He’d waited seven days to get his mouth on Alison again. And now she was as good as his wife, what better way to finally put his idiotic overreaction to bed and get this agreement back where it was always supposed to be?
He placed his hands on her hips, until she stood flush against his body.
‘Madame LeGrand,’ he murmured. ‘Time to start practising your act as the dutiful wife.’
Although it didn’t feel like just an act any more.
But then, it wasn’t an act, entirely. This was always supposed to be a business arrangement with benefits. So why not start claiming the benefits?
She looked up through long lashes, her amber eyes like those of a doe who had spotted the huntsman taking aim. And it occurred to him how inexperienced she still was. The punch of lust at the thought that she had only ever been his was visceral and basic and impossible to deny—so he didn’t even try.
Her virginity had clearly turned him into a caveman. But he could do nothing but run with it now.
She lifted her arms and flattened her palms on his chest—the movement as brave as it was arousing.
‘Es-tu prêtes?’ he whispered against her neck, his ability to speak English deserting him momentarily as he inhaled the rich, fresh scent of her, that glorious combination of strawberries and chocolate that had driven him wild in London—far too long ago.
Are you ready?
‘Very,’ she whispered back, her body shivering with reaction as he pressed his lips to the flu
tter of her pulse beneath her ear.
Plunging his fingers into her hair, he felt her soft sob against his lips before he angled her head and plundered. But as soon as his tongue tangled with hers, the surge of adrenaline became an unstoppable force.
He thrust deep, setting up an erotic rhythm spurred on by the grinding hunger beneath his belt.
She responded instinctively, her body surrendering to his will, her soft curves yielding to the hard contours as he pressed her back against the car’s paintwork.
Had he ever been this desperate before, the need to rip off her clothes and plunge into the tight wet heart of her all but overwhelming? His hand slipped inside the open lapel of her jacket beneath the lacy bra until he was cupping the soft flesh of her breast, rejoicing in the feel of her nipple swelling against his palm.
‘Mr LeGrand, do you have anything to say about Mira Kensington’s piece in the London papers?’
The shouted question had him rearing back just as a camera flashed in his face.
Alison gasped and stiffened. The shocked arousal in her eyes turning the hot blood now running through his veins to wild fire.
The reporter stepped closer to shove a microphone between them as she scrambled to right her clothing.
The son of a...
‘Get away from my fiancée,’ he shouted in English, then repeated the command in French with a great deal more emphasis. The man seemed to get the message because he scurried away with his photographer.
Dominic grabbed Alison’s hand.
‘Let’s finish this in private,’ he said, realising the mistake of kissing her in public. He wanted to convince the consortium this relationship was real—but having a photograph of him baring her breast on the sidewalk emblazoned on the celebrity blogs would be counterproductive.
An older woman winked at him as he marched past. And a couple of teenage boys whistled from their spot on a nearby wall.
Dieu, forget the paparazzi—he’d just put on a show for the whole damn neighbourhood.
Leading Alison to the elevator at the back of the lobby, he stabbed the button. Damn it, he’d been about to take her right there on a public street.
He hadn’t been aware of anything, not of the reporter or the photographer, who’d probably taken more than a few pictures, or the people watching, all he’d been aware of was her—the feel of her soft flesh cradling his erection, her fingers massaging his scalp, the drugging taste of her invading his nostrils and overwhelming his senses, the feel of her nipple hardening in his hand.
The elevator arrived quickly and whisked them to the top floor.
As they walked into the apartment her hand flexed in his and he heard her breath catch.