Her Last Line of Defense by Marie Donovan Page A

with some water and his first-aid kit before gently lifting one foot to rest on his thigh.
    “Boo?” She tried not to wince as he doused her wounds with water before carefully disinfecting and bandaging them.
    “What?” He didn’t look up, intent on his task.
    “What does ‘boo’ mean?”
    He met her glance sheepishly. “It’s an old Cajun term of endearment—like ‘dear’ or ‘honey.’”
    She smiled despite the pain. So he’d called her the equivalent of “honey” and had answered to it when she’d asked about it. “How on earth did they ever come up with ‘boo’?”
    “No idea. Cajun French is full of Spanish, African and Indian words. The university linguists adore comin’ round with their digital recorders to talk to the papères and mamères —grandpas and grandmas. My own mamère is interviewed every Christmas, Easter and summer break.”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    “Not much. She informed us the last academic told her she was a national cultural treasure, so we’d better behave ourselves or she’d pass us a slap.” He grinned. “A slap from a national cultural treasure still stings pretty good.”
    So did her feet. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hike very much tomorrow. Is there something we can work on close to camp?”
    He frowned and finished doctoring her. “You think I make you hike on those feet, you?” She knew he was getting irritated when he added French-style reflexive pronouns. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
    “A good one.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
    He looked up, startled. “I don’t know ’bout that, Claire.”
    “Well, I do.”
    He grunted and packed away his supplies before pulling out her canvas sneakers she wore in camp at night to let her boots dry.
    “I don’t think my feet will fit in those anymore.”
    “Sure they will.” He pulled out his razor-sharp knife and made several slits in the shoes to allow for her bandages. When he was done they looked more like sandals.
    She eased her feet into them. “Thanks for taking such good care of me, Luc.”
    “De rien, it was nothin’.” He shook his head. “Just because I broke my word about certain things doesn’t mean I won’t look after you.” He picked up the water purifier and busied himself refilling the canteen.
    He was still feeling guilty for giving in to her sexually. She smiled. “Luc?”
    “Yes?”
    She stood, wobbling slightly in her jerry-rigged shoes. He was at her side immediately. “Can you help me to the tent? I want to get off my feet.”
    He swept her into his arms and carried her to the tent flap, setting her gently down on the sleeping bags. After three nights of tree branches, they were heavenly soft.
    “Better?” He knelt next to her.
    She stroked his knee, daring to glide her hand up his thigh when he offered her no resistance. “I could be a lot better if you helped distract me.”
    His black eyes glittered in the dim light. “What kind of distraction did you have in mind, boo?”
    “This.” She moved her hand a few inches over and found his growing erection.
    “You want this?” He undid his gear belt and unbuttoned his fly. She freed him from his briefs, cradling him with trembling hands as he swelled under her touch. “You want all of it?” He grabbed her wrist and made her cup his heavy sac. His weight and power sent a wet gush between her legs.
    She nodded.
    “Then lick me.”
    To call her unskilled in that area was an understatement. Still, she bent her head and licked him as if he were a big purple ice cream cone.
    He jerked under her tongue, leaving an unfamiliar taste of salt and musk. “C’est bon, ça.”
    Good, that meant he liked it. She licked a few more times but he cradled the back of her head and urged her deeper. She struggled a bit, and he looked at her in alarm.
    She paused and took a deep breath, then tentatively opened her mouth wider. He stopped her.
    “I’m sorry if I wasn’t any good at that.” She