Cajun Hot

by Nikita Black

  "Your wish is my command." His fingers trolled upward, teasing at the edge of heaven.

  She sucked down a gasp when his fingers flirted with her damp curls. "You owe me big-time, Chat, and I plan to collect before I leave tomorrow."

  Withdrawing his hand, he gathered her hair in his fist and pulled her head back. His gaze raked over her, his expression inscrutable. "Who says you're leavin'?"

  A streak of apprehension lanced through her before she could tamp it down. "I do. And you did, too. Just this morning. This farce has changed nothing, Jacque. I've told you that."

  He didn't comment, just kissed her and said, "I'm starved. Let's get somethin' to eat."

  She didn't have a chance to ponder the tingle of foreboding that spilled down her spine. He thrust an enormous plate into her hands, filled it to overflowing, then steered her to a table.

  "Sit in my lap and I'll feed you," he offered with a suggestive gleam in his eye.

  So she ate from her lover's—no, her husband's—fingers. Savoring mouthfuls of spicy foods, potent drink, and hot kisses in an orgy of sinful indulgence. Between bites, his hands were always on her. Touching her, tantalizing her.

  Prodding a succulent bit of crawfish meat into her mouth with one hand, he slipped the other hand between her thighs, urging them apart beneath the table. His fingers caressed her, spreading the slick folds of her womanhood, probing her moist satin passage, stroking the pearl of her throbbing need. She swallowed a moan along with the crayfish.

  "Open your legs," he ordered softly, his voice rough like the tear of raw silk.

  Shamelessly, she did as he bid, heedless of onlookers, wanting only to feel his skilled touch on her fevered flesh, bringing the completion she'd craved so badly all day. His low growl reverberated against her back as he pulled her tighter to him and fed her another morsel.

  "Shall I make you come?" he heatedly whispered.

  "Yes," she implored, moving against his teasing hand.

  "You'll scream," he chivalrously cautioned.

  "I won't," she vowed, and swallowed the shot of moonshine he poured into her waiting mouth. It burned all the way down as it worked its way through her, bursting into flame at his fingertips. She turned and licked the sensuous curve of his lip, in supplication. "Please."

  His thumb slowly circled her, and her inner muscles clenched in readiness, primed to erupt, drenched in wet, glorious sensation. He stopped, the pad of his thumb resting exactly on top of the scorching point of her need.

  "Who do you belong to?" he quietly asked.

  Ribbons of aching desire nearly strangled the breath from her lungs. She swallowed heavily, weighing the consequences of her answer. Her whole universe throbbed beneath his thumb.

  She parted her legs further, hoping for a reprieve, for him to consent to deliver the one last stroke needed to plunge her over the edge of bliss.

  "You," she finally whispered, discarding any pride of self-determination in favor of her enormous need for him at this moment.

  The music pulsed around them; the blood pulsed wildly through her veins. His huge erection pulsed against her backside. Her nipples pulsed to the beat of her jack-hammering heart.

  His thumb moved, infinitesimally, the tiny movement bringing her to the very, breath-catching, pulsating brink of orgasm.

  "Liar." He breathed the word into her ear, and pulled his hand away, cruelly denying what her body so desperately cried for.

  She groaned in agony. "Bastard," she hissed and, in her pique, lowered her own hands to finish it herself.

  He grabbed her wrists, preventing her. Lacing his fingers through hers, he forced them to her lips. The scent of her own need assailed her nostrils, along with the smell of food and spice lingering on their fingers.

  "Smell your desire for me," he said, holding their joined hands just below her nose. "Taste your desire for me. Only me." He pressed his index finger between her lips, compelling her to take it into her mouth, to taste the mingled flavors of their meal and her own essence. She clamped her legs together in a maelstrom of frustration.

  "Has any other man made you feel this way?" he demanded softly. "Made you want him so desperately, you're willing to encourage his carnal use in a room full of watching people?"

  For a moment, she couldn't breathe, so horrified at her own behavior, put so bluntly. "No," she truthfully answered. And never would have believed herself capable of it, either, before yesterday.

  "And yet you'd leave this man, the day after you became his wife. Possibly pregnant with his child. Why?"

  "There is no child," she said vehemently, unable to address the other, certain at least of that much.

  "What about the time in the boat?"

  Well, nearly certain. "Wrong time of the month. It's impossible." She prayed it was impossible. That would be an irresolvable complication in this morass of complications.

  "Nothing's impossible," he said. "And you aren't leaving until we know for sure." The determination in his voice brooked no resistance.

  She could understand that. Still, he had to consider the source—the word of a crazy old voodoo priestess. Sahara wasn't too worried. "All right," she agreed. "There must be a pharmacy around. We can buy one of those kits on the way to the bus stop."

  He looked at her silently for a moment, then tipped his head and smiled wolfishly. "In the meantime, we have our wedding night to indulge in."

  She also smiled, running a hand over his cheek. "I do like the sound of that." His lap was warm against her bottom. She nestled deeper, enjoying the firmness of his athletic thighs, the pendulous bulge of his maleness pressing into her, then frowned. "You won't be mean, will you?" she asked, thinking of his recent punishment.

  "Only if you want me to be," he answered wickedly.

  "I don't," she said, and shot him an injured look.

  "Then I won't," he promised, and gathered her close. "Let's go home now, and I'll show you just how nice I can be."

  Chapter Seven

  He had no reason to be in such a damned fine mood.

  Jacque settled in his boat and turned the motor over, handing Sahara a flashlight. "Now, you shine dat light on the water so we don' run over any gators, hear?"

  Her reaction was instant and just what he'd hoped. She leapt into his lap and threw her arms around his neck.

  Like he said, damned fine.

  After reassurances that he was kidding, she relaxed a bit, but stayed put. Of course, he wasn't kidding, not in this part of the swamp, but he didn't want her scared. He just wanted her close. Sahara—his new wife.

  He let out a silent snort of wonder. He should be furious. Kicking and screaming against the invasion into his private business by his meddling grandmère. He didn't believe in arranged marriages. Or forced ones. Sahara was delectable, yes, but she'd never, ever have been his own choice for a wife because of her attitude towards money. Hadn't he promised himself a woman who'd love him for himself and not his bank account?

  True, she hadn't been given a choice. And she had no idea of his vast wealth, even now. Still, she'd made it crystal clear where her priorities lay. She wanted that big mansion and fancy clothes, and was willing to do anything to get them. She represented everything he'd vowed to avoid in a spouse.

  But, for now, he was strangely content. Even happy. He couldn't understand it, but wasn't about to spoil the night by analyzing his crazy feelings. For whatever cosmic reason she'd been given to him, he was pleased to accept her in the spirit of open-mindedness. Stranger things had happened in the time-still swamps of his boyhood, and he wasn't one to question the mysteries of life on the bayou.

  Not yet anyway.

  He held her tight and steered the boat for home. She felt good in his arms, eager and willing to indulge his wildest fantasies and feed his hot passion for her. All the while radiating a starry-eyed innocence and adoration for him that twisted his gut in some poignant, unfamiliar emotion. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was falling for his new wife.

  H
a. C'est de la couyonade, ça. Now that was a crazy thought.

  He bent and kissed her, to reassure himself his feelings were merely physical and, sure enough, his body responded right on cue. Yeah, that was more like it.

  They reached his jetty and she watched him tie up, a smile of anticipation on her pretty face. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the house.

  "Welcome home, Madame Cherchat."

  Her eyes widened. She'd forgotten they were man and wife. For some totally irrational reason, that annoyed the hell out of him.

  "When a man carries his bride over the threshold, dat makes it official, y'know," he told her, leaving no doubt as to his position on the matter. He whisked her through the door before she could form an objection.

  Setting her down, he ran his hands down her body and tugged her close, his fingers on her shapely hips. A shiver snaked through her.

  "An' now I want my wedding night," he murmured against her lips, leaving no doubt about his position on that subject either.

  She opened her mouth, possibly to protest, but he silenced her with his tongue, claiming his ancient rights as her husband. Not that she needed convincing. With a moan of surrender, she melted into him, instantly on fire beneath his hands.

  He drilled his fingers through her long, silky hair, taking in big gulps of her scent, her taste, the feel of her lush breasts pressing into him.

  "I want you naked," he said. He backed her to the bed and ripped off her few clothes. "I want to crush you under me, feel you all around me."

  Her fingers tore at his T-shirt while he unleashed his rampant cock. "Hurry. I need you inside me." Her words were rushed, her voice choked with want. "Please."

  He pushed her onto the bed and fell on top of her, driving into her with one swift, hard stroke. She shuddered and cried his name, clinging to him as she exploded in a climax so powerful it sucked him deep into her, so deep he thought he'd be lost forever in her fevered flesh.

  He groaned at the intensity of his pleasure. And kept thrusting, determined to hold back and give her everything she wanted. Everything she deserved for what she'd been through tonight. Everything she needed to burn him into her memory, so she'd always be his.

  "You're mine now," he growled. "Mine." Always. Regardless of what tomorrow brought. He wanted her to belong to him forever. Totally.

  He never wanted her to make love with another man. But if she ever did, he swore she wouldn't do it without thinking of him, remembering him. Wanting him more than the man she was with. Wanting Jacque Cherchat so much, no one else would ever be able to replace him in her mind or her body.

  He found the peaks of her breasts, squeezed and rolled them in his fingers until she trembled and moaned his name, over and over, her nails scoring his back, panting sweet sounds of passion in his ear.

  "Don't stop. Don't stop," she pleaded, wild and untamed. Then she quivered again beneath him, her skin liquid fire against his, her sheath molten flame around his shaft, and was swept into another racking orgasm.

  He kept pounding into her. Sweat poured in the steamy heat of the night, slicking her with the taste of his own salt, marking her. His mate. In the most basic, animal way. She tightened her long legs, high on his back, opening herself deeper to his piercing blows. His cock felt like a branding iron searing into her, red hot and stinging with the need to come.

  He leaned down and pulled her breast to his mouth. He flicked her beaded nipple with his tongue, then softly bit, rewarded with a strangled cry. She flung her arms above her head, catching hold of the wrought-iron headboard. Her body arched like a bow beneath him, offering her breasts to his lips. He grasped her bottom, holding her fast, hoisting her to meet his lancing thrusts. And bit her other nipple.

  "Oh, God," she cried.

  "Vien," he commanded, winded with elation. "Come. Now!"

  And she obeyed.

  Her body shook, overcome by intense convulsions. A scream ripped from her lips, turning into his own name. He covered her mouth with his and drank his name like succor from her sweet, sweet lips, breathing it in, returning it into her mouth as a long, desperate, "Sahara."

  She was his. Completely. Unremittingly.

  His body stiffened. "I own you, Sahara," he panted, so low even he wasn't sure he'd said it out loud. "And I'll never let you go. Never!"

  Then he came in her, filling her with his hot, spurting seed, his vital essence. Sealing her fate. Sealing a pact with himself and the devil to have this woman forever.

  ***

  He woke some time later, sprawled all over her like honey on a biscuit, just her nose sticking out between his neck and shoulder so she could breathe. He must be heavy. She was probably squished flat. If he were any kind of gentleman, he'd move.

  For a few seconds, he considered doing so, then dismissed the idea. She didn't seem unhappy with the situation, and he liked her right where she was. Nobody had ever accused him of being a gentleman.

  Her long, even breaths wafted around his shoulder, tickling the hairs under his arm. Her legs were spread to either side of him on the mattress; one hand rested on the pillow above his shoulder, the fingers of her other hand tangled in the back of his hair, still grasping bunches of it as she had in the throes of coming for him. She smelled like his sex.

  He felt his cock harden and lengthen once more in voracious hunger. Without moving a muscle, he grew right back into her, where he'd been when they'd fallen asleep. He licked his lips, his heartbeat kicking in alacrity.

  Should he just take his pleasure on her and let her sleep? Or should he wake her and demand her participation?

  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 musc
les 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.