primitive—like grade-A prime lust. I lean forward slightly and caress his silky skin against my cheek. I reach my hands up his legs, rubbing his strong thighs. Up and down, relishing the brush of fine hair that traces over his tensed muscles. He has incredible legs: stable, hard. But I can also feel the pulse and zing of pleasure making him quiver. I breathe in and shut my eyes, then find him with my mouth and lose myself in pleasure.
I reach my hands around to his ass and pull him deeper into me, loving the feel of his hand in my hair, that possessive, thrilling grab. Every motion is a pure expression of this animal give-and-take; the more I give, the more I get. I let my tongue explore every ridge and curve, let my jaw and cheeks burn with the tension of holding him inside my mouth. And every time I take him as deep as I can, I feel the concurrent pulse of anticipatory pleasure between my legs. The heat is pinging through me like a call-and-response, rising and building, my orgasm feeling closer and closer every time that incredibly silky flesh fills my mouth.
I’d probably never have the guts to do it in real life, but this is right about the time when I consider the remote possibility of another man, another Rome, really, who could take care of me—fuck me—so I could be fucking and sucking at the same time.
I must be groaning at the lascivious possibilities of cloning Rome de Villiers, because he shoves me away and says, “The groaning will put me over the edge. No.” His voice is so rough with his French accent, I feel like I’ve really accomplished what I set out to do—namely, to blow his mind.
My mouth is wet and slack as I smile up at him, my eyes moist. He reaches down and grabs me up into his arms and carries me into the other room. We collapse onto the enormous hotel bed, and he has my underwear and bra off before I know which way is up. The light from the living room is just enough to cast him in a particularly flattering light. Not that he needs flattery. His body is insane.
The strong upper arms. The hard, ridged stomach. The thighs. Those goddamned thighs. I reach out one hand to drag my fingernails lightly down his left thigh. He is trying to put the condom on and swats my curious hand away. “ Arrêt e !” he chides.
I squirm and stretch for a few seconds; then he’s finished messing with the condom and he cages me with his body and the hard sinew of his tensed arms. I reach my hands around to his lower back and pull him into me. My last conscious thought is, One night, here I come .
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he next morning, we are both surprisingly awake at dawn. My internal clock has been haywire for days. He is just tireless by nature.
“Are you awake?” He is on his side, resting his head on his palm and looking down at me.
“Awake enough. What did you have in mind?” I mumble.
He burrows his head under the sheets and roots around, kissing my hip and tickling the soft skin. I am facedown, and he starts to massage my lower back. I think he’s gearing up for round . . . five, is it? . . . when I shriek.
“Oh my god! Did you just bite my ass?”
He slides out from under the sheets at the foot of the bed and stretches to his full height, extending his arms nearly to the ceiling, an idiotically self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. “ Bonjour. I’m glad you’re awake. Now, let’s jump in the shower and go for breakfast.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
He’s already crossed to the bathroom door when I reply. He turns slowly back to face me. “It is better in French. And you’re the one who’s incroyable .” He pauses, then gestures toward his mouth. “You have the lips of a goddess.”
He turns into the bathroom without looking back and calls, “Now get in here.”
I swoon a little at his insane bossiness, then smile, because French people are the most beautiful bullshitters in the known universe. I should know. I learned at the foot of a master (mistress?):
I reach my hands around to his ass and pull him deeper into me, loving the feel of his hand in my hair, that possessive, thrilling grab. Every motion is a pure expression of this animal give-and-take; the more I give, the more I get. I let my tongue explore every ridge and curve, let my jaw and cheeks burn with the tension of holding him inside my mouth. And every time I take him as deep as I can, I feel the concurrent pulse of anticipatory pleasure between my legs. The heat is pinging through me like a call-and-response, rising and building, my orgasm feeling closer and closer every time that incredibly silky flesh fills my mouth.
I’d probably never have the guts to do it in real life, but this is right about the time when I consider the remote possibility of another man, another Rome, really, who could take care of me—fuck me—so I could be fucking and sucking at the same time.
I must be groaning at the lascivious possibilities of cloning Rome de Villiers, because he shoves me away and says, “The groaning will put me over the edge. No.” His voice is so rough with his French accent, I feel like I’ve really accomplished what I set out to do—namely, to blow his mind.
My mouth is wet and slack as I smile up at him, my eyes moist. He reaches down and grabs me up into his arms and carries me into the other room. We collapse onto the enormous hotel bed, and he has my underwear and bra off before I know which way is up. The light from the living room is just enough to cast him in a particularly flattering light. Not that he needs flattery. His body is insane.
The strong upper arms. The hard, ridged stomach. The thighs. Those goddamned thighs. I reach out one hand to drag my fingernails lightly down his left thigh. He is trying to put the condom on and swats my curious hand away. “ Arrêt e !” he chides.
I squirm and stretch for a few seconds; then he’s finished messing with the condom and he cages me with his body and the hard sinew of his tensed arms. I reach my hands around to his lower back and pull him into me. My last conscious thought is, One night, here I come .
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he next morning, we are both surprisingly awake at dawn. My internal clock has been haywire for days. He is just tireless by nature.
“Are you awake?” He is on his side, resting his head on his palm and looking down at me.
“Awake enough. What did you have in mind?” I mumble.
He burrows his head under the sheets and roots around, kissing my hip and tickling the soft skin. I am facedown, and he starts to massage my lower back. I think he’s gearing up for round . . . five, is it? . . . when I shriek.
“Oh my god! Did you just bite my ass?”
He slides out from under the sheets at the foot of the bed and stretches to his full height, extending his arms nearly to the ceiling, an idiotically self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. “ Bonjour. I’m glad you’re awake. Now, let’s jump in the shower and go for breakfast.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
He’s already crossed to the bathroom door when I reply. He turns slowly back to face me. “It is better in French. And you’re the one who’s incroyable .” He pauses, then gestures toward his mouth. “You have the lips of a goddess.”
He turns into the bathroom without looking back and calls, “Now get in here.”
I swoon a little at his insane bossiness, then smile, because French people are the most beautiful bullshitters in the known universe. I should know. I learned at the foot of a master (mistress?):
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