‘You don’t have a TV,’ I murmur as he lowers my feet to the Persian-looking rug, turning ostensibly to take it all in. In truth, a spike of nervousness takes over.
‘This bedroom is for only two things.’ Reaching out, he takes my hand.
‘Sleeping and . . . ?’
‘Fucking you.’ There’s something about that word in his accent, which seems to magnify it somehow, the fluttering inside turning to a swoop as he cups my face to kiss me again.
‘Yeah, sure. I bet if that bed could tell tales—’
‘It would have none to tell. Not before today. You don’t believe me?’
‘I—’ I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had a man respond to me as he does. Never had a man look at me as he does. I’ve always thought only the naïve take what lover’s say at face value, especially during sex, but something inside me tells me what he’s saying is true.
About this bed, anyway.
‘This is just all so unreal.’ The way we’ve come together, the way he makes me feel.
‘Perhaps if you need a little more convincing.’
Lust instantly blooms deep inside as he lifts my hand, pressing it over his cock. The lightweight wool of his pants moulds to him instantly, the rigid outline of him visible.
‘You’re so hard.’
‘I seem to have been in this state since you left me last Tuesday.’ His voice is a touch strained as he rocks into my hand,
‘Poor Remy’s baguette. Would you like me to kiss it better?’
‘Baguette?’ His eyes almost sparkle with mirth. ‘If you mean my cock, then my answer is an emphatic yes, though I don’t remember you being quite so coy our first time. Or would that technically be the first five times?’
‘What I said back in March doesn’t count.’ I dip my gaze, hoping the weight of my hair will contain the smile I can’t quite restrain.
‘That can’t be true, not when you begged so prettily. When you looked at my cock as though you might die without tasting it.’
‘I might die from embarrassment right now.’
‘Rose.’ My name from his lips is like a curl of smoke. ‘I’ve never been so hard as I am when I’m next to you. Never feel too embarrassed to tell me what you need. Now, let us give this bed some tales to tell.’
18
Remy
‘J’ai envie de toi,’ I whisper against her mouth, not able to stop myself from kissing her but needing somehow to express what she’s doing to me.
‘You’re so sexy when you speak French.’
‘Only when I speak French?’ I tease, though, in truth, I hadn’t realised I’d switched languages.
‘Especially when you speak French. You could recite the phone book and get me hot.’
‘Are you fetishizing my accent?’ I growl, caging her with my body. ‘Because go ahead. I like it.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Crazy hard for you. I want you—j’ai envie de toi—I want you so badly that I ache to be inside you. I am desperate to fuck you.’ French is all well and good, and it might roll off the tongue, but there’s nothing quite like the use of fuck to get your point across.
‘I take it back. A phone book won’t do.’ She sighs as my teeth graze the sensitive lobe of her ear, the challenge in her stance melting. ‘How come bad words sound so much sexier said by you?’
‘Maybe it’s the man, not the words.’
‘Oh, it’s definitely the man.’ Her response is pure encouragement, an invitation to reveal.
‘A man who has thought of these. Imagined these.’ My voice is hoarse, and my accent thick as I cup her full breasts, my thumbs gliding back and forth over the sensitive peaks. She sighs as I lower my head, teasing her over the lace, rendering her lacy bra almost transparent. ‘A man who wants to fuck these.’
‘Even mildly pornographic sounds better from your mouth.’
‘There’s nothing mild about my plans for you.’ I continue to torture and tease until she’s pressing herself against me, whimpering for more. ‘We’re going to play a little game called make Rose desperate for Remy’s baguette.’ I’m surprised I can keep a straight face, yet at the same time, I’m endeared by her ridiculousness.
‘Okay, you win. Give it to me.’
I find myself chuckling. ‘Oh, I will. Over and over again until your legs are shaking, and the neighbours know my name.’
‘But you don’t have any neighbours.’
‘When I’m finished with you, your neighbours will know my name. No more confusion this time. No talk of baguettes, no whispered words you can’t understand. I’ll keep to English.’
‘Killjoy,’ she whispers as she begins to pluck at my belt.
‘Except,’ I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper huskily, ‘for the words I whisper between your legs.’
‘Promises, promises.’ Her words are a sultry whisper, her gaze burning bright.
‘I promise not to stop until I’ve made you come a dozen times.’