Free Bayou Heat by Donna Kauffman Page A

soothe.
    It was working alarmingly well.
    The man might be a drug dealer or gun runner, Erin. Tell my body that!
She eased back a fraction, until she felt only the heat of his skin. It was almost
     as powerful as his touch. “Then let me do what I think is best. If what you say is
     true, why not tell the police? At least I’ll know I reported it.”
    “Belisaire won’t appreciate having that sort of attention drawn to her.”
    Is that your only concern here? she thought. “I know that, Teague. Trust me, I wouldn’t
     do something I thought would compromise my study here if I didn’t think it necessary.”
    He touched her face again, this time letting his thumb come to rest on her bottom
     lip.
    “Be-besides which—” her voice broke and she swallowed hard, “if what you say is true …”
     The feeling of his warm skin on her lip as she spoke was driving her mad. Why didn’t
     he move away? Why didn’t she? “The rumors,” she went on doggedly, thinking she was
     in farmore danger now than she had been eavesdropping on drug runners. “I would—I imagine
     Belisaire has probably dealt with worse.”
    Dear God, he was still staring at her mouth.
    “Teague, are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Her voice was a heated whisper
     now.
    “Oh, yes, Erin. Yes, I am.” He looked up. “Say it again.”
    “Beli—” She gulped when he pressed his thumb just a bit inside her mouth so it touched
     the tip of her tongue. “Belisaire—”
    He shook his head slowly. “My name, Erin. Say it again.”
    A long sigh eased out of her, past her now tender lips and his wet thumb, and with
     it went whatever was left of her common sense. “Oh, Teague.”
    “
Mais yeah, chèr
.”
    He slid his thumb in deeper, pressing the rough pad on her tongue. She swallowed,
     closing her mouth on it. Her heart was pounding hard, shooting blood to that aching
     place between her thighs, engorging the muscles there, forcing nerve endings painfully,
     exquisitely to life.
    “That’s it,
ange
. Taste me.”
    She drew her tongue over his finger. He groaned, low and soft.
    Bull’s-eye.
    She pressed her thighs together, anything to ease the ache.
    He crowded his hips against hers, moving her backwarduntil her shoulders connected with the bark of a tree.
    He braced one forearm over her head and slowly withdrew his thumb. Holding her gaze
     with the sheer force of his will, he slowly and very purposely slid his now shiny
     wet thumb into his own mouth. She closed her eyes.
    “Open them, Erin.”
    She didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.
    Then she felt his fingers brush past her cheek, into the short length of her hair,
     pressing gently against her skull as he eased her head back a bit. When his thumb,
     warm and damp, came to rest on her temple, she trembled.
    “Erin.”
    He was close. So close.
    She opened her eyes. “We shouldn’t.” Her voice was throaty, hoarse.
    “Do you always do what you should,
chèr?
”
    “Yes.” Why did that sound pitiable instead of honorable?
    He lowered his arm, his hand cupping the other side of her face, tilting her mouth
     up until their lips barely brushed. “But is that always what you want?”
    “Teague.” There was pleading in her tone. For what, she couldn’t be sure at this point.
    “Do you want to kiss me again, Erin? Taste me like I tasted you?”
    “Just because I want—”
    “Yes, want,” he interrupted. “Want me, Erin.”
    “I do.” Full admission. What had she done?
    “Then take what you want.”
Oh, God. “But—”
“Take my mouth,
ange
.”
“I—”
“Take me.”

SIX
    Erin reached up and captured his head, pulling him in that last breathtaking millimeter
     of space. His lips were warm and pliant on hers. Too pliant.
    A whimpering sound caught in her throat.
    “Kiss me, Erin,” he said against her lips. “Don’t just give. Take.”
    Such a simple request. Yet, for her, profound. The idea that she could take what she
     wanted. Take him.
    The power rush was