by Sandra Hill
“So pretty!” he murmured, and couldn’t resist leaning down to lick one nipple, then the other.
Savannah released a long keening wail of carnal pleasure. “Ooooooh!”
That’s it! I can’t wait any longer. He picked her up by the waist, turned, and almost tripped over his unzipped trousers that were bagging about his knees. Tossing Savannah onto the bed, he crawled up over her. Instinctively, even as he was back to kissing her, deep kissing, a wet exchange of tongues and teeth and hungry lips, he raised the hem of her dress and tore off her silk panties. Also, instinctively, he assumed since Savannah wasn’t usually so bold, she reached into his briefs and took his rampant erection in hand.
I didn’t intend to do it. Honest, honey, I didn’t! But before he knew what was happening he was deep inside her hot, moist body where the inner muscles were clutching him in welcome, like a soldier just home from the wars. Which he was. But this was not the way for reunion sex to go. It should be a leisurely, exploring, re-acquaintance of familiar and yet strange bodies. A slow build-up of arousal. Lots of whispered avowals of love and promises of a future together.
Maybe I could do a bit of backtracking here. He raised his head, arms braced on his elbows, about to apologize for his clumsy haste.
Instead of looking disappointed, or even angry, she smiled up at him and said, “Welcome home, soldier.”
Forget backtracking! It would appear that G.I. Joe just got hot damn lucky. “Oh, baby!” Looking at her beautiful blue eyes, he recalled the precious sapphire pendant he’d purchased after his deployment but before being taken prisoner by those evil Taliban rebels. He’d seen it in a jeweler’s window and was reminded of her. “By the way, honey, wait until you see what I got for you!”
“In your rucksack?” she teased, wriggling her hips from side to side for emphasis.
He pinched her butt. “Not that. Back in my apartment at Fort Dix. Something I bought for you when I first arrived overseas almost six years ago.”
“And you kept it, even thinking that I’d left you?”
“Like you, I couldn’t stop the loving and maybe even, unconsciously, the hoping.”
She put a hand up to his face. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t need presents. All I need is you.”
“Ditto,” he said and kissed her softly. Then not so softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t wait. I need you, baby. I’ll do better next time, I prom—”
“I can’t wait either,” she admitted shyly. Then, not so shyly, she arched her hips off the bed and wrapped her legs around his waist.
Wait! Wait a damn minute! “Oh, crap! I forgot a condom,” he gasped out. “A good soldier never forgets a condom. Where did I put them? How could I—”
“If you stop now, I might have to kill you, good soldier or not.” She glanced to the left. “I thought I saw . . . yes!” There was a condom sitting on the bedside table, compliments of the Hubba.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He withdrew, rolled on the condom one-handed, and plunged back into her clasping folds, long and slow. But only twice. Then his strokes became short and hard, and her clasping was a constant erotic signal that she was enjoying him as much as he was enjoying her. The friction of his erection against her folds was beyond bliss, erotic torture of the best kind.
Anything else that happened was by pure reflex. His hands caressing her everywhere. His lips kissing everywhere. Murmuring his appreciation of her various body parts, some of the words more graphic that he would use if he were in his right mind. Not that he was in his wrong mind. No mind, that’s how to describe him.
She was caressing and kissing and murmuring, too. “Don’t ever leave me again,” she pleaded.
“Never!” he promised.
Her body stiffened, and he sensed her approaching orgasm, not that she’d hadn’t already climaxed, but they were minis compared to what was coming up. He braced himself, holding off his own completion until she screamed and began to convulse rapidly around him. Only then did he throw his head back and roar out his own climax. There might have been violins playing with a whole orchestra backup, or maybe he was just high on supreme male satisfaction.
For several long moments, he lay heavily over her. When his rapid breathing slowed to a mere pant, he raised himself and said, “I love you, Savannah.”
She was fast asleep.
He remembered that about her then . . . how, when she’d had a particularly powerful orgasm, her body shut down into sleep mode. With utter male pride, he grinned. G.I. Joe had not lost his game! A guy liked knowing he could affect his woman so strongly. And vice versa, of course.
Easing himself carefully out of her, he slid off the bed. His shirt had been unbuttoned and hung half off his shoulders. His pants were puddled at his feet. And Savannah was even worse. She wore only one high-heeled sandal; the other was over by the door. Her dress was shoved down to her waist, one strap broken, and the hem hiked up. Her legs were splayed open, exposing blond curls glistening from their sex. A scrap of fabric lay on the floor, what remained of her panties. Penthouse Forum couldn’t have painted a better picture of a male fantasy.
He went into the bathroom and washed himself off. Then he came back into the bedroom, getting his first real look at their surroundings. “Oh, my God!”
The room was red. Everywhere. The walls, the carpet, the lamp shade, the bed spread, even the hanging chandelier—yes, there was a small crystal chandelier over the king size bed—had red bulbs. And cupids . . . there were cupids everywhere: carved into the headboard, the base of the lamp, the dresser pulls, pictures on the walls. Holy hell! He peered closer at one painting. Did cupids really do that?
Tante Lulu had been right. There was a small coin box at the end of the bed that read, “Good Vibrations, high, medium, low, four quarters for five minutes.” He sure hoped he had enough change in his pants. If not, he was running to the nearest convenience store. Thankfully, he had a few coins. He put four quarters in, but nothing happened. Oh, well!
Matt glanced at his wristwatch. Only nine p.m. At least ten hours until they had to pick up Katie. With a grin, he grabbed something from his wallet, then lay himself down on his side next to Savannah on the bed. He tickled her nose, making it twitch, until she finally opened her eyes.
She woke immediately. Smiling up at him, she said, “Hi!” There was a world of meaning in that greeting.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” she asked.
“Not nearly enough,” he said, trailing a fingertip from her chin to her breastbone, which called her attention to her carnal disarray. He loved the full-body flush that swept over her then.
“I have something for you,” he said as he helped her remove her clothing.
“You already told me. Something back in your Fort Dix apartment.”
“No. This is a different something.” He whipped out an accordion strip of foil goodies. At least twelve condoms.
She laughed. “A bit overconfident, aren’t you?”
“Sweetheart, you have no idea,” he said.
Just then, the bed vibrations kicked in, and an old Beach Boys song blasted out from a radio next to the TV.
“Good Vibrations,” for sure. He laughed as he rolled over and on top of her, spreading her legs with his knees. Then she laughed and rolled so that she was on the top, her knees straddling his belly.
Then, they both stopped laughing.
The vibrations that ensued came only partly from the mattress.
Epilogue
Tante Lulu always gets her own way . . .
TANTE LULU PREENED with satisfaction as Captain Matthew Carrington and Savannah Jones were married in a small Houma chapel with a reception to follow at Our Lady of the Bayou Church reception hall. Everyone came around to her way of thinking, eventually.
Tante Lulu gave the bride away. She was dressed to the nines for the occasion in a peach chiffon cocktail dress and matching pumps that pinched her toes from the get-go. No matter! Her peach-dyed orthopedic shoes were stow
ed in the car for later dancing. Today she wore her own gray curls with an orange headband studded with rhinestones. She’d had her make-up and nails done at Charmaine’s salon. Coral Satin was her color of the day.
Matthew and his best friend, Lt. James Singleton, who’d flown in especially from Kuwait, both wore dress blues. More than a few women sighed.
“There’s something about a man in uniform,” Charmaine was heard to remark, then quickly add, “Cowboys, too,” when her husband gave her a wounded scowl.
“A military uniform on a man is what we usta call widow bait duds,” Tante Lulu recalled, overhearing Charmaine.
“Any uniform, really. Give me a fireman any day,” Charmaine agreed, fanning her face with a program. “Oops. Just kidding, Rusty.”
“Hey, chère, how about a police uniform?” Tee-John added as he passed by. “Whenever I want a quickie, I just have to arrive home in uniform over lunch hour.”
Celine, looking pretty as a waddling hippo in a blue maternity dress, elbowed her husband. “Idiot! You don’t wear a uniform anymore.”
“I could,” he insisted with a wink.
Tante Lulu had wanted an archway of swords leading from the chapel, but Matthew rejected that idea. “You can’t have a one-soldier archway.”
“Some of us LeDeux could hold swords.”
Matthew and Savannah had both said, “No!”
The bride wore a pearl-white suit with matching high heels. Around her neck hung a precious blue sapphire in a platinum setting, the groom’s gift, which had been purchased somewhere overseas long ago. Also a complement to her eye color was the bouquet of blue irises and white roses that Matthew had given her. Her hair was upswept under a small pillbox hat with a demi-veil.
Matthew whispered to her as they stood at the altar, “I hope we have children someday with blue eyes like yours.”
“Not right away, though,” she whispered back, “and I prefer golden brown eyes, like yours.”
“Hah! It might be sooner than you both think,” Tante Lulu joined in the conversation, except her whisper was loud enough to be heard in the front row where Matthew’s mother and father sat. His mother looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon.
The minister, about to begin the ceremony, shushed them all, with a special wagging of the finger at Tante Lulu. They were old friends.
A baby? Sooner than they thought? Matthew and Savannah looked at each other in question. Did Tante Lulu know something they didn’t? After all, she did have an unusual connection with a saint, didn’t she?
Charmaine acted as matron of honor. She wore a suit, too, but hers was lavender and lots tighter. She would have preferred red, but Tante Lulu warned her not to outshine the bride.
The flower girl was Katherine Carrington, of course. The five-year-old, in a frothy confection of pink and white ruffles, flashed a toothless grin during the entire wedding. Having a daddy was like getting a birthday and Christmas gift all wrapped in one package, Katie was heard telling Etienne.
To which, Etienne replied, “I’d rather get a video game.”
Overhearing him, Tante Lulu swatted the little boy on his rump, chastising, “Don’tcha ever talk like that, or you’ll be sittin’ in the corner for an hour, jist like yer daddy usta do.”
Once the traditional and rather demure wedding was over, they headed over to the reception hall where René’s band, The Swamp Rats, was already setting up.
Matthew’s mother, once resigned to the wedding and informed that she was welcome only if she behaved, had wanted them to be married in an area country club that had a formal garden for weddings. She even offered to pay. Needless to say, she was not happy with the little chapel, but she managed to survive. Harder for her to accept was the reception, not just that it was being held in a church hall, but the Cajun tone to the whole affair. When they arrived in the church parking lot, Mrs. Carrington almost had a heart attack. They were greeted from the open doors of the hall by a loud and rowdy version of “Louisiana Saturday Night.” Some of the invited guests even yelled out, “Yee-haw,” and others, that age-old Rebel call.
With a hand to her heart, Mrs. Carrington addressed Tante Lulu, “But we’re not Cajun.”
“Honey . . .” Tante Lulu began.
That alone caused Mrs. Carrington to bristle.
“. . . there are three ways a person kin become a Cajun. By birth. By marriage. And by the back door. Yer son and Savannah are now honorary Cajuns. They came in by my back door.”
“Grandpa! Grandma!” Katie came racing toward the couple, whom she’d been introduced to for the first time this morning.
Mr. Carrington hunkered down to Katie’s level, uncaring of the wrinkles in his thousand dollar suit, and gave her a big hug. Mrs. Carrington, whose designer dress probably cost more than most cars in the parking lot, didn’t scrooch down, but the smile that melted the constant frown on her face was a good sign. Maybe she wasn’t so bad, after all.
Later, Tante Lulu brought a late arrival over and introduced him to Matthew and Savannah. “Matthew, this is Major General Paul Duvall from Fort Polk, here in Loo-zee-anna. Paul, this is Captain Matthew Carrington. He’s a war hero.”
Matthew cringed at the introduction and cringed even more when he realized the old lady’s motive.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if Matthew could be assigned to Fort Polk soz he and his family kin live right here on the bayou?”
Savannah was the one to cringe then. It was one thing for Tante Lulu to interfere in their personal lives, but quite another for her to mess with Matthew’s professional career.
The major put up a hand to halt their coming protests and laughed. “Now, Tante Lulu, that’s something to be decided by me and Captain Carrington and a lot of high-ups.”
“I know higher-ups,” Tante Lulu said, a little miffed at their lack of appreciation for her efforts.
“I’m sure you do,” they all said as one.
“For now, I’ll be returning to Fort Dix with Savannah and Katie. We’ll see what happens from there,” Matthew told Tante Lulu in a conciliatory tone.
After all the dancing and eating and drinking and toasts, Matthew and Savannah were about to begin their last dance, a Cajun version of Garth Brooks’ “The Dance” being played by the band. Soon they would be off to a short honeymoon in the Bahamas. They were taking their daughter with them.
As they moved slowly together in the dance, unaware of others joining them on the dance floor, Savannah said with tears misting her eyes, “I’m so happy. I don’t know what the future holds, but this is such a great start.”
“I know what the future holds,” Matthew declared, swiping one of her tears with his thumb. “It will be whatever we make it and a lot of that Cajun philosophy that Tante Lulu keeps spouting.”
Savannah smiled. “Laissez le bons temp rouler? Let the good times roll?”
“Guar-an-teed!” Matt answered in an exaggerated Cajun accent.
Tante Lulu danced by in a lively two-step with the elderly butcher Gustave Boudreaux. She raised her eyes upward and whispered, “Thanks again, St. Jude. Another match made in heaven!”
The End
(Please continue reading for more information)
Tante Lulu’s Beignets
History: Beignets (pronounced BEN-yea) have long been a Southern Louisiana specialty, particularly in New Orleans where they were made most famous by the French Quarter’s Café du Monde. Best served with café au lait, especially for breakfast, beignets are considered the forerunner of modern doughnuts, minus the holes. Nothing more than fried pieces of raised dough sprinkled profusely with powdered sugar, the beignet has to be tasted to be appreciated. Tante Lulu loves to serve them to her guests.
Ingredients:
1 envelope dry yeast
1/2 c. warm water
4-5 c. flour
1 c. evaporated milk
1/2 c. granulated sugar
1/2 c. shortening (or ½ c. canola oil, or 3 tsp. softened butter)
1 X-large
egg, or 2 small eggs, beaten
1 tsp. salt
2 c. powdered sugar
Oil for deep frying
Directions:
Mix water, granulated sugar, and yeast in a bowl and set aside for a half hour. Beat together the egg/s, salt, and evaporated milk and add to the yeast mixture. Stir in half of the flour, then add the shortening. The remaining flour should be added a little at a time until you have the right consistency . . . a soft dough that is not sticky. Do not knead. Place the dough in a greased bowl (or one sprayed with non-stick oil), cover, and refrigerate overnight.
Next day, punch the dough down and roll on a floured surface to 1/4 to 1/2 inch thickness. Cut into two-inch squares (bigger or smaller, depending on preference).
Preheat oil to roughly 375 degrees or until a drop of water sizzles in the pan. Lower the squares into the hot oil and brown on both sides. Drain on brown paper (a grocery bag will do) or paper towels. Roll the warm beignets in a generous amount of powdered sugar, or shake them in a bag of powdered sugar. Yum!
[A shortcut: My mother, who was by no means a Southerner and was in fact of Polish descent, used to make something similar that is called chrusciki. But she used frozen bread dough. After it had risen, she dropped finger pinchfuls of the dough into the hot oil. In her case, she rolled the final product in granulated sugar. These were not nearly as light or delicious as true beignets, but for today’s working mother (and my mother was just that), it did in a pinch.]
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