All for You (Paris Nights #1)(55)

But he got it undone. And not by ripping the thing open. He was pretty proud of that degree of self-control.

“Oh.” Célie’s eyes flew open as his fingers grazed against her panties. Her thighs tightened on his hips, knees pressing into his sides. “Oh.” She covered her face with one hand.

He gazed at her half-hidden expression … and then let his own fingers graze her panties again … a little more deliberately, a stroke that slipped a little farther down over what was still half guarded by her pants. In fantasies, a man didn’t have to worry too much about this part, because no matter what he did or how he did it, obviously Célie always came to pieces for him—it was his fantasy. But in real life, he figured he wanted to get it right.

She brought both hands over her face now, covering it completely.


Yeah?

“You like that, sweetheart?” He eased his fingers a little farther, using three fingers to stroke her broadly, watching her body, those hands over her face, for the spot she needed.

She was shivering now, her hips rocking into his involuntarily, and she wouldn’t lower her hands.

“Yeah?” he murmured and rolled her over onto the mattress, so he could ease her pants down enough to give him more space.

She pulled his abandoned pillow over her face and locked it there with her arms.

Okay, hands were one thing, but a pillow was just cheating. He pulled it free from her and tossed it across the room.

Exposed, she stared up at him, face flushed, eyes dazed. So what did she need? She wanted to hide a little. She wanted to be in darkness.

So he laid one hand over her eyes, closing them for her. And holding her still for him.

And with the other he took up that searching, gentle rhythm over her panties.

“Joss.” She clutched at him, at his butt through his jeans, and then, as he kept playing with the pretty, pretty texture of those lace panties, she pressed her hands down under his jeans, trying for his bare skin.

She couldn’t get her fingers far enough, and she ran them up his back and down, and back up and down, and finally, finally, around to struggle with his button. But her hands were clumsy and losing focus, and he pushed that little bit of lace out of the way of his fingers and found all that soft lushness hiding behind it.

She made a little sound, her hips jerking. He threw one of his legs over her thighs, holding her still. Holding her for this mesmerizing exploration of her body there, of what made her react. She was trembling and twisting, and his fingers slid through curls and lush folds, slickened with moisture.

A tiny, muffled oh. She grabbed his hand and pressed it.

Well, hell. Maybe he wasn’t going to screw this up.

Stunned at how much faster this had all happened than he had ever imagined it, how much more real it felt, how it had a scent and a texture and the sounds of her breathing, and how she wasn’t doing one single thing the way he had imagined it but it was all so much better because it was real, he began to play with that spot where she had pressed his hand. Ah, yes, there it was, that tiny, sneaky part of her that hid like a secret treasure but that he had now found.

She’d let him. She’d helped him find it.

Her hand relaxed, so he must be getting something right. Her head tossed on the pillow, her breasts lifting and falling, her hips twisting. She clutched at him again, any random part of him she could reach, her hands sliding and gripping.

And he got to watch her. See everything, as she just lost it, her body jerking, her hands grabbing at him and falling away, as she shuddered and shuddered until she fell lax against the mattress again.

All her muscles seemed to abandon her, as if she was this breath away from falling into deep, pliant sleep. He eased his hand from between her legs and curved it gently around her thigh, almost afraid he’d lost her.

“Joss.” She blinked her eyes open, dazedly, her hands coming back to stroke weakly over his arms and chest.

He braced his arms on either side of her, and she liked that, her hands came to his biceps and squeezed, making almost no impression on their tautness.

“Célie.” His breathing had gone ragged, and all the tension he’d tried to slow down, tried to contain, gripped him, this too-tight, too-desperate hunger that was going to rend his muscles to shreds. “My turn now?”

“Yes,” she murmured, running her hands over his back. They didn’t grip the same as they had before, more lax, this sweet dreaminess to their stroking. “Definitely yes.”

He pulled her leather pants and her panties off so fast. And her bra—oh, yeah, she took off her bra herself, and he buried his face in those soft breasts, his heart pounding out of control. She pushed at his jeans for him while he was buried there, tugging them down over his hips.

So he had to help her with that. Yes. Damn. Rearing up, getting the damn things out of the way. Oh, hell, he’d just thrown the condoms in the back pocket all the way across the room. He dove for his jeans as they landed on the edge of the window and jerked them back before they could slide off the other side and down into the street six floors below. Thank God. Although—“I think your pillow might be on the sidewalk down there.”

Célie laughed a little.

He came back to stare down at her, naked and laughing, curves and strength, reddened, damp lips, the mark of his stubble on her breasts. Hell, she marked easily—all those little red prickles just from his kisses there.