When I wake up, wrapped in Jacques’ huge arms with my cheek pressed to his chest, the throbbing in my head is actually the least of my concerns. The crazy turn things took last night after the guy attacked me in my doorway comes back to me in a flash. Not only had Jacques been there to defend me with perfect timing, but when he kissed me, he’d backed off and actually asked if I wanted to keep going. Even on his best days, Ethan never asked.
Jacques shifts in the bed, and the feeling of his hard, muscular body pressed up against mine is so appealing, that it’s making me more than a little aroused. The sight of his tattoo-decked chest, ribs and arms from the night before had shocked me, and as Jacques started waking up, I saw them again: a few words in French, detailed scrollwork, and motifs that I could recognize from ancient art. He was like a living canvas, and I longed to pore over every detail.
“T’es réveillée?” Are you awake? he whispers.
I blink, remembering after the fact that Jacques doesn’t really speak English. “Oui,” I confirm.
Jacques’ big, strong hands start to move on me, and I shiver at how good he feels. I can remember—in a vague, blurry way—how they felt the night before, pawing at my breasts and drifting down to my hips. I pull myself up and kiss him hungrily, and instinctively, I’m on top of him.
Any hesitation I might have felt the night before is completely gone now.
I feel his hands slip up under my tee shirt, and his fingers begin twisting and rolling my nipples, sending little jolts of sensation straight to my pussy.
“Tu l’aimes?” You like that?
Jacques breaks away from my lips to nibble along the column of my throat, and I say the first word that comes to mind.
“Oui.” Yes.
I straddle his lean hips and I can feel the ridge of his erection in his boxers. It feels enormous, but surely, that’s just my imagination—or maybe some wishful thinking. I rub up against him, and Jacques moans against my neck, his fingers squeezing my nipples a little tighter, his hands kneading my breasts in a way I never would have thought I would like—until that moment.
Jacques pulls my tee shirt up over my head, and a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes my lips. I’m so wet already, so turned on, and it’s only been a few moments since we both woke up.
“C’est bon de faire l’amour à la réveil,” Jacques murmurs against my lips, and then something else that I can’t quite make myself translate. It’s good to make love when you wake up.
I have to say, I can’t agree more.
“Oui, c’est—c’est bon,” I murmur. Yes, it’s good. Jacques nips sharply at my neck and I cry out; it feels so good, so strangely right. He pushes his hips up against me, and I’m getting wetter and wetter by the moment. We stay like that for what seems like an hour, pawing, touching and rubbing against each other until I almost can’t stand it. I’ve never just made out this long with anyone—not even Ethan, who always seemed to want to get right to the main event.
Jacques tumbled me around onto my back, and I looked up at him in surprise. “Tu aimes le cuni?” I blink in confusion—I can make the first part of the sentence out, but definitely not the second part.
“Quoi?” What? Jacques reaches down between my legs and begins to stroke me through my thin panties.
“Le cuni?” Jacques looks at me and flicks his tongue, then raises an eyebrow and rubs me more firmly. When I’m still confused, a look of concentration comes over his face. “How you say… ‘eat out’?” I’m not sure what shocks me more: the sound of Jacques saying “eat out” in his thick French accent, or the fact that he’s apparently asking me if I like being gone down on.
“Oui—oui, je l’adore,” I reply, blushing at the question itself. Yes, I love it. Ethan only ever went down on me maybe three times in our entire relationship, but of course, the asshole expected me to blow him whenever I was on my period and he wanted sex, or whenever he was ‘stressed out’ and ‘didn’t feel like going to all the trouble and fuss’ of actually having sex with me.
Jacques hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulls them down over my hips, along my legs, and I shiver at the slightly cooler air hitting my drenched, soaking wet pussy.
“Mmm,” Jacques murmurs, licking his lips and looking up at me. “Je pense que tu auras un minou delicieux.”
Once more, the first part of the sentence is fairly easy for me to translate: I think you’ll have…and the last word, that I know.
Jacques slides his fingertip along my wetness and brings it up to his mouth, licking my fluids from his finger as he grins. “Ah ouais, j’avais raison.” I was right, he says.
I blink and finally figure out what he was telling me before: that my pussy would be delicious. I figure it out just in time for Jacques to bury his face between my legs, and then I can’t figure anything out; his tongue against my inner folds, barely brushing against my clit, makes it impossible for me to even consider ever translating anything else in my life. He pins my hips and thighs down on the bed and worships me with his lips and tongue, sucking and licking me as if he’s ravenously hungry. I grab at his head, at his broad, strong shoulders, gasping and panting and crying out; it feels so good, so absolutely amazing that I can’t do anything but give into it, my hips moving and bucking, riding Jacques’ face.
I cry out as Jacques teases me with his lips and tongue, bringing me to the edge of climax over and over again. He plunges his tongue deep inside of me, eating me like I’m some kind of overripe peach, and his arms pin me down more firmly as I lose any ability to hold myself back. I writhe and twist and Jacques’ tongue flutters against my clit until I hit my peak, moaning out nonsense in English and French alike.
Jacques keeps going at me, riding through my orgasm, only slowing down when the spasms start to ease. He pulls back, leaving me panting and gasping for breath, and I see him lick his lips clean, grinning with satisfaction.
“C’était bon? Tu l’as aimé?”
I nod, somehow knowing and not knowing at the same time what he was asking. He slithers up along my body and kisses me again, and I can feel the weight and heat of his erection against my hip, the hardness of him.
“Si tu...attends...pour quelques instants, je pourrais t’aider,” I manage to say, reaching down to brush my fingers against the bulge at the front of his boxers. If you wait for a little bit, I could help you. It’s such a clunky way to say it, but I can only hope that Jacques understands what I mean.
“J’ai envie de te prendre en levrette,” he murmurs, and I try to think of what the last word of the sentence could mean. I want to take you…
“En levrette?”
Jacques nods and kisses me again, one hand sliding up between my legs. He begins to stroke me lightly, but even that’s almost too much, with my clit still so sensitive. He kisses me again and slowly maneuvers me onto my front, pulling my hips back to him.
“En levrette.”
Oh! I nod to show him I understand.
I look over my shoulder and Jacques grins at me, enjoying the view of me on all fours in front of him as he pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free and all I can do for a second is stare. It’s bigger than Ethan’s, thick and already slick with precum. I almost wish I could turn around, explain to him that I want to taste it, but my head is far too distracted to think of the words.
The bed creaks as he shifts his weight, one hand moving to my hip, the other stroking his erection, and I bite my bottom lip, closing my eyes to steel myself against the sheer size of him.
Jacques rubs the tip of his cock along my entrance, and I moan softly, hungry for the feeling of him inside of me. He murmurs something I can’t quite make out and then he’s sliding into me, filling me up inch by inch, pushing past the resistance of my body. I moan out, shivering with pure ecstasy as I take him deeper.
Jacques’ cock is so hot, so thick inside of me, it’s almost—for just a few heartbeats—uncomfortable, but I’m so wet from everything he’s done to me that I can take him easily. I push my hips back and Jacques thrusts deeper into me, groaning. He reaches around to my chest and I cry out as Jacques finds one of my nipples, twisting and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
I fall into his rhythm, pushing back to meet his thrusts, lost in the pleasure. All I care about is telling Jacques how good he feels, how much I want him, but I can’t tell when I’m speaking English and speaking French, and all I can make out about what he’s saying to me is how good I am, how tight I am. I grab onto the pillows in front of me and push back harder, crying out as Jacques nibbles at my shoulder, at the back of my neck, as his hands hold me exactly where he wants me and pounds into me harder and faster.
I press my face against the pillows, shaking from how good it feels, and I can feel Jacques’ cock beginning to twitch inside of me as he gets closer to his orgasm. I try to hold back; after all, I’m one ahead already, but I can’t after a few minutes. I hit my second climax, moaning and crying out in pleasure, and only a few moments later, I feel Jacques tense against me, feel his hips slam against my ass as he reaches his peak, buried deep inside of me. He holds onto me as he slams into me a few more hard, fast thrusts, and then we’re both collapsing onto the bed; the weight of his heavier body against mine feels absolutely perfect.
I doze off with Jacques on top of me, and I’m grinning in spite of the fact I’d made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t get involved with any guys for at least six months.
If I’d known that French guys were like this… I smile to myself and drift off.