Cajun Crazy

by Sandra Hill

  “Have only the right to get on with this party,” she sniped and released her grip on the brass bars, reaching for him.

  “Uh-uh.” He forced her arms upward again. “I’ve waited too long to gulp down this meal. Slow savoring.”

  “At least take off your undies so we have an equal playing field.”

  “Uh-uh,” he repeated. “This is my chastity belt.”

  “Hey, stud, I’ve got news for you and Calvin Klein. Your chastity belt is about to burst its seams.”

  He laughed and pinched her nipples into even tighter, rosier sentinels of arousal. Like a male erection, their condition was hard to hide. In case anyone didn’t notice, nipples yelled, silently, “Hey, look at me. I’m blinkin’ hot and aching for you.”

  She gasped and arched upward at the painful pleasure. “More,” she demanded.

  “Definitely,” he promised. “Later.”

  “At least kiss me.”

  “Definitely.” His fingertip was outlining her lips and brushing over the full surfaces. “Later.”

  She nipped at his fingertip, and he withdrew it, chuckling.

  So, this was how he was going to play it. Well, two could play that game. She would just lie here like a loaf of bread and pretend indifference until he gave in and did it her way. Not that she had a “way.”

  With maddening slowness, he explored her then. Her shoulders and arms, her sides from pits to thighs, down the center of her body, between her breasts, over her navel, down to but not touching her pubic hair. Then he flipped her over, and did the same to her back, paying special attention to the back of her knees and her buttocks.

  The whole time he made murmured sounds of appreciation.

  “Your breasts are like sweet mounds of hardened ice cream topped with candied cherries. Have I mentioned I have a sweet tooth?”

  Down, cherries! Down!

  “Have you ever worn nipple rings?”

  No, but I liked when you pinched them.

  “How about a navel piercing? I know a fellow . . .”

  Not gonna happen. And I’m not gonna get waxed, either.

  “I like that you don’t go bare down here.”

  Oh. Well, I’m okay with your chest hair, then.

  “Some women’s pubes look like plucked chickens.”

  Seen a lot of female landscaping, have you?

  “Did you know the small of a woman’s back is considered an erogenous zone?”

  No, but I can think of a few others. One of which wants you to get on with it.

  “Oh, man, oh, man! Your ass! Do you exercise a lot to get those cheeks so round and tight?”

  No, they came that way. Darn it! How am I going to resist a guy who admires my big butt?

  He flipped her again and now he arranged himself atop her, carefully, and began to kiss her. Holding her face in both hands, he savored her mouth with deep, wet kisses that got her squirming under him.

  She put her arms around him and caressed the cords of his neck and muscles of his back and even his cloth-covered buttocks, which were also nicely curved and hard. But she wasn’t about to ask how he got his that way. She was still trying to maintain an impression of low arousal when in fact her hormones were not just humming, they were screaming for completion.

  Simone liked kissing, and Adam was good at it, but right now she wanted more. She arched her hips upward, lifting him only slightly, then grinding back and forth against his erection, which she could swear grew even more.

  He groaned and pressed his forehead against hers, bracing himself on straightened arms. Then he raised his head, showing her glazed whiskey-colored eyes. “Slow down, sugar.”

  “How do I slow a runaway train?”

  “We have miles to go before . . .” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  You might have miles, I have inches.

  Singing the blues of a different sort . . .

  Adam looked down at Simone and smiled. He’d imagined that they would be good together. He hadn’t imagined big enough.

  “What are you smiling about?” she grumbled, still discontented that he wasn’t conducting this night’s activities in the fast-forward fashion she wanted. Or thought she wanted. He intended to convince her otherwise.

  I am the chief engineer on this train, baby. For the moment. Not that he would tell her that.

  “You are one handful of a woman,” he murmured as his hands swept over her breasts and belly. “That’s why I’m smiling. No skin-and-bones model type, but flesh and curves, and places for a man to sink into.”

  “Fat! You’re saying I’m fat.”

  “Definitely not!” he protested as she tried to swat at him.

  He linked his fingers with hers and raised their arms above her head. “Feisty female!” he grumbled against her neck. Oops, he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

  She shoved his face from her neck by tossing her head and grumbled right back at him. “You mean, I have a mind of my own, that I’m not easily controlled.”

  “Sure,” he conceded, with a smile. “And you’re smart, probably smarter than me with my supposedly high I.Q. Did I tell you I have a high I.Q.?” That sounded stupid, even to his own ears. And totally irrelevant to their situation. And speaking of ears . . . I wonder what she would say if I asked her to stick her tongue in my ear and jiggle? Or just blow in my ear?

  “Street smarts,” she commented. “And who cares how high your I.Q. is? It’s not your brain I’m concerned with now, it’s that other organ.” She bucked her hips up against said organ, just in case he didn’t understand.

  He did. “Maybe I chose the wrong words to express myself,” he conceded with a laugh. “You’re funny, sweetheart. I didn’t realize what a great sense of humor you have.”

  She gave him a cross-eyed glower. “All these left-handed compliments just to slow the action down!” she accused him.

  “Left-handed?”

  “Like a woman wants to be a comedian in bed!”

  “It is funny when you pretend not to be highly aroused while you’re weeping hot oil from sex city.”

  Her face flushed, and she tried to knee him off her.

  No way! He was firmly planted, chest to breast, hip to hip.

  Having lost that battle, she tried another. Ridicule. “Wow, Prince Charming, you do have a way with words. Hot oil?”

  Little did she know that the only way ridicule worked with a man when both of them were naked was if a woman ridiculed his most precious part! At this moment, said part wouldn’t come down if the cast of Comedy Central was surrounding the bed. “I could have said warm honey from your private ewer of paradise, but that sounds too romancey.”

  “Ewer, huh? You’re so full of it! And God forbid you should be romancey!”

  He leaned down and kissed her, real quick, before she bit his lip. “Really, darlin’, is there anything better than a woman who can make a man smile in bed?”

  “How about a man who can make a woman smile in bed? Or better yet . . . a man who can get . . . on . . . with . . . it.”

  She humped him, upward, a couple times for emphasis. Like he needed emphasis at a time like this!

  He got the message, and in fact he was more than ready to “get on with it.” Sliding off the bed, he stood and shrugged out of his briefs, carefully. Glancing downward, he saw the blue veins standing out on his cock. One of those rare, but much to be desired Blue Steelers. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “When you’re done admiring yourself, my ewer is starting to yawn.”

  He was outright laughing as he pulled on a condom and arranged himself on her once again. And she was laughing, too.

  But not for long.

  For either of them.

  He pressed himself inside of her and gritted his teeth against the intense pleasure of her inner folds spasming around him in welcome. She raised her knees, which gave him even more access. Have access, will travel, said his happy part.

  “You feel so hot inside,” he told her.

  “Yo
u are so hard,” she told him. “Are you wearing a ribbed condom, or is it those big blue veins I’m feeling?”

  The first was a no. No ribbing. The second was just plain impossible, but his ego about went through the roof, anyhow. And, of course, he answered, “It’s my big blue veins.” Which was ridiculous, but who cared!

  As he withdrew, her vaginal muscles tugged on him. Nature’s way of keeping the male inside where he could procreate. Or Simone’s body’s way of saying he felt so good, please stay. Probably both.

  She wrapped her legs around his butt, and he began the serious business of thrust and retreat, shove forward, drag back, in and out. Slow, then fast, then slow again, until he was no longer capable of thinking, just doing. His vision was blurry, his heart was racing, and Simone was moaning in an endless stream of, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!”

  When she came with an almost painful grab on his cock, then convulsed around him, he immediately followed by arching his back and shooting out his own orgasm. There was a roaring in his ears, and blood drained from his head, leaving him weak and sublimely sated.

  For a long moment, he just lay atop her, trying to slow his breath down to a pant. The roar diminished gradually, and he felt like he might actually survive.

  Until . . .

  Damn, but didn’t she take that moment to breathe in his ear! In fact, she was blowing. Little spurts of air. In a rhythmic pattern. It was probably just her attempt to get her own breathing under control, but sonofabitch, he didn’t know whether to say, “Hallelujah!” or, “Have mercy, Lord.”

  Not that God had anything to do with sex outside of marriage, although St. Jude might have, if Tante Lulu had sicced him on them with her thunder of love crap. But, no, even the saints didn’t get involved in the sex act, did they?

  “Simone,” he said, raising his head to look at her.

  Her eyes were half lidded and she was breathing evenly through parted lips that were rosy and swollen from his kisses. But, no, no, no, she was not going to fall asleep on him. “Wake up, Simone. You can’t sack out after blowing me back to life.”

  Her eyes shot open. “I gave you a blow job? In my sleep?”

  “No, darlin’. Not that kind of blow job.” He rolled over on his back, and held on to her waist, forcing her to sit upright. On his standing half-soon-to-be-full-again erection!

  Her eyes went even wider as she noticed said half-stand, and she jiggled her hips a little just to make sure. “Are you serious?”

  He might have seen stars for a moment, or maybe it was just the flash of amber light from her lamp as he blinked rapidly. “Serious as any man can be who’s about to have his first ever multiple orgasm.”

  She smiled slowly, pleased, and tried to move her hips some more, which he couldn’t allow. Not yet. “Be still,” he ordered. “I want to look at you.”

  “Seems to me, you already did enough looking when you commented about my being fat.”

  “I never said you were fat. Now, shhh.”

  Her knees were folded on either side of his hips, and her buttocks rested on his upper thighs. Her hands were on his chest so that she was leaning forward slightly.

  He used that opportunity to examine her ample breasts, recalling how sensitive they’d been on those occasions he’d petted them to orgasm on her outdoor landing. Lifting them from underneath. Palming them. Flicking the pale pink nipples which he’d already roughed to a rosy hue. You could tell she’d never borne a child; otherwise, the nipples and areolas would be much darker. The best part was watching the expression on her face as he played with these most erogenous parts of her lush body.

  “Come closer,” he urged as he leaned upward.

  She arched her neck back as she did so, giving his mouth access to her breasts. As he took one into his mouth, drawing deeply and squeezing the other, she came apart inside and around him, just like she had before in their petting sessions, but this time—praise God and pass the gumbo, as Tante Lulu often said—his cock was there to feel every seizure of her inner muscles. It was a sign of his out-of-control excitement that he could think of the old lady at a time like this and not go limp.

  This was not a violent orgasm, but a sweet wash of sexual pleasure that was wonderful to Adam because of its gentleness. Not that he didn’t appreciate screaming, explosive, mutual climaxes when they came (pun intended), but wasn’t the human body amazing for its variety?

  It must also be a sign of his out-of-control excitement that he could have such philosophical thoughts at a time like this. Especially when his half arousal was now full and ready for some friction.

  Simone was sitting upright again and was staring at him through glazed eyes, as if she couldn’t believe what had happened, but then she smiled. And, oh, man, he knew he was in trouble by that smile. It was the kind Boudica the Celtic warrior queen gave the Romans before she led her army forward.

  She merely rocked at first, forward, then back. Several times.

  But he wanted more than that, and he took her hips in his hands, showing her the movement he liked best. A quick learner, she rode him then. Hard.

  He held on to her buttocks at first. Then he rose to a sitting position, knees raised, and they rocked each other while he tongue kissed her. Then she Frenched him back. And they were so good together. He wanted it to last forever, but of course it ended much too soon. Or just in time.

  This time, when she lay depleted under him, he rose and went into the bathroom to discard the condom and wash himself off. When he returned to the bed, she was stone-cold asleep, the kind of sleep only a perfect orgasm could bring.

  He knew that Simone had insecurities about her body, but, oh, man, if she could see herself the way he saw her! Her hair was a mess of shiny brown waves spread out on a white pillow imprinted with multicolored butterflies. She had pulled a matching butterfly sheet up over herself, but her shoulders and arms and upper breasts were still exposed. A sex flush still infused her cheeks and neck and chest. Her lips looked bruised and that might be whisker burn on her chin. He liked that he’d put his mark on her.

  In fact, he was beginning to think he was falling in love. It had been a long time since he’d felt like this, and then only for one woman . . . in the early days with Hannah. And look how that ended up.

  Why Simone? He had no idea. He’d certainly fought the attraction.

  And why now? Could it be as simple as some scientific principle where the human psyche yearned for some kind of destined bonding every so often? Or maybe it was connected to middle-age madness.

  Whatever the cause, he just knew that he thought about her all the time, and when he looked at her, he felt happy inside. His heart swelled, literally. Corny, he knew. But maybe not so absurd. Medical researchers had announced recently that people could actually die from a broken heart. Was it so impossible then that the heart could actually inflate with love?

  On the other hand, could Tante Lulu and her St. Jude nonsense have anything to do with this awful/wonderful assault on his emotions? Probably not. But still, everyone had warned him about steering clear of the old lady.

  On this confusing note, he decided that this would be a good time for him to leave. He liked to be there when Maisie awakened in the morning. But it was only one a.m. Plenty of time. So, he slid into bed beside Simone, pulled her into his arms, and covered them both with the sheet.

  Just before he fell asleep, he noticed the cat in the doorway glaring at him. He suspected that he’d usurped the feline’s nighttime spot. “Tough luck, Scarlett,” he said on a yawn. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  Little did he know what tomorrow was going to bring.

  No regrets . . . yet . . .

  Simone was late getting up the next morning, and her first look in the mirror over the bathroom sink almost scared her into ducking back under the covers again. It was going to take twice as long as usual to fix herself so she didn’t look like a woman who had been thoroughly fucked. Excuse the crude expression. It fits! But did she mind? Heck, no! Not the fucki
ng or the extra effort required to repair the damage.

  Too bad she wasn’t going to Marcus Pitot’s lakeshore house until tonight. One look at her in this condition, and everyone would assume she was ready to party. Sex party.

  Her hair resembled a wild mass of waves due to its drying naturally and her writhing in bed. She wet-combed it tightly off her face into a ponytail, which looked more like a bush than a tail. She’d have to rewash and style later.

  Ice cubes on her lips did little to reduce the swelling from so many deep, deep kisses. Women paid big money for this botoxed look, but they didn’t get it at home, overnight. Everyone would guess the cause, and she wanted to hug the secret of her and Adam to herself for a while longer.

  Make-up hid the whisker burns on her face and neck. The other places he’d abraded were her not-so-guilty pleasure.

  Simone had awakened once around two a.m. to find herself snuggled up against a sleeping Adam. She’d thought about shaking him and sending him home, but she was too sleepy, and he was so warm, and her body was so relaxed, that she’d drifted contentedly back to sleep.

  But then she’d awakened again about three a.m. from a deep, erotic dream to find herself already aroused. They were both on their sides, spoon fashion, and Adam had been lightly caressing her body’s intimate parts while she slept, bringing her up to not-quite-orgasmic levels.

  “What . . . no . . . that’s not fair,” she protested.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Let me . . .”

  Before she’d known what was happening, she’d been on her knees, face in the pillow, and he’d been taking her from behind. She’d still been only half awake; so, it had been a dreamy sort of sex, until his one hand played with her hanging breasts and the thumb of the other hand strummed her clitoris, which was still engorged from previous bed play. In a nanosecond, she’d jump-started from This-Is-Nice to Holy-Freakin’-Magic-Fingers!

  Good thing she had no neighbors—nighttime ones, anyway—because, for the first time in her life, she’d screamed out her ecstasy. Talk about explosive orgasms. And Adam had been no better. The male roar of triumph! What a thing to hear! Under normal circumstances she would have laughed. Neither of them had been laughing.