He dives his cock into me and sets a fast pace, working me with an intensity that leaves me breathless. It lasts a few minutes, or maybe longer. I can’t be sure. Time doesn’t run the normal way in this tree house.
My orgasm looms closer and closer—suddenly, Henri pulls out once again.
“Nooo!” I protest.
But instead of plunging back in, Henri flips me over once again. “I want to see your face as I make you come.”
I spread my legs, shaking for the length of him to penetrate me.
Fortunately, he obliges at once. Propping himself up on outstretched arms, he enters me with force. The exquisite pleasure builds, consuming my senses. My ears are filled with the beat of my heart, the roar of my blood. As our bodies move in rhythm, I feel my peak nearing. And then, on a long loud exhale, I come.
Amid my own pleasure, I hear him calling my name while his cock is still thrusting and throbbing inside me. Moments later, Henri orgasms, too. He throws his head back and groans as he releases himself into me, all his muscles tensing with each new pulsation.
When he’s finally done spurting jets of cum, he collapses against me, skin to skin, enveloping my entire body with his warmth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We’re gathered in the picnic area of the park, where Henri has stacked logs and kindling in the fire pit. He lights a match from his pocket, and the flames leap to life. As they dance and pop, we sit in a circle around it, wrapped in soft plaid blankets with mugs in hand.
The sweetness of the evening is perfumed by the warm smell of burning wood and the subtle aroma of citronella incense. It was Quentin who strategically placed the incense around the campfire site to ward off mosquitoes while his wife served us dinner.
It’s getting dark. I gaze at the stars peeking through the tree branches and listen to the hum of conversations around me. Someone’s roasting marshmallows.
The retreat’s end is around the corner, looming just a day away. Despite the ever-diminishing hope of finding the key, my spirits are high. They’re buoyed by the events of yesterday. Everything feels different now, after Henri and I had sex in the tree house. He spent the night in my room, and we made love again, multiple times. Audrey took those developments in her stride, approaching them with her businesslike, royal-security-first manner, sparing me unnecessary explanations.
I wish could say the same about the bloggers!
Though Henri and I haven’t held hands or anything like that, the way we look at each other must’ve given Emily and Virginie a clue about what’s going on. It hasn’t escaped Yann’s notice, either. The fitness buff dropped a couple of unsubtle hints at dinner that made Henri study the food on his plate, and me squirm.
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!
Yann and Emily hooked up right after the Rocamadour excursion, and no one turned that into a matter of public scrutiny. Then again, Yann isn’t our host.
I shift my gaze from the fire to the people around it. The bloggers along with Audrey, Yann, Henri and Jocelyn are chatting in the warm light that the flames cast on their faces. Florent begins to say something to me, which forces me to peel my gaze off Henri’s handsome face, where it had been for too long, and focus on Florent’s.
“So, Gigi, this retreat has been quite the experience, huh? And in more ways than one!” As if his questions weren’t cringe enough, the ecoblogger stifles a meaningful smile.
Et tu, Brute?
I feign ignorance. “It’s inevitable that friendships form when a bunch of like-minded people spend time together in such a beautiful setting.”
“It’s the magic of Dordogne,” Henri interjects. “Brings out the best in people.”
The conversation drifts to other topics. We talk about the retreat, the beauty of the estate and its château, and about everybody’s plans once we leave this idyllic setting. Then we get derailed by something much more important than plans.
Phone in hand and a dramatic flair to her voice, Emily reads out Yann’s horoscope.
“That’s about as accurate as calling me a vegan yogi,” the muscleman protests.
Florent puffs his thin chest out and throws a fist in the air. “Vegan yogis for the win!”
Suddenly, Henri stands up. “I’ll be right back.”
Offering no other detail, he jogs off toward the main building. Restroom break, I presume. But then he returns five minutes later with his guitar. I peer at it, trying to figure out if it’s still the same one he had ten years ago.
He settles next to me and strums the opening chords of “Blowin’ in the Wind.”
He remembered!
