation toward her which involved rolling his hips from side to side as he walked.
“Lordy, Lordy!”
“What did you say?” Remy asked as he pulled her into his arms, hands linked loosely behind her waist.
She put her hands on his shoulders and answered honestly, “I said that I am in big trouble here.”
He smiled. “I sure-God hope so.”
He pulled her closer then so that she could feel just how big the trouble was. She put her hands behind his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. Following his lead, she let the music and Remy’s sweet rhythm seep inside. There was no need for talk. Their bodies did their talking for them.
Times like this were special. Memory builders. When something extraordinary happened to a person, the kind of things remembered forever after, it didn’t have to be a life-changing event like a graduation or marriage or birth of a child. It more often was the small things. The sheer joy of summer sunlight on a fragrant flower. The giggle of a toddler. The brush of a lover’s fingertips. And the person marks the moment with the flashing insight, This is special. I should remember this. There had been only a few such events in Rachel’s memory, but she recognized with tears misting her eyes that this image of her slow dancing in Remy’s arms on a warm September evening would be forever imprinted in her mind.
They swayed, they turned, they even dipped, always to a slow, slow beat. Remy was an excellent dancer. No extravagant moves. But a good sense of rhythm. He danced like he made love, with quiet expertise.
One song led to another and another, and Rachel didn’t have the heart, or inclination, to protest. Not even when Remy put his hands on her buttocks and tugged her up on tiptoes so that her core more perfectly aligned with his. Now, she rode the ridge of his erection as they danced.
He moaned softly and murmured, “Sweet, sweet, sweet!”
She kept her own moan to herself. In truth, she probably couldn’t speak for the incredible white heat pooling in her with a pulse that defied description. An erotic pulse, for heaven’s sake.
“Time for another trade-off, chère,” he said in a voice as rough as Barry’s. “The kiss.” Without waiting for her as- sent, he half-danced, half-carried her across the room ’til her back was against the wall, her toes dangling just above the floor. Grinding his pelvis against her belly in emulation of the sex act, he began what could only be described as an assault on her mouth—an assault of the most delicious, agonizing kind.
“Open,” she said against his lips which had been pressing back and forth, adjusting and shaping her. “Open for me, Remy.” He did, and it was Rachel who assaulted him then with soft bites, deep thrusts of her tongue which were met by Remy’s sucking, and wet, devouring slides of her lips across his. At one point, it became unclear who kissed whom. Rachel’s heart raced and that pulse between her legs became a full-fledged, continuous series of spasms.
Suddenly, Remy jerked away and sank to his knees. He sat down on the floor and put his face between his knees, panting for breath.
She sank down to the floor beside him, alternately humiliated that he was the one to end their kiss, and concerned that something might be wrong. In the end, his welfare mattered more than her ego, she decided. Putting a hand on his heaving shoulders, she asked, “Remy? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Just one kiss from you and I was about to come in my pants, like a teenager with his first lay.”
She thought about what he’d said, including the crudity of the way he’d expressed himself, and decided to forgive him. “So what? I came. Why shouldn’t you?”
His shoulders still heaved, but within seconds, Rachel realized that he was laughing now. At her. The wretch.
She tried to scramble to her feet, but he grabbed for her, wrestling her back to the floor. After a little pushing and shoving, she ended up pinned to the floor by his body.
“You were laughing at me,” she accused.
“No, I wasn’t. I was laughing at myself. I am so pitiful that I can’t even control myself in a kiss with you.”
“I couldn’t control myself, either. Am I pitiful?”
“Never, sweetheart, but it’s different for a man.”
“What a ridiculous, sexist thing to say,” she declared, shoving his chest hard.
He didn’t budge an inch.
Any further discussion on the subject was cut short by a rip of lightning, which struck real close outside, followed immediately by a loud clap of thunder. All the lights in the cabin went out and the fridge and overhead fan turned off.
“Uh-oh!” Remy said, lifting himself off her. “Looks like we’re in for a big one.” He helped Rachel to her feet.
When the next rumble of thunder actually shook the house, Rachel teased, “I’ve heard about some men making their lover’s world move, but this is a stretch. Isn’t it?”
“Ah, not when the man is a Cajun, chère,” he boasted, swatting her a good one on the behind. He had good aim, even in the dark.
Just then lightning struck, close to the house again, the wind picked up, and rain began to come down with driving force.
Remy said the oddest thing then. “All right, already, Jude. I get the message.”
Chapter 18
The best laid plans of. . .
Remy stood at the screen door, staring out at the turbulent bayou stream. The wind had died down totally after its first gusting, but only for fifteen minutes or so. This new wind was stronger, causing narrow limbs to break and moss to fall from the trees and fly about like spooky ghosts.
He saw all this through the beam of his flashlight. Power remained out, and probably would until tomorrow, or whenever the storm ended, when he could go out and check the generator. Even with lights, visibility ranged no more than a few feet due to the pelting rain.
Hurricane winds could be brutal, up to two hundred miles per hour, but they usually never hit land at all. Instead, they usually blew themselves out to sea, or they could alter their course several times in one day. Furthermore, most hurricanes hit in the low-lying coastal areas, not this far inland. But then, the official hurricane season in Louisiana was June through September, which was its peak month, and since this was mid-September, a real possibility. Even so, this storm was nothing by Louisiana stan- dards, so far. Barely a tropical storm. He hoped it stayed that way.
He’d urged Rachel to go upstairs and try to sleep. Maybe by morning, when she awakened, it would all be over. Assuming she could sleep, that is, with this roaring wind. He hadn’t told her, but there was nothing they could do at this point, except wait out the storm. There was no hurricane cellar or protected shelter. Most important, this cabin had withstood more than a hundred and fifty years of bayou storms and still stood pretty much the same as when it was built before the Civil War by Rivard family trappers. In fact, it had even been used as a stopping place for escaped slaves going North at one point. Ironic that it was a “safe house” once again, though for an entirely different purpose.
When lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the clearing before the cabin, he saw something gold standing on the other side of the stream. A cougar. Rare to the point of being almost extinct in the bayous these days. Remy felt privileged to have seen it, even if only for a moment.
Like magic, the rain suddenly stopped. He looked out and saw that t
he cougar had fled. No wonder. An eerie calm now pervaded. The bayou was soundless as a vacuum. It was the eye of the storm.
He closed and locked the door. Using his flashlight, he walked lightly across the room and up the steps. He turned the flashlight off and tiptoed to the edge of the bed, wanting to know that Rachel was all right, but not wanting to wake her if she already slept.
“I’m awake,” she said.
“Just checking.”
“How is everything?”
“A tropical storm at this point.”
“At this point?”
“I won’t lie, Rachel. It could get bad. Or it could avoid us altogether.”
“Is it a hurricane?”
“Not here. Not yet. Maybe not at all.”
“You’re a lot of help,” she said with a shaky laugh. “Shouldn’t we move to the basement or something?”
He shook his head. “If it reaches a certain level, we’ll hunker down in the bathroom. Not the cellar. It would be flooded.”
“Oh, geez!” Her voice quivered with distress.
Remy had lived through lots of storms in Louisiana, from little puddlemakers to full-fledged hurricanes. While he was never blasé about their devastating potential, they didn’t terrify him the way they obviously did Rachel. He had to do something to divert her attention. No, he wasn’t thinking about sex, but something equally mind-diverting. Aah! Maybe .. .
“Hey, babe, I think it’s time for our final trade-off,” he announced suddenly.
“And that would be?”
“A massage.” God, I hope I’m not making a mistake.
That infuriating inner voice in his head was laughing.
“Now? Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, but that’s beside the point.” Honestly, he hoped to help her relax and take her mind off what might come next. It was worth a try, wasn’t it? The winds were already picking up again, almost deafening in their ferocity. She was going to have the living daylights scared out of her in a few minutes if she just lay here listening to the storm.
“Turn over on your tummy, sweetheart. You’re in for a treat.”
“Don’t you need light?”
“I have a flashlight if I need it, but, no, massage is all about touch and instinct and learned skills. Relax. And enjoy.”
“I don’t think I can relax.”
“You’ll relax, Rachel. Believe me,” he said with utter confidence. Not sure about me, but I’ll have you boneless in no time, guar-an-teed.
Hey, you angels over there—Michael, Rafael—got any popcorn? This is going to be a great show. Sometimes, Jude had a warped joke mentality.
“I’m not taking my clothes off. I’ll tell you that right now.”
He laughed. “I don’t want you to take your clothes off.” I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment. Besides, she wore the football jersey and underpants. That’s all. Plenty enough punishment for him. “I’m fully clothed, too; so, not to worry.”
“Hah!” Despite her skepticism, Rachel rolled over onto her front, with her head on the pillow and arms raised above her head.
“And another thing, I’m only giving you a back massage,” he said while he knelt on the bed, then straddled her body near the hips. He placed both his thumbs on the hollow at the base of her skull, pressing, with his middle fingers rotating.
“Oh, my God! That feels wonderful already.” As an afterthought, she asked, “Why only a back massage?”
“Because I would enjoy a frontal massage too much.”
Hell, I practically blew my wad in my drawers already with just a kiss. I am not taking any more chances like that.
“Oh,” was all she said, apparently understanding perfectly. But then, he thought he saw her smile. Her face was turned to the side on the pillow, and it was dark; he might have been wrong about that.
To her neck and shoulders, he gave particular attention because it was here that most body tension got lodged.
“Do you use some particular method of massage?” she asked lazily.
“Um, more like a combination of several techniques. I learned them by their letters. WHPK, which is wringing, hammering, pressing and kneading. Then, the three C’s, as well, which are caressing, circling and corkscrewing.” What a crock! I’ve never given a real massage before in all my life. Had plenty in physical therapy myself, though. How hard could it be?
“That feels so good,” she said as he continued to work her neck and shoulder muscles. “I didn’t realize how tense I was. Well, to be honest, I was tense before this storm ever hit.”
He didn’t ask what she meant by that. He knew. Sexual tension was as potent as any other stress to the body.
Working on the hands next, he took special care to be gentle on the palms, an especially sensitive spot. Then he kneaded each of the fingers in turn, between the fingers, the knuckles, the wrists, the back of the hand.
Bypassing her body from shoulders to legs, he moved down to her feet. He had her bend her knee so her foot was raised.
“Oh, I don’t know about this, Remy. My feet are really ticklish and—oh, Good Lord, what are you doing?”
“I’m just kneading your instep, babe.”
“It felt like you licked it.”
Who? Me? “A good massage therapist has to have fingers like a feather on occasion.” I am good. Man, I am good!
“Really? I never heard that before.”
Neither have I.
When he finished kneading and massaging her ankles, Achilles tendons, toes and foot pads, he worked his way up her legs. He loved her legs and he showed his admiration by alternately hammering and caressing her until she was practically boneless and moaning with pleasure. Her football jersey had worked its way up to her waist so that her white panties were exposed.
Should I tell her?
Nah.
He did plenty of looking then, every time lightning illuminated the room. Hey, it was part of being a masseur, he supposed. Narrow waist. The curve of her hips. The sweet swell of two globes. So engrossed was he in the tantalizing sight that at first he didn’t realize that the walls of the cabin were shaking.
“Did you just shake the bed?” she asked, then gasped. “Oh, no! It’s the storm, isn’t it?”
He did the only thing he could think of then to stem her fears. He aimed his fingers right for the gluteal fold where the buttocks met her thighs, and at the cleavage of her buttocks. Her body immediately stiffened. He knew too well how women hated to be handled there, except in the fever pitch of hot sex, but at least he’d shocked the fright right out of her. Before she had a chance to react, he worked his knees between her legs and spread her thighs. Immedi- ately, he began kneading her behind and the fold with his thumbs firmly placed between her legs.
“You . . . you said there would be no sex,” she accused him.
“This isn’t sex.”
“It feels like sex.”
At her words, the half-erection in his pants went full-tilt boogie. He let his thumbs stray a bit along the crotch of her panties and discovered a wetness there. All the bells and whistles on his pinball machine went haywire then. For a minute, even in the darkness, he saw stars in vivid reds, and whites, and blues. Finally, when he could catch his breath, he asked, “Do you want me to stop . . . the massage?”
“No.” There wasn’t a bit of hesitation in her voice.
Rachel went silent then as he pressed and kneaded the deep muscles of her upper and lower back. He drew light circles with his forefinger. He outlined the shoulder bones. He hammered her with the edges of both hands, then soothed the same spots with deep-finger presses. Meanwhile the wind buffeted the cabin.
Suddenly, she flipped over on her back and stared up at him. “All right, that’s it.”
“Huh?” He sat back on his heels, still straddling her body.
“If I’m going to die, I want to have sex with you one more time.”
“I beg your pardon.” Talk about back-handed invitations!
She shi
mmied herself up to a sitting position, legs straight out, with him now straddling her in the knee area. “This is silly, Remy. Forget about the storm. What will be will be. But you and I are mature adults who are behaving in an absurd manner. I hate your secrets. You hate my reaction to your one secret in particular. But none of that changes the fact that you and I want each other—sexually, at least.”
“Rachel, we’ve had this conversation before,” he pointed out with strained patience. “What’s your point?”
“Point is, I want to make love with you. Probably more than once . . . until we leave this place.”
“I thought we already established that you’re a sex-with-commitment kind of gal, and nothing less will do.”
She shrugged. “I’m going to get hurt, either way, Remy. That’s a fact.”
He started to disagree, then stopped himself. She was right. They were both going to be hurt, regardless. “Rachel, honey, I don’t have much self-control where you’re concerned. Don’t tempt me like this. I’m trying to be chivalrous.”
“This lady is not looking for a knight in shining armor. I gave up on that a long time ago.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “A knight in tarnished armor, then?” He laughed, trying to joke her out of this ridiculous but tantalizing idea. “Really, Luc and René and I used to call ourselves The Cajun Knights or sometimes Knights of the Bayou, fashioned ourselves sort of noble fellows, exactly the opposite of our Dad. There’s probably some psychological reason for all that, but. . .” Remy realized he was rambling and couldn’t seem to stop himself.
A brief moment of silence followed. Then Rachel said, in a low, loving voice, “Remy, the moat outside is dangerous. You’ve already crossed the drawbridge. Are you coming in to my castle or not?”
With a soft groan of surrender, Remy replied, “Yes, m’lady.”
Making it through, with the long, hard knight
The storm continued to pound wildly outside, but Rachel wasn’t afraid of dying or catastrophe. Not really. As long as Remy was with her, she could face anything. Perhaps she’d become a fatalist, willing to let destiny rule her course. As long as Remy was with her.