Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(37)

She stared at him in the mirror. Stared at herself, held prisoner by him with that strip of nakedness from her cleavage down to her toes.

Heat flooded her. She had to bite her lip against a hungry sound that wanted to escape. Yes. Do what you want to me. Make me come. Please, please, please.

“You chose what you wanted,” he said, and gave a petting push to the panel caught on one nipple, so that it fell free, her breasts thrust up by the way he held her. His fingers trailed over her nipple a moment, enjoying the way it beaded, before he petted down the curve of the underside of her breast and, in drifting, slow, wandering motions, back to the curls between her thighs. “You didn’t ask what I wanted.”

Lower. She tilted her hips, trying to trick those gold and speckled fingers deeper into her curls. Lower. “I asked you how you felt about being used for sex!”

“And how do I feel?” His fingers stroked down to the lips of her sex.

They parted for him at the first kiss of his fingertips.

“You don’t know, do you?” His fingers slipped a little deeper, stroking up and down the length of her. “You asked, but you didn’t really notice you never got the answer.”

Her body felt so hot and heavy. Plump and full, like a peach ripening in a blazing July sun until it was ready to split its skin.

His fingers celebrated lushness. Squeezed all her folds together and ground his hand against her until she made begging sounds.

“I f*cking hate it,” he said into her ear, holding her eyes, and slid one finger deep inside her.

“Oh, God.” She needed to wrap around his body. To hold on. To pull him in. Bigger, harder than his finger. She needed purchase. She needed thrusts.

And she could only hang out there, utterly precarious, caught between him and a mirror that showed them both everything he did. She could see her own moisture, gleaming against his fingers and her thighs. She could see how taut her breasts were, her lips red not from his kisses but from her own teeth.

“And you don’t care, do you?” He added a second finger to the first, thrusting them into her deep.

She writhed and tightened her body on his fingers, trying to hold them. “I do,” she panted. “I do.”

“Really? Enough to stop?” His thumb found her clitoris.

“Oh.” The sensation whiplashed through her. Oh, God, she was so sensitive to his hand. “I—oh, please don’t stop. Not yet. Please—”

Please let me come. Everything in the world was all right, while she came.

“Don’t worry,” he said, rather flatly. “You don’t choose a career like mine without a strong streak of masochism.”

“But—if—you—hate—it—” She writhed against his thumb with each word. He was merciless with it. He wouldn’t let her think.

“Yeah,” he said, watching her in the mirror, watching what his thumb did to her, making her take more of it. “I hate it. But I’ll tell you something. You’re f*cking beautiful when you come.”

And he pressed his thumb down hard and made her. Made her come. Even while he was telling her he didn’t want to. He made her come and come, made her see herself there in the mirror, as she lost herself. Made her see the way her hips arched and her sex clung, made her see the way the orgasm tightened all the muscles in her stomach and released them again, in wave after wave, made her see the expressions that twisted across her face, like bliss and agony all blurred together.

Made her see him. His eyes glittering, his face taut, merciless. But whether that lack of mercy was for himself or her or both of them she didn’t know.

What gorgeous, wonderful visuals. They overwhelmed everything, more powerful than blood and bodies, more compulsive, more insistent, more embarrassing, more vivid, wrangling, brawling, demanding life.

He made her come until she couldn’t anymore. Until she begged him to stop.

And then he picked her up and carried her to her bed. He peeled her bathrobe all away, leaving her completely naked, and came down onto the bed beside her.

Now, she thought. Now he’s going to crack.

She lifted a knee, parted her legs, turned toward him. Yes. Use me. Do it. Hard. Make me forget everything again except how that hard body feels in mine.

He propped himself on one elbow, still fully clothed.

Then he brushed his fingers over that parted invitation between her legs.

Her over-sensitized body jerked at just the touch. She tried to cover her clitoris in self-protection.

He caught her hands. And brushing, brushing, brushing, made her come again.

But he never even unzipped his pants.





Chapter 11


Fuck.

Jake stared down at himself. How had it come to this? Standing in a woman’s shower, with his penis in his own hand? It wasn’t any effort to make himself come after that mirror episode. He did it almost like a punishment. That will teach you, you f*cking idiot.

While Lina slept on her bed, a sprawl of naked gold and black curls and the glowing trace of his fingers trailing over her breasts, down her stomach, into her body. That was what he saw, anyway, as if his eyes were blacklight and he was the only one who could see the fluorescent trace of his touch.

A small body, tough. A tight core, strong shoulders and arms and forearms and hands, from her work. He’d bet the grip of those hands would be—