In Dreams. Patricia Rosemoor
tell he read her lips via the mirror, because his features went taut and his gaze dropped so that he could see what his fingers were doing to her nipple. He squeezed hard and when she sighed, squeezed a little harder until she moaned.
Licking her lips, she rubbed her breast against his hand and lifted her tush and pushed back so they smacked together with an electric wallop.
He was doing what she wanted, doing her fast and hard. His slick cock plunged in and out of her. And his finger, oh, his finger was equally delicious, rubbing her with the same speed and intensity.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and became pure sensation. When she opened them, she caught him watching her again, his eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth open as he gasped harder and faster in perfect rhythm with his actions.
Letting go of the bedstead, she reached back with one hand through the vee of her thighs and let his cock slide her juices against her fingertips. Then she flexed her fingers and scraped her nails against his hard flesh, and the sensation seemed to undo him. He gave a low shout that unnerved her, and then plunged deep inside.
Even as waves of pleasure rippled through her, she stared straight ahead at their reflection, fascinated by his expression of pure lust….
Lucy blinked open her eyes to see the face she’d dreamed. Only rather than expressing lust, it reflected worry. Over her.
“You’re awake.”
She blinked and sniffed the air redolent with chicory coffee and andouille sausage. In response to the heavenly smells, her stomach growled.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“My family’s fishing camp.”
Fishing…water splashed somewhere nearby…and the room with nothing but a bed and some pegs on the wall seemed to shift just a little.
Confused, she murmured, “Feels like we’re moving.”
“We’re on a houseboat tied to shore.”
Lucy started to sit up until a sharp pain reminded her that she’d been shot. The breath whooshed out of her and she froze, her hands pressed to the mattress of the double bed.
“Let me help you.”
Help meant he had to put his hands on her again. Hands about which she’d dreamed. Erotic hands. Hands that could do more interesting things than help her to sit up.
The thought made her blush.
“Well, at least you’ve got some color,” he noted, which made her even warmer.
When he got her into a sitting position, she realized the wound was bandaged, and that she was still fully clothed. Despite the odds, she was alive and had him to thank for it.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Justin Guidry. Don’t worry about the wound. Flesh only.” He helped her stand. “It’ll smart for a while, but it’ll heal nice.”
“Dr. Guidry?”
He shook his head.
“You’re an EMT?”
“Nope, not a paramedic, either,” he said, heading for the doorway. “And you can call me Justin.”
Now truly curious, Lucy followed him into a larger space that served both as kitchen and living room. There was a small couch and rocker set near the Franklin stove, plus a wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs. The walls were of rough-hewn wood, relieved by a few framed photographs that looked like they’d been taken on family outings.
The wound twitched and she frowned down at the bandage. Conveniently, the thug had caught her flesh on her side between her crop top and flood pants. There wasn’t even any blood on her clothing.
“If you’re not a doctor or a medic, then how did you know what to do to take care of me?”
“Call it instinct, not to mention too much experience tending to my own and brothers’ childhood injuries. Mama probably wished my brothers and I were dead many times over. Not that we used guns on each other. Well, maybe pretend ones.”
His grin was self-effacing and contagious. Despite the circumstances, Lucy felt herself relax.
“Thank you, Justin.”
“That would mean more to me with a proper introduction, so I would know who was thanking me.”
“Lucy Ryan.”
His grin widened. “Lucille. Fits you, chère. I always loved that name.” As he took the coffee pot from the stove and filled a mug for her, he said, “Sit,” and began humming the song “Lucille.”
She didn’t correct him. Didn’t want to admit she wasn’t a Lucille with all that exotic name conjured. She was just plain Lucy and had always been so. The Lucy guys were comfortable talking to. The Lucy who never caught a leer at the singles bars she sometimes visited with Dana.
Dana! Good Lord, by now her roommate must have discovered she wasn’t home. That might not be of much concern, but when she didn’t show up at the shop…
“You don’t have a phone, do you?”
“Here? Afraid not.”
“No cell phone?” Hers was still in her shoulder bag on the floor of her car.
“That would defeat the idea of having a few days of solitude, don’t you think?”
Guilt flooded her. “Oh. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can find someone to get my car unstuck.”
“I’m not complaining. But after we eat, we’ll find a phone and a tow.”
“Great. Thanks.”
As she carefully cased herself into a chair at the table, her stomach growled again.
“Patience, chère, food’s coming.”
Lucy tipped back her mug and watched him take the iron skillet from the stove, links of andouille on one side, scrambled eggs on the other. He handled the food like he knew what he was doing. Unlike her. He split the breakfast on two plates, shoved one at her, then sat opposite her and began to eat. Lucy followed suit, not stopping until every morsel was gone.
“Delicious,” she muttered after swallowing the last forkful.
“You really were hungry.”
“All that stress.”
“That. What was that about?”
“Just some guys stalking me.”
“Oh, chère, you make a very bad liar.”
She glared at him, and even though his expression wasn’t accusing, said, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But I saw something I shouldn’t have.”
“And these guys wanted to keep you quiet.”
She nodded and pushed the empty plate away. “And were willing to kill me to do so.”
“Tell me.”
She took a deep breath. Knowing she couldn’t tell all of it, she said, “New Orleans, last night. It was in a courtyard.” The vision was as clear in her mind as if she were seeing it now. “They were holding her arms…those two swine…and a third man knifed her to death.”
“Did you know this third man?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t even see his face. It was…like something out of a dream.”
She wasn’t going to tell him that by the time she arrived, the deed had been done and the woman’s blood was spreading over her white dress as the accomplices let her fall facedown to the pavement. Or that she had seen the actual knifing in a dream that had awakened her an