Quint nearly choked. "Now, I agree, Jacque here makes the bes' gumbo east or west of the Atchafalaya River. But chère, I mean to say, if you think dis is better'n sex, you been wit' the wrong men."

She giggled and took another sip of wine. "What's your secret, Jacque?" She looked right at him, her eyes all innocent and curious. He was tempted to sweep the rest of the dishes off the table and show her right there.

Later, Chat.

"My tongue," he said, coming to a halt beside her. "The tongue is the secret—"

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But her little surprised intake of breath clinched it. He leaned down, inches from her face and paused until knowledge of what he was about to do flashed through her pretty blue eyes. Slowly, he extended his tongue, and flicked it over her bottom lip.

Inwardly he moaned. Dieu, she tasted good. "—DA tongue is the secret to both cookin' and makin' love."

Her succulent lips parted, sudden apprehension battling with hot desire in her expression. He wanted more, but it was too soon.

He straightened and picked up her empty plate. He almost lost his own battle when he realized her robe had gaped open, giving him a fine view of her plump breast, her nipple pert and taut. He made himself walk to the sink instead of taking her in his mouth and suckling till she begged for what they both really wanted.

She swallowed and looked at her glass, making an admirable attempt at pretending what had just happened hadn't happened at all. But she knew. They all did. The electricity arcing between the three of them could power the cabin for a year. He glanced at Quint. The man was actually sweating, and he'd bet half his stock options it wasn't because the gumbo was too spicy.

"Cajun Hot?"

Shocked, Jacque narrowed his eyes at Sahara. How had she found out?

"Is that what you used for the gumbo? I thought I recognized the flavor..." Her words faded as he continued to stare at her. "Guess not."

He pulled himself together. Non, she couldn't know about him. She was just asking about spices.

"Yeah, it's Cajun Hot. It's all I ever use. Got a cupboard full of the stuff. Every spice and sauce they make."

He dumped the dishes in the sink and grabbed the espresso pot from the stove. Not that he needed the caffeine. He just needed something to occupy his hands.

"Me, too. Cajun Hot is great. Yep, the man who came up with those sauces, he's really got a tongue on him."

The robe gaped wider.

Quint grinned. "Mais non, dat Cajun, he probably burned off his taste buds years ago."

Jacque dead-panned his smirking brother. "Bien amusant." He poured espressos all around, lingering over Sahara's cup and the incredible view above it. Tortueux—pure torture.

His eyes met Quint's over her head and he nodded imperceptibly. He couldn't take it a minute longer. He'd been hard for so long he ached.

Understanding immediately, Quint smiled. "So, Chat," he said casually, "you got any dessert for us?"

Jacque put down the coffee pot and slowly shook his head. His cock danced in anticipation. "Non. Rien—not a thing."

"Nothin'? No pie?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Or maybe a li'l bitty piece of peach cobbler?"

He glanced at Sahara, her breasts tantalizingly framed by the gap in the robe. Did she have any idea what she was doing to them? His mouth watered. "Sorry."

"Now dat's a damn shame. Me, I could really go for somethin'. Somethin' hot an' real sweet."

"Mm-hmm. Somethin' that would go down nice an' easy," he agreed. His imagination spun at the image.

They looked at each other, letting the silence lengthen. Sahara glanced nervously between them. The pink tip of her tongue poked out and swiped over her lips. He wanted that tongue on him. All over him.

"Well, then," he said quietly, anticipation all but making him burst. "I guess there's only one thing to do..."

They both set their sights on Sahara, hotly, expectantly. Excitement flooded his body, headed straight for his cock.