Charlee-Mae had no idea what this was, but before she could even open her mouth to ask, he had already swooped in, and her lips parted the moment their mouths touched.
Aaaah!
Her hands instantly reached up to his chest, Charlee-Mae blindly roaming his muscled form until she found something to grip: the woolen vest that was worn between his buttoned-up shirt and trench coat, and her fingers involuntarily tightened its hold when she felt his tongue dive into her mouth.
Oooooh God.
His kiss was as divine as ever, and she could only kiss him back just as desperately, with every cell in her body starting to tingle and ache. They kissed and kissed and kissed, but just as she was about to run out of breath, it was suddenly over—-
"Philippe!"
The outraged little cry his wife released had him laughing. He had never been tempted to laugh while fucking, and he had never had a woman make such a sound at the abrupt end of a kiss. And when he looked down, and he saw the way Charlee-Mae was staring up at him with a mixture of confusion, outrage, and appeal—-
Ah fuck, but this look of hers, this look that told him she wanted him to kiss her again—-
It was too fucking hot, and Philippe instinctively reached up to run his thumb over her lips in soothing apology.
"I only want to be fair, ma femme," he murmured. "There is your other breast that requires my attention..."
Charlee-Mae could only moan. So that was what he meant to be fair!
"And after that, there is your sweet little pussy, too..."
Oh Lord.
She had always imagined that men who were detailed-oriented and methodical were too boring for her taste, but with Philippe's plan to lavish attention on every part of her body, she was obviously mistaken, and oh my, oh God, oh, oh...oh!
Charlee-Mae couldn't help but gasp as Philippe suddenly bit her nipple, not enough to make her bleed (or at least she didn't think so?), but enough to make her see stars, and whimper after whimper slipped past her trembling lips as her husband suckled away. It was just so good, so, so good that she once again found herself holding his head to her chest as tightly as she could.
She didn't want this to end either.
But it did.
Because this time, oh God, this time—-
Charlee-Mae fell back against the pillows as Philippe gently parted her thighs open, and fire blazed through her body as she watched him stare at her womanhood like it was a feast for his eyes.
"I can see every inch of your flesh glistening with need..."
The words were uttered in the sexiest purr, and the sound had her moaning helplessly.
"And the scent of your desire is intoxicating..."
Oh God. Charlee-Mae could not stop herself from writhing at the erotic beauty of her husband's words. Were all Frenchmen like this? It didn't seem so in Emily in Paris, and—-
"I want to taste your pussy, ma femme."
Desire consumed her, and all she could do was choke out—-
"Yes, my God, yes!"
She saw her husband smirk at the way she had answered him, but she couldn't make herself care when already he was kneeling down on the floor, and oh God, oh Lord, oh Jeeeesus—-
Charlee-Mae barely managed to grab hold of the covers, and as soon as she felt his tongue run down her swollen, quivering folds, she bit hard into the thick layer of cotton...and screamed. It was all she could do, just scream and scream and scream as her husband did more than taste her pussy. He was practically devouring it, and oh God, oh God—-
A convulsing wave of pleasure slammed into her body, and Charlee-Mae once again started to cum—-
Oh my Lord.
—-and keep cumming and cumming, with Philippe triggering another orgasm as he suddenly thrust his tongue in between the still-quivering folds of her flesh.
When Charlee-Mae woke, the first thing she noticed was how comfortably warm she felt...in a pair of velvet pajamas that she could not recall changing into. And when she turned to her side, it was to see her beautiful husband seated next to her bed, and a grimace twisting over his features as soon as their gazes met.
"Je suis navré," Philippe apologized stiffly. "I did not mean to make you pass out—-" He broke off at his wife's soft laugh.
"If sex is always like that between us," she teased, "then please feel free to make me swoon every time."
Philippe's lips pressed together. "I am being serious, ma femme."
"So am I."
Her husband sighed. "No." But his voice was faintly humorous. "I can tell you are not."
His wife laughed, and Philippe, in spite of everything, could not keep his lips from twitching in response. What was it about this woman that made her so different?
"Philippe?"
His phone started to ring in his pocket just as she murmured his name. Since it was presently programmed to only allow certain calls, Philippe knew it was something he had to answer. But for the first time in years - the first time since his brother had died, actually - he chose to ignore the demands of work and focused...on his wife.