By Rosemary Rogers
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Cameron clawed at his pristine white shirt, determined to gouge the flesh from his torso. The stifled sounds of protest she made, gagged by his mouth, were the growls of a she-cat as she devoured her prey. He shoved her hands away, tearing his mouth from hers. “Cameron, don’t,” he said in a fierce whisper. ” She could hear herself panting, feel her heart thudding beneath her breast. Perspiration trickled down her back, her gown suddenly scratchy and foreign against her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed of herself and her unleashed need, her wicked desire for this man.
The sugar cane would rot in the fields. The cotton would go to seed. The only way the plantations could continue to produce such labor-intensive products, continue to prosper, was to keep those black devils at work. What would they do with freedom anyway? Chop off more chicken heads? Stick more pins in little dirty dolls? He shuddered at the thought. “I don‘ know why yer makin’ such faces, Masta Grant. Ya keep that up and yer face’ll stick thata way,” Naomi said matter-of-factly. Grant snaked out a hand and caught her arm.
The heat of his stare burned through her garments, scorching her skin, bombarding her with bright pinwheels of giddy sensations. ” she flared, spinning around, the pitchfork poised in her hands. Jackson dropped his coat to the stable floor and lifted his muscular arms to protect himself. She had drawn the pitchfork so close that it was a wonder she didn’t take the buttons of his ivory waistcoat off with the sharp tines. ” “Easy! Easy,” she hissed, jabbing in the air at him. Jackson lunged to one side, grabbed the handle of the three-pronged pitchfork and easily wrenched it from her hands.