Cajun Hot (11 page)

He lifted his shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “Depends. Some women find it ... stimulatin'. Others are too sensitive."

"I'll risk it,” she said, wetting her lips, impatient to feel his inventive tongue on her. Moisture trickled down her valley. She wanted him badly.

He leaned down and extended his tongue, all the while holding her eyes captive with his. When the warm moisture of his breath glided over her, he stopped and said, “Tell me when you are about to come. I mean it this time. If you don’ tell me, I won’ finish you. Not till tonight, or maybe even tomorrow."

And she wouldn't be here tonight or tomorrow, so that meant never. Purgatory couldn't be worse.

"I'll tell you. I swear.” She gulped down a breath. She should also tell him she was leaving.

Later.

His tongue touched the very tip of her swollen pearl. It felt dazzlingly hot. Enthrallingly spicy. Precipitously effective.

"I'm coming."

A tingling shudder racked through her, then shivered to a halt because his tongue had retreated.

He cocked his head at her, complete with wry grin. “I can see we're goin’ to have to change tactics."

She blinked at him, her throat tight with sexual longing. The spice from his tongue tingled. “What do you mean?” she croaked.

He nipped her inner thigh, causing her to squeak in pain. The throb between her legs diminished somewhat.

His fair play comment suddenly became distressingly clear. “You're going to torture me."

His grin turned evil. “Exactly."

And he proceeded to do to her what she'd done to him when he'd sat bound and helpless the day before. Bringing her right to the sharp, shimmering, quivering brink of orgasm, only to back away when, mindful of his warning, she told him she was ready to come. Then nipping her, blowing on her, lapping harmlessly at her thighs, letting her totter on the razor's edge until she regained her balance. Then starting all over again.

And again. And again. For hours, it seemed.

It was hell.

It was heaven.

She'd never been so flagrantly, achingly, intoxicatingly horny in her whole life.

His peppery tongue prowled, circling, flicking, playing with her like a cat with a ball of yarn. She moaned in ecstasy. The petals of her sex swelled with ferocious need, blossoming wide under his fingers, drenched with her own honey and his saliva.

"Let me come,” she implored for the hundredth time, panting and writhing.

"Soon."

Threats and bargains didn't work, either.

In the end, she pleaded and begged, promised everything he asked of her, agreed to stay, to be his sexual slave, to give him a dozen children, even to learn to bait his fishing hooks. Until he was satisfied of her obedience and finally, finally gave her what she needed.

His mouth closed over her and he suckled her like a tiny nipple.

"Oh, my God, Jacque!"

Orgasm hit her like a runaway train. Long, loud, and unstoppable, exploding at the point of impact. It screamed over her, rumbling through her hot passage, crashing through her body, churning on and on and on without end.

Hours later it seemed, she came to a trembling stop, somewhere in never-never-land.

"How was that?"

She heard the masculine smugness in his polite query and moaned in pure ecstasy. He had every reason to be smug. He was a god.

There was just one more thing she needed. “Come into me,” she said, reaching for him. “Please, I want you inside me.” To be filled to the hilt with his massive cock, and one last time feel the power of his molten life-force spewing into her.

He kissed her lingeringly on the crease of her thigh. “Save dat thought,
chère
. I need to get back to the stove before my sauce is ruined."

Sauce?

She watched in disbelief as he rose and padded to the kitchen sink, whistling, unconcerned about the rampant hard-on he still sported.

Sauce?

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, like an astonished guppy, and her gaze dropped longingly to his ample endowment as he washed his hands. She pouted, miffed by his apparent preoccupation with his damned cooking.

"B—But, what about you?” she finally managed to stammer.

He flashed her an endearing smile. “Later.” He tossed the towel aside.

She couldn't believe this. “You can't be serious."

"Me, I like being aroused. Walking around hard and ready to tip you over a chair and take you any time I want excites me."

Her heart skipped a beat at the image. Yes, that would do very nicely. “But—"

"Hush, now. You've had yours. I'll get mine in good time."

She took a deep, steadying breath, scraped her hair off her face, and sat up. “But, baby, I won't be here later."

He slowly turned, spoon in hand, and regarded her. “And where do you think you'll be?"

"On a bus to Lafayette, like we agreed.” At his stormy expression, she added, “After we stop at a pharmacy."

"And your promises? The ones you made not ten minutes ago?"

"Extortion, plain and simple. I would have said anything and you know it. I have a job, Jacque. A home and a life. I have to get back to them."

"
Mais, non.
That's not goin’ to happen. You are my wife now.
This
is your home. You're life is here wit’ me. Best get used to the idea."

She gaped, unable to credit what he was saying. “You're kidding, right? That marriage was a farce. Coerced and unlawful. We didn't have a license and I never signed the marriage certificate."

"Like I said, there are two hundred witnesses who'll say otherwise. The marriage certificate is probably already registered over at the parish courthouse. Judge Thibodeaux is very efficient."

She shook her head, her chest going tight. “I don't get it. Last night you were as opposed to it as I was. You said just go along and it would all go away in the morning."

"I never said that,
chère
. I said we'd talk about it. And we are—right now. You have to understand, this is
our
place,
our
community—my kin's and mine. You chose to trespass here, uninvited, and got caught in the web of a very old culture. You may not like it ... hell, I may not like it, but there's no point in fightin’ it. What's done is done. It's our way."

"But if you don't like it—"

"Now, darlin', I didn’ say that."

"But—"

"I'll admit I was a little upset at first. But when Mama Breaux asked me if I wanted you, I had to admit I did. Like crazy I wanted you. What man wouldn't? Look at you, sittin’ there naked in my bed, all pink and rumpled from my lovin', and lookin’ sexier than a decent woman's got a right to be. I'd have to be
complètement fou
—the village idiot—not to want you."

Her lips parted in surprise.
Oh, lord.
What woman wouldn't be a fool and melt at words like that?

But were pretty words reason enough to go along with this outrageous thing? To throw away all her plans and goals and everything she'd worked for up till now?

Something was missing. Something big. Tears of dismay blurred her vision. “What about love?” she asked. “Don't you want to be in love with your wife?"

His gaze strayed over her and she was struck by the expression of profound sorrow that flickered through it before he turned back to his cooking. “Dat all depends on you,
chère
."

On her?
What the hell did that mean?

For a split second, she longed to go to him, throw her arms around him and say she'd stay and be the best wife in the world, just to banish that melancholy look.

She snapped her jaw shut.
This was insane.

She had to get away from him, fast, or any minute he'd have her saying and doing things she didn't mean. Couldn't possibly mean. Again.

She was already half in love with Jacque Cherchat. Okay, more than half. She was infatuated beyond words. In two short days, he'd brought her to life in ways she hadn't known possible. She smelled things, tasted things, heard things, felt things, with senses awakened as if from a deep slumber. And it wasn't just the sex; it was his whole outlook on life that had changed her perception of her own world. He'd gotten under her skin, into her blood, imbuing her with new courage and amazing daring.

But she didn't belong here. This shack in the middle of nowhere wasn't the place she wanted to spend the rest of her days. She couldn't take it, to be laughed at again. Being the town joke, living with a dreamer for a husband, in a hovel that was paradise only in his un-ambitious imagination. No thanks; she was all finished with that. Regardless of the attraction to staying with Jacque, she'd worked too hard and too long pulling herself out of exactly this kind of deprived existence to willingly sink right back into it.

Still, if anyone could make her want to, this man could.

She gave herself a mental smack upside the head.
No way. No how.
She was getting out. Today.
Before it was too late.

She crawled to the edge of the bed and looked for her clothes. Then remembered her shorts and T-shirt had been forcibly replaced by a white tank top and miniskirt.

"They're out on the line. I washed them,” Jacque casually informed her.

She jetted out a breath. “Figures,” she muttered. Leaving her nude until they were dry. The Cherchat boys’ favorite ploy to keep a person from running away, it seemed.

She turned in annoyance and he was standing there, right in front of her. So close, she could kiss his belly if she leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

"Now, see what all dis talk of you leavin's done,” he said with a mock frown at his much-deflated equipment. He looked down at her from beneath sultry black lashes. “Maybe you'd like to cheer me up a bit, hmm?"

By the look of things, he was feeling more cheerful by the second. She tried to ignore his rising erection, but it was hard to disregard when her chin was in danger of being impaled.

She lifted it a fraction. “And what promises will
you
give me if I do?"

His lip curled. “I show you a good time.” He dragged the tip of his nearly upright arousal along the edge of her jaw. “A real good time."

His cock felt like satin that had been left in the sun. Unable to resist, she tipped her head to rub her cheek against it. She could smell him. Musky and virile. Earth and salt, with a hint of her own scent perfuming his mix. She put her hands on his thighs, toned and muscular, a sprinkling of curly hair covering them, and sighed at how much his body pleased her. And could excite her with no effort at all, even against her will.

At the sudden sound of the front screen door opening, they both looked up.

"Am I too early, Chat?” inquired a grinning Samuel as he poked his head through.

Oh, hell. Not again.

With a grumble, Sahara grabbed a pillow from the bed and covered herself as best she could.

Jacque turned to Samuel with a perfectly straight face. “
Mais, non,
I've been up for hours."

She pinched his butt.

"Watch it, wife.” He shot her an exaggerated scowl.

"I see d’ newlyweds are gettin’ along.” Samuel walked in and made himself at home in the kitchen.

"In every way dat counts,” Jacque countered with a chuckle, his blatant hard-on lending credence to the observation.

Sahara rolled her eyes. He wasn't remotely uncomfortable displaying his body in all its erect splendor. In fact, she rather thought it might be turning him on, since its size showed no signs of diminishing.

Samuel shifted a large package he was carrying under his arm, and stuck a finger in a pot on the stove. “What y’ makin’ dis time? Still workin’ on your kebab sauce?"

Jacque strolled over to him. “Yep, sure am. Sam, you got somethin’ for me?"

"Wha—? Oh, yeah. Dis come special messenger.” He lifted the flattish, rectangular box into Jacque's hands. It looked remarkably like a dress box, Sahara thought.

"And the other thing I asked you to do dis morning?"

"All done. Jus’ like you say."

"
Bien.
” Fascinated, she watched Jacque slice through the tape on the brown paper and slide it off the box, wondering how on earth they managed a simple thing like mail delivery out here in the swamp.

"What is it?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

"It's for you.” He walked over and held it out with a wink. “Go on, take it."

Which of course meant dropping the pillow.

Oh, what the hell.

She grabbed the box and ripped it open, determined to be as blasé about her nudity as everyone else seemed to be.

It
was
a dress box. And inside was a gorgeous, colorful, diaphanous silk dress. Ankle length with cap sleeves and a bateau neckline.

"Oh, Jacque! It's beautiful!” She jumped off the bed and twirled around, holding it to her. “I love it!"

"Put it on, darlin'."

"I should shower first."

"You go ahead,” he prompted with a smile of encouragement.

She ran to the bathroom and turned on the faucets happily. Under the tepid spray, reality hit.

How could she accept his lovely gift—obviously expensive—and then just run away? That would be rude and selfish.

But how could she possibly escape naked? Waiting for the other clothes to dry could take hours. And Samuel was here now. She had to steal Jacque's boat and carefully follow Sam back to Gerroux when he left. It was the only way she wouldn't become hopelessly lost.

She had to do it now or she might never get up the courage again.

Her mind made up, she toweled her hair dry, slipped into the dress, went out and launched herself into Jacque's arms.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She hugged him tight and covered his dear face with kisses. “You are so sweet, and the dress is so lovely."

"My pleasure. But if dis is your reaction, I think I'll buy your wardrobe a dress at a time, one a day for the next year."

She guiltily buried her face in his neck. “Don't be silly. You couldn't possibly afford that."

"Couldn’ I?"

"Of course not.” She glanced up and suddenly realized he and Samuel were standing close together, watching her patiently, as if they'd been discussing something private or secret and were anxious to resume talking. “Sorry. I'm interrupting, aren't I?"