Slowly, she sank to her knees.
“Don’t do that. Don’t, Abby,” he said, his accent thick, choppier than she’d ever heard it. She tucked her fingers into his waistband and dragged it down, slowly, slowly, while his voice faded away to a pained-sounding groan.
He seemed far away up there now, with her face next to his cock and his smell so warm and potent and perfect.
She bit her lip to hold back a sound of her own and slowly reached for him. He was big and thick, and the color of him here was darker than she remembered. Above her somewhere, he protested, but his hands hung limp at his sides, which made the protest feel halfhearted.
Full of curiosity and desire, she brought him—his cock—close to her face and ran it along her cheek. It was so soft she had to do it again, and Luc sounded like he was dying. With a half smile, she eyed him. “You okay?” she asked. Goodness, how had she not known the power of this? Of holding a man’s desire in her hand? Of drawing it out until it stretched thin and tight between them like a guitar string, taut enough to break, but so perfectly pitched when she plucked it.
On that note, she ran her nose along him, breathed him in and then lowered her mouth to his crown, where she ventured a taste—just a lick, really, but enough to make Luc shudder above her, and she met his eyes and smiled.
Look at me now, she thought as she took him into her mouth, slow, slow, filling her, so ripe and lush and perfect until it was too much and she withdrew, a touch out of breath but ready for more.
More, oh God, more.She might have actually said it, because he released a noise that sounded like aching and pushed into her mouth a little deeper, another time, even deeper, until she took him in far, and then his hands pulled her up.
“Come on, Abby. Not like that. Not on the floor like that.”
She stood, and her shirt was gone, rent open with nothing but the echoing ping of eight tiny buttons to remember it by. It took her a second to realize she’d been the one to rip it off. She’d paid ten dollars for this shirt today. Too much, but she’d liked the color. The stupid thing was the exact color of Luc Stanek’s eyes. Beneath it, she wore her first modern bra—complete with underwire, which held her in a way she found erotic against her skin.
She didn’t get rid of the bra like she had the shirt. Instead, he yanked the cups down, baring her, opening her up, thrusting her breasts even higher, served on a platter. He stroked a nipple, not nearly hard enough when she wanted him to bite. Abby stopped breathing, her underwear suddenly too tight. The blue jeans lost their appeal. Too complicated, too…constrictive.
“Would you…would you bite it? Please?”
And his face—Luc’s furrowed face, too tender and full of surprise, focused on her breasts for one, two, three seconds before he leaned down and touched his lips to her. Not the bite she’d been craving, but she knew he wasn’t the brute he pretended to be. And oh, the noise from her lungs deflated. Half scream, half pained moan, her head flopped back, and her hips… Why did they do that? Rocking, rocking, in search of something.
He took his mouth away, hot and wet where it had sucked at her nipple, and brought it to the other one, pinching the first and lifting them both, drawing them together, muttering. What was he saying? He sounded lost. Some of it was in French. She liked the way those words tore at her, a little at a time, but some of it came out in English, and it was crass.
“You missed me, Abby? Did you? Because I could not stop thinking of you. Every day. Every fucking minute.” He didn’t look happy about it.
“Lord, yes,” she bit out, taking hold of his hand and putting it between her legs.When did I get this bossy?she wondered as he rubbed her through her jeans.
And there it was again, that pressure in her abdomen, warm and electric. Hands at her waist, fumbling, the sound of a zipper, stiff material scraping down her legs, his rough hands following it down. At the bottom, the fabric got stuck in her boots, and with a frustrated sound, he squatted, yanked hard at one boot until it gave and the fabric slid off with it. Without doing the other side, he paused where he was.
Inhale. Exhale. She took in what felt like her first breath since this all began. No wonder things were out of focus.
“Come here,” she said, her voice hoarser than she’d ever heard it.
“Wait.” He was looking at her—not her face, but down there. His breath was warm on her, and she could smell it: her own female scent. The one she equated with pleasure—with him.
“Comehere, Luc. Hurry. I want…”Everything.Her hands—God, they had a mind of their own—tried to pull him up. “Now.”
Instead of obeying, he reached out and touched her, right where the hair sprang up in unruly curls between her legs. And while his hands had been a bit rough when they had rid her of the trousers, now they were gentle, even shaky.
The back of his knuckles brushed against the hair, before his hand twisted and cupped her, one finger straightening and reaching beneath, between her lips, where it slipped and slid. Back and forth once, twice, and back, circling her opening before sliding in.
Ah, sweet relief.
Her knees loosened and almost gave. Downstairs, the music was turned up a notch, and the floor shook rhythmically under her feet, but here the only noise was the messy, slick slide of his finger pressing in and out of her body. She looked down to find his brow furrowed, his features tight with concentration, gaze fixed on where his finger disappeared between her legs. She’d never seen that look on his face, none of the peace he showed when he worked or the light humor he’d shown other times. He looked intense, focused.
“From that first day, Abby, I’ve been yours. Yours,” he said, the words sounding torn from his throat. And Lord, for a moment, she thought she might cry.
Instead, she pulled at his hair, reached for his face, because right now, she wanted him thick and deep. She wanted him so deep she’d never forget.
“I want you to fuck me, Luc,” she said, her voice more decisive than she’d ever heard it, that word lighting her up.
It worked though—seemed to wake him from his daze, got him up and moving, tugging at his pocket, pulling open his wallet. What on earth was he doing with his wallet?
She tried to slap it away from him, but he kept on, pulled something out. A foil square like the one they’d used last time. A condom. How strange. And serendipitous.
