by Nikita Black
"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 glorious 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.
Chapter Five
"Sahara..." The warning was unmistakable.
"Yes, Jacque?" Sahara sculpted 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 neutrally, "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 pretty, 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.
Too much! Too much! She pulled herself away, grasping his head, taking his mouth in a burning kiss. He ate at her, lathing her ravenously with his tongue.
"I can taste myself in your mouth," he said, low and rough.
She reached down to gather more, to make him suck it from her fingers.
"Finish me," he growled, "Finish me now, or I swear you won' be able to walk tomorrow when I'm done wit' you."
Excitement shot through her whole body at his demand. She'd pushed him to the limit of his endurance and was about to reap the carnal reward.
"Promise?" she whispered, reveling in the feral, untamed beast she'd unleashed in him. In herself.
"Oh, yeah. Dat's a promise."
His eyes followed her with a burning intensity as she knelt between his legs and brought her mouth to his cock. He groaned as her tongue caressed him, and kept groaning when she took him full into her mouth. His fingers dug into the bare wood of the chair, knuckles white with tension.
His whole body shook as she took him deeper and deeper, straining at the size of him, but wanting to give him more pleasure than he'd ever experienced in his life.
So he'd remember her.
When she couldn't go any further and still breathe, she slowly slid back up. Then repeated the process. On the third pass, his body suddenly went rigid, and he tipped back his head and roared. His cock shuddered, then began to pump wildly in her mouth. She took the head all the way to the back of her throat, as he'd shown her last night, so she'd taste his sweet flavor and not the bitter salt, and drank of his life's essence. She worked him until he stopped moving completely, limp and spent, a harmless kitten to the ferocious lion he'd been only moments before.
His head was thrown back, sweat drenched his chest. He moaned pitifully. "Better not untie me, chère. I've changed my mind about lettin' you go tomorrow."
A smile curved her lips. "So you did enjoy yourself."
"In fact, I think I'll keep you for my depraved use forever."
She lay her head on his knee, stroking his soft inner thigh. "Does that work both ways?"
"Oh, yeah."
Suddenly, the front door burst open and a young man strode into the living room.
Jacque groaned where he sat. "Fuck, not again." Why hadn't he ever noticed before how annoying the community habit of just walking in on people was?
"Hey, Jacque. How's it goin'?"
Sitting at his feet, Sahara shifted to cover herself and mumbled, "Doesn't anyone in this parish know how to knock?"
Banking his impatience, Jacque lifted his head and peered at the intruder. "Hey, Samuel. Not too bad. You'self?"
The newcomer shrugged, and appeared not to notice they were both naked and obviously in the middle of something. "Ça va bien. Tchien, dey wan' you down at Pierre's."
Jacque endeavored to keep a straight face. "Uh, Samuel, I'm a bit tied up right now. Can't it wait?"
The young man made a moue of apology. "Dey say aseteur, right now." His eyes skimmed over the restraints still holding him to the chair.
Merde. Now it would be all over the parish that Jacque Cherchat let a woman tie him up.
Samuel nodded at Sahara. "An' bring her, too."
Jacque sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "Okay, we'll be right along."
The other man shuffled on his feet.
"Quoi?"
"I'm s'posed to come wit' you."
He digested that for a moment. A bit unusual. Everyone knew a personal summons to Pierre's Bar meant some kind of council meeting. No one ignored a summons like that.
"All right. C'est bien," he said evenly, then jerked a chin at his bonds. "Turn me loose, chère, and slip on your clothes. We'll continue dis later."
"You can't be serious!" Sahara glanced warily toward Samuel.
"Don' you worry 'bout him. Everybody around here's seen everyone else naked at some point."
At her disapproving frown, he gave her an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I'll make it up to you, I swear."
She chuffed out an angry breath and released him from the chair. 'Tite bête—poor thing. Besides being embarrassed, he knew she had to be hurtin'. She must still be nearly as aroused as he'd been minutes before, and ready to claw his eyes out for leavin' her unsatisfied.
He helped her to her feet and enfolded her in an intimate embrace, ignoring Samuel who stood watching them unabashedly. Murmuring in her ear, he told her exactly what he'd do to her when they got back home.
She slowly melted in his arms and, after an initial shyness, even let him pet her and touch her as he whispered. He almost forgot they weren't alone.
"Uh, Jacque." Samuel cleared his throat. "They'll be waitin' on us."
"Yeah," he said reluctantly, and gave her a final kiss.
They tugged on their clothes and in Jacque's boat followed Samuel to Pierre's, a run-down bayou bar on stilts, straight out of a beer commercial, frogs and all. The structure was old and rickety, but bigger inside than the narrow facade would lead one to believe. Only the long jetty filled with dozens of floating craft gave a clue as to how many people could comfortably fit at the two dozen tables jammed inside, and the huge wooden dance floor next to them.
Jacque glanced at the packed jetty and whistled. "What's goin' on?" he asked Samuel, who lifted a non-committal shoulder.
"Connais pas."
"Must be important for so many people to come."
It looked like most of the parish had turned up. Jacque scoured his brain for possible topics of discussion, but came up blank. Probably some environmentalist group trying to kick them out of the swamp again. Happened regularly, since they lived in some of the wildest wetlands left in Louisiana, or the whole country for that matter.
When they got inside, no one else knew what was up, either. So he bought a couple beers for himself and Sahara, then introduced her around. The women were reserved, but the men eyed her appreciatively. He kept a proprietary arm around her waist, so there was no mistaking to whom she belonged. She might be leaving in the morning, but tonight she was his.
Only his.
After a few minutes, there was a stir at the door and every head turned to see who'd arrived. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw who it was.
Mama Breaux!
What was she doing here? She hadn't been in Pierre's since… the last time they'd held one of those shotgun weddings. The sting of slow panic washed over him, like poison from a cottonmouth.
Non . It couldn't be. She wouldn't. She wouldn't dare. Not to her favorite grandson, she wouldn't.
Okay, so maybe he'd become a little obsessed with Sahara, had actually contemplated keeping her against her will for a few more days. But he wasn't in love with her. And he really would let her go. Soon.
He certainly didn't want to marry her. He hardly knew her.
He pulled Sahara tight against him and widened his stance, bracing his feet on the floorboards. The crowd parted like a bad hairdo between them and Mama Breaux.
Sahara glanced up nervously. "What's happening, Jacque? Who is that?"
"Mama Breaux," he quietly answered, watching the old witchy woman hobble toward them. "Dis could get interestin’."
"Mama—" Her eyes widened in apprehension. "What does she want?"
"I expect we'll find out shortly." He let Sa
hara go to kiss his grandmother's cheeks. "Bonjour, me'mère."
Her wizened fingers stroked over his face. "Mon fils."
Her ancient eyes darted to Sahara and, when he followed her gaze, it was just in time to see Quint and Samuel each grab one of her arms and haul her forward to stand next to the old lady.
She called to him, struggling against their hold. “Jacque! What is this? Do something!"
He clamped his jaw tight and faced the interfering old witch, reining in his temper. "Me'mère, let her go."
Mama Breaux pointed a bony finger at Sahara. "Is dis the woman, the étrangère, who has dishonored you?"
His heart stalled in his chest. It was the standard line, the one that always put the shotgun wedding into motion.
Well, he wasn't about to go along with it. "Dishonored? What the hell you talkin' about?"
Her fiery eyes flashed in warning. "Don' you swear at me, Jacque Cherchat. Don' forget, I wrapped your skinny behind in diapers, and you ain' more important dan me down here, not yet you aren't!"
Instantly contrite, he held up a hand. "I didn'—"
"Da woman seduced you, non?" she interrupted. "Filled your body with lust and made you do wicked things?"
A few feet away, Sahara gasped loudly and objected vehemently to the charges.
Well, in all honesty he couldn' deny the last two, but Sahara certainly hadn't been the guilty party in the seduction. He opened his mouth to protest her innocence, but too late.
Mama Breaux took his hesitation as acquiescence and forged ahead. "An' your brother, Quinten, too, I hear."
She looked at Quint, who reddened and shot a glance at his wife, who loudly voiced her one word opinion of the étrangère who'd nearly caused her man to stray.
Jacque let out a foul curse. "Tell her, Quint," he ordered through clenched teeth. "The way it really happened."
Quint avoided his eyes, and nodded to their grandmother. "C'est vrai, Mama Breaux. It's true. She tried to seduce us both. Luckily, my dear wife arrived jus' in time to save me. Jacque wasn' so fortunate. Wit' him, she succeeded."
"Quint!" Sahara cried, panic rife in her voice.
"Arrète! Stop it, for Chrissake!" Jacque barked furiously, throwing up his hands in disgust. "Ça c'est fou! Quint and I have fucked half the women here, mos' of dem together! I'm hardly a blushing virgin!"