caressed it gently.
"What have you done while you were missing me?" he asked.
He thought she tensed. "I—I've done nothing," she said.
Guy raised himself on one elbow to look at her. She stared up at him, her yellow cat's eyes wide.
"Nothing at all?" he said.
Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, why do you ask?" she cried. "You know I'm yours and no other's."
"Sweet Aimee, I wasn't accusing you."
She began to sob brokenly. Guy gathered her into his arms, stroking her back. "Hush," he murmured. "Hush."
She pressed against him, her tears damp on his chest. As he caressed her, his hands moved down her back and along her hips until at last she sighed and wiped at her eyes.
He trailed his hand along her thigh, between her thighs and she quivered and clung to him. His mouth found her breasts, first one, then the other. Aimee moaned, closing her eyes.
He kissed her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears, then ran his tongue over her lips until they parted.
"My love, my heart," she whispered.
When he mounted her he did so gently, easing inside with a slow rhythm that increased only when she arched to him, her hands insistent on his back. Then he let himself go, pounding into her faster and faster, hearing her small cries of pleasure before his own passion climaxed.
Aimee slid from the bed a few minutes later.
"Don't go." he said.
"But I must find the button you lost and sew it back onto your breeches." She slipped her arms into a peach colored robe whose thin batiste revealed the contours of her shapely body.
He watched with amused affection as she threaded a needle and bent to her task with solemn concentration. She was dear and wonderful and he would take care of her always.
Aimee looked nothing like her mother, Vedette Rusert, f.w.c., free woman of color, who'd once been the placee of a Creole planter from upriver. Vedette was tall and thin and her skin was darker. He'd only seen her once.
"Aimee, does your mother still dance the voodoo?" he asked.
She looked at him in surprise. "She's the voodooienne , the voodoo queen—she must dance."
"Doesn't it frighten you?"
"A little. 1 don't like to go to the voodoo. Since I have my house here with you, I never go. My sister Estelle . . ." She paused.
"I've met Estelle," he said. Taller, older, darker, more like their mother. Estelle had never been presented at a Quadroon Ball, no Creole would chose her as a placee, She was the wrong type.
"What about her?"
"Estelle understands voodoo. She's not afraid of the snake like I am. She goes."
Aimee bit off the thread and smoothed the breeches across her lap. "There."
He yawned and sat up. "I'm hungry," he said. Aimee rose and placed his breeches on the chair.
"I've made okra gumbo with shrimp and pain patate , sweet potato cake."
"Have you wine?"
Aimee bit her lip. "Only biere douce , sweet beer, I'm afraid."
Guy liked the Creole beer made from the skins and eyes of pineapples fermented with sugar, rice and water. He smiled at her. "My favorite meal."
Aimee served him, taking nothing herself while he ate, although he urged her to sit with him. "I'm not hungry, that's all," she told him.
"Can you please stay for the night?" she asked hesitantly as she set coffee before him.
He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. She'd made the coffee exactly as he liked it . Noir comme le Diable, forte comme la mort, doux comme l'amour, chaud comme l'enfer. Black as the devil, strong as death, sweet as love, hot as hell.
"I can't stay," he said. "I'd like to, but I can't. There's a party tonight, one every night this week to celebrate the Spanish transfer, and the prefet expects me to attend them all."
She crossed her arms over her breasts as if cold, though the room was warm enough. He reached out to touch her. "I wish I could be with you tonight," he said. Still she didn't smile or change her posture.
"What's the matter, Aimee? Are you all right?"
She dropped her arms, only to clutch her fingers nervously
"What have you done while you were missing me?" he asked.
He thought she tensed. "I—I've done nothing," she said.
Guy raised himself on one elbow to look at her. She stared up at him, her yellow cat's eyes wide.
"Nothing at all?" he said.
Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, why do you ask?" she cried. "You know I'm yours and no other's."
"Sweet Aimee, I wasn't accusing you."
She began to sob brokenly. Guy gathered her into his arms, stroking her back. "Hush," he murmured. "Hush."
She pressed against him, her tears damp on his chest. As he caressed her, his hands moved down her back and along her hips until at last she sighed and wiped at her eyes.
He trailed his hand along her thigh, between her thighs and she quivered and clung to him. His mouth found her breasts, first one, then the other. Aimee moaned, closing her eyes.
He kissed her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears, then ran his tongue over her lips until they parted.
"My love, my heart," she whispered.
When he mounted her he did so gently, easing inside with a slow rhythm that increased only when she arched to him, her hands insistent on his back. Then he let himself go, pounding into her faster and faster, hearing her small cries of pleasure before his own passion climaxed.
Aimee slid from the bed a few minutes later.
"Don't go." he said.
"But I must find the button you lost and sew it back onto your breeches." She slipped her arms into a peach colored robe whose thin batiste revealed the contours of her shapely body.
He watched with amused affection as she threaded a needle and bent to her task with solemn concentration. She was dear and wonderful and he would take care of her always.
Aimee looked nothing like her mother, Vedette Rusert, f.w.c., free woman of color, who'd once been the placee of a Creole planter from upriver. Vedette was tall and thin and her skin was darker. He'd only seen her once.
"Aimee, does your mother still dance the voodoo?" he asked.
She looked at him in surprise. "She's the voodooienne , the voodoo queen—she must dance."
"Doesn't it frighten you?"
"A little. 1 don't like to go to the voodoo. Since I have my house here with you, I never go. My sister Estelle . . ." She paused.
"I've met Estelle," he said. Taller, older, darker, more like their mother. Estelle had never been presented at a Quadroon Ball, no Creole would chose her as a placee, She was the wrong type.
"What about her?"
"Estelle understands voodoo. She's not afraid of the snake like I am. She goes."
Aimee bit off the thread and smoothed the breeches across her lap. "There."
He yawned and sat up. "I'm hungry," he said. Aimee rose and placed his breeches on the chair.
"I've made okra gumbo with shrimp and pain patate , sweet potato cake."
"Have you wine?"
Aimee bit her lip. "Only biere douce , sweet beer, I'm afraid."
Guy liked the Creole beer made from the skins and eyes of pineapples fermented with sugar, rice and water. He smiled at her. "My favorite meal."
Aimee served him, taking nothing herself while he ate, although he urged her to sit with him. "I'm not hungry, that's all," she told him.
"Can you please stay for the night?" she asked hesitantly as she set coffee before him.
He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. She'd made the coffee exactly as he liked it . Noir comme le Diable, forte comme la mort, doux comme l'amour, chaud comme l'enfer. Black as the devil, strong as death, sweet as love, hot as hell.
"I can't stay," he said. "I'd like to, but I can't. There's a party tonight, one every night this week to celebrate the Spanish transfer, and the prefet expects me to attend them all."
She crossed her arms over her breasts as if cold, though the room was warm enough. He reached out to touch her. "I wish I could be with you tonight," he said. Still she didn't smile or change her posture.
"What's the matter, Aimee? Are you all right?"
She dropped her arms, only to clutch her fingers nervously
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