I eye the crystal flutes and the champagne in the ice bucket. “What’s going on?”
“We have something to celebrate.”
My chest expands. My cheeks heat in a rush of excitement. “We do?”
He pours two glasses and offers me one. “Congratulations.”
I clutch the stem so hard I fear it may snap. “Really? I’m in?”
“I told you.” He kisses my lips. “I never had a doubt.”
“Oh, my God.” I slam a hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe it.”
“To you,” he says, raising his glass.
I watch him from under my lashes. “Thank you.”
His voice turns husky. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like how?” I bite my lip.
The cold color of his eyes darkens to a stormy gray. “Like you want it rough.”
He knows I do. I’ve never asked again, nor taken, not after the beach, but he’s good at reading my body language. He’s a master at predicting my needs.
Taking the glass from my hand, he places it with his on the table. Drops of condensation run in rivulets over the two glasses that stand side by side in the setting sun.
“Everyone out,” he barks out in French.
The guards scatter, disappearing to wherever. For a rare moment we’re alone in the garden and our exchange unobserved.
“Francine can—” I was going to say come out any minute, but Maxime has already fastened his hands around my waist and lifted me onto the table.
Impatiently, he pushes the candelabra away. His rugged features are heated and his concentration one-track minded as he sweeps his palms under my dress and up my inner thighs. I shiver when he reaches my sex. My underwear is already wet. Holding my eyes, he pushes the elastic aside and shoves three fingers inside. I like it when he’s tender and gentle, but this is what I love. I love it when he doesn’t prepare me, when the friction is unbearable and the stretch too much, when I can lose myself in the sensations and fall into the oblivion of ecstasy.
He rests his thumb on my clit and curls his fingers inside. He doesn’t play with my clit. He just keeps his touch there. It drives me insane. I need more. He knows. Bracing my body with a palm on my lower back, he brings his lips to my nipple. When he sucks it through the fabric of my bra and dress, I arch against him, shamelessly surrendering to the pleasure he offers. I moan as he grazes the hard tip with his teeth. My nipples are sensitive. Just sucking on them is enough to bring me close to orgasm. He knows my body inside out. He knows what makes me beg and scream.
I know what he likes too. I cup his length while he twirls a tongue around my nipple, teasing me through too many layers of clothes. When I squeeze, he leans into my palm. My favorite way of feeling him is outlining the shape of the broad head with a finger. The light caress drives him crazy. With a growl, he rips his fingers from my body and brushes my hand away to center his cock between my legs. His hard length rubs over my clit, pushing the wet fabric of my panties over the bundle of nerves, but it’s not the silk I want to feel on my skin.
Digging my hands into the lapels of his jacket, I pull him to my mouth and take the kiss I want. He never denies me. He kisses me back with abandon and skill, making my body melt against his as all my nerve endings hum in need. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He rips away my underwear. I’m starving, moaning as I pull down his zipper and sighing into his mouth when I finally fold my fingers around his cock. I stroke twice before catching the pre-cum on the tip and letting it lubricate my palm. It’s the firm downward slide of my hand that makes him lose control. His groan is guttural as he grabs my wrist and forces my upper body down. My free hand is in his hair, pulling at the silky strands, holding his lips to mine, but he easily catches that one too, pinning both wrists in one hand above my head. He grips the base of his cock and guides it to my entrance. I brace myself, but never enough.
When he enters me fully with a single thrust, my body shifts up the table. He fastens a hand on my hip to hold me in place, pulls almost all the way out, and slams back. My back arches from the intense stimulation. It’s more than I can take, but I lift my hips when he lowers his, meeting every thrust.
“Goddamn, Zoe.”
His eyes are glittering darkly, hard granite cut from a rocky cliff. The candlelight plays over his face, the shadows making the hollows of his cheekbones deeper and the harsh lines of his nose and jaw starker. I long to trace the bump on the bridge of his nose, but when I test his hold he doesn’t let go.
Kissing a path up my neck, he presses feverish words against my ear. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
I still. The words trigger my suppressed insecurity, things I shouldn’t and don’t want to think about, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “Not forever.”
He slows his pace and lifts his head to look at me. “You’ll always be beautiful.”
“Not when I’m old.”
“Then as much as now.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The lines around his eyes tighten. “I’m not lying to you.”
“Just withholding the truth?”
“You need to know what you must. That’s enough.”
“Then tell me honestly, when will you tire of me?”
He stills completely. His expression becomes veiled. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
My passion turns to rage. The embers of everything adrift in my chest have caught fire, and the fear I’ve been pushing away for the last few months jumps into flames of fury. “When the next woman you can abduct comes along?”
His jaw bunches. “I’m not interested in other women.”
“Only in whatever the hell you want from Damian?”
“No, my flower.” Despite his clipped tone, his voice is soft. “I like to see the world through your eyes.”
The answer is not what I expected. “Why?”
“You’re everything I’m not.”
I’m not sure what that means. It’s strange to have this argument with my wrists pinned above my head and his cock buried deep in my body. I don’t even know why or how the fight started, only that I can’t finish this.
I pull on his hold. “Let me go.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re five seconds from coming and you want me to let you go?”
“That’s what I said.”
His smile is one I both fear and hate, a cruel one. “As you wish.”
I’m empty when he pulls out of me, so incredibly cold that I fold my arms around my stomach. He flicks my skirt up over my hips and takes his cock in his hand. It only takes a few pumps before he comes, ejaculating thick streams of cum over my sex and my thighs.
When he’s finished, he takes a napkin and cleans himself. Dumping the crumpled napkin on the table, he adjusts his clothes. “It seems you’ll be happier with your own company tonight. As it’s supposed to be a celebration, I won’t spoil it for you.”
The venomous words are hardly out before he turns and walks back into the house. I cover myself with shaky hands, pulling my dress down over my sticky thighs. My legs are wobbly when I push off the table. The setting is in disarray with the tablecloth full of folds and the crockery pulled askew. It’s the remains of a wasted evening, the bitter result when feelings get in the way.