Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (18 page)

Liz couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Kiss me,
cher
," he said thickly. "For
luck."

She knew it was another joke, meant to ease the tension, but
she floated forward, almost as if under another's volition. A shocked
expression crossed his face as she slipped her arms around his neck, but she
ignored it and claimed his lips. They parted for her, and he breathed a low,
hungry moan. In keeping with the image she'd just had, he covered her mouth
with a hard kiss. A warrior's kiss, the kiss of a man who fears he'll lose what
he loves.

Her heart swelled, filling her with longing she couldn't
deny, rekindling the love she'd once felt for him. Without meaning to, she
sagged against him, bringing him flush against her belly. She felt him flex,
fully hard now, asking for her, begging for her, and she synchronized her
dancing tongue with the throb of his erection.

The boat rocked beneath their feet, the trees swayed above
their heads, and the swamp creatures scurried and cried, creating a wild
backdrop to the storm within her.

Let this take us where it will, she thought. Let me have
him. I'll face what that might bring. She trembled, aching for him to fill her,
aching to have him, needing to have him, wanting him so much she could cry.

Then his hands were on her arms, rough hemp brushing her
cheek, a hard object she guessed to be the hilt of the knife pressing against
her skin.

"Whoa,
cher
." His voice was ragged. "I
need to conserve my strength for the adventure ahead."

Liz opened her eyes. Weak-legged, she sank onto the nearest
bench and moaned. She wanted to ignore Zach's warning, rip the rope and knife
away, pull him down and spread open for him. But she saw his engorgement, and
knew his act had cost him, too. It shamed her that he'd remained responsible
even when she was about to throw caution away.

"Then use that sexual energy to get us out of here,
because when you're done, there's no escaping me." She managed to produce
a half-smile. "By the looks of you, Superman couldn't do a better
job."

He threw back his head and laughed. "That will keep me
going." Then he started for the back of the boat and tied the rope to the
stern rail. "Get that pole, Liz. I'm about to become the man of
steel."

Without further hesitation, he jumped into the filthy water
to attack the roots clogging the motor.

"Okay," he hollered, when the propeller was
finally cleared. "When I say pull, you push off the cypress knees with the
pole. Got it?"

"Yes." Liz's face was tense, but she climbed on
the bow and propped the pole on one side of the roots. Looking over her
shoulder, she waited for Zach's instructions.

He waded through the water, brushing back heavy sheets of
moss until he was far enough away to provide the needed lift and also to
prevent the rope from pulling him under if and when the boat broke free.
Fearing that revulsion would send his gut heaving, he did his best to avoid
gazing on the rotting vegetation floating around him. The cool water gave
blessed relief to his aching balls.

How could he have let their kiss get so out of hand? He'd
come close to forgetting they were caught in an extremely remote area of the
swamp, where they could end up skeletons before help stumbled on them. A
gruesome image of Jed's mutilated body came up with that thought.

Jed and Izzy. Their names seemed to arise together. Losing
her had been the single tragedy of his young life, one he'd barely overcome
even into adulthood. Jed's death had pushed him to the edge. When he'd walked
onto the Cormier
galerie
to find the girl he'd mourned for most of his
life very much alive, the shock had almost sent him tumbling over the
precipice.

He was still seeking balance. What else explained his
heebie-jeebies? His rational mind rejected the concept, but he'd swear those
cypress knees had jumped from the water. He'd wager his flask they hadn't been
there the moment before.

Wading through chest-high water filled with God knew what
required more courage than he'd needed the day the bullet creased his arm and
he'd forced himself to pursue the shooter anyway. He'd always hated the
unknown, the unseen, and this was it.

Le fantome noir
.

As he'd told Liz, stories of Ankouer weren't told in his
home. His parents denied the old legends, but still did superstitious acts.
Silly things—salt over the shoulder, knocking on wood, not walking under
ladders. From these acts, and many more, he'd recognized their subtle fear that
the lore of their childhoods might be true. At this moment, he wasn't so sure
he didn't share their fear.

He'd testify under oath he'd been approaching a log before
that bull alligator charged, and he'd never seen raccoons behave so crazy. Then
the cypress roots. Now here he was, subliminally praying he didn't fall into a
league-deep sinkhole that couldn't possibly exist in a swamp. Liz was probably
right in refusing to explore the origins of these odd occurrences.

He shuddered at the unexpected brush from a passing fish,
which convinced him all the more.

Finally well in front of the boat, booted feet still on the
solid if squishy ground, he turned, pulling the rope over his shoulder.
Belatedly, he realized he'd forgotten about rope burns. He'd take his chances,
but if dislodging the boat required too many pulls, the bums could stop him
from continuing. He trudged back to the boat. "See if you can find a pad
or something to protect my skin from the rope."

Liz flipped open the bins, and leaned over the rail a minute
or so later with a large hot pad in her hand. "Think this'll work?"

"Absolutely." He took the pad, reassured by
touching her hand.

When he was again in position to pull, he shouted, then
tugged for all he was worth. Nothing happened.

"Pull!" he yelled again.

This time he felt a shift.

"Are we loose?" he asked.

"Not quite."

He took a moment to catch his breath.

"Pull!"

No results.

He went through the process more than a dozen times,
producing occasional small movements that still failed to free the boat. His
legs and shoulders ached. His lungs burned. Moss, scum, and scraps of lily pads
clung to every conceivable inch of his skin.

"Pull!" he shouted again, crouching to jump and
provide added thrust.

He heard something scrape. The tension on his rope eased.
"Are we free?"

"Almost."

"Okay, let's try again."

He prayed this would do it. Despite the tightened straps
around his calves, water seeped into his boots. Soon the weight would keep him
from jumping, and he didn't relish standing barefoot in the swamp. With his
fingers mentally crossed, he leaped again, putting all his weight behind the
pull.

"You did it!" Liz cried. "It's free!"

She ran to the end of the boat, holding a blanket, and
leaned over, a glowing smile on her face.
    

"Come on in, Zach Fortier, you man of steel. I've got
something soft and warm for you."

Amen. Did she ever.

By the time he pulled himself over the edge of the boat,
Zach was done in. He sat on the deck, head and shoulders slumped over his
knees, his muscles quivering, his breath coming in gulps.

Liz draped the blanket over his shoulders, pulled the boots
off his feet. After dumping the water inside them overboard, she began brushing
away debris with a towel.

"You did it," she said again and again. "You
did it. I was so afraid we'd never get loose."

"We still have to get through the channel," he
replied hoarsely.

"I know." She got up and went to the bins, coming
back with a gallon of water. "Are you up to standing?"

When he nodded, she pointed at the jug in her hand.
"Thought you might like a shower."

"Best idea I've heard all day." He pushed against
the bench, and found himself a bit shaky in the legs, so he moved to support
himself with the outer rail and waited while Liz climbed onto his vacated spot.
She handed him a cloth and a minute later water fell slowly on his head.

The jug had been warmed by the sun and the water felt like
heaven as it ran down his neck, chest, hips, and legs. It trickled between his
toes, then slowly ran toward the side channel that drained the deck. As she
poured, he scrubbed the filth from his skin, discovering he couldn't remove it
fast enough. Finally, he began to feel clean again, and Liz returned to his
awareness. He couldn't recall how long it'd been since someone had done such a
simple service for him. His mother, he supposed, when he was a tyke in the tub.
But not from the hands of any other woman.

He looked up to see her gaze fixed firmly on the
"V" of his legs. No concealing what his body wanted. She raised her
head and wordlessly stepped down from the bench. Another towel had somehow
materialized in her hands, and she gently rubbed his hair dry, then smoothed it
down. Next she moved onto his body, at times rubbing briskly, at other times
brushing him with tantalizing lightness.

He throbbed from waist to knees, all because of one hungry
spot that begged to bury itself in her. Glorious electric shivers tortured each
nerve in his body, but he waited to see what she'd do next.

When she knelt to dry his feet, he groaned. She seemed not
to notice and carefully dabbed at each toe before lifting her head. Again she
caught his eyes, and hers looked exactly like the cats-eye
 
stone they'd always reminded him of. He
groaned again, and tightened his hold on the rail. She nodded as though he'd
asked a question, then dipped her head. Her hot tongue caressed his inflamed
tip.

"God, Liz," he groaned.

Then his legs buckled.

Liz shot to her feet.

"Oh,
cher
, no."

But she remained silent. Draping him in the blanket again,
she pushed him onto the bench and slipped between his legs. As she took him in
her mouth again, he couldn't hold back sounds of anguished ecstasy. He'd
dreamed of kissing her, holding her, pleasuring her until cries like the ones
he now uttered left her throat, but his wildest dreams had never contained the
pleasure she was giving him. This was crazy. The sun was falling fast, night
would arrive, but he didn't care . . . didn't care . . . not right now while
Liz's mouth and tongue were . . .

Liz had no idea why she was doing this. Danger surrounded
them, the cloudy sky grew thicker, but as she grazed her teeth along the length
of Zach, shivering with delight when a moan erupted from his throat, she was
only certain she'd waited for this moment all her life.

This man belonged to her, with all his strength and
weaknesses. He was hers to pleasure and be pleasured by, and she never wanted
to stop. There was no stopping now. This time had been coming from the instant
they had met on the Cormier veranda, and she'd see it to its fulfilling end.

His fingers were in her hair, flexing and relaxing, as
excited trembles shook his legs to rumble through her body. Then he slipped his
hands beneath her arms and lifted her.

"Please, Liz," he moaned, "let me hold you . .
. please."

His eyes had turned to lapis blue, tortured and full of
hunger. She loved seeing him like this, wanting her so badly he ached. An ache
she shared. She was hot and wet with needing him, and needed no encouragement.
Her hand moved to the metal buttons of her overalls as she prepared to rip them
open. But then she paused. Under the stare of his ravenous eyes, she felt cruelly
wanton. She unlatched one button with teasing hesitancy and let the strap fall
forward.

Licking her lips, she attended to the other, letting the
garment slide slowly over her hips to pool on the deck, then bent to untie her
shoes.

"If you don't get over here,
cher
," he
rasped, "I'm coming for you."

A husky laugh left her lips, and she licked them once more
before starting on her panties. His eyes pleaded, pleaded with her to hurry.
Suddenly, her game had gone on too long. Trembling from head to toe, she jerked
off her underwear and almost flew to straddle him. When she spread across him,
opening for him, welcoming him, he entered her with one sharp upward thrust.
Their cries of bliss simultaneously exploded in the air. Their lips met in a
kiss so powerful it shook Liz's soul.

Zach shuddered as he claimed Liz's mouth. God, she was so
hot and sweet and hungry for him. Beyond anything he'd hoped for. And he knew
then why his wives had left him. He'd cheated them. They'd only been poor
imitations of the woman in his arms and somehow they'd known that. He'd never
loved them, never loved anyone but little Izzy Deveraux, who'd grown into a
passionate woman who fired him up in a way the child-woman never had.

Though he was on the verge of explosion, he wanted this to
last, but Liz moved into swift little frantic strokes that forecasted a prompt
ending. He broke their kiss and brushed his lips against her ear.

"Whoa . . ." He took hold of her smooth round hips
and stopped her. "Whoa, Liz. Let's take our time."

Such torture, holding back, such exquisite pain, but he
lifted her hips into slow, even strokes to which she surrendered. Soon she
began rotating with controlled movements so tantalizing they swept all thought
from his mind.

Then it was too late, too late to hold back, and they moved
again into frantic movements that rocked the boat. It swayed with them, swayed
with every loving stroke, and the wild things in the swamp came alive with
sound, and the storm clouds emitted a roll of thunder, echoing their pleasure
cries and ragged breaths until finally, too soon, yet not soon enough, they
reached a crescendo that drowned out everything except the ecstasy they shared.