“Ummm.” My senses soar. My heartbeat takes wing, attempting to chase them. For once in my life, there’s absolutely no clever quip in my brain or at my lips. The only thing I have left for him is just that pitiful mumble…
Until the man next drops his head to the valley of my breasts.
“Holy crap!” I gasp harshly from the moment his scruff abrades my cleavage. My nipples stiffen, already fighting the pads of my no-frills bra, donned so long ago when I was rushing to follow him halfway across New York.
We ended up going so much more than halfway—an idiom, I now realize, that’s applying to more than just subway and bus stops. There’s a familiarity along with our connectivity, like the warm glow of a lamp after the electrical spark that turned it on. A sensation that glides through me, making it easy to unzip my jacket and then unhook my bra, obeying the unspoken plea from his hungry eyes. That molten gaze that wants to see all of me…
The part of me that yearns to give him that and so much more.
This is beyond simply exposing my breasts and nipples. It’s about the spot between them too. The line of puckered flesh I’ll never fully escape that always feels like my huge risk. An exposure that always leads lovers to ask so many questions. And after that, all my answers—leading my lovers to decide things about me.
In this moment, I always become one of three things for those men. A Madonna, a badass, or a charity case. While any one of those can lead to some role-playing fun, none of them are real. None of them are me. When I thought I found a guy who finally seemed to get that, it turned out that me wasn’t enough either.
So when is Bastien De Leon going to spring the same news on me?
And why, as he licks my scar between worshipping my nipples, do I not bother to care?
Because, apparently, I’m the shallow missy with the breasts that haven’t felt this good in a damned long time. Perhaps in ever.
“Ohhh! Bastien. Are you…oh, damn, are you biting it?”
Okay, definitely not in ever.
Because this is definitely not anything I’ve ever experienced.
“You are enjoying, ma magnifique?” But he concludes that with a chuckle, since my high-pitched gasp has already filled out his figurative memo. “Mon dieu,” he murmurs, teething his way up the swell of my other breast. “How has a delicacy like you never been enjoyed like this?”
“Because nobody else knew what they were doing?”
It feels good to reclaim my sarcasm even as he steals another chunk of my sanity by closing his teeth over my other erect tip. The pain is intense, forbidden…exquisite. I’m writhing now, growing more aware of every place my body rubs against his, a pleasure that’s doubled once he releases my throbbing peak. At once, fire tumbles through the rest of my form—especially toward the pulsing button between my thighs.
Ohhh…yesss.
The words are a sharp keen on my lips as my hands spread along his scalp. My moves are desperate and raw, as if I think it’s possible to absorb his thoughts that way. The boldness of his mind and spirit. The riveting, carnal confidence that he bends and rasps into my ear…
“Oh, these fancy cakes are getting their own subheading too, mon petite rayonnement.”
And right away, I’m at a loss for returning anything resembling bright wit. For that matter, forget anything that sounds like normal breathing.
Rayonnement.
I have no idea what it means, but I’m good with it. So much more than good.
Because it’s mine.
I’m no longer little lily, sweet fleur, or even ma magie, though that last one can stay if he wants to switch it up sometimes. But right now, I only smile and whisper my way through the one that matters most.
“Rayonnement. Rayonnement…”
And I’m already forgetting how to push air past my vocal cords as he continues downward, kissing fresh awareness into my skin before stopping at my belly button.
“It is very fitting for you,” he says, licking around the shallow dimple above the waistband of my yoga pants. “Such effulgence and light. Such fervor and ferocity. A luster of life force, even in the darkest part of this endless midnight.”
I should thank him for that. Like, in a million words just as beautiful and sigh-worthy. But the man is holding my oxygen hostage, and I’m helpless to bargain for that freedom. All I do is burn for him. Moan for him.
Shine for him.
And I’m there, from the moment he fully flicks his tongue into the sensitive skin inside my navel. From the second he tantalizes me in all the best ways, ending up with my arching torso against his whole face. So many sweet shivers. So many pulses through all my muscles…especially down there. That place that strains and tightens for him. Needing a bigger piece of his attention than this.
“Bastien!” Thank God my voice finally breaks free from the shackles. “Oh please.”
He hears me. And he gets it too. I know that as soon as he lifts his head, the depths of his stare fiery and alive, like the focus of a wildcat in the dimness of a forest. A shiver takes over me at once, but I don’t feel like his prey. I’m ready to be his she-cat, giving back as good as I get.
“Do it.” I speak to the one aspect of his gaze that doesn’t match the rest. The tiny hitches of hesitation, lingering at the corners between his eyebrows and eyelashes. I run a soft finger across one of them. With my other hand, I push the waistband of my yoga pants into the area between his parted lips.
Do it.
Holy shit…please!
But he twists up and away, pulling the rest of his body a similar direction. When our gazes meet again, it’s only from inches apart. He’s lying beside me again, his weight back on an elbow, one hand sliding over my ribcage. The light from the kitchenette limns the stunning landscape of his shoulders. But I hold back from exploring those muscled hills. My need to fulfill other cravings is much stronger.
So. Much. Stronger…
“Wrong direction, Monsieur le Duke.” I grab his wrist and push his hand back toward my throbbing groin. “Here,” I plead, raspier now. Harsher.
“Mierde.” Bastien gulps with similar brutality. Drags in air past his locked teeth. “Raegan—”
“No. Here. Help me. You know how.”
God, do you know how. I tell him that part with a grateful sigh as he slips his big hand down, cupping me from the outside. But after a few seconds, it feels like trying to tango to a waltz. Doable but wrong. Incomplete.
“Please,” I husk—and slide his hand beneath my pants. Yet this time, there’s not even partial satisfaction. He’s at a full stop as soon as his fingertips graze my trimmed mons. “Please. Like this.”
“Raegan.” His voice rides the same sandpaper tone as mine. “If I touch you…flesh to flesh…I do not know if I can stop.”
I palm the side of his face, hoping my expression conveys gratitude for his sweet concern. Yeah, the stuff that pours out of him even as his erection announces itself along the top of my thigh. Oh, my word. What did they feed those eighteenth-century secret service guys? Whole sides of beef?
“Then we’ll have to get creative. We did before, right?”
He closes his eyes as if the waltz has hit a record scratch. Mutters something beneath his breath in French. For all I know it’s a nursery rhyme, but every membrane in my pussy reacts with filthy connotations instead. That’s an extremely good thing, since the man clearly comes to a decision—thank you Jesus, the right one—and pushes his hand a few inches lower, sliding easily into my freshly soaked core.