Pulse Page 19

  “Ohhhhhh…” I tilt my head back so he can have better access. The motion also serves to pelt more of my body with the perfect hot spray…especially my taut breasts and tingling mons. “C’est divin. Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

  “Trés bien.” Reece utters it with the same mesmeric mood that his massages dictate, his baritone flowing into my ear with sophistication. Paired with his expert touch, it’s not long before he has me mixing sighs with the steam, reveling in how pampered and treasured I feel.

  And utterly, divinely French.

  And along with that, perhaps a little bold.

  Perhaps a lot bold.

  “Reece?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Teach me some more French.”

  For a second, his hands halt against my scalp. The man knows me, especially when my voice alters into another vocal range. The tones I usually save for the bedroom. Or, in the case of getting to hide out with him in a little apartment along the Seine, the kitchen.

  “All right.” The rumble is his naughty kitchen voice too—and again, it’s a perfect accompaniment to how he touches me. And strokes me. And glides his soapy hands down, down, down, until he’s reaching slick fingers around to find the wettest, neediest part of me. “What would you like to know?”

  He circles a fingertip at the top of my cleft, putting secondary pressure on my slit, until I let out a high gasp. At the same time, he slides his other hand between my ass cheeks, quickly locating my tight rosette.

  “Oh.” It rides atop another sharp breath, coinciding with the slap of my hand against the shower wall. “Oh, my God.” And then the other hand.

  “I thought you knew that one already.” His own voice is so damn calm, it’s infuriating. I do get it. He can’t cut loose in here or the water will turn to lightning and neither of us will get to have a mouth orgasm from Lasserre’s spiced duck and pear soufflé tonight. But holy shit, that doesn’t make this power imbalance any easier. “So…how about ‘may I have another glass of wine, please’ or ‘my, how lovely the Arc is at night.’ Or maybe ‘which way to the ladies’ room?’”

  I lock my teeth. Let out a growling, furious moan. “How about, ‘Monsieur Richards, if you don’t get your cock inside me now, I’ll scream the whole building down’?”

  His chuckle is nasty and low against my neck—as his fingers work more leftover lather into my pussy and ass. “I have a better one. Je préfère regarder mes doigts dans votre minou.”

  I snarl at him again. There’s enough there that I don’t need the translation. “No. Please, Reece. Inside me. Get inside me.”

  He pushes tighter against me. His nipples are erect points on my back, and his cock starts swelling against my spine. “You mean baise-moi, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Yes!” I spread my stance and rock my ass back toward him, going half on instinct and half on calculated risk. Seven months with a man, and a girl begins to know at least a few things—like how the sight of her ass drives him wild. “Baise-moi, Monsieur Richards. Entendre et maintenant.” I rise up to tiptoes, rolling the top of my back crack against the sack at his base. “Here. Now,” I reiterate. “Please, Reece. S’il vous plaît. S’il vous— Ohhhhhh!”

  I’ve been so preoccupied with entreating him to take my pussy, I’ve completely missed how he’s moved back—and repositioned his cock at the ring to my ass.

  “Even here?” His demand is the texture of a lightning strike, sizzling and frightening but electric and beautiful. I watch, temporarily speechless, as he grabs a bottle from the little ledge next to my right hand. Lube. Of course. In the shower. How had I forgotten this place used to be Angelique and Dario’s love nest?

  A thought that should be squicking me out—but oddly doesn’t. Maybe it’s the memory of how she spoke of this place being filled with love and passion. More obviously, it’s probably because of Reece’s demonstration of devotion out in the kitchen.

  More immediately, it’s because of the spell the man’s weaving over me now. Slicking the warm fluid into me. Relaxing my muscles by massaging my ass cheeks and then spreading them out in preparation for how he’s going to fill me there.

  Dear God, yes.

  I need him. His large, rigid body behind me. His long, perfect penis inside me. Invading me until I can’t think of anything but the sun he’s flying me to, even if that means christening our Paris shower like this.

  Yes. Yes. Yesssss…

  “You haven’t answered me, Velvet.” Though the bastard’s voice and the throbbing pressure of his cockhead are already hedging his victory with wicked intent.

  “Yes,” I growl out. “Yes, even back there.”

  He works his cock in a little deeper. Shudders with pleasure as he rolls his hips in time to his fervent fingers against my clit. “Now…en francais,” he orders. “Baise-moi dans ma derrière.”

  “Oui.” I stammer it readily, for at that moment, he pushes aside the covering of my most sensitive place and claims my center with intent that can’t be mistaken—nor denied. Just as he was my toy back in the kitchen, I’m now his…and it’s beyond amazing. “Oui, monsieur. S’il vous plaît, baise-moi dans ma derrière.”

  And perhaps…beyond even the sun.

  “Parfait.” His praise is a rough, dirty contrast to the fragrant steam and liquid heat surrounding us, which only notches my arousal a level higher. And then, with the soap and the lube assisting him, he fills nearly all of my back tunnel in one gliding, hurting, stretching lunge. The second his balls knock against my perineum, his cock throbs and spurts generous precome inside me—adding to the blinding, dizzying force of my climax. I wail from the delicious, consuming pain, working my pussy back and forth along his tapered, godlike fingers—rejoicing, at last, as the man’s groans climb to the frantic pace of mine.

  “My gorgeous, perfect Velvet.” He issues the words between my shoulder blades, swiveling his head to deliver feral bites to both those mounds of bone, as he starts a relentless, ramming pace inside my quivering ass. “Something tells me we’re going to be very, very late to dinner.”

  Worth it.

  This man is always, always worth it.

  Chapter Five

  Reece

  Somebody’s singing Elton John again.

  Only this time, it’s not the French guy on the stereo downstairs.

  I can understand the words now. And it’s a woman softly crooning the tune. And she’s singing about feeling the love tonight, only it’s not night. Definitely not night. The crazy-bright sunlight through the curtains tells me that much, along with the bustle of the city in full weekday mode.

  I roll over in bed, wrapping the sheets around my naked hips as a full smile takes over my lips. I remember now. It’s Wednesday, and I’m not waking up in some swanky hotel suite, fighting to recall even the first name of the woman in the next room. I’m in a secret apartment tucked along the Seine, and the female here with me has a fully memorable first name, middle name, and last name.

  Emmalina Paisley Crist.

  The love of my life.

  The woman who, crazily enough, loves me in return. Maybe to the same depths that I love her.

  A truth I wouldn’t have believed possible until yesterday—but a truth I went ahead and tested, with my soul bared and my heart open and my fears unsheathed, knowing what I had to show her wasn’t a let’s-wait-until-the-new-crisis-has-blown-over kind of thing. If what we’re dealing with here is even a crisis anymore…

  Holy fuck, let this all just be a tempest in a teapot.

  A quick check of my phone doesn’t reveal any new messages from Wade and Fershan, who have stayed back in LA to keep taking punches at the dark web for any more shit linking—or, please God, delinking—my father’s apparent contact with the Consortium and the Scorpio cartel. Nor is there any kind of contact from Tyce, though that’s a hell of a lot less surprising. He cornered Emma in that restroom, risking that I’d jump to the conclusion that I did and try to rearrange his face in front of the mayor and most of Lo
s Angeles’s upper crust, just to get an off-grid message to me. A message he never had the chance to relay—but bearing a preface containing two words that I must give him credence for. Two words I can’t forget. Will never forget.

  Alpha Three.

  But now isn’t the time for that black, black rabbit hole.

  Right now, I take a second to tap back a message replying to the only text that really matters right now—from Foley, who notified me the second before he was airborne out of LAX and on his way here. That was four hours ago, so I know he won’t see my reply until he hits the ground at Charles de Gaulle, having informed me he was going to catch some z’s during the flight in anticipation of whatever storm we’re waiting to get struck by here.

  Which, at this moment, still doesn’t seem to be manifesting. At all.

  But rather than debate whether that fact is troubling or heartening, I bound out of bed with the sole certainty I do have. There’s not a damn thing I can do about it right now.

  There is, however, something I can do in this moment.

  Quick smirk.

  Okay…somebody I can do.

  Who can really hum a mean Elton John but sounds much better husking French profanities to me from the depths of her gorgeous, creamy neck. And then screaming my name as her sweet cunt vibrates around my plunging cock…

  Surprise, surprise—and oh, how conveniently—that’s the very same body part taking the lead for my strides now, guiding me out to the dining nook like a heat-seeking missile on a no-abort call.

  My brain tosses back an enthusiastic roger that as soon as I lay eyes on Emma. She’s already up and dressed, looking like a perfect Parisian beauty in one of the outfits I bought for her last night, when several of the stores in the Galeries Lafayette reopened for us. Normally I’m not a fan of the tourist-magnet mega mall, but it was the fastest way to ensure Emma got everything she needed for a while.

  A while.

  And exactly how long is that to be defined?

  More uncertainty. More of this damn waiting on Lawson Richards, every second making me feel like a damn mutt in the rain, wondering if my humans are going to ever let me back inside near the fire…

  Get over it.

  And focus on the things you can control.

  Like exactly how beautiful this woman’s new “song” is going to sound when she’s orgasming for the fifth time for you an hour from now.

  Oh, yes. I’m going to settle for no less than five. That’s so doable. We got to four yesterday, and I barely fired up any of the fingertips for the cause.

  She’s all mine. Right now.

  No less than five…

  Every goal-oriented cell in my body fires to life. Okay, the lazy ones roar to life too—propelling me in all my naked glory to the space right behind her chair and then in to swoop my mouth down on her neck in a take-no-prisoners snarl. She drops Elton at once in favor of a blissful squeal, which turns into a thready gasp as I slide a hand under her striped shirt and tweak fingers around her plump nipple. Fuck, that’s nice. As much as I adore her breasts when she’s aroused and erect, there’s something organic and fun about fondling a woman when she’s at full rest. Any lover can inspire a nipple to look like it’s ready for a porn short. A partner is the one who gets to touch it the rest of the time.

  Of course, my metaphysical musings now make me want to see both those tips looking like red gumdrops—and at least a dozen other sexual similes. That’s just the tip of the erotic iceberg for the places I want to take her pussy…and her mouth…and maybe even her ass again…

  “Well, oh my, Mr. Richards.” She jumps to her feet a second after I circle in to plant my mouth on hers, resulting in the collision of my erection against her shoulder and then her stomach. “Someone’s already having an awesome morning.”

  “Damn straight, my hot little lapin.”

  An enchanting blush flows over her face, as she clearly remembers how I started using the French version of Bunny after taking her to bed when we got home last night. We’d screwed with long, slow intensity, leaving the drapes open so the moonlight could reflect off the Seine and through the bedroom sheers. It was damn sweet and damn good. Maybe I’ll love her the exact same way right now. At least until she has her first orgasm…

  “Guess it’s a good thing I told Angelique I’d meet her at the café down the block.”

  Or…maybe not.

  Emma cups a hand over her mouth, obviously battling back giggles in response to my what-the-hell gape. Not that the disappointment is helping to dampen the morning wood, merci fucking beaucoup.

  “Angelique?” I finally fire. “What the living hell?”

  Emma lets her hand fall. Her new expression is more sober—though I don’t miss the wistful glance she affords my dick before she turns to face the window next to the nook. “I was up early,” she murmurs, “and came out here to read a little. And to think…a lot. As I watched dawn come over the garden, it just hit me all at once…”

  “What did?” I fill in her silence with the new gravity in my heart too. I don’t just believe every word she’s uttering because of how they paint her face into loveliness I can hardly comprehend let alone accept as reality. It’s what I feel from her heart. The special recognition she’s come to, inundating the air with its incredible magic…making me speechless with gratitude.

  “That when Angelique and Dario were here together, they probably thought they had dozens more times to treasure together. In a second, that all changed.” She drags in a ragged breath, also recognizing the substance of what she’s just uttered. With the light from the atrium limning her from behind, she circles back toward me, her arms crossed. “Life can’t be thrown away like you have more of it tomorrow.” She slowly shakes her head. “I’ve somehow always known that when it comes to you and me—but taking that truth and applying it to other people in my life…and yes, even to Angelique…”

  As she goes into a verbal void, clearly grappling for the right words, I step over and pull her in with a tight, comforting clasp. “It’s okay,” I assure, breathing the words into her hair. “It’s really okay. And even a little awesome.”

  “Yeah?” She snuggles her head against my chest, pushing out an emotional little sound—which, damn it, sends a new comet of heat straight down the middle of my body. Back to morning wood. A fucking Sequoia tree full of it.

  “Christ,” I mutter.

  “Oh, my,” she snickers.

  “This is your fault, you sexy-as-fuck woman.” With a determined growl, I spin her away from me—another backfire, since her ass is outlined into a perfect little heart by the formfitting navy capris that go with the top. “Just get the hell out of here before I make you text Angelique that you’ll be an hour late.”

  She flips a gawk over her shoulder. “An hour?”

  “By the time you get back, it might be two.”

  “By the time I get back, it’d better be two.”

  I grin. Hard. “Deal.”

  “Will you be okay in the meantime?” she queries while grabbing her purse. “You want me to bring you back something?”

  “Just a coffee.” While she’s checking to make sure she has everything, I fish my laptop out of my shoulder satchel. “I’ll find something to munch on while catching up on emails. We’re pretty well stocked for food.”

  “And drinks and booze,” she adds. “I notice how Angie took care of all that too.”

  Surprise, surprise, the sequel. Factoid of the day: pure shock is fantastic for whittling morning wood. “Angie?” I challenge with one cocked brow.

  She answers me with a smile as brilliant and breathtaking as the sunshine now seeming to pour in through every window. Appropriate, since that’s how she drenches every inch of my heart in this ineffable moment.

  “It’s a new day, Reece Richards.”

  I smirk with deeper determination. It’s either that or sprint across the room, lay her out on the couch, and tackle her for a quickie for the road. But goddamnit, when has it ev
er been a quickie with her?

  “Yes, it is, Miss Crist.”

  After giving me one more lingering look, making me weigh the decision to really make her push off with Angelique, she’s out the door and down the stairs. Of course, I rush back into the bedroom to get in one more eyeful of her, though I’m respectful enough to the neighborhood to throw on a pair of sweats first. Sort of. “Thrown on” is an upgrade from how I position them just to the point of covering what’s necessary for common decency, ensuring the woman sees exactly what will be awaiting her attention when she returns. The torso. The V. The trail of dark hair thickening and then disappearing beneath the gray flannel…

  She stops to sigh. Then again. Then, with a soft laugh, turns and heads for the quaint café a short block away.

  I’m tempted to stand at the window and watch her until she disappears in the crowds on the sidewalk, but it’s obvious the wuss bug has already crawled in and claimed too much of my blood. I push away from the window, yanking my pants up to a decent level this time, and add a navy short-sleeved Henley on top in honor of the predominant color of Emma’s outfit.

  Wuss Man, hear me roar.

  The tiny trumpets accompanying the rally are enough to get my ass plunked at the dining nook to attack my mounting emails with vigor. Summer will be officially starting in Southern California in a few weeks when the Memorial Day holiday hits. At the Brocade, we’re rolling out a new water park area to entice more families to visit the hotel, but I’m still in a semi-playful sparring match with Neeta and the management team about giving the theme. They’ve all proposed to call it Bolt Bay. I wonder why in hell that’s even an option when we have two dozen world-famous beaches down the road as inspiration.

  I groan as Neeta pings back my IM, citing the market research and focus group feedback numbers indicating how much more revenue we’ll make from fucking Bolt Bay.