Forget Me Never Sable Hunter (freda ebook reader txt) 📖

screen and hold her.  “I’ll be home as soon as I can.  I promise.  Now, I’ve got to go, Baby.  There things I’ve got to handle here, but you rest assured that you will never be out of my thoughts.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  She kissed her fingers and pressed them to his face.

Savannah was in love.

Chapter Four

Over the course of the next few days, she found herself opening up more and more with Patrick.  Sharing became a pleasurable game with them.  Daily they revealed little things, taking turns answering questions, and discussing every topic under the sun.   As they revealed to one another their hopes and dreams, they found out how much they had in common.

What did change about their communications was the heat level.  There was one email in particular that Savannah had reread a hundred times.  It made her blood run hot.  The night before, she had lain in her bed and touched herself as she read his words.  They were beautiful.

Savannah, Baby

I’m so lonely.  Oh, I’m not alone; there are plenty of people around.  Jayco and Hawke are good people.  And I got a letter from my best friend, Revel Lee.  I can’t wait for you to meet these guys.  But the truth is, I’m lonely for you. 

The last photo you sent me is beautiful.  I’ve stared at it so often; it’s imprinted upon my memory.  I’ve fallen in love with your face.  Every single feature is precious to me.  I dream of tracing your cheekbones with my fingers, staring into your eyes and kissing that sweet rosebud mouth of yours. 

From what you’ve told me, you don’t think you’re sexy.  Well, I beg to differ.  I can’t wait to hold you close.  When we kissed and I held you to my body, I could feel your breasts pressing against my chest.   And when I sucked your nipple through your dress – Damn! I’ve thought about that over and over.  I can’t wait to peel off your clothes and touch you for real.  I’m sure you will feel like heaven in my arms.  What color are your nipples?  Not that it matters, but in my fantasies they are a deep rose color.  God, I can’t wait to suck them.  When they got all hard and big because we had teased one another, Lord, Girl, I wanted to reach over and touch you so much.

I want to give you pleasure, Savannah.  If you’ll let me, I’ll love on you all night long.  Don’t get upset with me, but I stroke myself when I think about you and me lying naked in your bed while I thrust my cock deep inside of you.  I can promise you this, Sexy, your pleasure will be more important to me than my own.  If you’ll let me, I’ll make you cum again and again.  God baby, I can’t wait to get my hands on you.  Write me back.  Tell me that you want me as much as I want you.  Please.

Patrick

Savannah lived for those emails.  She didn’t hear from him every day, and when she didn’t, the day wasn’t complete.  Her hours were busy, however.  This morning she was rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off.  First on the agenda was a visit with Mamaw Gracie Boudreaux who was going to let Savannah record her telling the story of how the sirens had saved her grandfather when he had been washed out to sea on a door during the great hurricane of 1893.  The old man had been rescued by a Portuguese trawler and when asked how he had survived he told that it was the sirens or mermaids who had saved him and kept him from drowning until help could arrive.  Even though Gracie’s relative had lived to an old age, raised a family and bought land – he had never changed his story.  He had gone to his grave standing by his tale of the saving sirens in the midst of the storm.

One of the goals of the Louisiana Culture Center was to preserve the music and the oral history of the region.  Inevitably, as time passed, a place would change.  And Savannah sought to keep intact the tales and memories of the old folks.  Their organization wasn’t the first to do this, but she was continuing the effort and trying to catalogue and link the archives of others, so a data base would exist that catalogued the richness of their oral traditions before they completely vanished. It was her dream to acquire as much of the original music of the area as she could. So, she combed the countryside buying old records and original recordings and making new digitized versions of the local musicians in order to keep intact a true rendering of Cajun and Creole music.  Today, when she finished with Mamaw Boudreaux, she was headed to Grand lsle to pick up an original field recording of Wayne Perry from the 1930’s playing creole blues on his fiddle.

Before heading south, however, she was meeting the girls from work for lunch at Prejeans in Lafayette.  They were worrying her to death about information on Patrick.  And she was a little selfish about handing any out.  But she liked them, so she would go.  Pulling a pink camisole over her head, she stepped into flat shoes, then buttoned her blue jeans and pulled her mess of long wavy hair into a ponytail.  Foregoing make-up, she grabbed her purse and took off.  The drive to the restaurant would take about a half hour so she put on Elvis radio and tried to clear her mind.  It was futile.  Patrick’s face was all she could think about.

In the last few weeks he had sent her more photographs and she had printed them out on photo paper.  One she kept by her bed for viewing pleasure.  Patrick had the kindest face.  The first time she had seen him at the Acadian Memorial, it hadn’t looked kind.  Patrick had glared