19

“Abby?” Luc sounded strangled.

Abby swallowed, tried to reply, and then shook her head.

“What are…” He sounded tortured and a bit shocked. “What do you need?”

He shifted, the movement nothing like that frantic self-flagellation she’d been mesmerized by for those few seconds before he’d seen her.

Need? Goodness, what didn’t she need right now? She needed lessons, firstly, on how to navigate all the newness and these frighteningly raw sensations. How could she have known that the sight of a man doing things to himself would shake her so thoroughly?

She opened her mouth again and tried to speak, only her voice was gone. Broken apart, dried up, and splintered into hot shards embedded in her throat. In fact, there was nothing left in the bright, hollow upper half of her body, only a shell of craving. Thirst beyond anything she’d ever known.

Her bottom half, though, was different. Everything below her stomach was warm and full, weighted down by that same hunger—only there, it was swollen and plush, hefty with her desire. And she was wet. Absolutely soaking through the trousers she wore, making them uncomfortably damp against her skin.

“You. I need you, Luc.”

He sucked in a harsh breath but didn’t say anything.

She moved slowly, almost despite herself, toward the sofa, her eyes glued to that man. She sank to the sofa beside him, close enough to smell him.

“You were supposed to stay upstairs.” The words were like bright slaps, lighting her up in places she’d never fully explored.

“I don’t want to stay upstairs. I came down to tell you that I understood if you didn’t want me, but…” She took him in, from the wild halo of hair around his head to the broad, tense shoulders, over his flushed face with that scar she wanted to lick. “But you do want me, right?” When he looked to the side without answering, she went on. “I don’t want you to protect me from yourself, Luc. I’ve been protected enough, okay? Over and over and over again, I’ve been told what I should and should not do—for my own good, you see. Always for my own good. And I’m done with that. You think being with you would be bad for me? I can take that. In fact, I want it.” He was watching her now, eyes glittering on hers. Feeling brazen and raw, she lifted her hand and set it on his knee, saying, “Show me what you were doing under there, Luc. I want to see. Please.”

On a muttered curse, he reached a hard hand out, hooked her behind the neck, and pulled her closer, bringing her face near to his. His breath was harsh against her cheek, but even those agonized puffs meant something. They confirmed that he did want her.

“I want to help,” she finally managed to eke out, breathless and hoarse. “I’ve never… I didn’t know men did that. Will you show me?”

His hand started rubbing audibly up and down his…his… She didn’t have a word for this. No words for the motion she could hear, could imagine but couldn’t see. She was dying to see. “What do I do?”

Touch me, she wanted him to tell her.

His face, when he finally spoke, was a picture of reluctant submission, as if she’d forced his hand somehow. “Take off that shirt.” The words zapped her, lit her up, made all the soft parts of her body feel stiff and painfully alive.

Wordlessly, hands shaking, she reached for the back of the shirt, shook it forward, and let the sleeves slide down her arms. Oh, how odd that showing her body would make her want him more.

This is it. My succumbing.

No. Not succumbing. Overcoming.

The thought was unclouded, her decision self-aware, this descent into depravity utterly hers.

And oh, that got her wetter, screwed her up tighter, and made her ache for more.

Eager now, she flung the fabric away. He stopped moving and exhaled audibly, his jittery eyes flicking over her.

“I want…” he started, one hand frozen in midair. A glance down showed her braid, a thick rope draped over one breast. “Take it down for me? Please?”

She pulled the strands apart, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders, and he started moving again, slowly, the sound of his palm rough and explicit in the fire’s warm glow.

Just as she opened her mouth to ask what was next, he grated out words, raw and vulgar and almost incomprehensible to her ears.

“Pinch your…”

She frowned in those few moments before she understood. The sizzle of shock worked its way from those two sharp points, all the way to that unbearably empty place between her legs. She lifted her hands, almost afraid to touch herself. She was so sensitive, so needy. But his rasped “Do it,” in that voice, with that accent, and that look on his face, compelled her.

She tweaked her own nipples as Luc looked on, his eyes somehow watchful and lazy all at once. As she moved, she couldn’t even begin to picture the other times she’d been touched. What she’d done before—even with Benji—had absolutely nothing in common with this ocean of sensuality. It felt deep and limitless in a way she couldn’t begin to describe. This felt inevitable, natural.

Right.

She moaned, the sound as tortured as the man before her, and he stopped. But Lord, why did he look so angry, still, as if she’d cornered him and made him do horrible things?

And I haven’t even touched him.

“What do you want me to—”

“Would you…take the pants off?”

Oh. Oh no, she couldn’t do that, be completely unclothed, and wet to boot. Goodness, what would he think of all that wetness between her legs? He’d think she was—

“You don’t have to, Abby.” Funny how those words made her want to.

“You’re right. I don’t.” But she did want to. Lord, wasn’t having a choice the most addictive thing in the world? Their eyes caught and held, shared something profound.

It lit her up as surely as her fingers on her breasts.

Shoving away the doubt—not easy when there was a lifetime of shame to get through—she stood before him and pulled off the pants he’d loaned her.

He let out a breathy groan that sounded like it hurt. When her eyes went to his, she saw exactly what had brought it on. That place between her legs was glistening with need, her hairs curled and visibly damp. She hurried to cover herself, but Luc, fast as lightning, moved to still her wrist, just grazing her in the process. That wisp of contact—barely a breeze over the light hairs there—was enough to still her. It also broke through the wall he’d built between them. The wall that had allowed them to talk and move and touch themselves but hadn’t even hinted at this connection.

Oh, but they’d known about the connection. They’d felt it before, every time they’d touched. Only now it went from thrilling to something bigger, more electric, harsh and almost unbearable in its intensity.

He didn’t make a move. Abby, mesmerized by her outrageous desires, slid her wrist into that sandpaper hand.

It took him a while to grasp her. Long, slow seconds, thicker than heartbeats. One…two… With a twitch, his hand tightened.

He’ll do it now. The thought came out of nowhere. He’ll put it in me. All business, like Hamish.

But no—with Hamish there’d been no zinging and need and emptiness. There hadn’t even been a discussion when he’d done it.

This time, she wanted it. This time, it was her doing it. The two of them.

She let him coax her up and over his reclining body, too far, until that wet place hovered directly over his face. He eyed her hungrily before grasping her bottom and urging her back down, right onto his face.

She screamed when his mouth hit her there. Not a breathy sound, like the others, but a tormented ah that had Le Dog lifting his head by the fire.

He pulled back. “You want me to stop?”

“Stop?” she gasped. “No! Goodness no! Show me what’s next.”

Like a starving man, he dove back into her body. If she’d thought the sensations were too much before, now they were… Oh Lord, it was sheer decadence, what he did, his face in her…in her… Oh, goodness, what was it called? It was too much, too much.

His tongue slid along her center, then up, up, so soft and—she let out another sound, this time darker, the sensation so sharp where he was that she knew she’d go there. To that place she’d been once or twice with her hand between her legs. This would be with Luc, though, humming into her flesh, consuming her in a way that was earthy and demanding and inexorable. She’d die, she knew, if he pushed her too far. So, hands scrabbling at his head, she yanked at his hair. “Stop, stop, no, stop,” she begged.

He pulled back with a groan and shifted her down a few inches, his face lost and hungry and shining with wetness. Her wetness, she knew, the thought as thrilling as it was mortifying. He let her wipe him off with a swipe of her hand, and then he trapped her hand and held it while he ran his tongue from her palm to fingertip.

He’s licking my juices. The realization hit her hard in the gut, and her womb clenched down.

“You ruin me, Abby.” The words sounded puzzled and a bit lost.

Abby opened her mouth to apologize and froze. She could never go back to the lies and denial—to that life she’d been bred to believe in.

Her answer, when it came, was from deep down inside—that bright, little heart of a sinner.

“What do we do next?”

* * *

This was Luc’s problem. This uncontrollable yearning to feel things—things he’d gotten away with avoiding these past couple of years. He didn’t just want to touch and feel this woman’s body—he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and ransack her. Not just experience her, but consume. He’d held on until tonight, but then he’d gotten his mouth on her, and he was gone.

There were women who wanted this sexual voraciousness, he knew, but not Abby. He would never do that to Abby. He’d rather shut himself down, tie himself up…disappear.

But then she sat back, eyes glittering, and asked for more. What do we do next? A siren’s song of pleasure.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. “What do you feel like?”

“How do I… I don’t know.”

He swallowed, taking her in where she sat astride him—those breasts that were soft and warm and heavy, her skin lighter than he’d imagined, her nipples sharpened by desire. Her smell was different from any other woman he’d been intimate with—pure in its humanity. She was sweet musk, unadorned—unadulterated by the chemical stink of perfume or fancy shampoo.

Face crinkling, she asked, “If we were normal—and I know we’re not,” she added with a smile, “what would you do?”

He half shrugged and swallowed. “I’d touch you, probably. Find out what you like.”

“Do that, then.”

“I like this.” He worked his hand out from under her and ran it over the underside of one breast. It was plump and pale and so soft. From there, he let his hand slide away and ran his knuckles down to the slight swell of her belly, around to one lush, freckled hip, and then did a slow, rasping drag up her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck.

Christ, this neck had haunted him—so slender and sweet, untouched by the sun. He shifted her down so their crotches lined up, with just the blanket separating them. From there, he sat up a bit, bringing their torsos close and letting him breathe her in.

The sounds that she made spoke of undeniable pleasure, arousal, and surprise. When he caught her eye, she shook her head and looked away.

He wished, in that moment, that he was a different sort of man. One who knew the right words, could spout a line or two of poetry.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, chérie? What is it?”

His hand cradled her throat as she swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“What I was missing.”

“This is good? When I touch you?”

“Better than good.”

His smile was satisfied as he ran his hand from her nape, along that braid, and down her back, where it brushed a bandage.

Everything stopped.

Everything except for the pop of the fire and the crazed whimpers she made while she rocked against him.

He blinked, reality setting back in. Her scent and her taste and the sight of her eager and open had made him forget those marks on her back.

He sat still, upended and suspended—on the cusp of so many things.

Breathing hard, he waited, cock pulsing, painfully close to that tight, hot promise.

He wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know when he asked, “Will you tell me what they did to you?”

“Right now? That would kind of ruin the moment, wouldn’t it?” She gave him a forced-looking smile.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Abby.”

She shook her head. “You won’t.”

“How can you be su—”

Her weight shifted, and she leaned into him, hands tight on his shoulders, face inches away. “I know what it’s like, Luc, to be taken without an ounce of excitement or desire. I know how it feels to be a duty and nothing else. To be used for my body in the worst possible way.” Those strange animal eyes caressed his face. “Could we stop talking about this? I want to do something for the sheer pleasure of it. At least once in my life.” God, how could she be so innocent and yet not? He couldn’t get his mind around that.

“But what of”—he grazed her shoulder with his thumb—“what of your back?”

“Can we do…” She paused and looked to the side, awkward for the first time since they’d started. “When you…licked me. It didn’t hurt.”

On a hot exhalation, Luc reached up and tweaked her nipple—just a little. “Does that hurt?”

She shivered and shook her head, her gaze glued to his hand as it slid down to cup her sex, where his fingers found her clit and circled it. He watched the goose bumps perk up across her skin.

“What about this?” he whispered, entranced by her reactions. She was so pure in her pleasure.

A low oh emerged from her half-open mouth.

“Hein? What, Abby?” he teased, taking hold of her hips to line her up with the outline of his cock and slide against her, up and back. The movement was so wonderfully sexual that it made him want more—he wanted to see.

“It’s good. So good.” As if reading his mind, she reached for the blanket separating them and tugged it down, lifting herself up to shove it out of the way. When she sank back down, her bare, slick heat slid against his cock with explicit perfection, and he thought he’d die. The woman needed no direction. She put her hands on his chest and slid up and back, up and back, each slide bringing him closer to coming.

He eventually tore his attention away from the silky glide of their sexes long enough to take in her face.

“You’re beautiful, Abby. So beautiful.”

“I want…” She was out of breath, her eyes vague.

He let his hands guide her hips for a few beats, marveling at how she soaked him down there. “What, cherie? What do you want?”

“Oh Lord, I can’t say it.”

“Then how will I know?”

He continued to move, even when she slanted forward and hid her face in his shoulder. “I’m not…I’m not even sure how to…” They both made a low sound when the head of his cock notched right at her entrance, stopping everything but the beating of their hearts. She turned her head into the crook of his neck and whispered, “I’m so bad. I shouldn’t want this, but I do.”

“Yes?” He was practically gasping when he spoke now, his control a pathetic, frayed thing. No surprise after years of abstinence. Looking at her, he amended that thought. It wasn’t the years without sex that made him lose it. It was this woman. Unfettered desire, utterly unashamed. She was perfection, sexier than anything he’d seen in his life. “Tell me what it is that you want, ma belle.” For a man who had no time for words, he suddenly wanted them badly. What would she call this? Would the descriptions sound dirty tumbling from her perfectly curved lips?

“I want you to”—she swallowed, the sound dry in the quiet room, and the rest of her words were a barely audible whisper, just a hot puff of air against his earlobe—“put it in me. Please.”

His balls, hot and tight, came close to exploding at those words. It was the most delightfully filthy thing he’d heard in his entire life.

He’d just reached down to take himself in hand when a thought cut in. Condom. How had that escaped him? What was he thinking? That would be ruination of an entirely different sort.

This woman stole his breath away and shut his brain off.

“We need a condom,” he said, squeezing her hip. “I have some in the bathroom.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what that is.”

“No?” For some reason, that made him laugh—just a soft chuckle of affection that turned into a kiss, languorous and warm as the fire.

How the hell am I going to survive once she leaves?

He pushed back the thought as fast as it had come.

Finally, he extricated himself from her embrace, ignoring the chill as he shifted out from under her, and said, “I’ll show you.”

He stood and pulled his pants back up before walking to the bathroom.

It was too bright while he rooted around in the medicine cabinet for the box he hoped hadn’t expired. He’d bought them shortly after arriving here, although even then, he’d figured it would take a miracle to actually find someone with whom he’d use them. He almost laughed at that. It had taken a miracle, hadn’t it? A woman literally falling—if not in his lap, at least on his land.

After what felt like an eternity, he found them, closed the medicine cabinet door…and there he was, his face in the mirror an ugly thing.

Strange how many thoughts could race through a person’s mind at the same time. A picture of her on his sofa, wanton and wanting, immediately transposed by that feeling he got when he had to deal with too many people at once—a flash of something close to panic. But he wasn’t sure if it was because of those lunatics over the hill, just waiting to destroy her—and him—or if it was the idea of her leaving after this.

Staring hard at himself—through the sun damage and the scar from that last fight with Olivier—he wondered what the hell she saw in him. A savior, probably. A doorway out of here.

In his hand, the condom crinkled, and he blinked hard at it for a second or two.

Leaving the bathroom door open for the swath of light it offered, he returned to stand in front of where she still sat on the sofa, condom package in hand and heart in his throat. Something about the way she watched him from under the blanket, eyes fogged up with incomprehension and lust, made him stop.

“Is it me you want?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Or is it just sex on your terms that you need?”

Something in her shifted, and she ran narrowed eyes over him from top to bottom and back up to his face again.

“Would it make a difference?” she asked, her expression hard.

“Yes. Yes, I think it would.”

Gathering the blanket to her chest, she leaned forward, crooking her finger for him to get down to her level. He squatted.

“I could ask the same of you, couldn’t I, Luc?” He blinked. “Am I just a convenient happenstance? Naked and ready and in your house?”

“God no. You’re…” He sucked in a breath and admitted what he’d been trying to deny since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. “You’re everything.” What he’d meant was “you’re innocent perfection,” but that wasn’t right either, because he didn’t care about virginity in a woman. He wanted a different sort of purity. He wanted her because she’d never play games, and he’d had enough of those for a lifetime. He wanted her unadulterated beauty, her guileless desire, her truthfulness.

She huffed out a disbelieving laugh and slid a hand down his scarred cheek, while something inside of Luc loosened, maybe even disappeared entirely.

“All right, then.” Her eyes went to the condom crushed in his hand. “Why don’t you show me what that’s all about?”

He turned to kiss her palm and imagined—for just one second—how this could be if she stayed. If, one day, they stopped using condoms. He’d build onto the cabin and… No point, though, was there? For her safety. For his.

Throwing off the fantasy, he asked, “You’ve never seen one?”

She shook her head.

“This is to keep you…us…from having a”—he swallowed back another totally misplaced wave of regret—“a baby.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“Men put it on for birth control. But also against disease.” Was that hesitation on her face? “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want.”

“I’ve never…” Oh hell. What was she going to say? “I’ve only ever done this with the…man on top.”

“But you’ve done it?”

“Yes.” She paused, pursed her lips, and lifted that strong chin. “Or it’s been done to me, I guess.”

He shoved away the anger that brought up in him and focused on the other thing. She wasn’t a virgin. That was a relief. She was a virgin, though, when it came to pleasure. That notion got him riled up again. He could be the one to give her pleasure for the first time. And with that excitement came a sense of responsibility.

“Okay.” He swallowed and rose from the floor to settle onto the sofa beside her. Eyes on her disheveled body. “You do it. You’re in charge.”

“Me? I couldn’t. I’d—” She stopped, her expression a caricature of denial and then…excitement? She smiled. “Really?” Her whisper covered him like a caress, and all he could do was nod and smile back. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? Like he was something to be enjoyed, not just the other way around?

“Yes. You can do it. It does not have to be me.”

Her gaze turned greedy, her eyes more potent than the touch of her hand.

“I don’t…I don’t know how to start.”

“We don’t have to do the condom right away,” he offered, wanting to kick himself. “We can…do whatever you want. What do you want, Abby?”

* * *

Abby was finally doing what she’d once been accused of: defiling a man. And it was glorious. This time, she couldn’t seem to dredge up any guilt over it. All she could find was excitement, warm and electrifying.

Never mind that she was sitting naked with a man. Being unclothed was a novel feeling as it was, but to be close enough to feel his body warmth was… Drawing in a shuddering breath, she shifted closer. It was exhilarating and frightening and liberating all at once.

“What do I do first?”

He sounded breathy when he asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I want you to take off your shirt. I want to see the rest of you.”

“Help me do it,” he said, the words sharp spikes of need between her legs. “Undo my shirt. Please.”

With trembling hands, she leaned over, reveling in the brush of her breast against his arm, and undid one pale button at a time, until he sat there in a tighter, long-sleeved top.

“Will you help me with this one?” She pulled at the fabric.

Almost impatiently, he yanked the cotton over his head and—

“Oh, goodness.” Abby was without words. She let her eyes take him in. The warm humanity of him was so different close up—breathtaking and a bit intimidating, but above all, real. She’d underestimated his size, somehow assuming that layers of clothing added to him. Instead, he was bigger, more physical than she’d imagined. His wide chest was packed tight with muscle, so vital that she ached to taste it.

“Good or bad?” Was that insecurity in his eyes?

“Oh, heavens, you’re lovely.” That made him laugh. A rough bark of a sound, loud in this enclosed place.

“Can I…” She lifted a hand.

“Go on.”

Heat simmered off him, palpable before their skin even met.

First, she touched the hair she’d seen from afar, sprinkled across his skin in a pattern whose perfection was no doubt dictated by God. She brushed over it lightly, expecting it to be coarse.

“Soft,” she murmured before bending forward and setting the side of her forehead against the center of his chest. His heartbeat thumped against her temple, connecting them somehow even deeper.

He let out a strangled noise but made no move to touch her, which was both a frustration and a relief.

Slow as syrup, she nudged him with her nose, drew him in—here, where his smell was potent and addictive—and let her lips rest on skin that was burning up. His heartbeat turned frantic, the rise and fall of his lungs fast, his breath shaky.

“Is this good?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

Abby pulled away, eyeing his tiny, brown nipples.

“What do I do next?”

“You tell me.”

“I want to do the bottom, too.”

Standing, he helped her pull down his trousers, baring long, muscular legs, with a sprinkling of black hair that she wanted to feel…against her face, if he’d let her. Lord, Isaiah was right. She was utterly licentious.

That made her smile, the guilt softened by the firelight and the affection in this man’s eyes.

Shifting back gave her the chance to take him all in, everything from the broad expanse of his shoulders, down over arms sculpted out of something harder than flesh and blood, to those hands, every inch of him taut and full of energy. But oh, those hands. What could they make her feel? She imagined how it would have been if she’d been given to this man in marriage instead of Hamish. Would she have felt differently, then? Would climbing into bed at night have been a pleasure rather than a chore?

“It’s too dark in here,” she said.

“For what?”

“I can’t…see you properly.”

With a half-strangled chuckle, he went over to turn on the lamp, casting more light on his body, along with a good dose of hesitation.

“What am I supposed to do next?”

“You’re asking me, Abby?”

“I don’t understand how this works,” she said, frustrated.

“What?”

“There’s this impulse in me, like an itch I need to scratch. What do I do with it?”

Now she was the one pleading.

Dropping his chin, he seemed to gather himself, the muscles along his shoulders such a solid frame for his indecision. But when he looked back at her, something in him had changed. His eyes were bright, his jaw tight, his next words a bright, red flag in the air.

He sat back down beside her. “Use me.” His voice was low and eager. “Use me to figure it out.”

She didn’t need a second invitation. Life was moving too fast as it was. She needed to get Sammy out and disappear, so this could be her only chance, over in the blink of an eye. She swallowed back the lump of regret that formed in her throat.

Funny, though, because the progression to this moment had actually been long and slow. She’d watched him for years, memorized his shape—from far away, at least. Above the neck, she knew every line, scar, and freckle. Every frown, every questioning curve of the brow. But she knew only one facet—like smelling a meal and never getting to taste. She wanted more. And Lord, wasn’t that just her in a nutshell? More, more, always more, Mama would say.

Now, she was assailed by the prospect of tastes and smells and the feel of him under her skin. All of the experimentation and discovery she could do with that body at her disposal.

She voiced her last remaining fear. “What if I do it wrong?”

“There is no wrong.”

“And if you don’t like it?”

He smirked. “I’ll like it. What does your body tell you to do, Abby?”

Everything! her skin screamed, nerve endings so alive that even the burns truly hurt for the first time after being numb for hours. But it didn’t matter. The pain was sensation, and that was key.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she scooted closer to him, subconsciously licking her lips, as if admiring a feast spread out. From the top of his windblown hair to the bottom of his toes, she wanted this man.

He patted his knee. “Come here.” She hesitated, and he went on. “Put your leg up and over.”

With alacrity, she hooked one leg over him, straddling him so that their sexes fit snuggly together, with just the fabric of his underwear between them. The need to rock her hips and rub against him was too strong to resist, and she shuddered as pleasure ran up her spine, something like an ache settling in her belly.

Her body took over, leaving her mind behind to watch in shock from her perch above him. The noise she made was primal and ugly as her hands tore at Luc’s hair. Luc, instead of being offended or hurt or angry, as she’d imagine any other man would be, seemed just as hungry. His eyes ate her up, and his hands guided her, urging her this way and that, all the while fulfilling his promise to let her do the doing.

He shifted below her, his movements almost frenzied as he rubbed and rubbed. She answered in kind, her body making the decisions her mind hadn’t yet considered.

But my body is me, she recognized. She took the idea and owned it, letting it light her up from the tips of her fingers to the depths of her soul.

It shimmered inside, that sensation, high and floating and spinning in the air. It settled into her limbs until they grew limper with every new shift of her hips, every lifting of his. All the while, he watched her with those deep-sea eyes. Playing her, accompanying her, coaxing her body for more, until there was nothing left to give, and she slumped forward against him. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, but something was still missing.

“Luc, I want…”

“What, mon coeur? What?” He was breathing hard, his face tense and concentrated, the look of him… Goodness, was there anything more lovely than the expression on this man’s face? So serious as his gaze flicked to hers, then down to his hands on her body, then farther to where they connected—or nearly, if it wasn’t for that cloth barrier. Sucking in a breath full of their combined, earthy scent, she glanced down.

In shock, she took in how lewd it all was—that navy-blue cotton stained by her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Fuck me, Abby,” Luc begged, sounding nothing like himself. The same voice, familiar but lost. Abby blinked in shock at that word.

“I don’t…” She swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

“Up,” he ordered, swatting at her bottom. It was too gentle to hurt, but the sting echoed with pleasure.

Using his shoulders as a support, she pushed up to kneeling and watched as he shifted, pulled down his shorts, and used his hand to lift his…his what? Frustration swept up inside of her. She didn’t even know the words for these things. Manhood, she’d heard, but that sounded stilted and wrong.

“What do I call your…your…” She reached out, gingerly, and ran a finger up it.

“Ma bite? In English, people say ‘cock.’”

“Your cock,” she said, eyeing it on a satisfied exhale, hovering somewhere between hunger and uncertainty. That was what Hamish had put inside of her? No. No, it couldn’t be. This was so much bigger…more imposing, and appealing. She yearned to taste it.

Could she? He’d put his mouth on her, hadn’t he? Could she maybe just…

“It’s big, Luc.” It hadn’t looked nearly that big against his hand earlier.

He stilled, his expression somewhere between pride and uncertainty.

“Oh yes?”

“Can Ic”

It was strange, the things that occurred to her as she took him in hand. It was surprisingly heavy, the skin softer than her own. Every part of him was hard and scarred and callused, but not here. Not this sweet, intimate place. There was no give, which was fascinating. And there, at the tip, was a clear bead of fluid. She ran a thumb over it, then, eyes on his, lifted it to her mouth for a taste. Salty.

Her only warning before Luc took over was a groan, so desperate it clawed at her insides and made her nipples ache. Apparently, the time for exploration was past. In a frenzy, he grasped her hips and pulled her back above him, took hold of himself, and ran it up against that aching, soaked place in her body. He moved himself—his cock—back down, up and down a few times, lighting her up with every glancing touch against that magical spot. He stroked himself to a glistening shine before notching tightly to her, his one hand squeezing, tight, tight, tight, his eyes flying to arrest against hers, waiting. On the edge.

“Wait,” he breathed, more to himself than to her. “Wait. Hold on. Condom.” His hand searched the sofa, sliding between the cushions and coming out with the foil square. He ripped it open, gripped himself, and pumped hard a couple of times before rolling the ring all the way on. “Okay. Now, you do it. Lift up, and I’ll…” He swallowed audibly. “You can take me inside.”

She glanced up at those words to catch him biting his lip, his eyes concentrated hard on that place where their bodies met, and steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. Slowly, full of defiance and excitement but not an iota of fear, she lowered her body onto Luc’s.

An animal sound came straight from her chest as he pressed in, in. It felt dirty, but in the best possible way as his body worked its way into hers. There was no pain, though, no cringing hesitation, nothing even remotely resembling duty in this taking. And who’s taking whom anyway? she asked herself as she took him in, swallowed him up. There was a moment when the big, blunt crown of him caught at her opening, that she felt a hitch of something familiar—more of a stretching than pain. But one look at his eyes, so intent and so warm, brought her back to the here and the now, where desire reigned supreme. So she gave in to the pressure of his hand on her thigh and let her baser instincts guide her down, his body easing into hers, filling her and bringing her pleasure like nothing she’d ever felt.

His expression, though—good God, the man looked shocked and pained and suspended, mouth hanging open. His lips were ripe and as needy as her whole body, just begging for a kiss that she couldn’t give him, because she couldn’t move. She was stuck, impaled, waiting for the next tiny advance, the thick, thick reality of her body accepting another.

“Oh, Luc.” She shuddered as her bottom finally settled on the top of his thighs and their chests came together with a different sort of friction, the tingling of her tight nipples like sparks in her veins. Somehow, her insides tightened even further around him. He groaned, bent forward enough to put his teeth on the cord that connected the top of her shoulder to her neck and bit.

He moved, fingers tight on her bottom, lifting and drawing back down, every slide hitting something inside and forcing her tighter, tighter.

“I want,” she gasped, with no idea what the next words would be. None.

Only he seemed to get it, because he muttered, “Oui, c’est ça. Keep moving,” while one of his hands shifted forward, to the place where their bodies came together, and pressed that tiny, wonderful, sharp place.

She screamed, screamed, because the shock of it was electrifying.

Luc met her eyes, looking almost surprised, before concentrating on that place even more, his fingers agile.

“Fuck, Abby, I’ve got to come.”

She looked at his face, all flushed and drawn. “Come?” she asked, bleary-eyed.

“Climax. Orgasm.” The words emerged as quick, staccato shots. They felt perfect and dirty.

“When the…” She swallowed, not understanding any of it, just rolling her hips against his. The sofa beneath them squeaked with every bounce of their bodies, and even that sound made her hotter, weaker, closer to that…thing. “That thing when the procreation happens?”

Apparently that wasn’t right, because he huffed out a laugh, but the sound was more self-deprecating than insulting. She felt the vibration inside her.

“Oh, yes. Procreation. How to… I… My cock… It spurts out fluid. In French, it’s called jouir. Jouissance means…‘enjoyment’ or ‘pleasure.’”

“For me?” She didn’t even understand what she meant by that.

“Yes. Yes, you can do it, too.” He breathed through a particularly tight twist of her hips and worked his hand harder between their bodies. “Jouissance. Joy.”

“Oh,” she said as he hit her in that spot again. Pulling back, she watched him work at her, shocked by the visuals that she’d been missing for years. She was close enough to that climax to feel it approach, rumbling toward her fast and furious and inevitable.

“It’s coming,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“You feel so fucking good.” He looked down, concentrated on what his hand was doing. “You hear that?” he growled, and she did. The sloppy, wet smack of their joining was slightly mortifying and exceptionally arousing.

His fingers tweaked her again and again as they slipped and slid through her. She moved on him, less of an up and down and more an internal clenching as their bodies lost control and the want took over. As her climax arrived, bigger and stronger than anything she’d had to endure, she leaned in and put her lips to his, eating his moans and breaths and uncontrollable joy.

She reached it—that crest—pressing down onto him, his hips straining up to meet hers and tightening against her as she clamped him inside, mouth to mouth, forehead to forehead. Just as she blinked the first wave of pleasure away, the lights went out with a bang, leaving them in total silence and utter darkness. Abby tingled from her fingers to her toes as she sat out of breath, the two of them all alone in the world.