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He reached up and tugged on the straps of her swimsuit, slowly drawing them down her arms, praying that she wouldn’t stop him. As he did so, he pressed kisses along her bare shoulders, and was rewarded by the immediate prickle of goosebumps that rose all over her skin. Tiny bumps he could feel with his fingers.

“Cold?”

She shook her head mutely. He wondered if she, too, was afraid to speak, in case the spell enfolding them was broken. He wondered if she’d prefer to be inside.

“Do you want to go in—”

“Here is good. Here is kind of sexy.”

He was elated, jubilant, but reluctant to let her see his joy at her invitation. He covered up his feelings with more kisses, closing his eyes so she couldn’t peer deep into them. The taste of her mouth, and the feel of her teeth against his lips, the sound of her breath as it came faster brought him to instant arousal. He wanted her to know how much he desired her, so he grasped her butt and pulled her closer. Pressing her hard against him.

Her response was of momentary resistance, followed by a step forward. Then, slowly, her hips began swiveling against his in a bewitching movement, as if she was drawing the infinity sign using water as ink.

He remembered what she was like on the dance floor, on their almost weekly outings to clubs. He enjoyed a night out, sure, but these trips were more for Shaundra than for him. She loved to dress up, do her hair, put on elaborate makeup that emphasized her huge, dark eyes, long lashes, and utterly mind-wrecking lips.

On those nights, when her favorite jams came on, she would glide onto the dance floor, alone or with her girlfriends, and begin a mesmerizing series of rhythmic gyrations that soon had other dancers clearing a path for her. More than anything, she favored Caribbean rhythms, with a dominant baseline that claimed your heartbeat and made it your own.

He never thought of himself as much of a dancer, but more often than not, he would join her there. Not because he was dying to give his soul up to the music, but because so many other men—and women—were stopping to have a look that he instinctually stepped forward to claim his territory. This was his woman, his wife, and any bastard that stopped to ogle at her too long was looking for a smack down. He would place his hands on her hips, staking his claim like an astronaut planting his flag, and allow her to press and grind against him. And if any other man’s gaze happened to lock with his, the unspoken message would be:Yeah. My woman. Mine and mine alone.

Now, tonight, alone in a warm pool under the stars, she was moving to some kind of music that he couldn’t hear, but could feel in his bones, as he responded to the thrust of her hips, her mound still clad in the swimsuit that was now puddled around her waist.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes tightly, tongue flicking past her lips, listening to whatever song was flowing through her head. In the starlight, the dewy droplets of water glittered in her hair and on her skin.

She began pressing against him, lifting one leg and curling it around his hip to allow her better access as she ground her crotch against the hard ridge in his swim trunks. The rhythm of her movements became more personal, dictated only by her need to get off. The silent song in her head was replaced with audible grunts of pleasure, which kept time to a more frantic beat.

He whispered encouragement into her ear, wanting nothing more than to see the look on her face when her orgasm claimed her. “Ça y est, ma belle. Allez! Profitez-en!”

Her front teeth clamped down on her lower lip, and her eyes screwed up tight. He wanted with all his heart to thrust back, press back against her, but he knew from experience that Shaundra was the kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and when it came to taking her own pleasure, she hated interference.

His patience and self-control were rewarded when her hips became a blur under his hands as her gyrations grew more frenetic, and then with the cry of an anguished angel she stiffened, gasping, and then went limp in his arms.

Nathanael was so insanely turned on he didn’t give her a moment of rest. He backed her roughly against the wall of the pool and with a single motion dragged her swimsuit down the rest of the way. She complied dazedly, lifting her feet one by one as he pulled off the absurd thing and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes.Tomorrow,I’m buying her 100 bikinis,he said to himself.No more of this one-piece bullshit.

He wondered what the gardener would think when he found the suit. The thought made him grin.

Even through the water he could see that she was freshly waxed, probably having it done just before they left. The sight of that soft, bare skin made him want to die from sheer lust. He slipped his hand into the water, letting his fingers explore the smoothness of the plump triangle. In contrast to the pool water, her fluids were syrupy and lava-hot.

He wanted—needed—some of that.

Nathanael dropped to his knees, taking a deep breath as he went, plunging below the surface and opening his eyes. In the pale blue pool lights, her skin looked pearlescent. He pressed his face against the spot where her thighs met, tongue seeking and immediately finding.

The taste of chlorinated water disappeared into the background, forced there by her sweet-salty fluids. Her lips were engorged, plumb from the stimulation she had inflicted upon them, opening immediately at his approach. The nub of flesh at the apex was swollen and taut, and as much as he would have liked to plumb the depths of the inviting space below, this is where he focused his attentions.

After all, oxygen was limited.

He took it as a personal challenge to make her orgasm again before he had to come up for air. A double incentive. His tongue became a weapon, and her clitoris the target of his surgical strike. His assault was cruel, merciless, desperate.

Her hands came down behind his head, pushing him down, holding him there, and he knew that this was her counterattack. Her message was clear,make me come, or drown trying.

Twenty seconds passed, and his lungs began to burn. Thirty, and his tongue moved frantically as she pressed back. He sucked, licked, and tried not to swallow any water that would make him choke.

Thirty-five seconds. And was beginning to wonder if he would have to endure the shame of defeat.

One solid thigh joined her hands, wrapping around his head and locking him in. Clamping his head against her so tight, pressing against his ears, that not only could he not breathe, he couldn’t hear.

Forty seconds.

It was do or die now. Literally. His fingers, three of them, slid inside her. Joining his lips in their endeavor. He pumped them in and out, twisting around to locate her G-spot. Finding it, working it hard. Her hips began to buck so hard that bubbles swirled around his head. Nestling in his beard like tiny silver beads.


Tags: Niomie Roland French Conquests Billionaire Romance