All for You (Paris Nights #1)(56)

He rubbed his jaw. But he didn’t have a razor here in her apartment, and hell but he didn’t want to stop.


“Okay?” he said, pulling the condom on. Thank you, his damn dick said at the feel of the latex tightening on him. So that means this time is for real?

“Yes. Joss, come here.”

He was literally vibrating with tension as he came down over her, flicks all over his body. His muscles felt like elastic about to snap. He pressed his hands into the sheets on either side of her head, fisting handfuls of the soft cotton, staring down at her.

She bit her lip. She looked just a little scared.

“Tell me.” God, his voice sounded hoarse. He sounded like an animal. He was an animal, reduced to absolute, primitive need. He had to keep some control. “If you need me to slow down. Or … stop.”

Oh, hell, not stop, please.

“Okay.” Her eyes had gone very wide. She stared up at him in a way that made him feel as if he was betraying years of her trust in him, years of being the guy she could count on not to take advantage of her.

I’m not taking advantage. I’m your hero now.

So I earned this.

Oh, hell.

“Joss,” she whispered. “Are you thinking? Because this isn’t a fantasy. You don’t have to think this one through. You get to do it.”

“I’m savoring. I’ve wanted this a really long time.”

He lowered his hips enough that his penis grazed against her sex, and the touch jolted through him. Hell. Yes. This was happening.

“Me, too,” she whispered. “But it’s a lot more real and, and … bigger, in real life.” She ran her hand over one of his taut arms, caressing the bulge of his biceps in a way that made him gloatingly proud of that bulge. “It’s got sweat on it.”

“Sorry,” he managed.

“No, I … wanted you to become real. At least, I would have wanted that, if I ever thought it was possible.”

“I’m real.” His voice sounded almost like a growl, dragged out of his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more real in my life.” After five years of intensely physical demands, he knew exactly how to glory in his own body. And yet the moment was also so packed with fantasy come true that he was about to explode with it.

She stroked her hands down to his butt as she rocked her hips almost shyly up against his. “Joss. I’m not saying no.”

Right. He’d picked that much up.

Her fingers kneaded into his butt muscles. “I’m not saying stop.”

Arousal geysered through him, as he realized what she was repeating.

“I’m not raising a hand to push you back.” Her fingers tugged on his hips.

He wet his lips.

She looked so damn … sweet there, against her sheets, with her little uptilted nose and her wide mouth and her pointy chin and those brown eyes that were such a window into her warm, irrepressible, resilient soul.

“Joss. If I’m the stop button … I say go.” She wrapped her thighs around his hips.

“Oh, hell,” he said, and just surged into her. Way too hard. Just like that.

She gasped, tightening around him, probably to try to squeeze him the hell out of her, and his brain just went black and hot and starry with pleasure.

“Célie,” he tried. Her name, the only word with meaning that he could find amid the black hot stars in his brain, her name like I’m sorry or Oh, my God, do that again, that feels so good.

“Wow,” she whispered, shifting her hips, trying to adjust, her fingers flexing into his butt again.

“I can’t—I want—you’re so—”

He couldn’t think or speak. All his brain had zeroed in on that sensation of himself inside of her. This pounding, pulsing of himself, as if his entire being had packed into that one length of his body, trying to explode its way into hers.

“Here,” he managed. “You’re here. You’re true. You feel so damn real.”

“You don’t,” she whispered. “You feel incredible.”

Yeah, that sounded like one of his fantasies, all right. Her telling him how incredible he was, while he moved in her. And he couldn’t stop moving. Movement had taken over his brain, all he could think about, all he could focus on, just the slide of his body into hers, the way her muscles tightened on him and she tried to hold on. Shells could have started falling, the building could have crashed down around his ears, and he wouldn’t have stopped.

“Mine,” he might have said, tightening his hold on her too hard. “Mine at last.” He had to ease off, he couldn’t hold her this hard, he was too strong, she was too little, he had to—he had to—

Press into her as deep as he could.

Hell, that felt good. And out. Oh, yeah, and back in, this long drive of possession.


Her head tossed, and her hips flexed up. “Joss.”

He slipped his hand between their bodies, in case his thumb against that favorite spot of hers would help him hear his name in just that tone again. But he couldn’t keep track of that thumb. His mind was too utterly subjugated by the sensation of himself inside her, swirling down and down and down into it. Vaguely, he was conscious of her grabbing his hand and pressing it harder. Of her crying out again.

But when he felt her convulsing around him, muscles tightening and tightening, he lost himself.