Chapter Seventeen

When Emile jerked the comforter from his bed, purple ribbons flew everywhere.

“Purple rain,” Amy muttered, as he lay her down. How had she gone from furious with Emile to such a different kind of hot in a matter of seconds? Or maybe she was still furious with him. It was hard to tell, turned on as she was.

He looked confused. “Purple train?”

“Never mind. I guess you don’t know Prince.”

“No.” He smiled and dropped his eyelids. “But I know a princess.”

He stood before her, his hair a mess, still in his suit with his tie barely loosened. He looked so good that she considered asking him to leave it on, to just undo his fly and come to her—but she changed her mind when he stripped off the coat, tie, and shirt at what seemed like the speed of sound. She caught her breath at the beauty of him.

“Another time, I will want you to undress me,” he said, “but tonight there is no time.”

Another time. She knew there shouldn’t be another time. He’d already assumed too much. But she’d known there shouldn’t be another time after last night, and here they were. If she stayed in his home, it was going to happen again and keep happening.

He kicked his shoes off without untying them, and when he dropped his pants, his penis sprang out, hard and huge. “Ah. Is a relief. It was getting crowded in there.” He gave it a light little stroke, and Amy felt a fresh rush of moisture between her legs. What she felt must have shown in her face, because he did it again. “You like to see me do this? But you are much better at it than I am.”

“Then come here.” She held out her arms to him.

“In time. Will you take off your nightgown for me?”

What? Sure, she could take it off, but was he expecting a striptease? Even if she knew how to do that, she didn’t have enough clothes on to do it effectively. So she just shucked it over her head and tossed it to the bottom of the bed.

She had not expected the moan that escaped from him or the expression of lust that came over his face. After all, he’d seen her before.

“Mon amour, you are not wearing underthings.”

“Of course not. I was dressed for bed—not your bed. Bed for sleeping.”

“Turns me on so much. Will you go without your underwear tomorrow? In the day? In your regular clothes?”

“No.”

“Even though it would please me?”

“Even though. But I will try to please you tonight.”

“Ah. Well. I guess I will take that. You are very beautiful. It pleases me to look at you.”

Apparently it did, because he was still standing beside the bed like a statue of a Greek god, albeit a bruised one, and still had made no move to touch her since that kiss to end all kisses.

“I am coming to you very soon,” Emile said. “But first, do one thing for me.”

“Yes?”

“Yes as in consent or a question?”

Dear St. Cuthbert and all his followers! Could he not just get on with it? She needed to feel his hands on her—and his mouth. It wasn’t only beautiful; it was also magic. And he was willing to kiss parts of her that Cameron never had.

“It sounded like a question,” he pressed on.

“Tell me what you want, and I guess we’ll see.”

“Ah, my clever girl. Touch yourself for me.”

She was surprised, not so much at his request, but that she didn’t recoil. Yet, she hesitated, unsure of exactly what to do.

“Please?” he coaxed.

She almost asked where, but to hell with it. She’d just go for it and hope for the best. She ran her fingers over one nipple and then the other as she stroked her inner thigh with her other hand. It was the look on his face, rather than her own hands on her body, that made her breath come faster and her blood boil a little hotter.

“I know what you meant now,” Amy said.

“About what?”

“You are better at this than I am.”

And that did it. He moved like a released spring that had been wound too tight, and he was beside her, naked, warm, and reaching.

“You’re fast.”

“Gotta be fast to stop the puck.” And with that, his mouth was on her breasts, his hand urging her thighs apart and slowly massaging, stroking, and squeezing there.

“Roll on your side,” she said. “I can’t reach you . . . I want to touch.”

He never stopped arousing her but rolled the two of them so that they were facing each other.

When she reached for him, his penis jerked against her palm and he groaned.

“Yes, that’s right. Slow . . . lightly. C’est bon! Oh, sorry. No French. It’s good.” And he went back to her breast—gently sucking one nipple, then the other, running his tongue between them.

“Do you want to know the truth?” Amy asked.

“Always. Mmm, you taste so good.”

“It turns me on when you speak French.”

“Ouais?” His head popped up, and he inserted a finger into her. “Belle chatte. Je ne peux pas attendre pour souffler en vous. This talk? It turns you on, ma belle?”

“Well, maybe not as much as this.” And she rolled her pelvis against his hand and cried out.

He removed his hand and swung around to sit up. “It’s time.”

“Yes.” Past time. She rolled to her back and parted her legs.

“Non. Tonight I have something special for you.” He reached into the bedside table drawer. “But first, I teach you to put on the condom.” Had he been able to tell last night that she didn’t know how to do it? “It’s much more fun this way.” He handed her the packet. “Open it. Be careful not to tear it with your nails. Yes. Now, stroke my cock a bit.”

She was happy to comply. “But why?”

“To get it hard.”

“Could you be any harder?”

He laughed. “Then for fun. Okay, now pinch the tip a bit. No, not there. The tip of the condom.”

“I’m not that stupid. I wasn’t going to pinch your penis.”

“But it was funny. Put it here.” He guided her hand to the head. “Leave a little space. That’s right. Now, roll it on all the way to the base. Yes. Stroke it as you go.”

“For fun?”

“Wonderful fun.” He took her in his arms and kissed her slow and deep for a long time. “Now.” He sat against the headboard and, to her amazement, stretched his legs until they pointed almost straight on either side of his body, putting his hard erection on magnificent display.

“I had no idea you could do that.”

“It’s useful in defending my goal. You would have known if you had stayed for the game.”

“That again.”

“Never mind.” He held out his arms. “Come to me, mon amour. Kiss me.” With his tongue deep in her mouth, he parted her legs and stroked there until she moaned and pressed her thighs against his hand. He ended the kiss. “You are ready?”

“Yes, please.”

“I try to please. Kneel in front of me. As I lift you, part your legs. Yes.” He grasped her hips and lifted.

“I’m not sure this is going to work.” He might need a gymnast or a trapeze artist.

“It will work. I am very strong. Legs wide apart.” And he lifted her high, grasped his penis, and settled her opening over the head—and held. “You feel it? Do you want more?”

More than anything, she wanted more. “All of you.”

“As you wish.” And he lowered her onto him until they were belly to belly and he was fully sheathed.

“It’s very deep.”

“Yes.” He barely thrust inside her. “Very deep. Feel it. Stay still for as long as you can. Savor it there.” And he thrust again, the tiniest bit for emphasis. “I am going take your nipple into my mouth now.” This time, he did not dart from breast to breast, teasing and nipping first one and then the other. He sucked slow and hard, drawing more of her breast into his mouth with each pull, letting his teeth come into play from time to time.

She had never realized until having sex with Emile that there was a direct current from her nipple to her genitals. Or maybe there hadn’t been. Maybe he invented it.

“You’re making it very hard for me not to move.”

He grasped her hips and held them fast. “That’s the idea.” He came up for air and switched to the other breast, giving it the same miraculous pleasure. He continued to hold her still, which only increased the pressure in all the right places.

She gritted her teeth and ran her hands over his torso and back, willing herself not to move, concentrating on how his mouth felt on her breast and his beautiful body felt against her hands.

Finally, he released his hold on her hips and threw his head back. “You win! I have to . . . ” And he began to thrust hard, slow at first, then faster, with his hands on her hips moving her with him, lifting her higher each time.

He muttered a muddle of garbled French into her neck. She had no idea what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. His body was speaking volumes, and she understood it very well.

Then he said a word she did understand. “Come, mon amour. Come for me.” And he pressed her hard against his pubic ridge. “Come, come, come . . . ”

And she did, with a splendor that bordered on violence. It had never been this good for her, not even last night when she had thought she’d reached the acme of all that was good.

When her spasms subsided and the cries quieted, he thrust in her again. “It was good, ma belle? Enough?”

“Enough. For me.”

She resumed the rhythm he had set, and he urged her back a bit with his hand. “Lean back a bit. Just a bit. I want to see your beautiful breasts and face.” He lightly stroked her breasts, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Then he grabbed her and hugged her hard to his chest. “Amy, Amy, Amy . . .  A présent. Je vais souffler!”

She could only assume that that last part meant he was going to come.

Because he did—in what seemed to be the most satisfactory way.

For both of them.