Aurélie gasped, full theatrical scandal, lips forming the perfectO. I nearly lost the goddamn plot. “Excuse me? Did Ineedto?” Then she grabbed a handful of her tits, and the last shreds of my sanity evaporated as she gave me a show so obscene I nearly blacked out. “Have youseenthese? I’ve had friends ask if they could bring me to their surgeon as inspiration.C’est, ” she wiggled her shoulders so they bounced, “perfect teardrop shape.”
I groaned, hips bucking under her. Of course I’d seen them. I’dmemorizedthem. Their perfect weight, their soft curve. Larger than her hands and bouncier than should be legal. Rosy fucking nipples that hardened the second I so much as glanced at them.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“Also, is there something wrong with my flirting, Fraser?” She let go of her breasts, and I caught sight of all the bite marks on her flesh.
She needed more.
“No,” I muttered, squeezing her hips. “It’s just incredibly effective and absolutely fucking deranged.”
She crushed her mouth to mine, triumphant and lazy and maddeningly salacious. Her arms wound around my neck, tongue brushing mine in a slow, indulgent sweep, like she was thanking me. I let her taste linger on my lips as she pulled back, eyes half-lidded, her smile the stuff of sweet, slutty nightmares.
“We have plans today,” I managed through the haze of lust clouding my mind.
She shushed me with one finger to my mouth. “The plans can wait.”
Then she climbed off me on all fours—back arched, tits swaying slightly, hair a fucking mess, looking every bit the vixen who’d just destroyed me. She grabbed her coffee, curling back under the covers like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just decimated my entire nervous system with her tits and pouting and marshmallow goo.
I joined her under the blankets, and she scooted closer, one leg pressed against my side, leaning her head on my shoulder. I rested my cheek on her head.
We didn’t speak. Just listened.
The breeze drifted in through the open glass doors, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone. Waves lapped the shoreline, steady and slow and brilliantly blue beyond the windows. In the kitchen, the coffee pot clicked off, and I could still taste her pistachio creamer on my tongue.
I draped my arm over her shoulders, keeping her tucked into my side. She let go of her coffee with one hand, the other coming up to hold mine. Her thumb brushed over my knuckles every few seconds like she couldn’t stand not to touch me.
“You ready to start our holiday?” I asked finally, voice quiet in the hush of morning.
She hummed contentedly. “After this coffee.” Kissed my shoulder. “And maybe a croissant.”
I smiled. “Have you ever even tried a pastry that wasn’t French?”
“I’m sure once,” she said with faux solemnity. “Kind of like howyoutried coffee that one time.”
I groaned. “I wasnotwarned.”
“You werenotprepared.” She sipped smugly. “And I’d do it again.”
I let out a quiet laugh, pulling her tighter. Just us and the waves and the warmth of a morning we didn’t have to share with anyone else.
“You’re an absolute menace, Dubois.”
She exhaled dramatically. “Soon-to-be Fraser, thank you very much.”
That did something to my chest. Made it stutter and squeeze all at once.
Then, softly, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud, “Maybe we don’t have to wait that long.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Je ne sais pas.”I don’t know. “Just thinking out loud. Between languages, I guess.”
It lodged somewhere in my chest anyway. The finite idea of it. Not justengagedand planning a wedding. But married. Husband and wife, tied together in every way that mattered.
I shifted, curling my fingers tighter around hers, and felt the cool edge of her ring against my skin. I turned my head and kissed her temple.
“I’ll marry you in a heartbeat, mon cœur.”
