Page 93 of The Cajun Doctor

He laughed. “Not a chance. Besides, there are no closets here.”

“If you dare to laugh or make fun of me, I’m out of here.”

“Why would I mock you when I’ve just been handed my number one fantasy?” With that, he knelt on the bottom edge of the bed and began to crawl up and over her, like her cougar cat when on the hunt, except he had no claws, just fingers that itched to explore.

Her eyes shot open as she felt his weight on the mattress and his movement on the bed.

He used his knees to separate her legs and arranged himself between her open thighs. Chest to breast, belly to belly, divining rod to the mother lode. Braced on his elbows, he looked down at her. “Cherry lips,” he observed and grazed his mouth over hers, a teasing whisper of a kiss. He was trying his damnedest not to move too fast or this fantasy would be over before it began.

“‘Cherries in the Snow’ by Revlon,” she informed him with a breathy nervousness. “A classic color. Supposed to be kissproof.”

“Ah, we should test that, shouldn’t we?” And he did. Thoroughly. He kissed her with soft, sweeping motions, shaping her lips to a perfect fit with his. He kissed her hard, demanding an equal response. He pressed his tongue into her mouth and began a slow thrusting rhythm. He encouraged her to explore his mouth as well by sucking on the tip of her tongue.

Once, he raised his head to study her already kiss-swollen lips. “Yep. Kissproof.”

“Good thing. I wasn’t looking forward to returning the lipstick to the beauty counter at Nordstrom’s. Imagine trying to explain your experiment. ‘But he’s a doctor,’ I would say. ‘If he says the product is defective, then it must—’”

He nipped her bottom lip to stop her nervous ramble. Then he resumed his kisses, and he didn’t care if they were experimental or any other bloody thing. He liked kissing Samantha.

The whole time, he tried to keep the rest of his body still, but even so, he instinctively brushed his chest hairs back and forth across her breasts, teasing the nipples into rigid sentinels of aching pleasure. He knew they were aching because she moaned into his open mouth and arched her back to give him better access.

“Do that again,” she said huskily.

He did.

Her cherry lips parted, and her green eyes glazed over.

Down below, he did not dare move. His throbbing penis rested along her female channel, on the outside, but hot damn wanted to be inside. He tried not to think about the primal yearning for intercourse so he could concentrate on other “matters” first. Like her ears, which appeared to be especially sensitive, and her breasts, of course, which were driving them both crazy, and the neat little inverted belly button he’d noticed before covering her with his body, along with the silk-like red curls that begged to be touched, along with the treasures they hid. He even wanted to explore the back of her knees and the arch of her narrow feet. Not that he had a knee or foot fetish. It was just that he’d discovered in his not-so-vast (compared to his brother) sexual experience, these were often-missed erotic zones on some women’s bodies.

He raised himself so that he was kneeling between her legs, then leaned down to swipe his tongue between her breasts. He smiled and said, “I knew they would taste like this.”

“What?”

“Your freckles.”

“Oh, God!” She tried to cover herself with her hands, which was impossible. She had freckles everywhere. “My ugly freckles!”

“No, no, no!” he chided. “No lowering your arms.” He put them back where they had been before, the hands wrapped around the spindles in the headboard. Then he told her, “Your freckles are not ugly.” It was amazing to him that a woman with so much business self-confidence could be so insecure about her body.

“Furthermore,” he went on, “they’re delicious.” It was a sign of his melting brain that he could actually use the word furthermore. He continued, “Your freckles taste like honey with a ginger zing. I can’t wait to taste them all.”

“Fool!” she said, but he could tell that she was pleased. “That’s my Honey Love Triple Milled Soap.”

“Well, then it must be your freckles that add the ginger tones.”

“Ginger, huh? You better watch out. Ginger has a bite to it. You could get ginger brush burns on your tongue.”

“I’ll risk it,” he said, and began his tasty exploration.

Sometimes she giggled, sometimes she gasped, sometimes she admired his expertise, sometimes she expounded on his daring, but all the time he had her attention.

He kneaded her breasts and flicked the nipples with his thumbs before he put his mouth to one and sucked and licked then sucked again. By then she was flailing from side to side with one continuous, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .”

In response he moved to the other breast for equal ministration. He felt like saying, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh!” himself.

And all the while, he kept having to return her hands to the headboard spindles, forcing her to be more vulnerable to his lovemaking.

When he kissed his way down the center of her body, he skipped over the place he most wanted to be. Instead, he stroked and caressed her from thigh to knees to toes and back up again.