by Serena Janes
If she did the right thing—if she ordered him away—she knew she would feel regret. A regret for missed opportunities if she chose to turn away from this beautiful thing she and Luc felt for each other.
And, if she went to him—and all she had to do was take four or five steps across the room—would she not regret that too? Acting on impulse causes regret. All the novels say so.
With a gleam in his eye, he interrupted her philosophizing. “Don’t look so tragic. Here in France we generally celebrate the taking of a lover. You look as if you’re going to an execution. I think you’ve never had a French lover, am I right?”
She threw him a shocked look, disarmed completely. His words wounded her. What did he think of her now? Did he think she’d been merely leading him on? Did she? Or was he teasing her? Bullying her? Now she really didn’t know what to think, and there was nothing to say that would make any sense. She felt intense heat flooding upwards from her body to her face. Her ears were burning, and against her will her eyes began to fill with tears. Lower lip quivering, she dropped her gaze to the floor.
His face grew serious, his voice softened. “I think I was out of line. I’ve upset you.” He put his glass down on the sill and moved toward her.
“Joanna, I didn’t intend to make you unhappy. Forgive me, please. That was insensitive. I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. You have no reason to believe anything I tell you. I understand that. But I hoped you’d trust me. Unreasonably, I suppose. Like a fool.”
She glanced up briefly to see him run his hand through his hair, a genuinely concerned look on his face. Looking back down at the floor, she sniveled a little, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in what she hoped was a dainty gesture. But she couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t think very clearly. Couldn’t move. He stepped closer to her.
“Maybe I should leave. Do you want me to go?”
Alarmed, she looked up at him. He was very close to her now. His eyes were so blue, they looked kind, so sweet and so amazingly beautiful. Her stomach began to flutter, again. Her body was beginning to take over.
Uh oh. Oh no…
She moved backwards, away from him, but he followed. Her back hit the wall. He stopped inches from her, towering over her, and asked again, in a lower voice, “Joanna, do you want me to leave?” He was not smiling now.
She could feel his warm breath on her face. She could smell the licorice drink, and something more thrilling. She could smell his body. It smelled slightly of soap, slightly sweaty, and deeply, deeply erotic.
Her tears had stopped, and as she looked up into him she realized she was completely lost. There were no boundaries strong enough to protect her from this. She was lost to James. Lost to herself. Because all she could say, in a small voice, was, “No.”
Oh God. Oh Christ. Oh Mother Mary, help me. I need a miracle to save me from myself.
“What do you want, Joanna?” His voice was low, and a tentative smile had returned to his lips. Her legs felt like they were melting. He moved slightly closer, his body almost-but-not-quite touching hers, which was now pressed tightly against the wall. She could feel his heat through the fabric of her nightgown.
His head bent closer to hers. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “And be honest.”
So she did.
And she was.
Giving up everything, sighing softly, she whispered, “I want you…to…touch me.”
As soon as the words were out, she heard the abrupt intake of his breath. He straightened his body and she swore she could feel the pulse of his energy, the energy he’d been directing at her for the last two days.
Then, his intense gaze holding hers completely, he raised a hand to one of her shoulders and lightly, ever so slowly, drew the tips of his fingers along the thin strap of her nightgown. She shivered at the exquisite suggestion of what was to come.
He then placed his warm fingertips on the smooth skin of her shoulder and drew them lightly down along the back of her damp arm, to her elbow, raising goosebumps all the way.
He looked so beautiful. Watching him filled her with an achingly exquisite longing. She quivered, the very room crackled. She held her breath, heart pounding loudly in anticipation of what would happen next.
“Like this?” he bent his head to whisper into her ear. His breath was deliciously warm and fragrant.
“Yes.” It was just an exhalation, not a real word at all.
“Do you want me to do it again?” Now he was teasing her.
“Yes.”
Slowly, slowly, his other hand traced the same path on her opposite arm, his eyes growing dark. Her arousal prevented her from moving, making her afraid to interrupt the electrical flow between them. She was vibrating all over.
Suddenly she had to kiss him. Urgently. His mouth was delicious-looking, and she began to salivate in anticipation. As if he read her mind, he touched her chin, tilting it upwards, closer to his face, but she was frustrated when he moved his lips back to her ear, away from her mouth.
“And? Again?” His breath was hot in her ear. She could smell his body—the smell of the sweat forming on the outside, and the scent of his breath, the heated air coming from his lungs. She swore she could hear both of their hearts beating a tattoo.
The church bells pealed again. Ave Maria floated through the air.
“Yes. Please. More.”
She felt, rather than saw, his smile, as he began, with both hands now, the same caress, more firmly, but just as slowly.
This time his fingers moved as far down as her fingertips. Then they moved over her palms and up along the delicate skin on the insides of her forearms, raising more goose bumps in their path. She raised her arms, still firmly pressed against the wall, assuming a pose as if she were being crucified. He repeated the leisurely caress, this time moving up the insides of her upper arms, not stopping until he reached the fabric of her gown where it met her armpits. Although she was sticky with perspiration, she didn’t care.
Her breathing had become shallow and fast, her heart racing, jelly legs shaking, as he carefully and deliberately stroked both arms from shoulder to fingertips, and back up to her armpits, one more time. She made a soft sound, and his hand moved to her throat, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. He touched her jaw line, her cheek—first one, then the other—and then her chin. Underneath the chin. She never knew her face could be so sensitive. It was shivering with pleasure, burning with exquisite anticipation of a kiss. A thousand kisses.
His face was still less than an inch from her ear, and she leaned heavily against the wall for support. Her outstretched arms began to tingle as they strained to hold her upright.
“Is this what you want from me, Joanna?” His words were so soft she could barely hear them—or perhaps her hearing wasn’t functioning very well.
“Yes. But more.” She couldn’t help herself. The words leaked out of her like little sighs, like tears, like the sweat that was helping hold her to the wall.
Smiling, he lowered his mouth to the side of her neck, and placed an exquisite lingering kiss on her wet skin. His first kiss. She started at the sensation, but then remained very still. Then he placed both hands around her waist, holding her there as his lips moved along her neck. He bit her, lightly. She jumped, a deep quiver beginning in her lower stomach. He raised his mouth back to her ear and kissed her there, softly.
His hot fragrant breath seemed to flow into her brain, into her blood stream, intoxicating her. His lips moved to her cheek, grazing it lightly. Delicately. He licked her once. Then the other side of her face. But he didn’t touch her lips. She whimpered a little in frustration, longing to feel his mouth on hers, more than she thought she could stand, but she dared not move. This was his game.
If she moved she might break the spell.
He kissed her forehead. He kissed each eyebrow, slowly running his tongue along the arch, then softly he kissed each eyelid. He kissed the tip of her nose. She stood perfectly still, barely breat
hing.
Just when she thought he would touch her lips with his, he said brusquely, “Turn around.” The hands at her waistline pulled at her body.
Shocked at his words, she looked up into his eyes and saw such fire and excitement there that she almost fell forward against him as her numb arms flopped loosely to her sides.
With his help, she turned around.
Jo pressed the front of her body flat against the rough wall. The plaster was warm and damp. She turned her flushed face to one side and rested her cheek against it, her breasts flattened. Again she raised her arms and tried to embrace its surface.
Her entire body was tingling. She could have wept for pleasure.
Luc was close behind her—she could feel his heat and hear his deep, rapid breathing. And she could smell his arousal.
For a moment she didn’t know what was going to happen, but then he stepped into her, pressing the whole of his body against hers, covering her outstretched arms with his own, and turning his mouth into her neck. He had her sandwiched between the hardness of the wall and the hardness of his own body. And now, for the first time she could feel that he was hard. She was pinioned, and so excited she could scarcely breathe. Her body shook—it hummed—she felt dizzy.
They stood together motionless for an eternity, breathing in unison. Then he began to move.
One hand pulled the combs from her hair and threw them onto the bed. He ran the fingers of his other hand through her hair as it tumbled over her back and shoulders. His fingers pressed through to her scalp, and caressed her there. He buried his face in her hair she heard him take a deep breath. His other hand moved up and down her side, over the fabric of her gown, along her hip, then her thigh. Letting go of her head, that hand then moved to press hard into the small of her back, pushing her more tightly against the wall.
She trembled as he stepped away from her and bent to stroke the wet and vibrating back of one knee. His hand moved further upwards, along the back of her thigh, under her gown, and still further up until he was able to squeeze a slick, bare buttock. He reversed the direction of the caress, moving back to her knee, which was shaking so much that, if he had not been pushing her into the wall, she would have fallen into him.
“Ah, Joanna,” he whispered. “Do you still want more?” He straightened up and kissed her ear again.
She could only nod against his face, letting her shaking body and ragged breathing speak for her. Then she felt him replace the hand on her back with its opposite, and the slow, sensual movements began again. Whatever he intended to do to her, symmetry was part of it.
She clung to the wall. If it had fallen forward, pitching them both into the gorge below, she couldn’t have moved to save herself.
“I want this off,” he said, pulling upwards at her nightdress. His voice was low and urgent.
Obediently, she raised both arms and stepped away from the wall to help him, teetering backwards against his body. He whipped off the flimsy garment in a single motion.
The air of the overheated room felt cool on her bare skin as she embraced the wall again for support, but Luc’s hands were already warming her flesh as they moved over her shoulders, her back, her buttocks, her legs. In response she parted her legs and he ran his fingers lightly and deliciously up and down the soft, moist inside of each thigh. She was on fire. And she was soaking wet.
She knew she would do anything he asked.
His head dropped down to kiss her neck, her hair, her ears, and then in a fluid motion he pulled her from the wall and spun her around to face him. While her back had been turned he’d managed to remove his sandals and t-shirt. His chest was now bare. It was radiating heat, shiny with sweat, and powerful. It surrounded her, it imprisoned her.
His breath was hot and heavy against her face as he pushed her back against the wall, hard. Then he took her chin in one hand and lifted it. He stared intently into her eyes and must have seen what he wanted, for he finally leaned in to kiss her mouth.
It was not a grand, passionate, wet, tooth-scraping kiss. He began by merely moving his lips very closely to hers. He opened his mouth slightly, and stopped there. Almost crazed with impatience, she forced herself to remain still, passive, to wait for him.
She felt the eroticism in giving him all the power. In letting him make her wait. Make her guess. The suspense was exquisite.
He moved closer still, until she could just barely feel the soft skin of his lips graze her own, his breath alive in her mouth. Her mouth opened and his soft tongue, warm and wet, so delicious, pushed lightly, gently, between her parted lips. He pulled it back and then slowly licked both of her lips so delicately that they positively burned with sensation. With an enormous effort of will, she held herself rigid, trying to stop shaking. The better to feel all of it. Everything.
“Is this what you like?” He whispered into her mouth.
“Yes. Yes.” She exhaled into him.
He pulled his face slightly away from hers. “And would you like more?” he said softly into her ear.
“Yes, please.” She felt like a child being tempted with forbidden sweets. Or drugs. But this was sweeter than any candy she had ever eaten. More intoxicating than any drug she had ever tried. Sweeter than any other kisses. Ever.
She opened her mouth to give herself to him. She fell onto him, into him, and he took her. She was his. She would do anything he asked. Anything.
His kisses, beginning softly and growing in intensity, unleashed an absolute animal frenzy in her. She was mad with desire, abandoning all uncertainty, all restraint. Now she was free to touch him, and her hands stroked and plucked, kneaded and wrung his arms, the tattoo, his neck, shoulders and back, pulled at his hair.
She heard herself making noises when their mouths came together at last. These were unconscious and uncontrolled sounds—part gasps, part whimpers, part grunts. They were not feminine sounds, but she was far past caring. He answered her with responses of his own, deep and low in his throat, unleashing even more passion in her.
She was all over him, she tried to bite him, and succeeded at one point. The surprisingly metallic taste of his blood pleased her immensely, enflamed her further. She tried to swallow him, to eat him alive, to take him into herself, for herself. She wanted to crawl into him. Crawl into his mouth, lose herself in his body, his passion and energy, his taste and smell, his smoothness and hardness.
Just as she began to entwine one of her legs behind his thigh to urge her body upwards onto his, he broke their embrace, holding her shoulders at arms’ length, breathing hard. Roughly, he pushed her backwards. She gasped when the back of her head hit the wall.
He dramatically raised one hand and wrapped his fingers around the base of her throat. Fear and arousal fought for her attention.
Staring down into her eyes, his pupils completely dilated, he said, not gently, “All right, Joanna. Where were we? Your eyes have lured me into your room. And so here I am. You asked me to touch you, and so I have. Then you say you want more. So I kiss you.”
She couldn’t speak because of the force of his hand at her throat. She could barely nod, but she tried, although the back of her head scraped uncomfortably against the rough plaster wall. There was no question she would try to nod as best she could.
He continued, sternly, “There is one more very special way for me to touch you. Is this what you want?”
She tried to nod again.
Yes yes yes!
“Are you sure? Once I begin, you cannot change your mind. You know that.”
Her lips formed the shape of assent. He continued to examine her face for a few moments longer as if he were considering her surrender—or was it a demand—and all that it meant. He wasn’t smiling. Fierce was the only word that came to her mind.
Not loosening his grip around her neck, nor moving his eyes from hers, he slowly began to unbuckle his belt with his free hand. An involuntary noise escaped from her throat.
It was the single most erotic moment of her life.
He undid his pants, shook them off. Again, she could have wept for pleasure. She couldn’t see his body, but she could feel his large hard cock as it sprang out of his shorts, its hot tip nudging her belly.
Ave Maria marked the half hour again. He released her throat and backed away a little. She shook in anticipation as she watched him rip open a foil wrapped condom and unroll it onto himself. Then he was on her, over her, preparing to move inside her.
Nature had its way—she knew what to do next—she bent her knees, arched her back, opened her legs and thrust her hips towards her lover. Her French lover, to whom she had just given control. To whom she would have given her entire world.
Her arms encircled his neck. He met her, lifting her up from behind, his hands effortlessly guiding her hips towards his own. Knees bending, he maneuvered his cock until it just touched the swollen wet lips between her legs. She wriggled to help him enter her, every muscle straining to guide him home. Juices running, she moaned and wriggled some more, but her held her fast.
“Non, non, non. Don’t move. Non, wait, wait.” He kissed her long and hard, positioning himself to his own advantage so she couldn’t move at all. She strained against him, tried to push into him, draw away from him, thrust her hips this way or that way, any way to bring him into her. But he restrained her completely, she wasn’t strong enough. She was again pinioned, and dangling on the verge of such longing that she whimpered again in frustration. Her insides were beginning to open for him, to soften, in readiness.
“Luc please. Please. I want you, please…” She knew she was whining. She didn’t care.
But he didn’t move, holding her fast to the wall. He was in control, forcing her to wait. Again. She was completely powerless, and it thrilled her beyond anything she’d ever known. She waited. She had no choice.
Finally, finally he moved. Bending his knees more deeply, he asked, “Now? You want me now?” Her only response was a renewed burst of straining towards him, another attempt to engulf him, to swallow him. But still he held her off.
