“Do you work out?”
“What gave me away?”
“You’re too well sculpted for someone who doesn’t, so it was easy,” I reply. “But there are things about you that are so much harder?—”
“Yeah, my dick,” he interrupts, pointing down. “It’s much harder already.”
My gaze drops to the proof of his statement. Watching me watch him, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I drag my gaze back up to meet his. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something about it?”
“God, Laura,” he growls.
Moments later, I’m bent over the kitchen table, with my skirt bunched at my waist, my tank top and bra above my breasts, and the crotch of my lacy panties pushed to the side. I hear a condom foil tear.
Come on, move it!
Finally, he enters me—and I moan my unadulterated joy. Holding me by the shoulder and the hip, he begins to pound into me. I can’t tell if it’s his technique, the angle or the curve of his manhood, but he manages to hit all the right spots.
I grip the edge of the table as his hips slap against mine with each thrust. Our skin is slick with sweat and arousal. My breasts are pressed against the polished wood of the table. I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensations, in the raw erotic power that we’re willing slaves to right now.
Antoine grabs onto one of my breasts and fondles it as he continues to bear down on me, switching between rough and gentle movements. It drives me wild. I’m edging toward my orgasm, when he pulls out and flips me onto my back on top of the table. He stands up straight in front of me. I remove my panties and reach for the top, but he can’t wait. He slips a hand between us and guides himself right back in.
I close my legs around his waist to lock him in place. As the joining of our bodies resumes, I realize this might be our favorite position, although we haven’t gone through the entire Kama Sutra yet.
Antoine’s pace becomes frenetic as he grinds against me, his thrusts deliciously rough. He takes my mouth in a hot, intimate kiss, cradling the back of my head with one hand, while gripping my backside with the other. My orgasm begins in the quiver of my thighs. Then my legs start to shake. My core clenches. I feel like I’m about to fly apart—and I want it.
It’s glorious when I peak. Moments later, Antoine comes, too, his cock throbbing inside me. Somehow, I manage to ride that to a second orgasm, moaning breathlessly.
Can this be a glimpse of the rest of my life?Have I unwittingly hit pay dirt? Can this man I barely know, my “revenge husband,” actually be the one for me?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LAURA
Antoine and I are sprawled on the sofa, the TV remote resting on the coffee table between us and the screen. After the sex in the kitchen, we washed off and did some grocery shopping to fill the fridge. Then we cooked and ate dinner together while the TV crew filmed our first steps in the minefield of happy domesticity.
It was a bizarre experience.
I cook well, and I enjoy it, while Antoine has barely mastered the basics. The gap in our skills made for some hilariously awkward moments that gratified the drama-hungry crew. Antoine, in an excellent mood, didn’t seem to mind. And I—I loved every second of that hour between the sink and the stove. How could I not? I was playing house with the man my body craves, and my heart is beginning to…
Do I dare to put it into words?
All I know is that this crazy caper, this foolhardy stint is going unexpectedly, almost suspiciously well for me. When was the last time I thought about Mike? Four days ago? Five? A week? My accidental husband surprises me again and again, in the best ways possible. What’s happening in my life now is too rare and precious to risk jinxing it.
After dinner, the TV crew left us in peace, not just for the rest of the day, but also for tomorrow.
We unpacked our stuff and settled on the couch to watch the latestWed at First Sightepisode.
The segment playing now covers our trip to Dordogne. I’m still not used to seeing myself on screen. It feels bizarre, like watching a stranger who looks and sounds like me but isn’t quite real. The show’s editors have done all they could to magnify the slightest hint of conflict there was. Even so, the segment is rather dull. Compared to the evening at my parents’ place, the editors had practically nothing to work with.
On screen, Antoine, Gigi, Henri and I are outside the burger place in the village. We’re debating whether to eat there or try the other restaurant. The fact that the final cut includes something so banal, shows how low on drama the whole thing was. I vaguely remember that moment. It felt like an eternity of back-and-forth about burgers versus pizza. But now, something new catches my attention.
A tourist approaches. Gigi, Antoine and I don’t notice him, too busy with our discussion. Henri turns around. The tourist asks him in English if he could translate something on the menu blackboard. The camera zooms in as Henri helps him out, speaking with a fancy British accent. Which reminds me how Antoine let slip that this was his default in English. Which means both Bellay brothers speak this way.
How come?
Even more curious is how Henri’s accent—unlike the one Ross was faking inFriends—sounds natural and uncontrived. I’d say it’s genuine as the massive diamonds sparkling in Gigi’s ears.
