Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo Page B
Authors: Jianne Carlo
Tags: Fiction, Erótica, Romance, Contemporary, African American, multicultural, Multicultural & Interracial
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notices.”
Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes
55
Martine sank her eyelids to half-mast and concentrated on the curve of his chin.
How can this be? I fooled the nuns, the priests, even the gypsies. Is he seeing something in my features even now?
“And you"re having some sort of internal panic attack right now,” he said.
It took every ounce of strength she had not to flinch, not to wring the hands clasped in her lap, not to shove off him and sprint until she had no breath left, until her legs collapsed.
“I have your back, remember? You don"t have to be afraid anymore.” His lips brushed her temple, and he said, “My mama was born Catholic, but she converted to Southern Baptist before she married my daddy. He was the son of a preacher.
Why do you smell of honeysuckle and lemons?”
Harry nuzzled her neck, and his teeth grazed her skin. The slight love bite sent shivers down her spine, made her nipples bud and fight the constraints of the silk bra she wore. Her neck muscles went slack as her head fell to the one side.
“Hmm, you like that,” he whispered, and his lips feathered her throat. “Let"s get out of here. Too many eyes and ears.”
Remembering the hidden cameras and microphones, her glance swept from floor to ceiling, and she nodded. They were too alone here, his presence too overwhelming and more dizzying than champagne.
“Like the duds,” Harry commented as he guided her out of the hotel, and the sun warmed her face. His gaze trailed from the curls tickling her nape to the knitted button-up-the-front three-quarter-sleeved top and matching midcalf skirt she wore. He stroked her earlobe. “You always wear the same pair of earrings.”
So Grand-mère is always with me . Her inner cheek stung she nipped the flesh so hard. The answer had almost flown out of her mouth.
They came to the crowded noisy part of town, the jumble of different sounds, horns blaring, cars farting backfires, people laughing, peddlers shouting their wares, the odd street musicians strumming guitars and banjos, too dissonant and loud for conversation. Harry curled an arm around her waist, and he led her in the direction of the pier where the Glory was docked.
“You never answered my question,” he said as his fingers stroked up and down her hipbone.
“Question?” She turned to find him glancing at her, and once again his sheer maleness assailed her nostrils and made her itch to touch him, to brush the soft fuzz on the side of his jaw, to tangle her hands in his silky brown hair, though the Stetson cocked at a jaunty angle hid most of his coffee-with-cream locks.
“I"d give a million greenbacks to know what you"re thinking right now,” he murmured, his voice husky and deep.
I’m hoping you’ll make me feel like I did last night, that you’ll make my worries disappear if only for a while. I want to know if I’ll explode and shatter every time we fornicate—no, make love.
56
Jianne Carlo
Hordes thronged the narrow wooden pier, most hurrying in the opposite direction in which they walked. She and Harry swam upstream, weaving around the tourists who stopped abruptly to take photos of the bay and a shoreline studded with tents and oiled, golden bodies lying on black-and-white-striped towels. The midafternoon sun highlighted the sparkle in the beach sand, and the brilliant rays bounced back a brightness so blinding her pupils ached and she had to blink rapidly to ease their stinging.
The aromas of different perfumes and colognes mingled with sweat faded as they neared the end of the jetty, replaced by the smell of the sea as a cool gust whisked to shore. Martine"s skirt fluttered and ballooned, and she lifted her chin and closed her eyes, relishing the slight nip in the air. So different from Port-au-Prince. She didn"t miss the stench of rotting food, alleyways reeking of blistering urine, or the sulfuric sweat-soaked scent of men who toiled under a relentless tropical sun day after endless day.
The
Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes
55
Martine sank her eyelids to half-mast and concentrated on the curve of his chin.
How can this be? I fooled the nuns, the priests, even the gypsies. Is he seeing something in my features even now?
“And you"re having some sort of internal panic attack right now,” he said.
It took every ounce of strength she had not to flinch, not to wring the hands clasped in her lap, not to shove off him and sprint until she had no breath left, until her legs collapsed.
“I have your back, remember? You don"t have to be afraid anymore.” His lips brushed her temple, and he said, “My mama was born Catholic, but she converted to Southern Baptist before she married my daddy. He was the son of a preacher.
Why do you smell of honeysuckle and lemons?”
Harry nuzzled her neck, and his teeth grazed her skin. The slight love bite sent shivers down her spine, made her nipples bud and fight the constraints of the silk bra she wore. Her neck muscles went slack as her head fell to the one side.
“Hmm, you like that,” he whispered, and his lips feathered her throat. “Let"s get out of here. Too many eyes and ears.”
Remembering the hidden cameras and microphones, her glance swept from floor to ceiling, and she nodded. They were too alone here, his presence too overwhelming and more dizzying than champagne.
“Like the duds,” Harry commented as he guided her out of the hotel, and the sun warmed her face. His gaze trailed from the curls tickling her nape to the knitted button-up-the-front three-quarter-sleeved top and matching midcalf skirt she wore. He stroked her earlobe. “You always wear the same pair of earrings.”
So Grand-mère is always with me . Her inner cheek stung she nipped the flesh so hard. The answer had almost flown out of her mouth.
They came to the crowded noisy part of town, the jumble of different sounds, horns blaring, cars farting backfires, people laughing, peddlers shouting their wares, the odd street musicians strumming guitars and banjos, too dissonant and loud for conversation. Harry curled an arm around her waist, and he led her in the direction of the pier where the Glory was docked.
“You never answered my question,” he said as his fingers stroked up and down her hipbone.
“Question?” She turned to find him glancing at her, and once again his sheer maleness assailed her nostrils and made her itch to touch him, to brush the soft fuzz on the side of his jaw, to tangle her hands in his silky brown hair, though the Stetson cocked at a jaunty angle hid most of his coffee-with-cream locks.
“I"d give a million greenbacks to know what you"re thinking right now,” he murmured, his voice husky and deep.
I’m hoping you’ll make me feel like I did last night, that you’ll make my worries disappear if only for a while. I want to know if I’ll explode and shatter every time we fornicate—no, make love.
56
Jianne Carlo
Hordes thronged the narrow wooden pier, most hurrying in the opposite direction in which they walked. She and Harry swam upstream, weaving around the tourists who stopped abruptly to take photos of the bay and a shoreline studded with tents and oiled, golden bodies lying on black-and-white-striped towels. The midafternoon sun highlighted the sparkle in the beach sand, and the brilliant rays bounced back a brightness so blinding her pupils ached and she had to blink rapidly to ease their stinging.
The aromas of different perfumes and colognes mingled with sweat faded as they neared the end of the jetty, replaced by the smell of the sea as a cool gust whisked to shore. Martine"s skirt fluttered and ballooned, and she lifted her chin and closed her eyes, relishing the slight nip in the air. So different from Port-au-Prince. She didn"t miss the stench of rotting food, alleyways reeking of blistering urine, or the sulfuric sweat-soaked scent of men who toiled under a relentless tropical sun day after endless day.
The
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