have the right to claim her. His expression declared loudly he'd tear the heart out of anyone who tried.
She knew instinctively he'd lay down his life to protect her, and the thought thrilled her on some primitive level she was horrified to realize she possessed.
She could still smell his sex on her skin, potent and heady. It called to her to surrender, to lie down willingly beneath his body and be kept by him forever, safe and sated. Her nipples tightened wantonly and an unexpected coil of desire tightened deep in her womb for this gorgeous, forceful man who would be her husband.
Disconcerted by her powerful reaction to him, she tore her gaze away and glanced at the surrounding crowd. They were all ogling her exposed body, the women with scowls on their faces, and the men ... well, the men drooled. With voracious eyes, they scrutinized her breasts and probed the blonde triangle between her legs, mouths parted like hungry wolves.
It should be a nightmare. Like one of those awful dreams where you find yourself naked in the middle of your high school reunion or at a crowded shopping mall.
It should be.
But it wasn't.
A wave of uncontrolled excitement purled through her whole body, heating her face, turning her knees to liquid. Churning in her woman's center.
Oh, God . It wasn't possible! This couldn't be turning her on—not being displayed like some bronze nude at a New York gallery. It was unthinkable! Her cheeks blazed, along with the slick valley between her thighs.
At that moment, Mama Breaux began walking around her, chanting in some strange language, gesturing and making mysterious signs with her hands.
Jacque didn't even blink. It was as if all this were perfectly acceptable to him. The forced marriage. Her nakedness. She couldn't believe he was going along with this whole outrageous farce. There'd be hell to pay when she got him home.
Mama Breaux's chanting abruptly stopped. At a sign from the old lady, Quint and Samuel pulled Sahara to Jacque and thrust her into his waiting grasp. She wriggled furiously, struggling to free herself, but his muscular arm bound her to his chest, front to front, like a steel manacle.
"Your bride comes to you with nothing, Jacque Cherchat. You must take care of her needs and teach her our ways. Give her lots of babies so she stays home as a good woman should."
"I will,” Jacque answered somberly, quieting her with a stroke of his hand on her hip. Pressing her into him, he deliberately let her know how aroused he was. The rough denim of his jeans scraped over the sensitive skin of her stomach, sending tremors down her already needy body. He held her there, center to center, and regarded her with knowing intent. “You can be sure I'll take very good care of her."
He bent to claim a kiss.
His mouth was hot and determined, just as he seemed to be to go through with this coerced marriage. His hand slid up her torso and settled on her breast, kneading and squeezing, flicking his thumb over her beaded tip. Unable to resist his touch, she bit back a moan. All her unrequited desire from their earlier lovemaking returned in a shockwave of craving.
"Ah, chère ,” he whispered, sensing her response. He deepened his kiss.
If he'd lowered her onto one of the tables, parted her legs, and taken her in front of everyone, he couldn't have demonstrated his mastery over her body any more thoroughly. She had to fight to keep from rubbing against him like a cat, begging him to do just that.
"This won't make any difference,” she gasped breathlessly into his plundering mouth. “I'll still leave in the morning."
He lifted his head and gave her an annoyingly unconcerned look. “You can try."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
A smile curved his sensual lips. “Oh, yeah.” He looked at the crowd surrounding them and called out, “Where's Father de Fleur?"
"Here.” A middle-aged, portly man in black and a collar stepped from between the onlookers. He gave Jacque a pleasant nod of
She knew instinctively he'd lay down his life to protect her, and the thought thrilled her on some primitive level she was horrified to realize she possessed.
She could still smell his sex on her skin, potent and heady. It called to her to surrender, to lie down willingly beneath his body and be kept by him forever, safe and sated. Her nipples tightened wantonly and an unexpected coil of desire tightened deep in her womb for this gorgeous, forceful man who would be her husband.
Disconcerted by her powerful reaction to him, she tore her gaze away and glanced at the surrounding crowd. They were all ogling her exposed body, the women with scowls on their faces, and the men ... well, the men drooled. With voracious eyes, they scrutinized her breasts and probed the blonde triangle between her legs, mouths parted like hungry wolves.
It should be a nightmare. Like one of those awful dreams where you find yourself naked in the middle of your high school reunion or at a crowded shopping mall.
It should be.
But it wasn't.
A wave of uncontrolled excitement purled through her whole body, heating her face, turning her knees to liquid. Churning in her woman's center.
Oh, God . It wasn't possible! This couldn't be turning her on—not being displayed like some bronze nude at a New York gallery. It was unthinkable! Her cheeks blazed, along with the slick valley between her thighs.
At that moment, Mama Breaux began walking around her, chanting in some strange language, gesturing and making mysterious signs with her hands.
Jacque didn't even blink. It was as if all this were perfectly acceptable to him. The forced marriage. Her nakedness. She couldn't believe he was going along with this whole outrageous farce. There'd be hell to pay when she got him home.
Mama Breaux's chanting abruptly stopped. At a sign from the old lady, Quint and Samuel pulled Sahara to Jacque and thrust her into his waiting grasp. She wriggled furiously, struggling to free herself, but his muscular arm bound her to his chest, front to front, like a steel manacle.
"Your bride comes to you with nothing, Jacque Cherchat. You must take care of her needs and teach her our ways. Give her lots of babies so she stays home as a good woman should."
"I will,” Jacque answered somberly, quieting her with a stroke of his hand on her hip. Pressing her into him, he deliberately let her know how aroused he was. The rough denim of his jeans scraped over the sensitive skin of her stomach, sending tremors down her already needy body. He held her there, center to center, and regarded her with knowing intent. “You can be sure I'll take very good care of her."
He bent to claim a kiss.
His mouth was hot and determined, just as he seemed to be to go through with this coerced marriage. His hand slid up her torso and settled on her breast, kneading and squeezing, flicking his thumb over her beaded tip. Unable to resist his touch, she bit back a moan. All her unrequited desire from their earlier lovemaking returned in a shockwave of craving.
"Ah, chère ,” he whispered, sensing her response. He deepened his kiss.
If he'd lowered her onto one of the tables, parted her legs, and taken her in front of everyone, he couldn't have demonstrated his mastery over her body any more thoroughly. She had to fight to keep from rubbing against him like a cat, begging him to do just that.
"This won't make any difference,” she gasped breathlessly into his plundering mouth. “I'll still leave in the morning."
He lifted his head and gave her an annoyingly unconcerned look. “You can try."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
A smile curved his sensual lips. “Oh, yeah.” He looked at the crowd surrounding them and called out, “Where's Father de Fleur?"
"Here.” A middle-aged, portly man in black and a collar stepped from between the onlookers. He gave Jacque a pleasant nod of
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