Free Cajun Hot by Nikita Black

greeting. “Glad to see you're finally settling down, Jacque. It's about time you got yourself a wife."
    Sahara's nerves wound even tighter as she felt the trap close around her. Being the man's ardent lover was one thing, being his wife quite another.
    "Doesn't the church frown on its clergymen marrying people against their will?” she suggested scornfully. “With the help of voodoo priestesses?"
    "As ye reap, so shall ye sow,” he simply said.
    Whatever that was supposed to mean. “What about the banns?” she demanded. She was grasping at straws and she knew it.
    "I distinctly remember posting them, twice. Does anyone remember seeing them?"
    A chorus of agreement swept through the room and she clenched her jaw in vexation.
    What was wrong with these people? Were they living in a time-warp? Things like this couldn't happen in this century!
    Jacque addressed the crowd. “It would appear I need a dress for my bride. Who's got somethin’ in white?"
    After a moment of general confusion, two young women were pushed to the front. One had on a white tank top and the other a white knit mini-skirt.
    "Those'll do.” He fished into his pocket and extracted a stack of money in a clip. Without loosening his grip on her, he passed a bill to each of the women, who promptly pulled off their white garments and handed them to him. Sahara rolled her eyes when nobody reacted to the two standing there in their underwear.
    "What about the veil?” someone shouted. “She needs a veil for afterwards!"
    She vaguely remembered something she'd heard about pinning money on the bride's veil at a Cajun wedding.
    Jacques grinned. “Never mind the veil. I'll see she gets all the money she needs.” He shook out the rest of the cash from his clip, then tossed it to the man she recognized as the bartender. “But we will need a wedding feast, Claude."
    Stunned, she realized it was a stack of hundred dollar bills he'd thrown.
    Jacque looked down at her. “Now, would you like to get dressed?"
    "What do you think?” she retorted, irritation distracting her from wondering how he could possibly be carrying that much cash.
    "Ask me pretty and I might let you."
    "Go fuck yourself, Cherchat."
    He chuckled, slipped the mini-skirt over her head and tugged it down. “Jus’ go with it, chère . There's nothin’ either one of us can do ‘bout it now."
    "No thanks to you,” she muttered caustically, and sucked in a breath when he caressed her breasts as he pulled the tank top on.
    "Give me a chance,” he whispered in her ear, pinching the aching crowns. “I might just grow on you.” He turned her to face the priest, clamped her against the front of his chest and announced, “We're ready."
    The ceremony must have been the quick version. She kept listening for the place where someone could raise objections or forever hold their peace, but apparently the priest felt it best to skip over that part. Within two minutes flat, he was at the vows.
    "Do you...?"
    "Sahara Jensen,” Jacque helpfully supplied.
    "Do you, Sahara Jensen, take this man, Jacque Martine Andreus Cherchat, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
    "Not a chance in h—"
    Jacque's hand slapped over her mouth. “She does,” he replied, untroubled by her resistance.
    She bit him. He didn't even flinch. Calmly, he said, “I do,” when asked if he'd take her.
    She couldn't believe it. She was married to a man she'd only met the day before.
    "Rings?” the preacher asked with a hint of apology, considering the circumstances.
    For the first time, Jacque looked stumped. “Well, let's see now.” He glanced at his hands, patted his pockets, then pursed his lips. Suddenly, a grin broke out over his face. “I know.” He pointed to the bar and said, “Bring me a couple bottles of Cajun Hot ."
    Carefully, he pulled the tiny circular labels from the slim necks of the two small bottles, slipped one on her ring finger and another on his left pinkie.
    Good lord. She'd heard of cigar band weddings,