25

The tiny apartment upstairs from the Nook reminded Luc of something you’d find on the top floor of a Paris apartment building. A real estate agent would no doubt call this “character.” Le Dog didn’t seem to mind, though. With a satisfied huff, he settled next to what looked like a heating vent. Not even the thumping floor seemed to bother him.

“You’re living here?”

“Yes.” She indicated that he should sit, but he couldn’t. Who could possibly sit with this much…energy running through him?

He shoved back the anger he felt at Abby living in a place like this. Cracks in the ceiling, a kitchen sink stained beyond repair, linoleum that should have been replaced decades ago. She didn’t belong here.

Not like she belongs in your crappy cabin, came a voice from the back of his mind.

Swallowing back the hounding voices of doubt, he served the wine and waited for her to sit. When she didn’t, he stayed standing, suddenly filled with doubt.

“I’ve…I’ve missed you.” The words didn’t sound like his. They sounded too weak. Too real.

“You have?” Her eyes were massive and liquid, and fuck, they made him feel so damned alive.

He huffed out a strangled laugh and slugged back a glass of wine rather than throwing himself at her feet.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in lieu of a response.

“Fine. Better.”

“Your back?”

“Yes.” After a pause during which they both drank, she elaborated. “It’s better. Not perfect, but better.”

“Good.” Why was this so awkward? It shouldn’t be awkward, it should be—

At the sink, she reached up for a glass—a jam jar—and filled it with water. She slugged it back and splashed her face.

Only then did he take in the details of her—not their disgusting surroundings or his disgusting thoughts, but her. She looked…good. Tall and full, her body different in clothing that was her size. Blue jeans that fit her. A shirt that flowed from her strong, slender shoulders, down over breasts that were lush and full and suspended. A bra, which both delighted and dismayed him. The thought of fancy, frilly lingerie on this woman was enough to heat his blood.

He pictured men seeing her in the lingerie. Other men, many men. Like that barman downstairs, whose throat he’d rip out, whose fucking heart he’d tear into pieces, whose stupid, lascivious grin he’d—

Her hands grasped his face, and she kissed him, hard.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered in his mouth, and Christ, he couldn’t stop himself from crushing her with his arms, pulling her in tight and seeking out the hollow of her neck, that place where the smell was purely her. Even with the scents of the bar layered over top and odors of cooking, he found her there and drew her in. Home. She felt like home.

Her lips went to his again and gave him the kiss he’d been missing for so long, sensation, yes, but so full of emotion, he thought he’d drown in it. Christ, what had he done before her?

Her mouth was hot and hungry, the sounds she made even better.

“Take this off,” she whispered, plucking at the coat he still wore. Hurriedly, he removed it and then, at her urging, his shirt.

Everything stopped when she put her head to his chest—an echo of what she’d done the week before in his cabin—and breathed. Just breathed.

“What are you doing, amour?”

“Listening,” she whispered. “Just listening.”

“There’s nothing there.”

She exhaled loudly and shook her head from side to side.

“You have no idea, do you, Luc?” she asked, finally pulling back to look him in the eye, her face…tragic, maybe, which he hated. “No idea.”

“About what?” he asked, truly puzzled.

“Your heart, Luc. You have no idea how beautiful it is.”

All he could do was watch her, this woman who didn’t realize she’d stolen it right out from inside him.

* * *

Abby meant to tell him what she planned. But then she’d seen his face—that sweet, scarred face—and she couldn’t help but kiss him. After that, his shock had been so palpable, and she’d known in this instinctive sort of way that he was shocked at her desire and her emotion. He was shocked by how much she wanted him.

It made her want him so hard she couldn’t stop touching him, caressing him. Good Lord, if she could, she’d consume every inch of him.

Which gave her an idea.

The impact of her body against his was jarring. It rattled her foundations. It probably jolted the dancers downstairs in the bar. Her hand in his hair, yanking his head closer, his face near hers, their teeth clashing too hard. His lips were torture; he could kill her with that tongue, and oh no, his smell. His smell was torment. Excruciatingly perfect.

She’d sell her soul for that smell. To the devil. She’d let Isaiah and his minions burn every inch of her. Something purely animal escaped her mouth. No containing it, but that was fine. Fine when he took it, ate it up, gave her a noise of his own.

Goodness, where was this coming from? The need and the…greed? Where had she kept it all these years, up until she’d met this man? It was old and deep and strong, an overflowing well.

Luc’s shoulders were hot under her hands. Her fingers scrabbled at his waist, tore at it until he helped her get whatever it was off, down, down, landing at their feet with the clunk of keys.

Bless me, this body.

She glanced down to see his underwear—navy-blue shorts—and the need to consume him swelled anew.

I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t.

Slowly, she sank to her knees.

“Don’t do that. Don’t, Abby,” he said, his accent thick, choppier than she’d ever heard it. She tucked her fingers into his waistband and dragged it down, slowly, slowly, while his voice faded away to a pained-sounding groan.

He seemed far away up there now, with her face next to his cock and his smell so warm and potent and perfect.

She bit her lip to hold back a sound of her own and slowly reached for him. He was big and thick, and the color of him here was darker than she remembered. Above her somewhere, he protested, but his hands hung limp at his sides, which made the protest feel halfhearted.

Full of curiosity and desire, she brought him—his cock—close to her face and ran it along her cheek. It was so soft she had to do it again, and Luc sounded like he was dying. With a half smile, she eyed him. “You okay?” she asked. Goodness, how had she not known the power of this? Of holding a man’s desire in her hand? Of drawing it out until it stretched thin and tight between them like a guitar string, taut enough to break, but so perfectly pitched when she plucked it.

On that note, she ran her nose along him, breathed him in and then lowered her mouth to his crown, where she ventured a taste—just a lick, really, but enough to make Luc shudder above her, and she met his eyes and smiled.

Look at me now, she thought as she took him into her mouth, slow, slow, filling her, so ripe and lush and perfect until it was too much and she withdrew, a touch out of breath but ready for more.

More, oh God, more. She might have actually said it, because he released a noise that sounded like aching and pushed into her mouth a little deeper, another time, even deeper, until she took him in far, and then his hands pulled her up.

“Come on, Abby. Not like that. Not on the floor like that.”

She stood, and her shirt was gone, rent open with nothing but the echoing ping of eight tiny buttons to remember it by. It took her a second to realize she’d been the one to rip it off. She’d paid ten dollars for this shirt today. Too much, but she’d liked the color. The stupid thing was the exact color of Luc Stanek’s eyes. Beneath it, she wore her first modern bra—complete with underwire, which held her in a way she found erotic against her skin.

She didn’t get rid of the bra like she had the shirt. Instead, he yanked the cups down, baring her, opening her up, thrusting her breasts even higher, served on a platter. He stroked a nipple, not nearly hard enough when she wanted him to bite. Abby stopped breathing, her underwear suddenly too tight. The blue jeans lost their appeal. Too complicated, too…constrictive.

“Would you…would you bite it? Please?”

And his face—Luc’s furrowed face, too tender and full of surprise, focused on her breasts for one, two, three seconds before he leaned down and touched his lips to her. Not the bite she’d been craving, but she knew he wasn’t the brute he pretended to be. And oh, the noise from her lungs deflated. Half scream, half pained moan, her head flopped back, and her hips… Why did they do that? Rocking, rocking, in search of something.

He took his mouth away, hot and wet where it had sucked at her nipple, and brought it to the other one, pinching the first and lifting them both, drawing them together, muttering. What was he saying? He sounded lost. Some of it was in French. She liked the way those words tore at her, a little at a time, but some of it came out in English, and it was crass.

“You missed me, Abby? Did you? Because I could not stop thinking of you. Every day. Every fucking minute.” He didn’t look happy about it.

“Lord, yes,” she bit out, taking hold of his hand and putting it between her legs. When did I get this bossy? she wondered as he rubbed her through her jeans.

And there it was again, that pressure in her abdomen, warm and electric. Hands at her waist, fumbling, the sound of a zipper, stiff material scraping down her legs, his rough hands following it down. At the bottom, the fabric got stuck in her boots, and with a frustrated sound, he squatted, yanked hard at one boot until it gave and the fabric slid off with it. Without doing the other side, he paused where he was.

Inhale. Exhale. She took in what felt like her first breath since this all began. No wonder things were out of focus.

“Come here,” she said, her voice hoarser than she’d ever heard it.

“Wait.” He was looking at her—not her face, but down there. His breath was warm on her, and she could smell it: her own female scent. The one she equated with pleasure—with him.

“Come here, Luc. Hurry. I want…” Everything. Her hands—God, they had a mind of their own—tried to pull him up. “Now.”

Instead of obeying, he reached out and touched her, right where the hair sprang up in unruly curls between her legs. And while his hands had been a bit rough when they had rid her of the trousers, now they were gentle, even shaky.

The back of his knuckles brushed against the hair, before his hand twisted and cupped her, one finger straightening and reaching beneath, between her lips, where it slipped and slid. Back and forth once, twice, and back, circling her opening before sliding in.

Ah, sweet relief.

Her knees loosened and almost gave. Downstairs, the music was turned up a notch, and the floor shook rhythmically under her feet, but here the only noise was the messy, slick slide of his finger pressing in and out of her body. She looked down to find his brow furrowed, his features tight with concentration, gaze fixed on where his finger disappeared between her legs. She’d never seen that look on his face, none of the peace he showed when he worked or the light humor he’d shown other times. He looked intense, focused.

“From that first day, Abby, I’ve been yours. Yours,” he said, the words sounding torn from his throat. And Lord, for a moment, she thought she might cry.

Instead, she pulled at his hair, reached for his face, because right now, she wanted him thick and deep. She wanted him so deep she’d never forget.

“I want you to fuck me, Luc,” she said, her voice more decisive than she’d ever heard it, that word lighting her up.

It worked though—seemed to wake him from his daze, got him up and moving, tugging at his pocket, pulling open his wallet. What on earth was he doing with his wallet?

She tried to slap it away from him, but he kept on, pulled something out. A foil square like the one they’d used last time. A condom. How strange. And serendipitous.

She watched him rip it open with his teeth and pull it out before slipping the ring over the tip of his cock. She’d just had it in her mouth, but still it surprised her, made her want to taste it again, which felt like a tragedy, since she couldn’t keep doing this to him. She had to get Sammy and go. That was it. Get Sammy and go.

Stop it. Enjoy this moment.

She held her breath and let her eyes meet his. They watched her. Waiting.

He’d stopped. “You want this, Abby?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“I’m not good at…talking about things. Making them pretty.”

“I know,” she said, but she also knew it wasn’t true. He’d made her feel special with his words, but also his looks, his touch.

“I want to fuck you so hard.”

Oh, that sent a new wave of heat into her face. It prickled her scalp.

“Do it.” That felt like a challenge. She liked the way his fingers pinched her nipple in reply.

“I want to forget about everything.”

What? What did he want to forget about? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered when he grabbed her hard at her hips and pushed her back, back, back to the chipped Formica edge of the kitchenette counter, lifted her up. It didn’t matter that the surface beneath was wet with water or that she was just as wet between her legs.

And hungry. Terribly hungry.

“Don’t forget,” she muttered, pulling at him, trying to, but he wouldn’t let her. He caught her hands in his, held them behind her back with one of his, and kissed her. Slow and deep and wet.

This. This was the kiss she’d remember for the rest of her life. This was the kiss that would warm her bed when she was far from here. This was the kiss that would make her forget what Isaiah might still be doing to the others on the mountain when she and Sammy were long gone.

This was the kiss.

* * *

Luc hadn’t meant to go all sweet. He’d wanted to fuck her, hard. But then he’d caught sight of her face and those lips, and the kiss just happened.

One moment he felt nothing but animal desire and the next…

Soft lips, softer whimpers, soft breasts against his chest. Why did it make his lungs go tight? Instead of keeping her hands trapped behind her back, he let them go, begging, “Put your hands on me, please,” in a hoarse voice. He waited as she slid one in his hair; the other stroked down to his waist and up to his chest, where her nails dug in.

He’d never experienced anything like Abby’s touch. Nothing was better than the soft edge of her tongue against his or the way she nipped at his lip. Nothing more satisfying than the rasp of his chest against her pointy, pink nipples.

No. That wasn’t entirely true, he knew, pulling away long enough to catch her eyes with his.

“You want this?” he asked, looking down at where his cock stood up, thick and demanding. Aching, aching to press into her.

“Yes.”

“You want to put me in you?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Yes,” he breathed, barely controlling his voice. “You do it.”

What was that on her face? Surprise? Some anticipation? Her hand was hot on his cock. Just her fingertips, at first.

“Hold me harder.”

“Like this?” Her palm tightened, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

“No.” His voice was harsh as he clasped his fist over hers, tightening painfully. “Like this.”

“Oh goodness.”

“Squeeze and pull.”

He took his hand away, because leaving it would mean taking control. Shoving in, thrusting, fucking.

“Put me in you, Abby.”

“Wait, I want to see you first. I need to—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice threaded with need. Her gaze rose to meet his.

One pass of her fist over him, as they held each other’s eyes, and fuck, he was a goner. Worse than before, because he understood that she’d hurt him. How could she not when he was already so chafed and raw? She scooted to the edge of the counter, lowered the tip of his cock, and slid it against her.

Luc’s breathing filled the air, along with her smell. He glanced up, catching her looking at him. Together, their attention flicked down, up and down. As her hand found her opening, he took that last half step into her body so they did this together—the giving and the taking. And together, their voices entwined in the air between them, wordless grunts on his end, a long, whimpering moan on hers.

His attention was fixed firmly below, his forehead pressed hard to hers, and fuck, it had been too long without her. His balls were high and tight, slapping gently against her at first, before her legs went around his hips and pulled him in harder.

She was as hot and snug as his own skin, and those curls between her legs made him want to tug. He’d do that next time, take his time. Now, though, he couldn’t, because his hands were planted on her hips, where he could pull her in, tighter, tighter, harder, with every thrust of his body into hers.

He was going to orgasm too fast, he realized. Too fucking soon. But he couldn’t slow down. Instead, he pulled one hand from her and slid it between them, to bury into that hair, find her clit and rub. No time for slow, no time for pretty. He used everything he had to make it quick, rough, the pad of his thumb and the side of one finger going fast and furious.

“Oh, oh, oh.” Abby’s noises were beautiful, musical, as he slowed his hips and quickened his fingers, almost stopping altogether when she clamped both hands to his wrist to slow him down.

“Let me. Let me make you come.”

“I can’t…”

“You need me to stop?”

Her eyes flew to his. “No. No, just…lighter.” She bit her lip. “Make it last longer.”

He almost chuckled at that, but it turned into a groan. “I’m not sure I can, mon amour.”

“It’s coming too fast,” she said, sounding slightly frantic, and he slowed his pace, and oh fuck, this was almost harder. Watching each long, slow slide into her was excruciating. Torture.

“I’m going to come,” he warned, and her eyes shot up to meet his.

“Okay.” She nodded. “Do it. Make me come, too.”

Christ, he loved how direct she was. How could she be like this after everything? How?

She convulsed around him tighter than he’d ever been clasped, and he couldn’t have stopped his climax for anything in the world. He lost it, deep inside her, holding her hard against him and wondering how on earth he was ever going to let her leave.