A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  He tasted like all the magic she’d forgotten how to feel; her heart leaped bright and hot in her chest as his arms slid around her waist. He pulled her close against the stone strength of his tall, agile body. His scent surrounded her, deep and smoky and filling her on every breath. “Celeste,” he sighed against her lips, before she silenced him with the sweet mating of mouth to mouth, melding with a liquid fire that stole her thoughts with wild, airy exhilaration.

  When his tongue brushed her lips, then delved past to taste her with slow, lingering intimacy, she trembled. Her hands wove into his wild hair, letting it tumble over her fingers as she arched breathlessly closer. She’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing she’d concocted could measure up to the reality. She was dreaming. She had to be. Only in her dreams would his hands be rough on her waist, his mouth searing and needy against hers, his voice rising in a soft groan that said he wanted her. Her, and nothing as trivial as a name mattered.

  “I’ll stay,” she whispered, teasing her mouth against his until delicate friction ignited a slow, sensuous burn in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll stay tonight.”

  He drew back and raked her with a scorching gaze. “No regrets?” The raw edge of desire deepened his voice to a gravelly growl.

  “None.” She nipped his lower lip, and he hissed through his teeth.

  “God, Cel.”

  Before she knew what he was doing, he gathered her into his arms and lifted her. The world leaned drunkenly as he stood, carrying her with an easy strength that rendered her weightless and small. Oh God. This was familiar—but this time she didn’t have to hold back as he seized her mouth in a deep, languid kiss that flayed her raw, every nerve on fire and her deepest heart exposed. Vulnerable. He made her so vulnerable, as if he’d stripped years of armor to leave her naked before him.

  She twined her arms around his neck and leaned into the broad expanse of his chest, slipping her fingers past his collar to stroke against tanned skin, tracing the tight detail of sinewy musculature. He shuddered and, without slowing the needy onslaught that savaged her lips, carried her toward the door.

  “Telescope,” she gasped, breaking back. She wanted him, wanted this, but she wasn’t leaving her telescope outside.

  He blinked, before laughing and swinging her back around so quickly she yelped, clutching at him as he carried her to the roof’s edge. “Grab it.”

  With hurried care, she lifted the telescope off its tripod, then gathered both against her chest. “The case—oh!”

  He dipped down to bring her within reach. Her stomach dropped out, but she snagged the case and added it to the pile in her lap as he stood, balancing effortlessly. She made herself focus on disassembling the telescope with trembling hands. While being carried. And completely flustered. “You could have put me down.”

  “I could have.” As he turned toward the stairs he nuzzled her throat; she bit back a sound as his lips grazed her pulse. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Ion…”

  “Hush.”

  He kissed her again—gently, a warm reassurance that melted her. Her eyes closed; her fingers stilled on the telescope. She could kiss him like this forever. Like she was dreaming, and never wanted to wake up.

  But he stopped, leaving his taste on her lips. “Finish the telescope.”

  “I’ve got it.” She kissed his jaw. The faint scratch of stubble electrified her lips, sensitive and teasing. “Don’t stop,” she murmured, then pressed her mouth to his.

  His steps slowed. She went limp as he teased past her lips, taunting her with flicks of his tongue that jolted her down to the tips of her toes. Some part of her was aware of struggling with the telescope, fingers sliding against it, but she couldn’t think when he sought so deep, kissing her mouth to a swollen, pulsing fullness.

  “You’re going—mm.” He exhaled with a shudder, tracing her upper lip. “—going to break it.”

  She flushed. “I know what I’m doing. I said don’t stop.”

  He didn’t. He kissed her until she moaned, until she could hear nothing but the rush of twined breath and the vibrant timpani of her heart as it fought not to burst. He didn’t stop when he elbowed the door open and took her downstairs; didn’t stop even when he had to fumble for the stairwell door. She barely felt the drop when he bent—but her gut lurched hard when the telescope slipped in her grip. She squeaked and clutched at it, tearing her mouth from his and looking down, checking for damage. Damn it. She’d never finish like this.

  “Crap.” She fumbled with the screws and snapped the case open. Her fingers slipped on the clasp. She couldn’t focus. He’d scattered her to the four winds, and God, she couldn’t remember how to—

  “Need a moment?” he asked dryly.

  “I said I know what I’m doing,” she said—then lost her grip again and curled forward with a yelp, wrapping herself bodily around the telescope.

  “You sure you do this for a living?” His lips twitched as he carried her to his apartment door.

  She glared, struggling not to laugh. “Do you want me to change my mind?”

  He just grinned. “You’re the expert.”

  She finished slotting the telescope in the case, then snapped it closed and clutched it against her chest with one hand. With the other, she snared his shirt collar and dragged him down. “Shut up and kiss me.”

  “Gladly,” he said, and spun her apart with a dizzying claim of lips to lips.

  He shouldered his door open and carried her inside. She glimpsed an enormous single-room space—Spartan in design, dark and stark and masculine and dominated by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows leading out to a balcony—before he laid her down on the massive bed against one wall, set the telescope case on the nightstand with almost comical care, and covered her body with his.

  Then she was aware only of him: his hard, heavy weight pressing her into the bed, surrounding her, fitting so perfectly that the tight angles of him melded into her curves until not an inch of space parted them. She stroked over his shoulders and arched into him; he kissed her with a focus as intense as when she’d said study me and he’d looked at her as if he knew her most intimate secret self. When his hand slipped under her sweater and played over her stomach, fingers long and rough and strong, she sucked in a breath as ripples of pleasure shot through her.

  He caressed her stomach, her waist, with both broad hands as he lifted the sweater with agonizing slowness. When he traced the curves of her breasts, fine prickles stood up against her skin. She lifted her arms, letting him pull the sweater off and toss it aside. Her jeans next, peeling away under deft fingers and discarded along with her heels, leaving only the soft lace of her bra and panties. His fingertips traced her cheeks and brows as he delicately removed and folded her glasses; she raised her gaze to his. Dark eyes licked over her body, taking her in until she couldn’t stand it and had to look away, heat creeping down her face and throat.

  “Ion, please,” she whispered, fighting the urge to cover herself.

  “Let me.” He caressed her thigh, following its path to her hip, his skin sinfully dark in contrast to hers. Parting her legs, he settled between them, fitting his body intimately against her, the crispness of his clothing electric on her naked flesh. His mouth descended on her throat, nipping, suckling, blazing a trail down the flow of her racing pulse to her shoulders. “Let me remember every inch of you,” he murmured, lips printing the words on her skin.

  Then he moved against her, and she was lost.

  His need strained against his jeans, hard pressure teasing through her panties as he rolled into her, tearing a gasp from her. She rose into him; he scorched her shoulders with the teasing tip of a hot, rough tongue and the grazing edges of teeth. Every time his mouth marked her she bit down on her lip harder, fighting not to cry out. But when he cupped her breast in one heavy, heated hand and grazed his thumb over its peak, she moaned, head falling back to the sheets as he traced circles through the lace, dragging fabric across her skin until s
weet frissons shot through her and pooled between her thighs in a molten curl of desire.

  Still he watched her so intently, devouring her with an unwavering gaze that tore unnervingly deep, making every touch into so much more when he looked at her with such single-minded heat. He made her feel beautiful. Sensuous. Wanted. And as he bowed to nudge her bra aside and closed his lips over her nipple, tongue flicking, she surrendered herself to him entirely, wrapping her arms around his neck and whispering his name.

  Maddening rhythm rose between them; he rocked against her until she raised her hips to meet him every time, begging for the sweet friction of it, rolling into him until she flowed for him—hot and needy and beyond herself with the pleasure he brought her from the slow, gliding pressure and the heat of his lips. He mapped her body with his mouth: biting gently at her breasts and nipples until they ached with a warm, heavy fullness, brushing over her ribs and stomach with kisses so light her breath hitched with ticklish sensitivity. But when he traced her navel with his tongue, his fingers skimmed her panties—and she stiffened, eyes slipping open.

  “Ion,” she breathed.

  His eyes rose to hers, watching her along the length of her body. He hovered over her like a demon, predatory and hungry, graceful and wild…and completely possessing her. He was sunlight and shadow: all black and gold save for those luminously blue eyes, captivating her, her breath held in anticipation. With controlled deliberation, he stripped her panties—caressing her with the fabric, long fingers encircling her thighs and drawing them apart. She watched, hypnotized, as he bent between her legs.

  Then he tasted her, and her breath left her in a long, gasping rush. She trembled as he explored her with slow licks and flicking caresses that lanced deep, throbbing pleasure into her. His breath chilled the wetness on her skin, only for his tongue to burn her like liquid flame. She twisted her hips, crying out, back arching as she feverishly clutched his shoulders. He chased every damp trickle across her skin as if he couldn’t bear to miss a single taste, winding her tight with a need that clenched deep and hard and dizzying. And when he circled the tight center of her pleasure, that clenching turned rough and heavy, ripping through her until she spun apart, her nails digging into his shoulders with the force of it.

  She didn’t even get a moment to catch her breath. He pushed himself over her, leaning on one hand, and slipped two long, thick fingers inside her, parting her soft depths and stroking against flesh left sensitive and tight. She thrashed with a sharp sound, thighs quivering and taut, as he plunged swiftly, wringing every last drop of sensation from her. His thumb teased her clit; he descended on her throat, ravenous, biting and kissing until each point throbbed in time with her pulsing body.

  She couldn’t stand it—too much, too fast, hypersensitivity turning pleasure into ecstatic agony and forcing her to the edge so quickly her head swam. She tried to hold back, to control her rebellious body, but it belonged wholly to him. He caressed deep inside; she opened for him with a desperate cry as he brought her to again, and desire crashed down on her in a storm.

  As it ebbed she sank to the bed, throbbing and scored too deep, even the caress of cool air from the open windows too much to endure. Her mind spun in dazed circles, dimly focused on Ion—who looked down at her, eyes dark with warmth.

  “Lovely,” he sighed.

  Light touches skimmed over her breast; she hissed and nearly flinched. His hand slipped beneath her, found her bra clasp, then stripped the flimsy lace to leave her bared beneath him. His shirt followed, shrugged off and flung aside to expose the leanly athletic taper of his chest and shoulders. She reached up to play her fingers over his stomach, fingers trembling. For years she’d never had the nerve to even speak to him. To touch him, to soak his body heat into her and lose herself in the fascinating way swarthy skin shifted over slinking muscle…it was too much. He was too much.

  “I don’t know how this happened,” she whispered, tracing the stark line of his cheekbone while he slid out of his jeans and boxer-briefs with fluid efficiency, leaving him gloriously, beautifully naked. “How I ended up here.”

  He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. “You’re here because you want to be,” he rumbled. “Because I want you to be.”

  Their fingers laced, and he kissed her with a gentleness that fragmented her to pieces. Her body and heart sang in breathless tandem; he filled her every sense. The scent of maleness. The pressure of his hard body, sliding against hers. His shadow hovering over her, enveloping her in a darkness made just for them. The taste of his lips, tart with her flavor, shared in darting, sweet touches. And the sound of his heavy breaths, rushing around her until she barely heard the condom wrapper crinkling, barely realized what he was doing until he nudged against her swollen, sensitive folds and eased into her, slow and controlled.

  She couldn’t breathe. After everything he’d done, the onslaught of sensation overwhelmed her. She could feel everything—every detail gliding against her from within, parting her and sinking deep, so deep. No one had ever captured her this way: with such raw intensity, clarity so sharp it was painful. Intimate. Terrible. Wonderful. She didn’t know which, and could only clutch at him as he sank into her, fitting them together as if he’d been made to fill her, throbbing inside like a second heartbeat.

  His arm slid around her, gathering her close, letting her breathe as he fell still, joined to her so perfectly. She hid her face against the strong slope of his neck and curled her fingers against his broad back, but there was no hiding from this. “Ion,” she gasped. “Oh God, Ion…”

  “Cel.” His warm breath stirred her hair. He stroked through the strands and kissed her jaw. “Can you stand it again?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t endure it if he stopped. Not when they’d come this far; not when he felt so right. “Please.”

  “Then hold tight to me.”

  His hand slipped between them; he found where their bodies joined, traced the place where he stretched her so tight, so full. Her breath sobbed from her as he found her clit again and teased with soft, circular brushes, until she rippled with glissandos of heat and tightened around his shaft, thighs clutching against his sides.

  He hissed through his teeth and kissed her shoulders, breath coming harsher as she moved underneath him, around him, whimpering as sharp teeth of desire bit her. Her senses were never meant to take this much; pleasure was never meant to reach this far, until her body could no longer tell the difference between rapture and pain. He’d kill her if he didn’t stop. He brought her higher, higher, to a breaking peak—and this time, when she fell toward the crashing end, every inch of him branded within her, hard and unyielding as she contracted around him.

  Then he moved inside her, thrusting slow and deep and steady, and the storm broke over her again.

  He swept her away, tore her apart, a white-hot nova burning so deep she thought she would burst into flames. With every kiss, with every invasion of her body, he made himself a part of her. She tangled herself with him. Gave herself to him. Submitted to cruelty of the sweetest kind, as he tortured her with pleasure and filled her over and over—until, when he withdrew, she could think of nothing but needing him close, and when he surged deep and hot again she never wanted to part.

  Faster. Harder. She arched, glorying in the tight cracks of tension twisting through her, feverish and furious and threatening to consume her. Her fingers dragged through his hair; her teeth sank into his lusciously full lower lip. She couldn’t stand it—this heavy fullness as he gave her every inch of him. As he brought her high once more, sweet, bright rhythm carrying her to that gasping pinnacle, she trembled fragile and iridescent and beautiful as a dragonfly’s wing, shining in the light of his sun.

  And like a dragonfly she hovered poised on that last fluttering moment, a breath from flight. Until his hold tightened; until he whispered her name against her lips; until the heat of him swelled inside her, and she tossed her head back as a burning cascade flooded her. Her vision seared white as she t
angled with him, came with him, mated herself to him with fluid bodies and twined limbs and breathless lips.

  And as her body spun out of control for that agonizing, perfect moment, Celeste knew…she’d never gotten over Ion Blackwell, and now she never would.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY LAY TANGLED IN THE sheets, his body curled around hers, her head tucked under his chin, sweat chilling in the breeze from the windows. Celeste traced the ridge of his collarbone with her fingertips and tried not to think too hard. If she did, she would talk herself out of this languid wonder that cocooned her in its warmth, enveloping her sore, overtaxed body in a haze of lazy afterglow. She hadn’t come to Paris for this.

  But now that she had it, she wanted to hold on as long as she could.

  Ion let out a slow, contented sigh. His arms tightened, strength caging her safe and close, enfolding her. “You make me think of moonlight,” he murmured against her hair, voice a vibrating rumble under her hand. “Pale and silver against the night of your hair.”

  She smiled and kissed the hollow of his throat. “More writer word-tricks?”

  “All I’m good for.”

  “…not quite all you’re good for.”

  “I don’t like to brag.” He trailed his fingers between her shoulder blades. “God, Cel. Most women have enough after two. When you said please…” He shuddered. “Tell me this isn’t a one-time thing.”

  Her fingers stilled; a hard fist knotted around her heart. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. When her conference ended she would go home, with or without a job. Even if she found work, the odds of that job landing her in Paris were slim. Besides…if Ion wanted to see her again, she had to tell him the truth. Maybe he might have forgiven her if she’d told him before. But after sleeping together…

  God, she was an idiot. And she needed to get over this hang-up.

  She didn’t need a patch.