Pamela Morsi (27 page)

He half-led, half-dragged her into the shade
and safety of a stand of cottonwoods. He wrapped his arms around
her and pulled her close again, angling his kiss to fit more
closely and opening his mouth upon hers, seeking, tasting.

He had never held a woman before, never
kissed one. But he suffered no reluctance or hesitation. Aida
Gaudet felt right in his arms. Her body fit with perfection against
his own. Her lips seemed familiar rather than foreign. After all,
he had loved her for so very long a time.

"My Aida," he declared in a whisper as he
nipped her lower lip lightly and explored her mouth once more.

She felt so right against him, all her soft
curves of her body corresponding accurately with the sharp angles
of his own. Her high round bosom, long admired at a distance, was
now pressed so firmly against his chest. And unexpectedly she
wrapped an eager limb around the leg of his trouser, stroking the
back of his calf with her heel.

"Mmm yes," he encouraged against her lips.
"Mmm."

They broke apart only momentarily to draw in
breath and gaze at each other in heightening lustful longing. Then
they recklessly kissed again, this time deeper, their tongues
dancing in exquisite tenderness.

Keeping her tightly against him, Armand
allowed his kiss to wander from the generous warmth of her lips to
the vulnerability of her pale throat. She gave a gasp of pleasure
and shock as he, like a rutting stallion, nipped her there. Her
reaction only served to encourage him. She threw back her head like
a spirited mare, offering him easier access to her smooth slim
neck.

Armand's hands did not remain idle. He much
enjoyed the tight embrace that pressed her breasts so firmly
against him. But he could not resist the long, straight length of
her back. He soothed and eased her as he kissed and caressed. When
the direction of his exploration led him to the curve of her waist
and then to the flair of her derriere, his heart pounded like a
hammer.

He traced the shape of her buttocks, round
and high as if daring a man to touch them, pulling her up against
him intimately.

Aida cried out, partly in surprise, partly in
pleasure. Then she squirmed against him, desperate to get
closer.

Armand's body flashed like fire. He, too,
felt an almost frenzied need to meld with her flesh.

"I don't think I can stand up," she whispered
against his hair. In truth her body leaned against his heavily. "My
legs are no sturdier than the filling of the blueberry tart."

Armand also felt like jelly. That is, except
for the hard throbbing ache in the front of his trousers.

"Let's lie down," he said, astonished at the
surprisingly normal tone of his voice. His breathing was quick and
labored, his heart pounding like a drum, and the heat of desire
surging through his veins like lightning in a stormy sky. "We'll
just rest here on the ground."

Rest was the furthest thing from either's
mind. Without relinquishing their embrace the two lowered to their
knees. Armand eased her back onto the yellow Indian grass, still
slightly moist from the morning dew. He lay atop her, which was
even better than pulling her close. No longer did he have to use
his arms to embrace her, but could allow his hands to wander where
they would.

Aida's hands also were free and she measured
the width of his shoulders and the length of his spine. She coaxed
and kissed him and called out his name.

He could feel the curve of her breast through
the covering of her clothing and caressed her.

She purred like a cat and thrust her bosom
forward, pleading for more. Armand squeezed and kneaded and stroked
through the rigid restraint of her boned bodice, but it was not
enough.

"Take it off," she whined. "Help me take it
off."

Enthusiastically Armand began pulling at the
front laces of her corset vest, loosening her from the stiff
confines.

He sought the softness of her skin and
managed to get a hand beneath her blouse. The warm, smooth feel of
her naked flesh was far too enticing to resist. A moment later he
held her firm, plump breast, the nipple at its peak, thick and
hard.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed in whisper. "Aida,
my sweet, sweet Aida, I never thought it would be like this."

"Kiss me," she pleaded.

He did. He kissed her lips, her neck, her
throat. He kissed her again and again and again. The pressure of
his erection became more insistent. He just couldn't get close
enough. He just wasn't quite close enough.

Aida must have felt similarly as she squirmed
and wiggled beneath him, fanning the flames of Armand's desire and
making tiny curious sounds of passion that spurred his lust.

With a growl that was almost beastlike he
rolled over on his back, pulling her with him. Aida's skirt hiked
up considerably and the feel of her bare legs straddling him made
Armand moan aloud.

It was a little better this way. The hot,
damp haven at the crux of her legs was poised immediately over his
throbbing ache. It was closer, nearer, but it was still not
enough.

He ran his hands up the backs of her bare
thighs and under her skirts. The round nakedness of her buttocks
was perfection beneath his touch. He caressed her, kneading and
squeezing her generous backside. Then he bucked and clutched her
close, grinding his body against hers.

She gave a little cry of delight and half sat
up, arching her back, meeting his pressure with her own.

With eager, almost desperate hands she cast
away her unlaced bodice and jerked her blouse off over her
head.

Armand's breath caught in his throat as he
gazed at her unadorned breasts above him, like two big luscious
peaches hanging just within reach and clearly meant for him.
Eagerly he sampled the proffered fruit, tasting the sweet, salty
flavor of her skin and worrying the stiffened nipples with his
teeth.

Aida buried her hands in his hair and held
his head against her, aiding him in his homage to her.

She was squirming again. Squirming and
wiggling atop him as if she were riding an untamed horse.

"Oh please, please," she began to whimper.
"Oh please Armand, my love, my love."

She begged please, and to please her was what
he wanted most in the world. He didn't know where first to touch,
where to probe. He wanted to kiss and caress her everywhere,
everywhere at once. His mouth on her right breast, his hand on her
left. He continued to stroke her bottom, but he was drawn to the
hot recesses between her thighs. He slipped his hand through the
back of her legs and possessively clutched her intimately. She was
damp, eager, and she squirmed against his hand.

Armand was not far from begging himself. His
heart was thundering in his chest. His breathing was rapid and
labored. And his erection was hard, heavy, and pressing painfully
to be free of clothing.

He relinquished her breast to pull at the
buttons on his trousers. Aida tried to help, but the touch of her
small hand upon him had him calling out in pleasured anguish.

She jerked at her skirts, gathering them
about her waist. She was naked against him. Nothing now separated
them except the thin layer of cottonade that covered him. Nothing
else separated them. Nothing else except vows and honor and holy
wedlock.

"Oh no! I can't stop!" The words were
screamed in agony and directed at his own conscience. It had gone
too far. He had meant for her to fall in love with him, not to make
love with him. She was not herself, she was under the effects of
the love potion. And he was painfully aroused, living out a dream.
He had desired her from afar so long and so secretly, and now she
was in his arms, nearly his.

"I can't stop," he moaned again. "I can't
stop now."

But he did.

He rolled over and laid her upon the ground.
Slipping out of her embrace, he widened the distance between
them.

"Armand?" She spoke his name, her voice husky
with desire. It was almost his undoing.

"Don't move, Aida," he told her. "Please just
lie still a moment; don't speak and don't move."

He sat up, still struggling to catch his
breath and slow the beating of his heart. He covered his face with
his hands and tried to imagine poling down the river in springtime
when the hyacinth were in bloom.

"Armand?"

Her question was plaintive. He ached to press
himself against her once more.

"We can't," he told her. "We can't do this,
Aida."

"We can," she told him. "I want to."

"It's the charm making you want me this way,
think this way," he said. "But the charm will wear off and if we
continue, we'll be compromised beyond going back."

"I don't want to go back!" she insisted.

"But you will," he told her. "You'll regret
this very much and want to go back."

Her silence condemned him. He opened his eyes
and turned to look at her. Her hair was wild, her dress was mussed,
she had never been more beautiful.

"Oh Aida," he whispered. "I am so sorry."

"You don't want me," she said. "Not even my
body. You don't even want my body."

He could see her lip trembling; her whole
body began to shake likewise. He couldn't ignore her, leave her
trembling. Armand scooted over to her and enfolded her in his
arms.

"Shhh, shhh." He whispered the words as he
stroked her back. "I do want you, all of you. How could I not?
Shhh, sweet Aida. It will be all right, somehow we will make it all
right."

He must hold her like a brother, Armand
cautioned himself. If he allowed passion to flare again, perhaps he
would not be able to stop it. He must hold her like a brother, a
friend. Though she was in his arms, he kept the lower portion of
their bodies separated by a distance. He must comfort her but
protect her, from the charm and from himself.

"Hold me close, Armand," she pleaded. "Hold
me close and kiss me again."

"Keep very still and I will hold you," he
promised. "I will hold you until this feeling passes."

She snuggled against him. He steeled himself
not to react.

"I love you, Armand," she told him. "I really
love you."

The words sounded so sweet, so precious to
him, he felt unwelcome tears well up in his eyes. How he wished it
could be true. How he secretly longed for those words. But they
were false. All of this was false.

"No you don't, Aida. You don't love me," he
answered. "It's the charm. Be still now and let this feeling pass.
It is just the love charm."

Helga Shotz and her children worked together
gathering fruit into baskets in the brightly colored persimmon
woods. Each child gathered what he could reach of the purplish
orange fruit known as plaquemines.

"Have we got enough yet, Mama?" Jakob asked
her.

"We must fill up all the baskets," she told
him. "We'll get everything we can carry."

Helga had not known persimmons until coming
to this bayou. And her first experience had not been good. Unripe,
the fruit had puckered her lips. It was the most sour and bitter
flavor she had ever tasted and had lingered for hours.
Miraculously, she discovered, when they ripened, the persimmon was
the sweetest fruit ever tasted. Dried and ground with mortar and
pestle, it was sprinkled onto sweets and baked into cakes. Although
cane grew in grand abundance on plantations down the river, cut and
squeezed and cooked into sugar by African slaves, for her children
and many others among the prairies, the only sugar was persimmon
sugar.

Of course, ripe persimmons were good to eat
right off the tree, they dried easily and grew in such abundance
that they were used for livestock fodder. But for Helga, one of the
best parts of gathering the fruit was the excursions to the
persimmon grove. They always took on an almost picnic tone and were
much enjoyed by her children. These days joy was something she
couldn't offer her little ones much of.

Karl helped his baby brother up on his
shoulders so that Jakob could pick "up high," an unceasing
ambition of the littlest child. Karl pretended that the weight was
too much and feigned staggering with mock danger. Jakob squealed
with delight and had all of them laughing together. It was good to
hear laughter once more.

Helga knew that she'd done the right thing.
She'd had to break it off with Laron. A woman might choose for
herself a life of sin, a life beyond the edges of accepted society.
But a mother could not, should not, force that life upon her
children. Karl did not deserve to cringe with shame hearing his
mother's name on another boy's lips. And Elsa was growing up. What
chance would she have of finding a nice, kind man to love her if
her mother was beyond the pale?

And more than all of that, how could she
expect, demand, the upright standards that she knew would make her
children's lives better, happier, if her children did not see her,
their mother, living that example?

Jakob was whooping now, pulling persimmons
from high limbs at a wild hectic pace.

"Don't throw them, my baby," she cautioned.
"We don't want them bruised."

She knew that she was doing right. Still, she
could not hide the sorrow, the emptiness that filled her since
Laron had said goodbye. Each day she told herself that tomorrow it
would be better. But day after day the ache, the grief, the
hollowness inside her welled up once more.

She tried to recall how she had felt when her
husband walked out. She had been frightened. Overwhelmed with the
responsibility, uncertain of the future, she had been all those
things. But under that, she had been relieved, relieved and even
glad.

Helga could not work up any gladness about
the leaving of Laron Boudreau. His absence was like a mortal wound.
It continued to bleed strength from her day after day. She needed
him so much. She needed just to look at him, to laugh with him. She
needed to be enfolded in his arms, garnering strength and sharing
sorrow.