Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(26)

She was relaxing, yes, the heat of him seeping into her, and her own heat growing inside to meet it. She wanted to close her eyes and let him do everything.

His hands rose to cup her breasts. “Like this?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He squeezed. “Like it harder?”

“Anything,” she whispered. Just as long as she could feel alive. In power. Sex made futures, too, didn't it? That was the biology of it. He’d wanted something from her, too, though, she remembered, and giving it to him seemed the least she could do: “Please.”

“We'll go by the moans,” he said, squeezing her breasts more firmly and finding her nipples with his thumbs. They had already tightened into buds for him, and the first touch was almost painfully pleasurable.

She let her head fall back against him. “More,” she whispered.

So he brought more pressure, rubbing her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, through shirt and bra.

“More,” she whimpered.

He slid a hand up her middle to the center of her bra. But it wasn't a front catch.

So he settled a hand on her nape and pushed her gently but firmly down until her face was against the cold marble. His thumb stroked her nape as he held her there, that one touch all by itself enough to keep her pliant.

With his other hand he released the bra catch, and she gave a little gasp of relief as the band fell apart.

But he didn't let her up. His hand ran up and down her spine that the band no longer blocked, calluses stroking there until she was shivering and arching to that touch, only to have his hand on her nape hold her in place. He played with her back until she couldn't think of anything else but how good his fingers felt there. The cold marble warmed against her cheek, and her whole body melted.

He stroked her back until she was boneless with bliss, until she could have fallen asleep there on the marble like a cat on a lap, just sinking into bliss. She never wanted to wake out of it.

“Like that, do you?” he said.

She made a little sound.

“Like this, too?” His fingers traced her spine all the way to the waistband of her jeans and dipped under. But the jeans were snug. So he rubbed the shape of her butt through the denim, leisurely, taking his time, and then around her body to cup between her legs.

She jumped at the pleasure in the middle of her debauched relaxation. His hand firmed on her nape to hold her down. She didn’t fight that hold. The caressing of her back had left her feeling too sleepily, wonderfully his.

This was completely different from what she thought using each other for sex would be. But it felt so good.

Fingers walked up the seam of her jeans until he found the button. That, too, he managed to undo one-handed. Such clever, clever hands. Loosening the zip, petting down, down, slowly down, into her curls there. Farther. His fingers hovered, and the counter stopped her hips from pressing herself into them.

“How many times did you want to come?” he asked, his tone almost conversational.

Her eyes opened. The long length of the counter lay before her gaze, black, with a steel bowl of chantilly, and beyond, just a glimpse of the door to the street. A door that had burst open.

“I don't want to stop,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

“We'll take it one at a time,” he decided, and touched his fingers to her clitoris.

She jumped uncontrollably. He held her down, his fingers sliding farther into her wetness and stroking back to that nub, bringing some of that lushness with him. He petted her easily, as if he had all night. Almost absently, as if she were a cat on his lap and he was reading his book.

She wanted to be a cat on his lap while he was reading his book. She wanted to be petted and petted and curled up and warm.

No. She wanted to be here.

Right here, in her kitchens, which were becoming in some strange way her own again with every stroke of his hand.

His fingers were so clever and so sure. This intimate invasion of a man into her life so very different from the last one.

The hunger for more growing and growing. Pushing out everything else. Her body tried to twist again—to twist toward him, maybe, to grab him—and again he held her, keeping his rhythm.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, easy and sure.

She tried to reach behind her with her hands and grab at his hips to pull him closer to her, but the reach was too awkward. He did let his pelvis rub against her butt, through her jeans and his cargo pants. Pressure, delicious but elusive. Not enough.

But his fingers kept stroking, the texture of his calluses applied so precisely that it was maddening, her brain was breaking in its efforts to get more of it, this stretching pressure of pleasure that kept pushing and pushing and pushing at her like she was a balloon about to pop. No, she was a bubble, floating on the air. No, she was, she was—

Coming apart. Shattering. This heavy, hot wave of oblivion that was nothing like bubbles or balloons. It surged through her, demolishing all thought, all memories, everything but it—that wave, chased and ridden and ridden until it tossed her at last up limp upon the shore.

“Oh, God,” she gasped as he at last withdrew his fingers.

“Good?” His voice was maybe a fraction tighter than it had been before, but still calm.

“No!” She covered her face with her hands. “Damn you. You were supposed to come with me! Do it. Rough, wild, I don't care! Alive.”