The blues of his eyes are almost entirely swallowed by his pupils as he stares at me. He slowly unbuttons his trousers and slides his hand into them, groaning as he wraps a fist around himself. “You don’t understand,” he says, “how badly I want you. How badly I have wanted you, since the first moment I saw you.”
The sight of him is obscured by his briefs still, but my eyes follow the movement of his wrist, trace the blue veins in his forearm as they bulge beneath his pale skin.
“Then tell me,” I whisper. Then— “No. Show me.”
A small shudder goes through him. He removes his hand from his briefs to push his trousers down his thighs. The white fabric of his briefs is soaked through, nearly translucent, the delicious bulge of his arousal on full display. He watches the way my breath hitches, the way my hand slides over my panties, and then he pushes his briefs down, too, letting his stiff length spring free.
“Oh,” I whisper.
I watch his fingers slide from tip to base and back up again. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as I imagine how it would feel to takeall of thatin my hand, my mouth, inside of me. When I look back up at his face, he’s smiling at my reaction. It’s a knowing smile, aware of his own impressiveness, and it should aggravate me but instead it turns me on.
I bite my lip and push my panties to the side. Claude’s smugness turns swiftly to a winded look, as though I’ve punched him in the stomach.
“God,” he says, his voice strangled. “Belle, si belle.You’re beautiful.” He leans over slightly, his eyes between my thighs, the movement of his hand quickening. “Spread your legs,” he whispers. “Wider.”
A delicious flush spreads through my body, all the way from a bloom of heat in my cheeks to a tingling in my toes, as I let my knees slide to either side. Claude lets out an almost wounded sound, leaning forward to brace his free hand against the tile between us until his face is nearly level with my core, his heavily lidded eyes locked on me. My fingers glide across my own wetness before circling my clit, the movement quickening to match the frantic pace of Claude’s hand pumping between his legs.
“Such a pretty pussy,” Claude whispers. “God, I want to taste you.” He doesn’t appear to realize he’s cut his lip on his own fang, a bead of dark blood swelling and running down over his lush mouth. I imagine licking it off him, and let out a quiet whimper, pressing my shoulders back against the shower wall.
“Are you close,mon chou?” he murmurs.
The lush French words send a pleasant shiver through me. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My thighs are starting to quiver, my stomach taut as pressure builds within me.
“Come for me,” he says.
I am helpless to do anything but obey. The orgasm rocks me from head to toe, making me cry out and grind against my own fingers, mouth hanging open and eyes fluttering in ecstasy. Claude gasps, his hand sliding over his length in short, frantic pumps before he follows me over the edge, hips jutting forward as he spills himself onto the wet tile between us.
Then we are both still. There is no sound but my own heavy breathing, and the pitter-patter of the shower raining down on us both.
Claude slowly pushes himself up to rest on his heels again, his curls plastered against his forehead. There is a desperate sort of heat in his face, making it difficult to hold his gaze. I rest my head against the wall instead, shutting my eyes and focusing on breathing. After a few moments, I hear Claude stand and button his trousers again. When I open my eyes to look up at him, he holds out a hand, and I grab it and let him lift me to my feet. His fingers are warmed by the water we’ve been soaking in, but still feel cooler than my own feverish skin. Our hands linger together for a moment before we simultaneously pull away. Our faces are inches apart, and for a moment I swear he’s about to close the distance between us, contract be damned. But then Claude turns away and runs his fingers through his hair, shaking out his curls.
I stare at his back, where his wet shirt clings to his shoulders. It seems so strange, that things could be awkward between us after what we just did, but… we still haven’t really touched,can’treally touch, under the terms of our contract.
Which is what I wanted. Right? It all seems so fuzzy to me now. My head feels light; it must be all of the steam in here, boiling my thoughts into useless sludge.
“I’m… going to go get dressed,” I say, after a moment.
“Very well,” he says without turning to me. “I need a minute.”
I step out of the shower, feeling ridiculous in my sopping, paint-stained dress. After a glance over my shoulder to confirm he’s turned away, I shimmy out of the clinging material and wrap a towel around myself instead. Then I hurry to my room, to gather my clothing and my thoughts.
Chapter Twenty
When I emerge from my room again, the house smells of butter and garlic. My nose leads me to the kitchen, where Claude is hard at work on another meal that is too big for me to eat. A ludicrous amount of spaghetti fills a pot, while tomato sauce simmers on the stove.
I expect it to be awkward between us, but when Claude shoots me a glance and a crooked smile, I relax against the counter. This is normal, I tell myself in an attempt to calm my racing heart. Most valentines do more with their patrons than we just did in the shower.
Yet I’m surprised by how much I’m cravingmore. Not just sex, but… affection. Touch. I have an urge to walk over and run my fingers through Claude’s still-mussed curls, to massage the muscles of his neck and shoulders the same way he did for me in the shower.
But that way lies danger. I know that. I’m the one who insisted on the intimacy clause, and I have to remember that I did it for a reason. I may have been momentarily overtaken by desire today, but I’m not here to fall in love. Even falling in lust feels like teetering on the edge of a steep cliff.
I’m not going to let this year ruin my future.
I clear my throat, trying to pull myself out of my thoughts. “Anything I can do to help?”
“No, no,” he says, waving me away, as I expected. “You’re welcome to go wait in the dining room.”
I sigh, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. “I’d rather not.” Sitting here and watching him cook without doing anything feels awkward, but not as awkward as waiting alone in the dining room. Especially because the meal he’s making is for me, and only me.
