Chapter Seventeen
Eagle
We’ve finished up a three-hour tour of my property, throughout which I constantly battled the urge to pull over and fuck her in the long grass in the warm sunshine, and I’m ready to grab something to eat. After our call yesterday, I decided to give her a little bit of what she asked for, quality time together. I need to see how well we get along outside of the bedroom, too, if we’re going to take this further.
I drive down an access road that runs perpendicular to the highway. There’s a cluster of small houses, a grocery store, a gas station, and a restaurant. The place doesn’t even have a name, but the people are great.
“Where are we?” she asks while climbing off the wheeler.
“See that shack over there?”
“Yeah.”
“Georgie makes the best trout amandine in Louisiana. Interested?” I hope she is, because I plan on spending quite a lot of time at the property, and if Serafina and I are going to see more of each other, I want her to be familiar with the neighborhood.
“Am I? I haven’t had homemade Cajun food in forever. Occasionally, I splurge and make some at home . . .” She stops talking suddenly.
I can’t see her eyes behind those dark sunglasses she’s wearing, but her smile faded. Is she hiding her connection to Louisiana from me? If so, why? I already know she stopped by the Holly Beach Cemetery before going home last Saturday. The more time I spend with Serafina, the more mysterious she gets. But I respect her privacy. I won’t probe her. If she wants me to know something, she’ll tell me.
“Let’s go.”
We walk inside. There’s eight rickety tables in the place. Only two are empty. The owner greets us with genuine enthusiasm.
“Eagle!” He sneaks around the corner from the kitchen, abandoning his post at the stove. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
We shake hands.
Georgie gazes at Serafina. “Where did you find this beauty? In a magazine?”
She blushes and smiles. “Nice to meet you, Georgie.”
He gives her a hug. “Did Eagle brag about my sausages?”
“Your Amandine.”
“Good. Good.” He has a thick, French accent.
The last of a dying breed in the backwoods. That’s why I come here whenever I can. I believe in supporting local businesses, the mom-and-pop joints being forced out of business by national chains.
“Pick a table,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I choose the corner, away from the windows and other customers. I want to watch Serafina eat with that sexy-as-fuck mouth in private. I swear the girl put acunjaon me. Like some bewitching creature from the bayou, her dark features and tanned skin remind me of everything I love about Louisianan women.
Once we’re seated, she studies me in silence.
“Why Texarkana?”
“Why not?” she shoots back, avoiding the question.
“Tell me three things you like about home.”
“In Texarkana? Thunderstorms. The architecture . . .”
Georgie arrives with a tray in his hands. He plunks down two glasses of red wine and a bucket filled with seasoned crawfish. “Just an appetizer.” He rushes away before I can say anything and comes back with two plates and linen napkins. “Enjoy.”
Serafina dives right in. She pulls the shell off the tail and sucks the meat and juices out of the crawfish like any skilled Cajun. My questions are getting answered just by watching her eat. Tourists don’t eat crawfish like a local. As she finishes her third, there’s a spot of juice on her lower lip. I wipe it away with my thumb.
“Do you always eat like that?” I ask, admiring the way her pink tongue traces the seam of her bottom lip. Shit . . . the girl could make eating anything look sexy. I’d like to see what she can do with my cock.
