Fever Moon by Carolyn Haines

the town believes Adele Hebert is the
loup-garou.”
    His hands stopped moving on her flesh. “People are desperate for a diversion. Anything to turn their thoughts from the war and from the plague of fever. Adele has provided them delicious gossip, but I wonder if they truly believe.”
    “They believe what’s convenient.”
    He lifted her face so that he could look into her eyes. “You’re a bright woman, Florence. That’s why I enjoy your company. That and certain other talents.”
    She touched his freshly shaved cheek. A question burned in her mouth, but she knew not to ask. If she hinted that she wanted more than what he gave her, he would be gone. She hadn’t known Raymond before he went to war, but this much she knew—his mind was as scarred by what he’d done and seen as his body. He kept both hidden from everyone.
    Instead, she closed her eyes and kissed him. She let her body do the talking as she pressed into him, one hand catching a firm hold of his hair and the other working at the buttons of his shirt.
    He held her with one arm while his other hand began a slow exploration up her silk-clad leg. He made a noise of appreciation deep in his throat as he found the top of her stocking and then the bare flesh of her thigh.
    His fingers brushed lightly up her skin, barely grazing her pubic hairs and the bare flesh of her belly. His touch, so delicate yet so assured, turned her inside out. She arched in his lap, allowing him better access.
    “Florence, you’re a woman made for pleasure,” he whispered into her hair. “Sometimes I think knowing you is the only thing that keeps me human.”
    His words increased her hunger. If pleasure was what he wanted, she could give that. She was skilled in the ways of pleasing men. She kissed him deeply and then stood up. With a swift motion she reached behind her and unzipped the dress. She let it fall to the floor, revealing the black satin bra and matching garter belt she’d bought in Baton Rouge. He swallowed.
    He reached for her and she stepped back, smiling. “I want you to want me more than anything else in life.”
    His smile hid a near desperate need. “If I want you any more, I’ll embarrass myself here on your sofa.”
    Raymond had more control than he gave himself credit. She knew from past experience. “You can touch me with your hands. Or your tongue. Nothing else.”
    His answer was a groan.
    She stepped close enough for his hands to grasp her right thigh, sliding up the skin, moving to a place where she could barely control her own need for him. But she locked her knees and held herself steady, letting his fingers explore. When she could stand it no longer, she took his hand and pulled him from the sofa. Once he was standing, she unzipped his pants and freed him, satisfied that her merest touch made him inhale sharply.
    This was their game, to tease and tantalize each other to near torture. She liked to make it last, because it was these moments that she thought of when she surrendered her body to the lust of other men. It was Raymond she saw in her mind, replaying his touch, his caress, his teasing suggestiveness. And it made her work tolerable.
    She’d never known a man who enjoyed the art of foreplay as much as Raymond. He could spend hours drawing his fingers along the quivering skin of her abdomen, circling ever closer to the place that would bring her relief—yet veering away at the last moment, laughing at the way he made her body buck and arch toward him.
    And she returned the favor with her hands and lips. Until both reached the end of their endurance and the joining was all that remained to bring about the last and final pleasure.
La petite mort
was the term her mother had used. So fitting, as they lay exhausted afterward, almost too sensitive and alive for the touch of the sheet, yet exhausted to the point of near lethargy.
    Whatever sexual bond connected them, Florence had never known such complete satisfaction. She loved Raymond. Had no