Cajun Hot

by Nikita Black

  "Fuck me," she suggested, her voice cracking.

  He allowed himself a smile. "Now, that would hardly be punishment, would it? Though make no mistake, I intend to do that as well." He slid his index finger deep into her. "But not until I've taught you proper respect for your husband."

  "You're not my husband," she insisted breathlessly, defiant to the end. Fighting her reaction to being ravished by his finger.

  It was no use. She was already drenched and swollen, her passage gripping him as he inserted a second finger. Her legs wobbled, and she grabbed his biceps for support.

  "Oh, but I am. Ask anyone. You can't escape me. And I plan to keep you for a long, long time."

  "Then you'll have to tie me to your bed," she said testily. She realized her mistake immediately. Her body froze and she held her breath, no doubt hoping he hadn't paid attention.

  He had.

  In the charged silence, the image of her in his bed, bound and helpless, arced between them like white lightening. It burned his imagination, streaked through his cock like a lightening rod.

  "Ah, chère. Now, there's a good idea."

  "Baby, I didn't mean it that way." She tried to pull away from him, but he banded his arm around her, holding her fast, his fingers still imbedded deep inside her. "Jacque, don't you dare—"

  Oh, yeah. "I'd like to see you tied to the headboard, your cute little backside stickin' out for my spankin' pleasure."

  Her eyes widened. "Jacque—"

  He backed her to the dresser and whipped out a designer tie he'd stuck in the top drawer and forgotten to take home a few years back, then tossed her onto the bed. She screamed and tried to scramble away. He jumped on top of her and yanked her back to the middle.

  "Jacque!" she shrieked, flushed with exhilaration, struggling ineffectually against his grip as he flipped her, lifted her to her knees and tied her wrists to the top of the wrought iron headboard. "Grab the top bar with your hands."

  Giving her no choice, he pulled her hips as far back as they'd go and spread her knees wide on the mattress. He sat back on his heels to admire her enticing position.

  Her pretty ass pointed at him invitingly. Waves of silky blond hair cascaded over her back. Her plump breasts hung down, crowned with rosy nipples tight from excitement. Wetness winked and glistened between her thighs, beckoning him to take her.

  But non. He'd promised her a spanking.

  He reached out and smoothed his hand over her derriere, circling it, testing the friction of his palm to her cheeks.

  "This is spousal abuse," she accused nervously, peering at him over her shoulder. Her pale hair framed her face like a nimbus.

  "But you keep telling me we're not married," he countered, noting the way she rubbed against his hand as he stroked her behind. "Besides, I've heard sex is better for a woman after a good spanking. It arouses her, makes her more sensitive."

  "Says who? Some man, no doubt." She pulled at her bonds.

  He chuckled. "Shall we test the theory?"

  "Tell you what, let's switch places and test it on you."

  He slid his fingers into her dripping valley. "All right," he allowed. "Tomorrow night you can tie me up and see if I like being spanked."

  "Can't." She made a needy sound, working herself deeper onto his fingers. "I won't be here tomorrow night."

  "Mais, t'as la tête dur." He gave her a sharp slap on the ass. Damn, but she was stubborn!

  "Ow!" She jerked up, yanking on her bonds.

  His cock throbbed, confined in his tight jeans. Quickly, he pulled down the zipper and it jumped out, thick and demanding.

  "You won' get away from me, Sahara. Everyone 'round here knows you're mine. They'll bring you back." He gave her butt another smack, enjoying the way it made his blood surge, fever hot.

  "Ow! You don't own me, Jacque, and you can't keep me here forever. Ow!"

  He spanked her harder, nearly coming when a reluctant moan tore from her throat. Unconsciously, she arched her back, presenting herself to his hand more fully.

  "Don' bet on it, chère."

  He couldn't stand it any longer. After a final smack, he moved behind her, grabbed his cock and rammed home. She gripped the headboard and writhed against him, giving a deep, guttural groan of satisfaction.

  "Oh, God," she moaned. "You feel so good. I'm on fire."

  He grasped her hips and scythed into her. Again. He wanted to fill her so completely she'd always feel empty without him inside her.

  And again.

  "It excites you being tied up. Doesn't it?"

  She denied the obvious, shaking her head desperately.

  He pounded into her, giving no quarter to her doubts, to her guilt over liking him rough. Another moan escaped, born in the maelstrom he'd created within her mind and body. "Doesn't it?" he demanded.

  "Yes!" she cried, the word hurled at him like a skillet.

  Again.

  "You like being forced. Forced to fuck me."

  "No," she sobbed.

  He meant to have her confession, at least to this. He'd not settle for less. "Shall I stop?"

  "No!" A cry caught in her throat.

  Again.

  "All right, it's true! I like it when you force me, make me do wicked things," she panted. "But only with you, Jacque. I'd hate it with anyone else."

  Her words inflamed him—flinching, tormented words. Painfully cut from her very soul.

  Again.

  He wanted to make her scream, exploding in erotic sensation so extravagant she'd be numb without his cock to satisfy her. Without him to strip her of her restricting inhibitions.

  Again.

  He wanted to break her down, force her to admit she wanted and needed him, beg him to let her stay.

  Again.

  "Why me, Sahara? Why me?"

  Again.

  "Because I trust you."

  He froze.

  She came apart under him, shuddering, crying out, sobbing his name.

  Trust?

  He roared in protest at the perfidious sentiment.

  He wanted her to love him.

  Too late, too late!

  His body went rigid, then erupted in agonizing pleasure, jetting the seed of his hopes and dreams deep into her. As if by planting his semen in her body, he could make her surrender. To his wishes. To his will. To his love.

  Before he finished, he whipped the bonds from her wrists, and together they collapsed on the bed, still joined, still moving rhythmically, wringing the last lick of passion from their exhausted bodies.

  He cursed her in the Cajun of his youth, using every epithet he could think of to condemn her fickleness, her strength in resisting him. His own stupidity for caring how she felt.

  She panted in his arms, silent, letting him rant, caressing the knotted muscles in his forearms as he clutched her in a death grip, turning her head to plant kisses on his clenched jaw.

  "I'm sorry," she finally whispered, apparently sensing the ferment of his anger, the depth of his torment.

  "Don' be," he snapped. "It doesn' make a damn bit of difference. You can fight me all you like, Sahara. I'm still not lettin' you go."

  Chapter Ten

  She managed to escape again early the next morning.

  The sky was still azure with a band of pink and the birds hadn't even started chirping yet. A noise woke her—the hushed sound of hunters cruising by the shack, the motor of their boat a bare whisper above the breeze, their words so quiet it might have been a dream.

  But it wasn't a dream. Sahara quickly disentangled herself from Jacque's arms and bounded out of bed, determined to catch the men before they passed. She threw on Jacque's discarded jeans and T-shirt, grabbed her camera bag from the couch, and ran to the jetty. His pants were too tight and the shirt hung on her like a sack, but under the circumstances, they were better than wearing the diaphanous gown.

  "Please, I've been kidnapped," she called out to the men. "Can you help me get to Gerroux?"

  She quickly expla
ined the situation and, after their initial surprise, the three hunters readily agreed to help her. Grateful, she jumped into Jacque's boat and pulled the motor to life, anxious to be on her way before he woke up.

  It wasn't to be. A shout from the doorway exploded into the dawn and Jacque appeared, pulling on a pair of shorts.

  "Hey! Don' you take my wife from me!" he yelled, fury bulging the veins in his temples. "Don' listen to her, she's—"

  "Hold it right there, you Cajun bastard!" The men in the boat raised their shotguns as one and aimed at him. "The lady says she's been kidnapped. That's good enough for us. You just stay where we can see you, swamp trash, or we'll blow your coonass head off."

  Sahara recoiled at the racist venom being hurled at her lover, but couldn't allow herself to react or even look at him. If she did, she'd be lost. She steered away from the dock as quickly as she could get turned around, gliding after the hunters onto the bayou and away from Jacque.

  Her blood sprinted through her veins, impatient at their molasses-slow progress through the swamp. She tried to tell herself this time she'd make it out. She had to. Surely, no one would dare stop her with a trio of protectors, armed and ready to defend her, regardless of their questionable motives.

  No one except the chief of police.

  Her heart sank in dismay when Police Chief Legrand stood waiting for them at the Gerroux marina an endless half hour later when they pulled into the village.

  "Mornin', Mrs. Cherchat," he greeted her evenly, then turned to her rescuers. "Thanks for tryin' to help out, boys. I'll take care of Madame Cherchat from here."

  "But officer, she says—"

  The Chief raised his hands and gave them a wry smile. "I know, I know. Kidnapped, right? Sounded pretty convincing, too, I'll wager."

  He stooped to his haunches beside the men's boat while Sahara glanced around, calculating her odds of making it to a taxi if she ran hard. They didn't look good.

  The Chief lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She's feeling a bit poorly these days. One of those female things," he said, throwing her a pitying look, "after she presented her husband with a beautiful set of twin girls a few weeks ago."

  "Oh, for crying out loud!" she declared incredulously, and stood to try a dash for it anyway. "You don't really believe that bullsh—"

  "This is the third time she's run away." Legrand interrupted, shaking his head.

  She was losing them fast. Already she could see her rescuers looking at her with barely veiled distaste. "It's not true! I would never desert—"

  "Come on, now, ma'am," Chief Legrand said, reaching over to grasp her arm tightly. "Let's go down to the station for a nice cup of tea while I send for your husband."

  "I don't want any of your stinking tea, and I certainly don't want you to send for that reprobate Cherchat," she spat out as he grabbed her camera bag and started pulling her along the dock. "I just want to go home!"

  "You'll be back home in no time, ma'am. That's a fact."

  ***

  And, of course, she was.

  It was purely amazing how quickly Jacque got there to pick her up, considering she had his boat. She refused to look at him when they let her out of the jail cell she'd been put in "for her own safety".

  Once back on the water, she sat mutely with her bag in her lap, facing forward for the whole long trip home.

  Home.

  She blinked. When had she started thinking of Jacque's small, neat shack in the middle of nowhere as home? It seemed like years since she'd been in her apartment in bustling New Orleans.

  She twisted the paper wedding band she'd perversely continued to wear on her finger. But if home was where the heart was, then where was her real home?

  Oh, bother. She closed her eyes and chuffed out a breath, chastising herself for thinking along these lines. She and Jacque could never work. They were too different. Wanted such different things from life. Eventually they'd grow to hate each other, thanks to those vast irreconcilable differences. How everyone would laugh at her—like mother, like daughter—if she gave up what she'd been working so hard for ten years to achieve, just on the whim of a poor, barely civilized Cajun man?

  A poor, barely civilized Cajun man who didn't even love her.

  He'd never said it. Never even hinted at it.

  Not that it mattered. Love didn't feed a woman's dreams... or her children. At the thought, her hand strayed involuntarily to her abdomen.

  No! She wasn't pregnant.

  And she couldn't stay.

  She must get away from him. Because, if she remained even one more day, she wouldn't be able to leave at all. And that would be disaster. For both of them.

  "How long you gonna keep this up?" Jacque's voice vibrated with barely contained anger as he pulled up to his dock.

  "As long as it takes," she answered stubbornly.

  "You're makin' me lose face, woman. I don' like it."

  "So sue me." She turned and scowled. "Or let me go."

  "I will. When I'm good and ready."

  "That'll be too late," she muttered, stalking out of the boat. She marched into the house and stood in the living area, hugging her camera bag to her stomach, trying to think of a way to convince him.

  He walked in, jingling. She turned and saw he carried a length of shiny silver chain. At one end, there appeared to be a cuff attached. The metal links were small and delicately made, but looked strong enough to restrain a dozen women. She stared at it with trepidation. "You going to chain me to a chair or something?"

  "You gonna try an' escape again?"

  Why lie?" Of course I am." They both knew it.

  "Then I'm gonna chain you. To the bed, jus' like you suggested." He walked toward her, running the chain through his hands.

  She couldn't believe he was actually going to do this. "God, Jacque. This is positively medieval."

  "A wife belongs with her husband."

  He stopped in front of her, nearly touching, but she refused to be intimidated. He'd never hurt her and she knew it. This was simply a high-stakes game of power, winner take all.

  She might lose this battle, but she didn't have to go down willingly. "At least until he gets tired of her," she retorted.

  He leaned closer, testing her scent, like a wolf might confirm his mate. "I'll never get tired of you, chère . Now, get out of my clothes."

  She winced at the ferocity of his words. Yesterday, when he'd ordered her to strip, his mood had been completely sexual, almost amused. Today, there was a different flavor to his demand—a violence, a barely veiled threat in his inflection that she'd never before heard from his mouth.

  Suddenly, she was terrified she might have sadly misjudged what this man was capable of.

  "Jacque—"

  "Take 'em off and get on the bed." When she hesitated, he grabbed the hem of the T-shirt and jerked it up.

  "Okay, okay. I'm stripping," she quickly assured and did as she'd been ordered. Crawling naked onto the bed, her heart thundered. What would he do to her?

  After clamping the leather cuff to her wrist, he looped the other end of the chain over the iron headboard, and secured both ends with small padlocks. Then to her surprise, and relief, he stalked to the kitchen and began making breakfast.

  Her confidence buoyed. A man who fed his captive breakfast didn't have evil on his mind.

  Not that she'd ever really thought he'd hurt her.

  She stacked the bed pillows and curled against them, watching him prepare the meal. She toyed with the paper wedding band on her finger. Too bad he wasn't nude as usual.

  She gave herself a mental kick and tried to make herself think of a way to escape instead of studying his delectable body. Going down that road was much too dangerous. Pretty soon she'd be dreaming about what they could be doing while she was chained to his bed instead of fighting.

  Bad idea.

  When breakfast was ready, he filled a plate with pancakes and bacon and wordlessly set it on the nightstand for her along with a steaming mug o
f coffee, fixed just the way she liked it.

  "Butter and syrup?" His question was belligerent.

  "Yes, thanks." She decided not to say anything else, unwilling to further increase or endure his anger.

  He sat silently at the table and ate, occasionally looking up to glare at her when she stopped chewing. She cleaned her plate. Afterwards, he washed the dishes and went to a small roll-top desk in the corner, where he opened a compartment and produced a black box that looked suspiciously like a laptop computer.

  "What's that?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  "What's it look like?"

  "A laptop."

  "I always said you were a smart woman."

  "But how—?"

  "Rechargeable batteries. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to do my e-mail, which I haven' gotten to yet dis mornin'." He shot her an accusatory glare so she knew exactly whom he blamed for that.

  "But how—?"

  She winced when he gripped the edge of the desk. "You ever hear of cell phones? Now, if you don' mind?"

  She shut up while she was still ahead, her mind moving lightening fast. She could use this to escape. Get an e-mail to someone, send for the FBI or something.

  "And don' get any ideas, they won' work. Everythin's pass-coded. You won' even be able to turn it on."

  She made a face at him when he turned away, sinking sulkily down on the pillows. Well, it had been a nice thought while it lasted.

  "Who're you writing to anyway?" she mumbled. "The Society for the Capture and Subjugation of Innocent Women?"

  He pinned her with a scowl. "Yeah. That and my stock broker. I wan' to add a chain manufacturer to my portfolio."

  "Very funny." She watched him for a few minutes, wondering if he really did have a stock portfolio. That would certainly explain the roll of hundred-dollar bills at the wedding. Funny, as close as they'd gotten, he'd never told her what he did for a living. She'd just assumed he set fishing traps or was a poacher or something equally disreputable. He definitely looked the part of an outlaw.

  Unfortunately, right now wasn't the time to ask. She huffed impatiently. "I don't suppose you have a book lying around I could read?"

  "No."

  Fine. All right. Two could play this game. Not only was she tired of sparring with him, she was just plain tired. She'd gotten up early and her lack of sleep for the past several nights was catching up with her. She could take a nap. She stretched and yawned. Before she knew it, she fell asleep.