A Little Too Much

by Lisa Desrochers

  His lips and tongue graze the butterflies at my collarbone as one hand massages my breast and the other grips my hip, guiding me up and down his length. I run my fingers down the front of him, feeling taut muscles under my hands with each roll of his hips.

  How can any one man be all this?

  His mouth finds mine as he thrusts harder, and he teases my nipple between his finger and thumb, bringing me back up onto the cliff that I just plummeted off of not ten minutes ago.

  It’s like lightning under my skin. Sensory overload. My mind short-circuits as I become pure sensation. I feel everything so intensely, as if I’m electrified—fully charged and ready to detonate.

  I arch into his body and cry out, once, twice, three times with his thrusts as I explode all around him. He pulls me tight against him and holds me here as we both come.

  This is heaven.

  When I can move again, I literally pinch myself. I have to know this is real, because never, even in my fantasies, did I think it could be like this.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I WAKE HOURS later, still on the floor, deliciously sore. But it takes me only a second to realize I’m alone. I pull myself up to a sitting position and look around for Alessandro. I find him on the balcony. He’s in only his jeans, leaning his elbows on the rail, the city lights laid out in front of him.

  I slip my dress on, and when I slide the glass door open, the cool air sends a shiver over me. “Hey. What are you doing out here?”

  He turns to face me. “Thinking.”

  “About?”

  He draws me into his arms and kisses me. “The past, the future, and everything in between.” He takes my hand, leading me through the living room to a bedroom . . . in which I find a queen-sized bed with four pillows under a white duvet—the only furniture in the place. Above it, framed on the wall, is his print of Salomé.

  “There’s a bed?” I mutter.

  “You distracted me before I could get you this far.” He nuzzles into my neck from behind, his fingers brushing up my back to the tie of my dress, which he undoes. It drops to the floor at my feet. He kisses the sensitive spot below my ear, then steps back and slides off his jeans. He flicks off the light, then guides me to the bed, where we climb between cool sheets that are so soft they must have some insane thread count. I curl into Alessandro and realize it’s been over a month since we’ve talked about Lorenzo, or the group home or anything else from back then. I can’t even remember the last time I saw that tortured look in his eye. The guilt is gone and he finally seems free.

  I smile against his chest.

  He must feel it, because he kisses the crown of my hair. “What has you so happy?”

  “Would you ever have imagined back then that we’d end up like this?”

  He cups my cheek and lifts my face so those beautiful eyes are gazing down into mine. “I imagined it every day.”

  I kiss him with everything that I have, because I don’t know how else to show him how deep his words touch me, and when he rolls on top of me, I give him every part of me: my body, my heart, and my soul.

  “I love you,” I whisper, low in his ear.

  He buries his face into my neck, and I feel his shaky breath against my skin. He makes love to me so slowly and thoroughly that it breaks me open and I spill right into him.

  I DON’T REMEMBER falling asleep, but I wake in Alessandro’s bed. When I open my eyes, the room is bright, and so are Alessandro’s eyes as he gazes down at me. He’s sitting up, leaning against the headboard in a pool of sheets. He’s got the real-estate magazine that I saw on the kitchen counter when we came in propped on one bent knee and he’s writing something in it.

  “Hey,” I croak. “Happy birthday.”

  “Good morning,” he says, gliding a fingertip down the length of my nose.

  I shift up and kiss him. I mean for it to be a quick peck, seeing as I have morning breath and all, but he glides his hand around the nape of my neck and holds my lips to his, deepening our kiss.

  Finally, he pulls away, his gaze locking with mine. “I want to wake up to this face every morning,” he purrs.

  I brush my lips over his jawline and look down at the magazine on his knee. “Oh my God,” I say when I see that he’s not writing something. On the back of a real estate flyer, he’s sketching something.

  Me.

  I’m sleeping, an arm flung over my head, my fingers curled into my wild afro and the sheets tangled over my breasts, one dark nipple just peaking out. And I’m beautiful in a way I never could be in real life. I look almost angelic.

  He turns the sketch for me to see. “I was inspired.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say gliding a finger over the lines of my naked shoulder and the tiny butterflies there.

  “Not nearly as beautiful as the real thing.”

  My eyes flick to him. “I don’t look like this.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you don’t. I’m not nearly talented enough to capture your true beauty.”

  I feel myself cringe. I have an unusual face, but I’ve never been beautiful.

  His fingers caress my cheek and I lift my eyes to his. “You are beautiful, Hilary,” he says as if he read my mind. “One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things.” He leans in and kisses the cringe off my mouth. His mouth leaves mine and his lips brush over my cheek to my ear. “Live here with me.”

  My brain short-circuits. I can’t have heard what I think I heard.

  “Please,” he says when I don’t answer, pulling back and tracing my eyebrow with his fingertip. “I think about you all day and I dream about you all night. I want your days and I want your nights. I want all of you.”

  “But this . . .” I wave a hand at the window. “I can’t afford this.”

  He sets his sketch aside and slides lower in the bed, bringing me with him. He props himself on an elbow above me. “I can, and I want to live with you and love you right here. And when Henri is ready for the truth, I want to be able to tell him that we love him and each other. I want him to feel like we’re all part of the same big family, and that he never has to choose between us and Mallory . . . or between you and me. And when you’re ready, I want him to have more sisters and brothers.”

  My heart pounds in my throat. He’s not just talking about moving in together. He’s talking about much, much more.

  “You know I come with a butt-ugly coffee table, right?” It’s all I can think to say.

  He laughs, then leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I take your coffee table to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do us part.”

  Oh my God. I prop myself on an elbow and scowl down at him. “Did you just marry my coffee table?”

  His eyes burn into mine as he bites a corner of his lower lip. “What would your coffee table say if I asked it?”

  It takes me a second to catch what he’s saying, and my heart shoots into overdrive. “Asked it to marry you?”

  He nods slowly, but now his expression is dead serious.

  “It would have to think about it,” I answer warily.

  He tucks an arm behind his head and leans back into the pillows. “It probably thinks it’s too soon.”

  I roll onto my stomach and lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat is slow and sure and I feel mine begin to slow, synching with his. He’s always been able to do this for me. When we were kids. Now. It’s like he’s the key to my soul. “There are some things you need to understand about my coffee table if this is going to work.”

  “Such as?” he asks, combing his fingers through my crazy kinks.

  “My coffee table has been scared for a long time. It’s put up a lot of walls to protect itself from getting hurt.”

  His hand continues through my hair at a slow, soothing rhythm. “I can understand why.”

  “So, if you’re going to be with my
coffee table, you’re going to have to understand that, even though its walls are coming down, there’s probably still some debris, and it might take a while to clean it all up.”

  He slides down and rolls on his side, so we’re face to face. “I promise to be very patient with your coffee table.”

  “And you have to always be up front with it, because my coffee table has a built-in bullshit detector.”

  He kisses my cheek, soft like butterfly wings. “From here on out, I will endeavor to always be totally honest with your coffee table.”

  “My coffee table isn’t great at being told what to do, so don’t think you get to be the boss of it or anything.”

  He kisses my nose and my heart flutters out of rhythm. “I would never dream of trying to tell your coffee table what to do.”

  I trail a finger from the dimple at the tip of his chin, over his Adam’s apple, down his chest, and hesitate at his belly button. I’ve always been comfortable physically with guys, but I’ve never been able to open up emotionally. I thought showing emotion made me weak. And as I think about it, I realize that’s my whole commitment issue. I was terrified to let anyone close enough to find out who I really was. I was sure once they knew how scared and insecure and broken I was deep inside, they’d think I was pathetic. But Alessandro knows me, maybe better than I know myself, and he doesn’t think I’m pathetic. He sees me as strong, which makes me feel strong. “So, my coffee table’s thought about it.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “And?”

  I glide my finger down his happy trail to the prize. “It thinks it might be able to be happy here.”

  The slow smile that curves his perfect lips is so goddamn sexy as he lays me back and rolls on top of me. “I will do everything in my power to make your coffee table happy for the rest of its days.”

  I wrap my legs around him and run my fingertips over his back, feeling goose bumps pebble his flawless skin. “I know how you can make it happy right now.”

  His kiss is slow and sure—a true soul kiss—and in it, I know I’ve finally found home.

  He moans low in his chest and I pull him closer. My body sings when he sinks himself deep inside me.

  “So I guess you get me for your birthday,” I say as I start to move under him.

  He smiles and kisses me again, and as we begin our climb toward the stars, I picture butterflies spiraling up, up, up the three tiers of a white wedding cake, to where a pair of cockroaches sits on top.

  Can’t get enough of Lisa Desrochers’ combustible series?

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  A LITTLE TOO HOT

  Coming February 2014

  From William Morrow Impulse

  Tossed out of college and cut off by her parents, Samantha West is in pretty dire straits. So when her rocker best friend hooks her up with a job dancing at a gentlemen’s club, who is she to turn up her nose? Despite her nerves, her first night on stage, it becomes clear that she’s a natural—and the money’s amazing. But there are rules to dancing at Benny’s: No touching, keep your clothes on at all times, and never get closer than three feet. Unfortunately for Sam, her first private client makes her want to break every single one of them.

  Harrison Yates is scorching hot, but he’s got a past that involves being left at the altar not too long ago. Sam is determined to make him forget about his ex, but when she makes her move, it flings her life into a spiral of chaos she never saw coming.

  Because Harrison Yates isn’t who he seems to be. And his secret will probably get her killed.

  HOT, HUMID AIR hits me in the face, and my whole body feels suddenly moist. The thin white curtain in front of me actually shakes with the pounding rhythm of the music. There are two other girls, I tell myself, who are going to be way better at this than me. Everyone will be watching them. It will be fine.

  I glance back at Nora, who nods at me and closes the door between us. Tentatively, I slip my fingers through the part in the curtain. The place is packed—much busier than when Jonathan and I came in an hour ago. Every table is full, and there’s a crowd packed around the bar and both of the other stages. There has to be at least a couple hundred people here.

  I take a breath, and step through the curtain onto the stage. The other two are lit. I’m in the dark, which is fine by me. I reach up and slide my hat down over my eyes. I close them and sink into the music. My hips start to sway and the rest of my body follows as I lose myself in it. I can do this. Just concentrate on the music. That’s the key. I’m just dancing, like at any of Jonathan’s shows.

  “We have a special treat for you tonight,” Big Pete’s voice purrs over the music. And that’s when I realize he’s lowered the volume. I tip my hat up and see Nora in the DJ booth with him, grinning at me. “In her virgin appearance on the stage, please give your biggest Benny’s welcome to the scandalous, salacious, sensual, seductive, Sam!”

  He draws out all the S’s, and, at the instant he says my name, a blue stage light flips on and blinds me. I lift my arm to shade my eyes, but I still can’t see shit. Big Pete cranks the music again, and my eyes start to focus well enough to see there are guys starting to gather at the edge of my stage.

  Shit. I can’t do this.

  I stand here, frozen like a deer in the headlights, for what feels like most of the rest of my life. But then, as my eyes adjust, I see Jonathan leaning on the rail at bar level, looking across the floor at me. He raises his beer in a salute, then blows me a kiss.

  I’m at his show, I tell myself. Just do what I do there. I close my eyes and start to move again, swinging my hips to the rhythm. My body moves with the music as I let it have me.

  When it’s calmed me enough that I can breathe again, I open my eyes. Around my stage is a small crowd of mostly middle-aged guys. My heart is racing in my chest as I dance my way closer to the edge of the stage, toward a heavy-set guy in a sweater-vest, holding up a bill. I remember how Stephanie shimmied down and let someone slip a bill into her cleavage. I try to do the same thing, but it feels super awkward, so I give up and just squat down. He tucks the twenty into the waistband of my shorts, and I stand and dance around to the other side of the small stage, where another guy is holding up a ten. Once he’s tucked it into my top, I shimmy out of reach, deciding this is kind of fun. There’s a pole in the middle of my stage, and I press my back against it and grind my hips in a circle as I slide lower, spreading my knees as I wriggle down so my heels meet my butt. I lift my arms and grasp the pole above me, pumping up and down a few times before sliding back up. And all of a sudden, there are at least a dozen twenties being waved at me from the edge of the stage. So I guess the pole is a big hit. I work my way around the stage collecting my tips, and just as I’m shimmying back to the pole, I see him.

  Sitting at a table by himself, two rows back from the center of my stage, is Trent.

  His eyes catch on mine and my heart stalls in my chest.

  The last time I saw him, he was in my car, breaking up with me.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  I squint through the glare of the lights. He’s cut is hair shorter, and he’s in a button-down as opposed to his typical T-shirt, but it’s got to be him. The strong lines of his face, the way he crosses his sculpted arms on the table, leaning onto his elbows and accentuating his muscled chest, the angle he holds his head . . . it’s all so Trent.

  I realize I’m not moving when someone yells from the front of my stage something about shaking it, and I start dancing again, but I suddenly feel totally disconnected from my body. I yank my eyes away from Trent and focus on the guys around my stage, more of whom are now waving money.

  How did he even know I was dancing here? I didn’t know I was dancing here until an hour ago.

  My heart pounds in my throat, and I ache inside as if it’s happening all over again. I’d loved him forever, and in a heartbeat, it was over.

  And now he has the balls to show up here and rub it in my face.

  I feel all that anger
I felt the night he broke up with me swell inside and take control. He wants a show? I’ll give him a goddamn show. I’ll show him just what he threw away.

  I let the slow rhythm of the music seep into my bones as I stalk toward him. A few feet from the edge of the stage, I plant my feet wide and drop down, then roll up slowly, snaking my hands over my calves, my inner thighs, my bare stomach, my breasts, then overhead, where I twist them into my red mane, knocking my hat off. And all the time, my hips work the pulsing rhythm. I stomp to the beat for maximum jiggle as I make my way back to the pole and lean my back against it. I work one hand down my curves, slipping the tips of my fingers under the low waistband of my satin shorts.

  And then I have sex with Trent right here on the stage.

  I grind my hips to the rhythm of music that’s now a part of me, and imagine myself straddling him in his seat. It’s only when one song segues into the next, that I realize I’m totally on the edge of getting myself off right here on the stage, in front of all these people. I open my eyes and find a pile of money along the edge of my stage.

  I drop to my knees and catch my hat in my teeth, then crawl toward the edge and sweep the money up, tucking it into my hat. I slap it back on my head and undulate my way back to my feet. Marcus move closer when one of the drooling guys at the edge makes a grab for me. Over his head, I catch Trent pushing out of his seat.

  My racing heart beats faster as he stalks through the crush of bodies, like a prowling animal, and comes out on my left, away from most of the crowd. His mouth curves into half a smile as he holds a bill between his index and middle fingers.

  I sashay over, and it’s only as I waggle down to his level, where I intend to spit in his face, that I catch all the details I couldn’t see from a distance through the glaring stage lights.

  It’s not Trent.