by Nikita Black
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 expressed interest in her 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 delicious 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 as he asked 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.
Chapter Eight
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, 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?"
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 husband, in a hovel that was paradise only in his unambitious imagination. No thanks, she was all finished with that. Regardless of the attraction of 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.
