Read Online The Chocolate Touch by Laura Florand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Florand
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great love story, not even jealous of his beautiful girlfriend because it was a crush and it was normal he wouldn’t be interested in a freshman. Other than her movie star crushes, it had been the funnest, safest interest in a man she had ever had.
Dominique came down the stairs with the graceful speed of an athletic man who knew this territory so well he could have raced the twisting stairs blindfolded, not looking where his feet went, glancing . . . right toward her table.
He smiled immediately when he saw her, and her heart started pounding. How could any man be so hot? That shaggy rebel black hair that needed a cut, the hard size of him, the way he moved. The intent almost-black eyes, the square smooth jaw, those big hands that made her body shiver with longing, as if they could lift her up like some baby chick, cupped warm in them and utterly secure. That rough, gentle voice of his, talking about flavors, until she wished she could become one of his.
She would give about anything, at that moment, to look like the tall, elegant, beautiful brunette waiting at the cash register. If she did, she would have had a chance at nabbing him for a little while.
Dominique noticed the brunette when he was nearly at the bottom of the stairs. His step faltered, and he had to grab onto the railing for balance.
Jaime’s heart sank to her toes. Shit. She had already ordered. She was going to have to watch this. She reached blindly for her purse, with its book-loaded iPad, which she had never before turned on in his salon .
The lovely brunette turned away from the counter at his approach, gazing at Dominique Richard as if she expected all of his attention.
She got it, too. Dominique glanced once at Jaime, then focused on the other woman. The gentleness vanished from his face, leaving it hard-edged, dangerous. The kind of face that got better women than she to walk right up and tuck themselves behind him on his motorcycle. He had to have a motorcycle to go with those leathers she had seen the other day. Probably a loud one.
Jaime turned on her iPad. She felt sick, as if she was watching a train run over someone she loved and doing nothing to stop it.
“Dominique,” the brunette said in a beautiful sexy voice. How did Frenchwomen manage that little husk and catch? As if they were constantly on the edge of an orgasm. This woman’s voice layered silk in it, too, suggesting she and Dominique had a history among sheets of just such silk.
Jaime stared blindly at the list of book titles on her tablet.
“Bon . . . jour,” she heard Dominique say.
She flicked a glance despite herself. The woman’s smile promised . . . God. Jaime wished she was French. How could the other woman promise fifty million orgasms with just a smile?
This was a lot worse than spotting that senior crush making out with his girlfriend. It was more along the lines of the time she had discovered her real boyfriend in college making out with the girl who attracted him for her body and not for her money.
Maybe she needed to get out of here before she took one more blow than she could stand.
C HAPTER 7
D om was in a flat panic. The sight of the woman by the cash register had alarmed him, but then l’inconnue pulled out her iPad and everything went to hell. She had never once done anything else in his salon but focus on him. On all the best he had to offer to the world.
Offer for one hundred euros a kilo, of course. He didn’t owe the world shit.
He scowled at Guillemette. If he had known what was waiting for him, he could have stayed upstairs and made the brunette come to him, dealt with her there where his little freckled habituée couldn’t see.
Every line of the brunette’s body made it clear she was throwing out an invitation for sex, and certainly it was flattering and even a little bit arousing that she had liked it so much the last time. But he couldn’t even remember her name, and . . . he was going to lose his habituée over this. If she had
Dominique came down the stairs with the graceful speed of an athletic man who knew this territory so well he could have raced the twisting stairs blindfolded, not looking where his feet went, glancing . . . right toward her table.
He smiled immediately when he saw her, and her heart started pounding. How could any man be so hot? That shaggy rebel black hair that needed a cut, the hard size of him, the way he moved. The intent almost-black eyes, the square smooth jaw, those big hands that made her body shiver with longing, as if they could lift her up like some baby chick, cupped warm in them and utterly secure. That rough, gentle voice of his, talking about flavors, until she wished she could become one of his.
She would give about anything, at that moment, to look like the tall, elegant, beautiful brunette waiting at the cash register. If she did, she would have had a chance at nabbing him for a little while.
Dominique noticed the brunette when he was nearly at the bottom of the stairs. His step faltered, and he had to grab onto the railing for balance.
Jaime’s heart sank to her toes. Shit. She had already ordered. She was going to have to watch this. She reached blindly for her purse, with its book-loaded iPad, which she had never before turned on in his salon .
The lovely brunette turned away from the counter at his approach, gazing at Dominique Richard as if she expected all of his attention.
She got it, too. Dominique glanced once at Jaime, then focused on the other woman. The gentleness vanished from his face, leaving it hard-edged, dangerous. The kind of face that got better women than she to walk right up and tuck themselves behind him on his motorcycle. He had to have a motorcycle to go with those leathers she had seen the other day. Probably a loud one.
Jaime turned on her iPad. She felt sick, as if she was watching a train run over someone she loved and doing nothing to stop it.
“Dominique,” the brunette said in a beautiful sexy voice. How did Frenchwomen manage that little husk and catch? As if they were constantly on the edge of an orgasm. This woman’s voice layered silk in it, too, suggesting she and Dominique had a history among sheets of just such silk.
Jaime stared blindly at the list of book titles on her tablet.
“Bon . . . jour,” she heard Dominique say.
She flicked a glance despite herself. The woman’s smile promised . . . God. Jaime wished she was French. How could the other woman promise fifty million orgasms with just a smile?
This was a lot worse than spotting that senior crush making out with his girlfriend. It was more along the lines of the time she had discovered her real boyfriend in college making out with the girl who attracted him for her body and not for her money.
Maybe she needed to get out of here before she took one more blow than she could stand.
C HAPTER 7
D om was in a flat panic. The sight of the woman by the cash register had alarmed him, but then l’inconnue pulled out her iPad and everything went to hell. She had never once done anything else in his salon but focus on him. On all the best he had to offer to the world.
Offer for one hundred euros a kilo, of course. He didn’t owe the world shit.
He scowled at Guillemette. If he had known what was waiting for him, he could have stayed upstairs and made the brunette come to him, dealt with her there where his little freckled habituée couldn’t see.
Every line of the brunette’s body made it clear she was throwing out an invitation for sex, and certainly it was flattering and even a little bit arousing that she had liked it so much the last time. But he couldn’t even remember her name, and . . . he was going to lose his habituée over this. If she had
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