Cajun Hot (6 page)

"Look, I'm sorry I've been such a sonofabitch. I had no right to judge you. I jus’ wanted you to ... stay."

Her face softened. “It's okay, I understand."

He slid his hands under her T-shirt and started pulling it up. “
Fait l'amour avec moi
. Please, Sahara. I need to feel you."

Something in his plea must have reached her, for she slipped off her shirt and put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Jacque, you know I wish I didn't have to go."

"I know, baby."

He slid off her shorts, then pulled up the two benches so he could lay her down in the bottom of the boat. It smelled of fish and the uneven metal jabbed into them, but neither noticed.

Gazing deep into her eyes, he made love to her, never once looking away. The waves they created slapped musically against the aluminum boat as they drifted, birds sang prettily in the fluttering trees, the sweet scent of orchids wafted over them from the trees above. It all felt so right.

Afterward, he rolled her on top of him and they lay for a long time, talking softly and watching the scenery and wildlife above as they floated aimlessly around, letting the current carry them where it would. He told her about his escapades as a youth, growing up in the swamp with a thousand relatives close by. She spoke of her lonely childhood in a tiny desert community on California's border with Arizona, with a dreamer for a dad and a hopeless romantic for a mom. She also talked about her dreams of buying a big house in the city.

"It'll be brand new with three huge stories. Built to look like one of those old-fashioned southern mansions. It'll be on the water. Lots of water all around it, with lots of big windows so I can see blue water from every room."

Jacque chuckled. “As far away from the desert as you can get, eh?” He thought about his own mansion on Lake Ponchartrain and imagined her in it. He liked the picture.

"You got it.” She gestured dreamily. “And it'll have a wood-paneled library filled with old books, and I'll invest in art, too. Impressionist, I think. Those ones with the water lilies."

He smiled. Last year at Sotheby's, he'd managed to snag a small Monet. It had a water lily in one corner, as he recalled.

He frowned and shook off his wandering thoughts. It wouldn't pay to fantasize about taking her to his home. She'd never pass his test, and he knew it. There wasn't a doubt in his mind she wouldn't pass.

She'd never remain with him here in the swamp.

And that was the test. The one he'd promised himself come hell or high water. The woman he chose to marry would have to say yes to po'boy Jacque Cherchat, without knowing he was one and the same as multi-millionaire Jack Kershaw.

"And clothes, don’ you want pretty clothes, too?” he persisted.

"Well.. Naturally! Linen suits for all my business meetings and long silk gowns for charity functions..."

He didn't know why he took such perverse pleasure in proving himself right. Sometimes he could be a real pain in the butt.

"...and maybe I'll even design a waterproof photographer's vest and make even more money on that.” She laughed gleefully.

"And what about love?” he asked, feeling surly. “Where does that fit in all your plans?"

Merde!
Why had he brought that up?

"Love?” She looked at him in astonishment, “well, I've always figured I'd have to do all this by myself. But I suppose I could fall in love with a millionaire and save myself the trouble.” She looked thoughtful. “Know any?"

He choked on his own tongue and had to sit up. “I'm afraid you'll have to find your own sucker, darlin'."

"Thanks loads.” She followed him up and swatted him on the arm.

He managed to cover his annoyance and gave her a kiss. “Now, baby, it's not that you aren't worth a million bucks..."

"I'd only marry him if I really loved him,” she mumbled indignantly.

Yeah, sure she would.
He gave her a sad smile. “You're losin’ the light. Better finish takin’ your pictures."

She plucked up her T-shirt. “Good idea."

"Share my bed tonight, Sahara.. Tomorrow I'll get you home."

She met his gaze, silent for a moment. “I could come back,” she said softly. “After I turn in the job, I could—"

Sighing, he caressed her neck with his fingers. “Dis place is like Shangri-La,
chère
. Once you leave you can never find your way back.” He gave her a kiss. “Let's just enjoy the time we have left together."

Supper was another five-star gourmet delight.

"You should open a restaurant, Jacque. You'd make a fortune.” Sahara leaned back and patted her tummy. “Delicious doesn't even come close."

Jacque only smiled and dribbled another spoonful of
crème caramel
over his custard.

"I don't know how you do it under these conditions.” She waved a hand at the narrow strip of kitchen. “Propane stove and fridge, bottled water, no counter space. No electricity, for crying out loud!"

"I've got electricity."

She watched him belt back another shot of Quint's moonshine. She'd tried a sip earlier and it had nearly killed her.

"Photo-voltaic batteries that last an hour. Hardly what I'd call wired."

He shrugged. “It's all I need. An’ it's not like dey run telephone poles out here."

"No, I guess not."

Gads, she couldn't even imagine living in a place with no electricity. She'd been surprised when he'd told her about the solar water heater and rain collector for the shower—as good excuse as any for sharing, which is what they'd done right before dinner—but this was beyond uncivilized. Even her family's old shack in the desert had had electricity.

She started clearing the dishes, but when she reached for his plate, he pulled her into his lap.

"Leave ‘em. I don’ want you wastin’ your last night wit’ me washin’ dishes."

His voice was a little slurred, and his smile a bit crooked. His gorgeous hair was gloriously disheveled, and she couldn't resist running her fingers through it. Her heart melted, and she whispered, “Anybody ever tell you how incredibly sexy you are?"

"Never,” he assured her, his smile growing even more lopsided.

"The women around here must surely be deaf, dumb and blind."

She tipped his face up for a deep, leisurely kiss. He tasted like rich spices and
crème caramel
, chicory, with a tang of moonshine. And the musky, erotic taste of her lover. She sighed, never wanting to let him go.

She stripped off his T-shirt and ran her hands down his broad, sculpted chest. “So beautiful."

She loved the springy texture of his chest hair, not too much, not too little. His pecs and biceps were steel hard, and she wondered vaguely where he'd acquired such impressive musculature. Not fishing, she'd wager.

"So-o-o sexy..."

She trailed her fingers over his small, flat nipples, gratified when they swirled into tight kernels. He sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, smiling like a cat with a canary perched on his dinner bowl.

She loved seeing him like this. Knowing she was the one responsible for the pleasure he was feeling. Knowing she had the power to command this big, virile man and bring him to his knees in ecstasy, if she so chose.

She kissed him again and popped the top button on his jeans, watching the reaction in his sultry gaze. He didn't move an eyelash, but she knew that he knew instantly what she intended to do.

A hint of challenge, a glimmer of anticipation skated through his black eyes. She could have her way with him, and he'd allow her complete control over his body.

She slid off his belt and hung it over the arm of his chair. His breathing deepened and she could see the blood pulse through the prominent vein in his neck. She slowly lowered the zipper on his fly. His manhood sprang free, fully erect and angry red. She shivered, awed by the sight of it, so aggressively masculine, so massively, potently male.

And so dependent on her for relief from its physical need.

She smiled and teased his lips with another kiss. He squirmed. She knew what he wanted her to do, but she intended to make him sweat first. He'd writhe with frustration, but he'd thank her in the end. And give her anything she wanted.

"Let's take those jeans off, shall we?” she crooned in his ear.

"Anythin’ you say,
chérie
.” His eyes glittered.

Inch by meticulous inch, she slid off his jeans, kissing and licking his legs as she went. She teased the back of his knees, tickled his curly leg hairs, trailed her fingers tantalizingly up his inner thighs—always stopping short of where he wanted her to go. By the time she reached his calves, his forehead was shiny with sweat. She decided to leave his jeans bound around his ankles.

He glanced down, the shadow of a frown beetling his brow for the briefest second.

She smiled innocently. “Would you prefer me with clothes on or would you like me naked?"

"Naked,” he grumbled, just a tad testily.

Good.
She had plans for her silk panties.

She rose and coyly lifted her T-shirt, showing him her breasts. “Are you sure?"

"
Salleau prie
! Yes!” He grabbed the seat of his chair and looked like he was going to jump out of it. She lifted a brow in warning. Reluctantly, he settled.

Turning her back on him, she slid off her clothes, using unhurried, sinuous movements, then bent over to pluck her panties from the floor. Hanging them from a finger, she turned and strolled back to stand between his widely splayed knees. She smiled. He was deliberately displaying himself to her, obviously hoping she'd be so overcome with desire she'd put him out of his misery. Silly boy.

"Do you like my body, Jacque?"

"What do you think?"

"Wrong answer, lover."

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah. I like your body. I love your body. An’ in about two seconds, it's gonna be flat on its back on the floor.” His eyes opened on a scowl.

She tipped her head. “My, my, aren't we impatient?"

"Yes,” he stated edgily.

"Well, I'll have to do something about that."

She studied his throbbing cock for a moment, then lowered her panties to it, lightly dragging them up its length, barely touching, teasing his bulbous tip with a lace edge. Gripping the arms of his chair, he stared at the panties in dismay, obviously torn between batting them away and erupting in orgasm because it felt so good.

"God, Sahara.” He moaned, arching himself into the flimsy silk. “Don’ stop."

Of course, she stopped.

She bent to kiss his mouth in consolation, impervious to his strangled pleas. And as she did so, she neatly tied his left wrist to the arm of the chair with her panties. At his astonished look, she just winked and reached for the belt hanging under his right wrist.

And used it to secure that one, too.

"Sahara...” The warning was unmistakable.

"Yes, Jacque?” Sahara skimmed down his chest with her palms, lowering herself to her knees as she did so.

The warning turned to a hoarse plea. “Have mercy, baby. I'm about to explode."

"I'm so glad,” she said,
sans merci
. “Enjoying yourself?"

He stared at her and wet his lips. “I can't tell yet."

She allowed herself a chuckle. He was having the time of his life and he knew it. She wondered if any other woman had ever dared to tie him up before. She doubted it. He didn't seem the type to let things get out of his control too often. Not this far, anyway.

"Well,” she said, keeping her voice neutral, “Let me know when you decide."

She stroked his parted thighs and rested her arms along their tops, toying with the raven curls guarding his crown jewels. The strong, musky scent of his desire drifted up with his heat. An intense wall of craving hit her, and she had to restrain herself from crawling onto his lap and scything away her enormous need on his thick staff.

Promising herself
soon
, she let out a breath slowly from between pursed lips, painting over his turgid cock with a thin stream of warm, moist air.

Groaning, he strained to come closer. “Lick me,
chérie
. Please. Lick me and blow again."

"Since you ask so prettily, how can I refuse?"

She started with his balls, swollen and rock hard and stretching his sac to bursting. She licked them delicately and took them into her mouth, one at a time, careful not to stimulate him too much, then blew puffs of air over them.

Leaning his head back, he moaned long and low. “Ah, baby, you're killing me."

"Just wait,” she murmured, reaching for the
crème caramel
bowl, still sitting on the table by his elbow.

After dribbling it all over his cock, she licked and lapped at him like a lollipop, prolonging the torture until he was on the verge of climax, then blowing air over him to cool him down.

He'd always been big, but now he was huge—long and nearly as thick as her wrist. The end of his cock looked like a ripe plum, round and purple and dripping with his own nectar. She tongued over and around it, savoring the sweet-salty taste of him mingled with remnant caramel, and glazed her lips in the honey flowing freely from the tip.

He grunted, a harsh, animal sound that vibrated deep in his lungs. She backed off, knowing he would come if she didn't stop. He looked at her pleadingly, his eyes half-lidded with sensual agony, his arms straining at his bonds.

"Untie me, Sahara, I can't take any more of this,” he rasped.

"Soon,” she murmured, and lifted her breasts, coating her nipples with his sticky essence. “But first, I want you to lick me."

He jerked his wrists violently. “Let me go and I'll lick you all over, jus’ how you like it."

She hesitated, tempted to do as he bid. She knew he'd be as good as his word. But—"No, this time it's my turn."

Rising, she presented her breasts to his mouth. “For your pleasure."

He attacked them hungrily, suckling her hard and furious. His shadowed jaw rasped her sensitive flesh, his teeth nipped at her, tearing a cry from her throat. Pleasure-pain electrified her nipples, making them sing in torment at every nuance of his lips and tongue.