Without any forewarning, he sank down onto one of the low rocking chairs and settled her legs, outrageously, over the arms. “Idea number one,” he pronounced.
Then he began to rock.
And rock.
And rock.
Luther was still belting out his songs, which could be heard on the porch. Right now, he was into “Endless Love.” Again. Yep, endless love just about said it all when it came to Luc LeDeux. He was proving to have an endless amount of stamina in lovemaking. Heck, she was proving to have an endless amount of stamina in lovemaking… much to her surprise.
The rocking was very slow at first, with Luc setting the pace of her rhythm with guiding hands on her hips and buttocks. Later, when the rocking grew faster and more frenzied, Sylvie didn’t need his help in undulating her hips. And Luc was holding onto the top of the back spindles of the chair with white-knuckled tension.
Somehow, they ended up in the shower after that, and although their intention had been to wash away the perspiration and effects of their lovemaking, they naturally ended up creating even more. They ran out of hot water before they ever got around to shampooing their hair. Who knew a loofah and pine soap could be deemed sex toys?
Good thing their next step was to the bed, because they both fell into an exhausted slumber in each other’s arms. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised that she was awakened an hour later by a rascal who had another “idea,” this one involving something called “The Perfect Fit.”
She got back at him later by showing him that men did, indeed, have G-spots, just like women. Luc had been unable to speak for a good while after that. When he recovered, he spent a really long time exploring her G-spot as well, not to mention a few other letters of the alphabet… even the M-spot, which he claimed to have invented. It was pronounced as the “Mmmmmmm” spot.
Personally, Sylvie thought Luc was trying to live up to that fictitious six he’d given her earlier as the number of times he climaxed during a typical sexual encounter. Frankly, she didn’t give two hoots why he was trying so hard. She was having the time of her life.
Toward dawn, she came to an important discovery. If she hadn’t realized it before, she did now: Sylvie Fontaine had fallen in love with the “bad boy of the bayou.”
Instead of being alarmed, as she most certainly should have been, the only thing that Sylvie could think was, Does that make me the “bad girl of the bayou”?
Sylvie awakened soon after dawn the next morning to the scent of roses.
She knew it was daylight, not because she’d opened her eyes yet, but because the sun tended to come up quickly on the bayou, like a light switch, and she could feel the bright rays on her face already.
She also felt the imprint of the hammock on her backside, through a scandalously thin, red nightie. Then, too, she felt the heat of a warm Cajun in Valentine boxers at her side. And yes, they did glow in the dark, she recalled with a smile.
How they came to be wearing Tante Lulu’s gifts, and how Luc had seduced her into trying something “really neat” in the hammock, would bring a blush to her face for eternity. Suffice it to say that she would probably have the diamond pattern of the hammock webbing imbedded in her rump for the rest of her life.
They should probably get up now and prepare for their pirogue trip to Bayou Black, but how did one get out of a hammock gracefully, without breaking a leg? Sylvie cracked open her eyelids, looked to the side, and screamed. “Aaaccckkk!”
“Wh-what?” Luc jackknifed to a sitting position, which caused the hammock to sway precariously, then flip them both over and onto the ground.
“Oh, my God!” Sylvie muttered under her breath as she got up on all fours, then struggled to stand and straighten out the nightie, which barely covered her essential body parts. Talk about feeling foolish the day after!