We stare at each other, tension swelling between us. I don’t dare to make a move or say anything that might disrupt this moment. Neither does Henri.
Seconds pass. His warm fingertips begin to trace delicate patterns on the back of my hand. A shiver dances down my spine, mingling with a tinge of anticipation. His eyes darken. The tree house seems to hum with an enchantment—and a craving.
We shouldn’t. I’m going to regret this.
The words of reason, usually very effective at pulling me from the brink of big and small mistakes, have strictly zero impact on me now.
As if guided by an inexplicable force, Henri moves closer, until his knees touch mine. His breath dances on my skin, a tantalizing caress that sets every nerve of my face aflame. He moves his other hand up to cradle my face. His touch is tender yet possessive, just as I remember. Just as I like it.
I tilt my head slightly, leaning into his palm, hungry for something I know he can give me.
Something I know only he can give me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The rain pounds against the walls of our snug shelter, drowning out all other sounds. Inside the tree house, Henri and I are sitting huddled together on the oversize floor cushions, our knees and foreheads touching. His hand clasps mine tightly, while the other roams my face, rediscovering its contours. But that demure caress is enough to ignite a craving of scary proportions inside me.
I gasp as his touch grows bolder, more daring. He closes the distance between us until his lips hover next mine. My mind foggy, I reach up and wrap my free hand behind his neck.
He whispers next to my mouth, “Kiss me, Princess!”
I press my lips to his. The next thing I know, his tongue is pushing against the seam of my lips, demandingaccess. As soon as I grant it, he delves inside my mouth, thrusting deeply, reexploring me. Our kiss is immediately fervent. More than fervent, it’s frantic, desperate even, as if we’ve been starved of this connection for a lifetime. The familiar taste of him floods my mouth. It lingers on my tongue and overwhelms my senses. I can’t get enough of him.
We break apart briefly, gasping for air. Our eyes lock. There’s an intensity in Henri’s gaze that sends me into a dizzying haze ofdesire. My heart races in my chest, matching the quick rhythm of our breaths as I savor the brief respite before his hungry mouth reclaims mine.
But instead of kissing me again, he trails his tongue down my neck and then up the curve of my throat, sending shivers through my body. Our ragged gasps and harsh breaths mingle as urgency builds.
Our second kiss, sultry beyond words and searing, makes me so horny I’m prepared to prove him right and beg for sex. The taste of him is a mixture of sweet and tangy, of coffee and mint, and Henri, and it jellifies my bones. The hint of his cologne makes my head spin.
His hand drops from my cheek, tracing a fiery path down my neck and chest until it settles under my right breast, letting it fill his palm. His fingers press through the wet fabric of my T-shirt and bra, gripping and squeezing with a possessiveness that makes me moan into his mouth.
His right hand leaves mine, and pulls up my T-shirt, untucking it from my jeans. I grip his broad shoulders, before sinking my hands into his hair, so thick that all the water hasn’t even flattened it.
How I loved to do this when we were together!
He unclasps my bra and shoves it up. His big hands seize my breasts snugly, tightly, with a firmness that leaves no room for escape. Just like they used to. I gasp as a familiar heat rushes through me.
He splays his strong fingers, covering my breasts with ease. “Fuck, I missed this!”
And then his hands begin to move over the curves of my breasts. He strokes and kneads me with a raw, unapologetic passion that turns my already murky brain into a cream of gray matter. The rough urgency of his hands against my sensitive skin stokes the flames of my desire into a blazing inferno. I moan.
His fingers rub, pinch, and tease my nipples. A wave of pleasure travels through me in response, wrecking the last vestiges of caution. I arch toward him.
He breaks the kiss and growls, “I want you, Gigi. God, how I want you!”
“Then take me.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” I respond. “Everyone’s gone to Sarlat, and if Quentin or Odile try to come out here in this downpour, Audrey will divert them.”
He makes slits of his eyes. “Are you afraid you’ll change your mind by the time we reach my bedroom?”
“No.” I pause to think. “Maybe. I don’t know. But I know what I crave right now.”
“What?”
He wants me to spell it out, doesn’t he?
