All for You (Paris Nights #1)(46)
He smiled. He tried to press the smile out, but this rumbling started passing through the chest on which her hands still rested, and then it escaped out of him, as he started to laugh. He laughed so hard he had to sit back against the bumpy locks along the railing. “You’re so damn cute. God, I’ve missed you.”
She put her hands on her hips. But she could only pretend to be minatory. Because the sight of Joss laughing, his big, lethal body framed by the Seine, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance beyond him … just that laughter, it … “You’re so damn cute,” she said helplessly. “Damn you. I’ve really missed you, too.”
He caught her fist and thumped it twice against his chest in pretend punches, then reeled her in with it, tucking her between his thighs. “I want to take you somewhere private,” he breathed, this rough, sand-grained sound. “But if I did, I’d kiss you all the f*ck over, Célie. And squeeze you and…” His hands flexed into her hips, too hard. “Hell, but I want to do things to you. You have no idea.”
She stared at him, her jaw dropped, heat flaring through her. “No, I don’t!” she said, indignant. “How would I have any idea, when you would never even flirt with me before?”
“Now the trick is to get you to want to do all kinds of things to me.” Again his fingers flexed into her, a little gentler this time, but still harder than he must realize. “Besides punch me, although honestly, at this point … any excuse to get your hands on me works for me. Besides”—he smiled a little and lifted her fist to kiss it—“punches from this thing would probably feel like a massage.”
Okay, that was just flat-out … annoying, that was what that was. She glowered at her fist, which did indeed look extremely little and incapable, in his big one. She’d put a hell of a lot of effort into making her hands capable of everything amazing. She transferred her frown to his face.
He smiled. “Kiss me or kill me, sweetheart? Which one do you want?”
So she kissed him because … well, he really was that infuriating. A woman had to do something. Killing him out here in public like this would get her arrested.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in tight, hand sliding to her butt to press her hips against his, now level because of his half-seated position against the rail. Fire ran through her everywhere, this hunger for more and more and more—rubbing, contact, heat, texture, skin—more of everything.
She twisted her mouth away with a gasp. “I think that … even for the Pont des Arts on a Friday night, we might be getting a little out of hand.”
“Are you telling me to stop?” Joss asked roughly. “Or are you telling me to take you somewhere more private? The only thing is, if I get much more out of hand than this and no one can see us, I’m going to start ripping your damn clothes off.”
Every deep, fast breath Célie took felt as if she was inhaling a drug, this intense rush. I want to be real. I don’t want to be your damn goal anymore. I want to be with you. “Do you … do you want to go back to my apartment?”
Joss’s hands yanked from her body to catch fistfuls of locks and railing, holding on to them as if they were all that kept him from falling into the river. “The apartment that’s all bed?”
Célie’s cheeks heated deeply. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Joss jerked upright. “Hell. Fuck. Yeah.”
Célie took a step back, licking her lips, her body on fire. Awkwardness and embarrassment and want, all aflame.
Joss shoved a hand over his face and over that buzz cut of his. “Oh, merde, am I supposed to try to survive riding on that little moped pressed up behind you to get there? Do you mind instead if I just run?”
Chapter 16
But he did ride, squashed behind her, that easy, firm balance of his body against all her movements of the moped, his thighs pressed hot the length of hers, his hands trying to rest lightly on her hips and entirely failing—kneading and kneading until her driving fell all to pieces, until all she could think about was how much she wanted one of those hands to slide across her pelvis and settle its hard heat between her thighs.
Right in the middle of Paris traffic, she scolded herself.
But she almost didn’t care.
She wanted him to do more—slide both those hands up under her jacket, cup her breasts through her silky top …
“Watch out!” Joss yelled, and she dodged away from a car changing lanes.
By the time she parked in front of her building, she was already going out of her mind.
“Are you crazy?” She jerked her helmet off. “Are you trying to get us killed? I have to concentrate when I’m driving!”
“What did I do this time?” A flush rode on Joss’s cheeks, his eyes dilated. All the muscles in his body strained, visibly fighting against his will to hold them in check.
“You—you—you—” Nothing. Just ridden behind her.
And she was a hot mess of hunger and nerves. He was her friend. He was the guy who had strolled off as if she was nothing more than some dumb girl trailing after him. He was—he was—
She wanted those callused hands to do things to her body. She’d always wanted him for hers, always dreamed about him. But how had her wants gotten so explicit, so fast? Not vague dreams of warmth and kisses, but hungers to be squeezed, rubbed, explored.