“Ummmm,” she moaned appreciatively.
He stilled his hand, not wanting to awaken her. She’d bop him from here to Opelousa if she discovered him in her bed.
“You smell like Irish Spring,” she murmured sleepily against his chest.
Uh-oh! I’ve been caught. “Irish? Darlin’, there isn’t a drop of Irish blood in this old body. I’m pure Cajun.”
“Irish Spring, silly. Soap.”
“Oh, you mean that green bar in the shower.” Great! We’re going to discuss soap. What next? Deodorants?
“What are you doing in my bed?”
Oh, shit! Here comes the bop. “I got home late and was checking on you and… hell, it was just too damn tempting to resist.”
“I was tempting?”
“As sin.” Now there’s a good sign. She cares whether I consider her tempting. Or maybe she’s just asking so she can give me an extra bop.
“How did it go today?” She was still lying across his body with her head on his chest.
So, no bop. At least not right away. “Don’t ask.”
“Did you sell the cattle?”
“We sold them.”
“For how much?”
“Not enough. Not even close.”
“Oh, Rusty. What are we going to do?”
I like the sound of that “we” in there. I shouldn’t, but I do. “Just keep plugging away.”
“Well, guess what, baby? I’ve got something to make you happy.”
There’s only one thing that would make me happy right now. Is that what she’s offering? On the other hand, this is the kind of land mine women plant in the path of men all the time. Say the wrong thing and you are dead meat. He chuckled at his own warped speculations.
She slapped his shoulder. “Not that, silly.”
Oh, yeah. Silly me for thinking that getting laid would cheer me up. “I never thought you were offering yourself up as a Happy Meal,” he lied.
“When—or if—I ever decide to offer myself up, there will be nothing subtle about it, big boy. You will know.”
He laughed. That was the best thing about Charmaine—her unsubtlety.
“The truth is, Tante Lulu and I found some… uh, stuff today that might help your whole dismal situation.”
Is that what I am? Dismal? Geeshum-golly! Horny as hell, and dismal to boot. “Listen, Charmaine, I don’t want to talk about the whole dismal situation tonight. I want to forget. Just for tonight.”
He could feel her body go still. Then she did the oddest thing… well, odd, considering their conversation, their past history, her new virginity, the whole schlemiel: She used one forefinger to circle his nipple. Slowly. Circle after circle. Soft as a butterfly’s wing. Then she leaned over, wet the same nipple with her tongue, blew him dry, and began to suckle him. Yep, nothing subtle about Charmaine.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” He about shot up off the bed. Stars appeared before his open eyes. And his Longfellow became an even longer fellow.
“Are you forgetting yet?” she whispered huskily as she looked up at him with seeming innocence.
Even as he choked out, “Forgetting what?” Charmaine swung her leg up over his hip and sat on his belly. If that wasn’t enough to blow his torpedo, she began to pull her T-shirt—his T-shirt—up over her head. She probably did it quickly but it sure felt like slow motion from his perspective, which was clouded by about a thousand volts of testosterone. “Are you trying to kill me, chère?”
“With kindness,” she answered.
This is kindness. I wonder what happens when she gets generous?
She was naked now, except for a pair of plain white, low-riding underpants and a teeny-tiny, blinkin’ gold hoop in her belly button. She raised her hands to fluff out her hair, which caused her pretty breasts to jut out even more. She probably did it deliberately, if that little Madonna smile on her lips was any indication.
Who the freakin’ hell cares! He reached up to touch her breasts.
She slapped his hands away. “No way, cowboy. This is my rodeo.”
Okaaaay. “Aren’t you a mite worried about losing your… um, virginity? Riding the bull is hard on the… doohickey.” Good thing I remembered Tante Lulu’s word for it. One slip of a crude word here and I would have been out of the rodeo. No doohickey for me.