Cajun Hot (10 page)

The choice excited him. Having power over her excited him. He licked his lips again.

He should be ashamed. He'd never been the male chauvinistic macho type, not really.
Mais
yeah, his outward image was of a bad boy, but when it came right down to it, he'd always given his women full choice and power over his moves, sexual or otherwise.

But not this time.

He'd done things to Sahara he'd be arrested for in most states. And the worst was yet to come. Holding someone against their will was a federal offense.

And he intended to hold her. Oh, yeah. She was his and he intended to keep her.

Suddenly, he knew what it must have felt like to be a caveman, or an omnipotent feudal lord, a savage pirate, the supreme victor in a long-ago battle surveying his captured spoils. Having life and death rights over other men, his choice of women with whom to slake his lust. The primitive male feeling of complete power over another.

He liked it.

He liked it a lot.

A wave of purely masculine gratification washed over him as he pushed himself deeper into the hot, wet velvet of her welcoming passage. Even in her sleep, she closed around him, caressing him with the small kneading movement of feminine muscles.

Her eyelashes fluttered against his throat. Good. She was waking up. Fucking a sleeping woman didn't appeal anymore.

"Do you want me?” he whispered, disturbingly comfortable with the knowledge that it didn't matter what she wanted. He'd take her regardless.

"Mmm, always,” she murmured sleepily. “You never have to ask."

Was that a prick of disappointment he felt?

He paused for a moment, considering the possibility of wanting to rape her. The thought scared him witless. The difference between taking a cranky lover who'd rather sleep and actual against-her-will rape was vast. But where did one draw the line?

"Jacque?” she whispered, wriggling to impale herself further onto his granite-hard shaft.

The uncomfortable thoughts vanished in a shower of sexual relish, and he turned his attention to pleasure. Maybe he wouldn't have to force his new bride to stick around. Maybe he could convince her in other ways that she really wanted to stay with him.

After all, brute strength wasn't the only weapon in his arsenal.

He used them all.

By the next morning, he was sublimely sated. Grinning like a fool with muscles the consistency of gumbo. Even so, he awoke after his few hours of sleep, thick and long, ready for more.
Bon Dieu
, she had his number but good.

He lifted his head and breathed in the fresh morning air pouring in through the window screen along with the soft light of dawn and the cheerful sounds of insects coming to life on the water below the cottage. He sniffed again. His bed smelled like the most decadent of New Orleans’ brothels. The very corner of his lip curled. He should know.

The sharp contrast was pleasing to his senses. Like the unexpected flavor note in all his famous sauces. Contrast was his trademark. It made him feel alive.

Carefully, he lifted himself off the woman sleeping under him. She whimpered, reaching for him in her sleep, almost changing his mind about getting up. He gazed at his wife's face, still flushed and rosy from his amorous attentions, down to her breasts, which were even more reddened. He ran a hand over his jaw, enjoying the rough feel of the prickly stubble covering it. She'd enjoyed it too, in the dark, last night, as he'd scraped it over several imaginative places on her body. Hell, he could think of lots of other spots where—

Mais non
.. There were things he must do before he woke her. Many things.

Gently pulling her fingers to his lips, he kissed them, kissed her cheek, and murmured, “Sleep,
ma chère
,” softly into her ear. She sighed serenely, and nestled into the cozy feather bed. He looked around for the top sheet, but it had long since disappeared out the
baire
and onto the floor. Gingerly, he placed a pillow in her arms to replace his body, slid out of her grasp and under the netting.

Still nude, he pulled his hair back into a ponytail, strode to his desk, unlocked the compartment where his laptop was hidden, and fired it up. While it booted, he glanced at Sahara to make sure she'd settled back to sleep, then crept quietly to her backpack where she kept her cameras and film.

Sahara yawned and stretched. Muscles she'd never felt before yelped in protest. Mysterious, unidentifiable sounds and smells assailed her nose, making her eyes spring open in curiosity.

Jacque was cooking again. Stark naked. For the second morning in a row. Apparently, this was a habit. She gave a little hum of approval. He stood at his old wooden chopping block, blending something in a bowl with a whisk. She laced her hands under her head and took in the delicious sight. Thank God he didn't use an apron.

She could definitely get used to this.

She allowed herself to savor the thought for a few more minutes before letting reality take hold. For, as much as she wished things were different, they weren't. She had to leave today. She had a job to get back to. She didn't belong here.

But, oh, how she'd miss Jacque Cherchat.

He was everything she'd ever fantasized about in a man. Smart, sexy—devastatingly sexy—good-looking as sin with just a hint of danger about him. Not to mention being a great cook.

And he seemed to like her, too. A lot. Okay, more than a lot. He seemed almost ... obsessed with her. Not in a bad way, not like a stalker or anything weird. But obsessed with her mind and her body in a way no man had ever had been before.

She closed her eyes and smiled. Last night, he'd shattered her universe, making love to her more times and in more ways than she could count. And in-between, he'd lain on top of her, stroking her cheek and asking her question after question about herself, her work, her world. Until that sultry gaze would creep into his eyes, letting her know he wanted her again, wanted to touch her in some new, exciting way that would reduce her to a quivering puddle of boneless need, moaning in carnal delight. Making her departure today that much harder.

He'd wooed her in that strange, erotic patois of Cajun French and English, and, as he'd made love to her, he'd called her his bride, his wife, Mrs. Cherchat, in both languages, as if that ridiculous wedding had been real and legal.

And she'd just let him say those things, loving the sound of the words rolling off his seductive Cajun tongue like precious endearments.

Lord, he made her happy.

"What ya thinkin’ ‘bout,
chère
?"

She opened her eyes. The netting was gone and he was standing over her, watching her with that deliciously hooded gaze that sent goosebumps careening down her arms. He was flamboyantly aroused. Her body responded instantly, his favorite places tightening and slickening in wanton anticipation of his attention.

"You,” she whispered, and parted her legs to receive him.

He didn't move, but studied her body, his gaze taking in every detail—her breasts, lifted high and heaving with want for his touch, the lustful entreaty in her eyes, the whorish splay of her open thighs, their juncture glistening with unfettered need for him. He tipped his head.

Heat flooded her face, and the breath caught in her throat in mortification at the picture she must make.

"
Don't
,” he warned, when she would have turned away in shame.

She swallowed, forcing herself not to move, looking up at him, blushing fiercely.

"
Si belle, ma femme
,” he said, his voice gritty and low. “You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known."

He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his knuckles over the curls of her mound. “The most licentious, provocative, arousing woman I've ever fucked ... and I've fucked many women in my day."

His crude admission should have disgusted her. It set her body aflame. Tight wires of arousal wound around her nipples, her womb, the achingly taut trigger between her legs.

He wanted her. Of all the women he'd known intimately, he wanted her most.

His fingers slid up her thigh, trailing lightly along the swollen folds and valleys. “So wet. Is this all for me?"

"Yes,” she confessed, guilty of the sin of boundless lust for this man. “My body weeps for want of you."

His mouth curved, obviously pleased with her answer. His attentive cock stood straight and tall, towering from its nest of curly raven hair, purple veined and beckoning. She swiped her tongue along her bottom lip, craving its forceful penetration.

"Please,” she said, spreading her legs wider.

"You want me inside you?"

"Yes.” He slipped his pinkie into her. “Like this?"

"No.” She pouted with disappointment. “Not like that."

He slid his finger out and, before she realized what he was doing, inserted it into her back passage. She gasped.

"Like this?” he asked.

Last night, he'd initiated her into the most forbidden of sexual acts, and she'd found it strangely exciting. But it had been late, and dark, and she had been readied and pliant from endless hours of his carnal use. In the bright light of morning, with his eyes steady upon her, studying every nuance of her reaction, she felt shockingly exposed.

"No,” she said, her voice shaking. “Not like that either."

"Tell me what you want, Sahara."

The rest of her body had begun to shake, too. His finger pulled slowly out of her until just the tip remained inside.

"Your cock,” she whispered, knowing he wouldn't let up until she said the words he wanted to hear. He was relentless against her shyness, constantly provoking her to relinquish all sexual modesty with him. “I want your cock in me."

The tip of his finger rimmed her. “Here?” he asked.

She sucked in a breath at the sensation, wickedly titillating. For a split second, she hesitated, then blushed crimson and said, “My cunt,” using the word she knew he preferred, the one that would excite him most and bring him to her the fastest. “I want your cock in my cunt."

For a breathless, exquisite moment, his fingertip continued to play with her, then it was gone. Her body vibrated with need. She almost screamed with impatience as he reached for a tissue from the nightstand. There was no rushing him when he got like this. If she protested, he'd stop completely, digging in his heels like the stubborn Cajun mule he was.

He slid over and sat between her legs. “Give me your hands,” he murmured, yanking her out of her pique.

She did his bidding without thinking. He placed them on her widely splayed knees, then slid them slowly, slowly, up her inner thighs until her fingers felt the moist heat of her own sex. Her pulse sped.

Using his thumbs, he spread her apart, so the very core of her lay open to his view.

"Touch yourself,” he ordered softly.

Sahara bit her lip.
Lord have mercy.
Rarely did she touch herself, even in the privacy of her own bed, and never, ever had she imagined doing it while someone watched. The thought electrified her.

"Don't be afraid,
'tite chatte
,” Jacque said, his voice deep and soothing. “I want to see what pleases you. Go on."

With his hands, he held her legs spread wide while his thumbs cleared the path for her fingers. She felt the blood throb within her, making her small nubbin sing for attention.

Tentatively, she slid her forefinger over herself, shivering with illicit excitement. She whimpered and circled it again, emboldened by the glorious pleasure that streaked through her, through Jacque's eyes as he watched, transfixed.

"Oh, yeah,
chère
. That's it. No one else can make it feel this good, eh?"

"You do,” she rejoined, truthfully. He smiled, spread her wider, lifted her legs. “We'll get to me. First, I want to see you pleasure yourself. But don’ come,” he admonished. “Tell me when you are close."

What could she do? Jacque and her own body conspired against her. Her body called for lascivious stimulation, perhaps unconsciously realizing how long it was destined to be deprived of such in the future. And it was sublimely naughty having her lover watch.

Of its own volition, her finger massaged her sensitive bud, sending waves of radiant pleasure coursing through her. Her eyelids fluttered closed, riding the crest of bliss.

"Open your eyes,
chère
,” Jacque reprimanded. “I don’ want you hidin’ from me."

She met his gaze, sizzling, powerful, and demanding. Her body responded to his unspoken mastery, surrender sweeping over her, her muscles clenching in the first glimmer of orgasm. He snatched her hands away from herself.

"You were going to come, weren't you?” he said evenly.

"Yes,” she admitted, twitching with frustration. “Let me come, Jacque."

"
Non
."

The sensual curve of his mustache taunted her, reminding her of the considerable damage it had wreaked upon her innocence and virtue over the past few days. He had a way of brushing it over her, and between her legs, that simply drove her wild.

She swallowed. “Beast."

He grinned mercilessly. “Turnabout's fair play,” he suggested, referring no doubt to yesterday's game of bondage and torture. “Are you able to continue without goin’ over?"

"No,” she stated, mutinous. She'd had enough frustration the day before to last a lifetime, and she wasn't about to inflict it on herself today. Let him do the dirty work, if it must be done.

"Defying your husband already?” he quietly asked, brow raised.

"You're not my husband."

"There are two hundred witnesses who wouldn't agree,” he said. “Would you like me to lick you?"

Her mind ignored his first categorical statement and homed in on his question instead. “Yes,” she said, peering between her upraised legs at his roguish expression. “Please,” she added sweetly, for good measure.

He paused, searching her face, and for a breathless moment, she was sure he'd deny her. Then he smiled. “I've been cooking. My tongue may be a bit spicy. Will that bother you?"

"I don't know,” she conceded. “Will it?"