I want this night to last forever.
Her hands claw at my back. I’m driven by the animal now. No finesse. NoComtédeValois. Only the man.
I capture her lips in a searing kiss, my tongue plunging into her mouth as I pound into her.
I feel her orgasm before it hits her—the waves building, cresting. And then she tightens around me, hard, pulsing. My movements falter, grow erratic as my own release builds.
With a final, fierce push, I bury myself deep inside her, my cock pulsing as I come.
It goes on forever, at least it feels that way to me.
We collapse, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged pants.
I press a kiss to her forehead and draw her against me, lying on my back so she can rest across my chest.
Her warmth sinks into me as though she belongs nowhere else.
“Sublime?*,” I murmur, my voice soft, satisfied.
* Shit (French)
* Mother (French)
* You are magnificent (French)
* My God (French)
* Count (French)
* Damn (French)
* Holy shit (French)
* You are really tight (French)
* Sensual/reverent/sublime (French)
CHAPTER 3
Tara
It’s been a week since I came to Paris, since I started my job at the Louvre,andsince I had the best (and only) one-night stand of my life.
I think of him—my French hottie—at the strangest times.
When I’m brushing dust from a canvas.
When I’m rinsing pigments from my hands.
When I’m sipping my morning espresso at the little bar on Rue de Buci.
His storm-colored gray eyes sneak into my thoughts like they own the place.
“Tara, we’re going to Café Marly for lunch. You want to come along?” Cece, one of my colleagues, asks as she leans on the edge of my worktable.
Cécile—Cece—is Parisian-born and whip-smart, with black bobbed hair and a lipstick collection thatcould stock Sephora. She has a wicked sense of humor, which means I instantly liked her.
“Yes, absolutely.” I glance down at my gloves, smudged with pastel dust, and peel them off. “Give me five minutes to clean up, or I’ll look like I lost a fight with a box of chalk.”
