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“WitchQueenofNewOrleans”—Redbone
Iwoke with a start, the dream still reeling through my head as the sounds of the swamp filtered in through the open window. As my heart slowed, I realized I was sitting up.
“What is it?” the sleepy, raspy voice of my love asked as he raised to an elbow.
My vision completely cleared, and I glanced at the handsome man in my bed. I’d lost track of how many times he’d asked me to marry him. Cupping his cheek, I raked my fingers through his beard that was now nearly all silver. It didn’t matter how many years passed. My heart still sped up when I looked at him, and my body recognized him as its mate.
“Nothing to worry about,mon coeur,” I replied with a smile, though I might be lying to him.
He wrapped one of his big hands around the back of my neck and pulled me toward him until his lips hit mine. “Since we’re both awake, why don’t you sit on my face.”
Laughter burst from me at the crassness of the big burly man staring at me with sleepy eyes but a sexy smile. “Don’t you think we’re too old for that?” I asked with a smirk.
“Hell, no. I’ll be too old for that when they lay my cold, dead body in the ground. Now come ’ere,” he grumbled, then physically lifted me and positioned me where he wanted me. Not that I was truly complaining.
Relentless, he attacked my core until the pressure became too much, and my body seemed to explode into a million pieces. My eyes rolled as I floated in the beautiful pulsing bliss.
My pleasure slowly ebbed but was quickly replaced when he dragged me down his body until he impaled me on his shaft. “Sweet Jesus,” I moaned.
His callused hands gripped my hips, and I splayed my hands on his chest. The contrast between my light latte skin that spoke of my Creole heritage and his pale skin was beautiful and mesmerizing. In one of my favorite positions, I not only felt amazing, but I was also able to run my fingers through the soft silver and black hair that covered his still firm chest.
Riding him, I gasped each time he drove deep. The feeling was unlike anything I’d experienced in my life. Each time was better than the last. Spectacularly perfect, he drew out my pleasure with each stroke.
“Come on my cock,” he demanded as he thrust up into my welcoming body.
“You’re so dirty,” I breathlessly admonished as the old bed creaked and moaned with our motions.
“You fuckin’ love it, woman. Now do as I say,” he growled out, sounding much like a legendary beast of the swamp.
Unable to deny him, I once again shattered, nails digging into his chest and shoulder as I screamed his name. One last snap of his narrow hips, and he filled me, pulsing in time with my own release. I collapsed onto him when it finally faded away.
After a moment, he gripped my silver-streaked black hair and lifted my head to savagely kiss me until neither of us could breathe. When he broke free, we both sucked in a cleansing breath before he whispered against my lips, “You’ve bewitched me, woman.”
A chuckle escaped me as I pressed one last kiss to his soft lips. “I’m not a witch, though.”
“Ha!” he burst out. “Call yourself what you will, you’re a witchy woman, and you own me, body and soul.”
His rough hand lovingly caressed my skin, causing a soft smile to curve my lips. My body may not be as firm as it once was when I was young and he first made love to me, but he always made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. No matter the wrinkles that creased the corners of my eyes, the imperfections of an aging body, or the gray in my hair, he worshipped me.
Nestling my head into his warmth, I enjoyed the feel of his hands on me.
Years ago, when we first met, he was married. Unhappily, but married. He had an infant son with his wife, and he didn’t feel right walking away from him. In fact, her pregnancy was what prompted him to marry her. They were never in love.
I’d been young and foolish. I’d fallen for him despite the prejudice society had for a mixed-race woman and a white man—a married man at that. At that time, people in my neck of the woods still weren’t okay with a mixed marriage. Possibly why I never knew who my father was.
He used to sneak out to the swamp at night, and we would spend it creating illicit magic. Though I hated being the other woman, I was blinded by love. My mother warned me it wouldn’t end well, but I didn’t care.
A few months later, after an argument, his wife announced she’d been having an affair the entirety of their marriage. The worst bomb she dropped that day was that his son might not even be his. He’d been stunned.
They’d divorced, but he still looked at the boy as his son and wouldn’t do a paternity test. He also asked me to marry him, but I was worried it wouldn’t go over well. While the world might have pretended races didn’t matter, in our corner of the swamps, it still did. My mother had beaten that into my head.
When we found out I was pregnant with Julia, he asked again and again. But I refused for so many reasons. One was that I never wanted him to feel like I was no different than his ex. The other was my fear that he would grow tired of me if he was legally tied to me. It was the naivety of youth, I suppose.
As the years passed, I enjoyed the freedom of being my own woman and yet still having his love. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him or want to be with him for eternity. I simply didn’t need the law saying we belonged to each other. Our hearts already knew where we stood.
“What do you have going on in that pretty head of yours?” he asked.
“Mmm, just remembering.”
