Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 by Jennifer Blake Page B

could be seen through the much-washed thinness of her shift.
    Elise followed the direction of his wandering gaze. Her stomach muscles tightened. A wary note in her voice, she said, “Hadn’t we better get up?”
    “It’s not quite time.”
    “But the others will be awake and we may as well—”
    “Besides,” he interrupted without raising his voice, “we have unfinished business between us.”
    “You mean—” She stopped, unable to find the right words to say what she thought he meant.
    “I do.”
    “But it’s morning!”
    “Whoever told you that such things happen only at night?”
    “I can’t,” she said, her tone positive. “Not with you watching me.”
    “I’ll close my eyes.”
    She balled her fingers into a fist, bringing it down to thump the furs. “Why are you doing this? It can’t give you any pleasure.”
    “Can’t it?”
    “Only if you enjoy tormenting me!”
    “Never that.”
    “I won’t.” She refused to meet his eyes and there was a sullen edge to the words.
    “Remember the consequences.”
    “I don’t believe you will abandon us, and anyway it doesn’t matter. We must be halfway there. We can find our own way.”
    “Something less than half, and the worst is yet to come. But perhaps you would like me to take the initiative?” He reached out with his left hand to take up that intriguing lock of hair at her breast.
    She slapped his hand away and snatched at the tress, throwing it over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed, she said, “Make me do this and you will regret it.”
    “Will I?” The words were calm, but there was a hint of doubt in the gray depths of his eyes.
    “I’ll see to it.”
    His thick lashes dropped, shielding his expression, “If you mean what I drink, I look forward to the attempt.”
    She would see about that, she told herself grimly. There was scarcely a tremor in her nerves as she shifted closer and reached out to draw the furs down below his waist. The faint rush of his indrawn breath as he felt the touch of her nails on the flat surface of his belly spurred her on and she pressed them into him. But though she wanted to claw at him, she found she could not. Instead, she trailed her nail tips upward, circling his navel, raking gently over his diaphragm and along his breastbone in a titillating threat. She teased his paps and followed his tattoo lines, explored the hollow of his throat and the jutting cleft of his chin.
    An idea came to her and she raised herself on one elbow. She leaned over him, allowing her hair to slide forward, cascading over his face and forming a shining tent over his head and shoulders. Smiling slightly, she picked up the end of a tress and brushed it gently, tentatively, over his lips. As they tightened, she did it again more firmly, paying attention to the corners. He did not move, but she plainly felt the muscles of his arm, against which she lay, as they tightened into hard cords. Then, with slow care, she trailed the lock of hair under his nose and across the angle of one cheek, then back under his nose to the other side. She brushed his eyes and the ridges beneath his brows, his forehead and temples, then down to the intricate turnings of the ear next to her.
    It was disappointing when he showed so little sign of the distress she was sure he must feel from her unmerciful tickling. She was not deterred, however, but rather spurted on to greater liberties. She inched lower in the bed furs, drawing the soft strands of her hair down so that they spread over his chest. With sweeping motions, she rubbed that silken abrasiveness over him, massaging him with it so that the warmth of his body and her own brought out the scent of violets that still clung to her hair from the soap she had used to wash it last. Lower and lower she moved, her hand pressing along his side, down to his flanks, smoothing over his belly with sure strokes, her face absorbed behind the concealing curtain of hair.
    The hardness of his body under her palms, the