Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
He glances down, and my eyes follow his. “Just look at the mess you’ve made of me.”
His tone. The husky reprimand. I push up onto my elbows, not sure if he means of his resolve, or…
He’s so thick and shiny and—
He slams back inside me.
I cry out, pleasure flooding my system. I feel hot and cold at the same time, my insides fiery and molten as a shiver ripples over my skin.
“Just…” Luc slides his hand under my right thigh. Lifting it, he opens me wide and rotates his hips. He gives a quiet groan, one that speaks of an exquisite kind of agony.
Same, friend. Same.
“You’re…” So warm and so real and so so beautiful. At the delicious drag of his next withdrawal, I arch my back in a silent plea. “Please. I need—”
“I know exactly what you need.” So much knowing in that tone of his as he delivers it.
“Oh God. I think I’m going to—”
“Yes.”
Another flex of his hips and I arch impossibly, ready to snap when a tearful, echoing cry rings out.
“Papa?”
I freeze, and Luc’s head comes up.
“Where are you?” Sylvie’s voice sounds like it’s coming from some distance away. Maybe the hallway?
“Merde.” Luc pulls back, scrambling to fasten his shorts. Meanwhile, excuse me, but where the hell are mine? “Coming, ma cher,” he calls out.
His lips are a fleeting press to my forehead as he drops my shorts to my lap.
Then he departs, tout de suite, as the saying goes, leaving me draped across the marble, a throbbing puddle of cooling flesh as I stare at the chipped paint on my big toenail.
22
PRIMROSE
I have a hickey.
And not the kind that can be passed off as careless use of a straightening iron or an awkward bump.
The Lucien du Beaumont special is situated smack bang in the middle of the space between my ear and the base of my neck. It refuses to be camouflaged by makeup, and there isn’t a scarf or turtleneck in this world—not that I have either in my suitcase—that could hide the damn thing.
I fold down the collar of my white shirt because it makes me look like I’m auditioning for a part in the movie Grease. With a defeated sigh, I turn away from my reflection. The sight of the hickey is so… urgh! It really isn’t a good look for someone in charge of children. But short of stapling my braid to my neck, I can’t do anything about it.
I suppose I’ll just have to brazen it out if anyone asks. And by anyone, I mean Zoe.
It was quite a shock to see it in the mirror this morning. And, honestly, more than little bit titillating. And the aftershocks of pleasure the visual caused were surprising.
So much for Emmy saying his bark was worse than his bite.
But my gosh, the man is huge—huge! And I can barely believe half the things that happened—half the things I said! Being stripped naked—being coaxed to take him.
I press my hands to my radioactive cheeks. Hottest thing ever.
And I’ve never been bare-backed by a woollen sweater before, never mind…
I’ve got to stop indulging this morning. I’m like that frog who belatedly realizes the water around her is a tad too warm—that she’s not in a pond but in a pot.
A pot she can’t climb out of.
I open my bedroom door, and my footsteps immediately falter as my heart does a weird two-step. His bedroom door is almost immediately opposite. I almost ended up in there, I think as my hand tightens on the handle, and a fleeting moment from last night flashes in my mind in a gloriously sensual Technicolor.
After Luc left the kitchen, I’d scooped my cake into the bin, no longer hungry, sated in other ways, I suppose. I’d turn off the lights and climbed up the grand staircase on still-wobbly legs, only to find him standing in the hallway, his shoulder pressed to the frame of his door as though waiting for me to appear.
My heart misfired, and I couldn’t look at him as I walked the long corridor. I’d stopped on the opposite side of his door, my toes curling in the thick cream rug.
“Is she okay?” I’d asked of Sylvie, my voice as low as the light coming from a lamp on a console at the opposite end of the hallway.
His eyes seemed to shine in the ambient light. “Just a bad dream.” With the soft murmur, he’d closed the gap between us. “She’s asleep again.”
My God, the way he looked at me as his fingers slid up my bare arms made me quake. His gaze seemed softer than it had been in the kitchen, but no less passionate. As he pressed his lips to my cheek, my eyes fluttered closed. I heard myself sigh as they’d coasted to the corner of my mouth, his tongue slipping along the seam.