"And it's forever. We're forever." He pressed his fingers into her, one shallow fiery inch and she gasped, her body gripping at him, desperate to draw him deeper.
"Yes." Her head tossed from side to side and she lifted her hips, trying to impale herself on his fingers. "Just please do something."
He took her with his mouth, his tongue replacing his finger, stabbing deep, drinking at her, licking, sucking, devouring her. She tasted like sweet candy, yet with a tangy bite of cinnamon and he wanted every drop. He lapped at her, holding her legs apart with strong hands, starving for every drop of liquid he could extract with his greedy mouth. Again and again he brought her to the brink while her body thrashed and bucked against his mouth, but he refused to allow her relief.
When she was mindlessly pleading, nearly sobbing, he lifted his head. "Get on your hands and knees."
His voice had ge to a deep growl. Heat ran like a tidal wave through his veins. She complied, her soft skin covered in that fine sheen that made her feel like silk. He didn't wait for her to settle but pressed one hand firmly on her neck, forcing her head down and her buttocks up. He slammed his cock into that fiery inferno, driving through her tight folds almost savagely.
She screamed, the sound vibrating through his body. His thick length stretched the walls of her sheath until he could feel her every heartbeat. She writhed around him, twisting, shoving back when he withdrew and plunged again and again. His hands tightened and he drove into her heat. The position allowed the deep penetration he craved as well as allowing his cock to create a tremendous friction over her sensitive bud.
Her moans rose to a wailing crescendo. Her pleas grew into a mindless, desperate chant of his name and oh-please--oh-please--oh-please. He gripped her hips and surged deep, over and over, driving through her tight, hot sheath. Each hard thrust stole her breath, rocked her body and sent her into another frenzy of gasping chanting.
Her muscles clamped down on him, gripped like a vise, scalding hot, sending ripples of pleasure through him as her orgasm tore through her, taking him with her. Her back arched, her eyes widened and she cried out as the sensation rolled over her like a tidal wave. Her tight sheath dragged his own release from him, a series of powerful contractions that seemed never-ending, pulsing around him, drowning him in pleasure.
Drake stared down at her. Both of them fought for breath. He could barely comprehend what had just happened. The explosive passion between them was unimaginable. He could feel her body still gripping his, pulsing around him. Saria seemed to be drifting, barely aware, definitely uncomprehending. He eased his body from hers, appreciating her small cry of protest.
"I'm heavy, baby," he whispered. He brushed kisses over her chin, the corner of her mouth, her temple. "I don't want to crush you."
"Don't leave me," she murmured.
"It won't ever happen, Saria. I'm very much in love with you. As soon as I have the strength, I'm putting you in bed."
"I could crawl," she offered.
"I don't think that will be necessary. Just give me a minute to catch my breath." He managed to get a hand up to rub the strands of her damp hair between his fingers. She always felt like silk to him. Her skin. Her hair. "Is it so damned hard to admit you love me?"
Her lashes lifted and she stared at him with eyes wide with shock. "Of course not. I'm crazy about you. I just have never said that to anyone. Maybe Pauline--once. Recently. Never as a child. And I don't think anyone ever said it to me."
He suppressed a groan and buried his face against her neck. He should have thought of that. Saying "I love you" had not been a drunken man's priority. When he was sober enough, he taught her to survive, he hadn't taught her how to love. Pauline, maybe, had fulfilled that role in Saria's life, but she'd been careful of being too demonstrative in case Saria's father had stopped the child from coming to see her. Drake hid a smile against her delicious skin. He doubted Saria's father could have stopped her from doing anything she wanted to do.
He pressed a kiss into her throat and lifted his head to look ather again. "I love you. I'm saying it to you. Over and over. And when we have children, both of us will be saying it to them."
"Okay."
She smiled, a slow, beautiful, Saria smile that made his heart stutter and his cock pulse with life in spite of how tired he was. She made him feel alive, in the moment, every second in her company. He kissed his way up her throat to her chin and then to the corners of her mouth. "You're so beautiful, Saria," he whispered before his mouth settled over hers. He meant the inside of her, her character, her soul, her heart. He wasn't a man to give flowery speeches, but she inspired them.
He sucked at her lower lip, and then licked along the seam of her lips until she opened her mouth to him. He blanketed her again, knowing he was in trouble with her. Addicted to her kisses, craving her body, loving her smile, what the hell chance did he have with her? She was going to wrap him around her finger and get every damn thing she wanted.
He lifted his head and glared at her. "We're getting married immediately. I want our child to know we were in love and wanted each other."
"Our child?" she echoed. "We have a long way to go before we have a child."
"Immediately. If I'm going to spend my lifetime giving in to you on nearly every issue, I get this one."
She laughed and pushed at him. "You are crazy, Drake. You're workin' yourself into a fine snit for no reason. We'll get married any time you want. I said yes, remember?"
He forced his body to work. "Where's the bedroom?"
She looked around her with a slightly daze expression. "Over there. Tante Marie just left a few days ago, so the blankets are still fresh. She keeps them in that closet inside a plastic tub."
He eased his body from the couch, found he could stand and padded across the wooden floor to the room she indicated. "Why do you call her Tante Marie? Is she your aunt?"
Saria propped her head on her hand. "In a manner of speaking. Every child called her Tante Marie. She's the recognized local Traiteur--our healer. She's very good too. Everyone goes to her, all up and down the swamp. The bayous. Even from town. If she can't find the right plant to heal you, there isn't one."
"And she lives here?" Drake tried to keep the shock from his voice. The cabin was very small and obviously old. Everything was very clean, but very rustic.
"She grew up here, went away to nursing school, and like most of us, found she didn't really want to be away. This is her family home and she's comfortable in it. Every few months she leaves for a couple of weeks to visit her sister."
Drake spread the sheets on the bed and added pillows and a blanket before gathering Saria in his arms.
She wrinkled her nose. "I'm all sweaty."
"I like you sweaty. It's sexy."
She laughed and buried her face against his chest. "On you maybe."
He could feel her tongue sliding over his skin, tasting him. His cock made a second attemo rise to the occasion. He laid her on the bed, drinking in the sight of her, sprawled out, all that soft skin and alluring curves.
She quirked an eyebrow at him, her gaze dropping to his erection. "Really?"
"Really."
"I don't think I can move."
"You don't have to do a thing."
He made love to her gently, taking his time, a slow, languorous expression of the way he felt. Worshipping her. Taking her to the edge slowly, a long eloquent climb as he committed every inch of her body to memory. Every sigh. Every moan. Each sensitive spot. So many kisses, coming back again and again to her wickedly sinful mouth. She was everything to him and he wanted her to know it. He might not be the best at words, but she was going to know she was thoroughly loved by the time he gave her release. She clung to him when her body fragmented and intense pleasure washed over and through her. He stayed deep inside her for a long time, holding her close, reluctant to leave her.
Drake kissed the back of her neck as he curved his body protectively around hers. "Go to sleep, baby."
"Mmm," she murmure
d drowsily, snuggling closer into him. Her hand stroked over his as he covered her breast with his palm. "My leopard asked me if that was all you had. She pointed out her male had amazin' stamina."
"She did, did she?" Amusement tinged his voice. "He rested for at least twenty to thirty minutes. I'll be doing the same."
He woke her twice more before morning, and once she woke him, her mouth so hot he told her he wanted her to wake him every morning. She just laughed and snuggled back into him, sated for a short while. He figured her leopard wasn't complaining about his performance anymore.
He drifted with the light coming in the window, just holding her, listening to her even breathing, knowing he wanted to hear that soft sound for the rest of his life. Already, he couldn't imagine going to bed without her or waking up to complete emptiness. Rain played music on the roof and the wind drove branches into the house. He could see the mist through the window, turning the world into a glittering silver paradise for the two of them. She felt like warm, living silk, her skin heating his. He tightened his arms around her, laughing softly when his body, of its own volition, began to come alive again. He couldn't imagine that a baby would not be the result of their coming together so urgently. If her leopard had emerged, both of them were fertile, the only time a shifter could be conceived.
Outside, a twig snapped and he went on alert. His leopard jumped, so that his skin itched and his jaw ached. He listened for another moment and heard the whisper of material brushing against leaves.
Drake lifted his head. "Wake up, baby, we've got company." His fingers tangled in Saria's hair and he brushed a kiss over the top of her head. "Wake up."
Saria nuzzled his neck. "Mmm, a few more minutes, Drake."
"Charisse is outside. We've got to get up."
19
"JUST a minute, Charisse," Saria called as she yank
ed a pair of jeans from the pack her brothers had given to Drake the night before. "Great. These are too long." She wiggled her hips. "And tight. Whose are these anyway? I think some woman left her jeans in one of my brother's rooms and I've inherited them."
"Before you open that door, Saria, you listen to me," Drake whispered, pulling a weapon from under his pillow.
She scowled at him as she fished for a T-shirt. Whoever had packed the case hadn't believed in underwear. "A gun under your pillow? I was too occupied to think about weapons last night. I have no idea where my knife is."
"You should be happy you have a man who puts your safety first."
"I want you to be so crazy out of your mind for me you can't possibly think about safety," she objected.
Drake flashed a rueful grin. "Then I'll admit I didn't think about it until early this morning." He tugged on his jeans, the grin fading. His eyes went dark and somber. "Don't put your body between me and Charisse at any time. Not for any reason. I don't miss, baby, and if I have to, I'll kill her."
The teasing laughter faded from Saria's eyes and she went still. "Charisse would never hurt anyone, Drake. Please don't make things worse for her by lettin' her know you think she's capable of bein' a serial killer."
"I'll do my best, Saria, but you'll have to trust me on this."
She shook her head, opened her mouth to protest again, but then shrugged and hurried out of the bedroom to the front door. Drake followed her, the gun in his hand, finger on the trigger, hidden under the shirt he carried.
Charisse looked as if she'd spent the night crying. She stood looking completely absurd in her bright red short jacket and long black skirt, with red leather boots and a silk black blouse peeking beneath the jacket. Her hair, once a fashionable chignon, had begun to fall out in the rain and wind, so that tendrils fluttered around her face. She had beautiful skin and eyes and the small curls showed her features off to perfection, far more, Drake thought, than the severe, yet fashionable hairdo she chose to wear. Some people considered black widow spiders to be beautiful--he just wasn't one of them.
Saria caught Charisse's arm and drew her inside. "What is it, cher?"
Her voice was motherly, soothing, but she did exactly what Drake had told her, positioning herself so he had a clear shot at Charisse even as she took her into the living room and indicated a chair.
"We haven't made any coffee, cher, but I'll do that right away. What happened?"
"I made such a fool of myself with Mahieu last night. He was so angry with me." Charisse put her hands over her face and began to sob.
That, at least, was genuine. Drake could always hear the echo of a lie, and there was a distinct odor to lies, but Charisse was telling the truth. He sighed and went to get tissue from the bathroom while Saria hastily put on the coffee. All the while he kept a careful line of fire to the woman--just in case.
Drake perched on the arm of a chair opposite Charisse where he knew he couldss no matter where Saria was if he was forced to shoot Charisse. He handed the sobbing woman a tissue, and shot Saria an exasperated look. She glared at him, clearly on Charisse's side no matter what.
"Exactly what happened?" Saria said.
"I told him I didn't want to see him anymore," Charisse admitted. "I was lyin' of course. Who wouldn't want to go out with Mahieu? He's . . . he's . . . perfect." She wept hysterically.
Saria sank down beside Charisse and patted her soothingly. "We can straighten this out, Charisse, don't cry anymore and let's figure it out."
"You don't understand. There's no way to fix it. I told him to go away. He tried to talk to me and he said if he went, he wouldn't come back. You know Mahieu, he means what he says." Her voice rose in another hysterical wail. "I told him to go."
"I'll never understand women in a million years," Drake groused. "If you didn't want him to go, why would you insist he leave?" When both women looked at him, he sighed. "And don't you own a pair of jeans? You're out in the swamp and you're some kind of fashion model." Come to think of it, each time he'd seen Charisse, the woman was in some kind of fashionable suit. Even on the edge of the swamp, when he'd been on a picnic with Saria. "It isn't practical, Charisse."
"As a matter of fact, no, I do not own a pair of jeans. I'm a woman and I wear dresses or skirts," Charisse said, batting tear-tipped lashes at him, clearly offended.
Drake would have thrown his hands up in exasperation, but he had a gun hidden by his side and didn't have the luxury of expressing his complete frustration with the woman.
Saria gave him one emotion-laden look from under her long lashes, quelling any desire to continue the conversation with Charisse. Saria switched from her, you-speak-again-and-you're-dead look to a sweet smile directed at Charisse.
"Cher, why did you decide to pick a fight with Mahieu? You drove him off on purpose. Why did you do that?"
Drake couldn't tell the difference between what he'd asked and what Saria had asked, but Charisse responded with another sniff and more fresh tears. "My mother had her talk with me again. And she's always right. I'm not good enough. Or pretty enough. Your brother is so handsome and smart and could have any woman he wanted. Why would he ever stick with me? He's just using me. The first real woman to come along, he'd leave me and go off with her."
Saria frowned. "That's just not true, Charisse. A man would be lucky to have you."
Drake wasn't so certain. Not with the sure belief the woman was a serial killer and she cried like a child at the drop of a hat. More tears flooded her large eyes and she covered her face, rocking back and forth.
"I'll never have a man. My mother says I don't have what it takes to hold a man . . ."
"Oh for God's sake, Charisse," Drake burst out, driven beyond endurance. "How old are you anyway? Has it ever occurred to you that you're a grown-up and maybe, just maybe, your mother is full of shit?"
Saria gasped. Charisse startled, staring at him with wide, tear-drenched eyes.
"Drake," Saria cautioned.
"Someone has to tell the truth here, Saria. Charisse, everyone tells me you're a brilliant woman," Drake was more exasperated than ever. "You know you
are as well, yet you let everyone treat you as if you're a small child that's not quite bright. So your mother says you're not beautiful enough to hold a man like Mahieu Boudreaux. Why in the hell would you ever believe her? Mahieu is a man of principle. Do you think he's after you for your money?"
Two spots of color flamed into Charisse's pale face. "Every man I've ever gone out with has dumped me for my mother. She sends them on their way and crows about it for months."
He heard Saria inhale sharply and he glanced at her. She pressed a hand to her stomach as if sick and he felt an answering lurch in his gut. "Are you telling me your mother really seduced your boyfriends?"
Charisse stiffened. Shame crept into her expression. She nodded. "Even in high school. They always slept with her. I was never pretty enough, or smart enough . . ."
"That's sick, Charisse. And abusive. If you're so damned bright, how the hell did you not figure that out? Your mother has something wrong with her and she took it out on you. Did you really think Mahieu would sleep with her?"
"Mon dieu, cher, tell me you didn't accuse Mahieu of sleeping with your mother," Saria pleaded. "Please tell me you didn't do that."
A whisper of unease slipped into Drake's mind and lodged there.
"I did though," Charisse sobbed. "I did and he left. You should have seen the look on his face. He'll never talk to me again. I tried callin' him over and over. I texted him. He didn't answer. And I went by your house before dawn and Remy said Mahieu never came home." Her sobs went up another notch, reaching a crescendo. "My mother wasn't home either last night."
Drake stiffened, his mind racing, fingers of fear creeping down his spine. "I need you to calm down for me, Charisse. Stop crying. You won't be of any help if you keep crying." That terrible thought continued to drift unchecked through his mind. Impossible. Totally impossible. Yet that little tendril of suspicion refused to go away. "Is there a phone in this cabin, Saria?"
"Yes. Cell phones don't work here."
"Call Remy and tell him to get over here now," Drake said. "Tell him to send the team to Fenton's Marsh. I want them to spread out and look for any signs that someone has been there. And tell him to bring the photos you took out there."
Savage Nature Page 35
