All for You (Paris Nights #1)(54)

Hell, yeah, did he like the idea of her tingling tongue.

He liked it so much that his body wanted to explode.

“I’m not going to screw this up,” he told her, flatly. He needed to approach this like any challenge in the Legion. Just because something was impossible was no excuse for failing.

“It does seem unlikely,” Célie said wonderingly, her fingers running a line of fire up his biceps to his shoulder. “God, Joss.” She squeezed his shoulder.

Sweet, small pressure against muscles that didn’t know how to yield to it. His head tilted back, his eyes closed, as all of his being, more than five years of waiting, focused on that feel of her hands. “I like that. Célie. Please do it some more.”

He opened his eyes to find her gazing down at his face, at her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were so utterly fascinated with him that pride and hunger surged all through his body, beat in his dick and in his head, fogging thought. That fascination and admiration surpassed anything he’d ever come up with for her expression in his fantasies.

With one finger she traced slowly over the letters across his right biceps: Honneur, Fidélité. Her expression grew somber, focused. Then her hands stroked up, and she kneaded his shoulders again, strong, capable hands that were completely ineffective against the muscles of his shoulders. And yet it felt so good. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Oh, hell, Célie, if you stop, I might die. I want you to touch me everywhere.”

“Can I really?” she breathed, as if he was some kind of glorious present on offer that might still be yanked away from her.

Hell. The giddy arousal of her wonder in him was going to drive him out of his mind. It beat in him, trying to burst out of his skin.


He caught her hands, twisting her down onto the bed under him, one of his hands locking her wrists above her head. “A little bit at a time.” His breathing was too fast and too rough, and he couldn’t get it to slow down. “I’m so triggered.” He pressed a kiss into her captured palms. His body was vibrating with arousal. It pulsed in his dick, this unbearable command.

“You let go of my wrists this second, Joss Castel. That’s not fair. You can’t look that hot and not let me touch.”

“Shit.” Joss released her reluctantly. “But then I will screw this up.”

Célie drew her freed hands down his back, her expression so concentrated on the feel of him that it about drove him out of his mind. He’d never even imagined her sinking into him in this tactile, sensual way, as if he was something she had to greedily lap up. And he’d thought he’d imagined her every way possible by now.

“God, Joss.” She pushed at his shoulders suddenly.

Hell, no. He did not want to be pushed back. But that was the thing about making himself so strong—the strength was to take care of her, not to control her. If he ever broke that rule, he lost everything. So he rolled away from her onto the mattress, trying not to let curses hiss through his teeth.

And she came on top of him.

His eyes widened, and he reached above his head to try to grab something, anything on her bed to help him out, but there were no bars on her headboard, nothing to hold on to. He grabbed a pillow and squeezed with all his might, and hell, that was flimsy, as Célie sat astride him, as her hands ran down his chest, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as if she was tasting him.

Yeah, taste me. Oh, hell.

Down, down, down went her hands, over his stomach that flinched even tauter at her touch, to the waist of his jeans, her fingers tracing delicately, curiously, shyly even, along the line of them, that space left by his tightened stomach muscles where she could have slipped deeper.

But didn’t.

“Célie.” His head arched back. He thrust his hips up into her before he could stop himself.

She brought one hand to her face and bit the side of it. “You’re so hot,” she whispered. “Joss, God.”

“Merde, Célie.”

“It’s like you’re half a stranger. This exotic fantasy lover. But then I say your name, and I remember I’ve known you so long. You were my friend, the man who was always there for me.” Until you weren’t.

But at least she didn’t say it this time. He saw it flicker across her face, and his body tightened against the words, but she bit her lip and focused instead on her hands on his chest.

He, too, focused on her hands on his chest. And her pelvis pressed against his dick. Hell, but he would like to get these jeans off.

“Can I kiss you?” she breathed, staring at his chest and his arms bent behind his head.

This stupid, inadequate pillow. There was no way it could give a man anything to hold on to. “Anything,” he said hoarsely. “Anything you want.”

She ran her hands up his body again as she leaned down and kissed his chest.

“Sweetheart.” The pillow lost. He curved his hands around that sweet, delicious ass, and God it felt perfect in his hands. He squeezed, pulling her hips in tight to his, rocking his up, fitting them to each other through their pants so he could rub them together.

She arched back up again, her spine flexing in a move that lifted her breasts beautifully and drove her hips down into his even better.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah. Gorgeous.” His fingers fumbled for the zip of her leather pants. Too fast, you’re going too fast, he tried to tell himself, but his body fought his mind, trying to go even faster. Fingers that could strip and reassemble, in the dark, all the weapons most armies of the world had ever issued now fumbled over a zip.