He tumbled them into her bed and made a rich, hissing sound as he hit it, one hand flexing into her pale covers, a great cat taking possession.
Rolling over her, he pushed his sweater off her, and then her own, and then her top underneath, laughing a little in triumph with each layer, like a person who just loved the box-within-a-box gift trick.
She was used to the first shiver of cold when she hit this bed in the winter, but he chased it all away, his body rubbing heat everywhere.
She protested when he moved to take off her boots. She had put on those boots on purpose. They were her mastery. They were what she would wear to take him over, to take charge, to make him helpless in her hands.
He cupped his hand over her sex, through the knit leggings. “Do you want me to rip these in two?” he asked conversationally.
The matter-of-fact menace made her sex bloom hot through the knit against his hand. Could he? The leggings were stretchy and strong and . . . He looked as if he could.
She gave him her leg, which felt like open submission and therefore made her unbearably hot and wet, and he worked the long leather boot down off her thigh over her toes to the ground. Then the next. Then her leggings. Her panties. When he had her completely naked, he smiled suddenly, a smile that made her whole body prickle with delicious vulnerability, and drew the boots back on, over her bare feet and bare legs, the leather gliding against her naked skin.
So, she thought, with a rush of victorious relief. He did like to leave the power in her hands. But when she tried to rise off the bed, to come astride him in her boots, he flipped her over as easily as if she was his teddybear and tucked her back against his chest.
His penis pressed hard against her bottom. His arm wrapped around her, holding her against his chest. One of her arms was pressed against his arm and the bed, captive. He curled his hand around her other bicep, a gentle, close hold.
His fingers slipped up and down her cleft, and it unfolded instantly for him. She couldn’t have stopped her response. She had no control over it. He did.
And he was in no hurry. He explored her. Not as if he had any immediate goal to let her come. But with intimate curiosity, his fingers pressing apart her folds and tracing over them and inside them as if he could memorize their shape. Pinching them gently as if to learn their consistency, what she was made of.
As she tried to writhe, his easy hold tightened, pulling her back against his chest until his mucles imprinted themselves against her back and her breasts rubbed against the hair and muscles of his forearm. He contained her writhing. Effortlessly. She could barely move.
All her writhing had to transfer downward, to her hips, and even then he mastered it. He let her twist her buttocks against his sex with a laughing growl of approval, and when he decided he wanted to control that, too, he speared two fingers deep inside her. She whimpered and tried to curl over his arm, but he held her tightly back against him. All her inner muscles squeezed onto him, as if she could force him somehow to her nub, the lips of her sex clinging, as if maybe they could somehow writhe her clitoris to him.
But that was not physically possible. She could feel his hardness against her, how much he liked it. But he just kept exploring her at his own pace. No hurry. That man never rushed anything.
“I’m not one of your damn patisseries,” she told him.
He laughed.
That laugh drove her wild. She wanted to hate it. She wanted her body to shut down in revolt. And yet it just seemed to blossom further, the muscles of her sex trembling around his fingers, her hips writhing in a vain effort to get his hand where she wanted it.
His fingers, still in her, rotated a little, pressing outward against the walls of her sex, as if still testing what she was made of. She whimpered.
His thumb drifted toward the rear of her cleft.
Her body tried again to curl over his arm, and again he held it still without effort.
The heat washing through her was unbearable. “Philippe.”
His thumb rewarded her with a fleeting hard press against her clitoris, there and gone so fast, her sex could only cling desperately to his fingers still inside her, her thighs trying to wrap around his arm. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve said my name? I like it.”
“Please,” she whispered. She could feel his hardness against her, his arousal. How could he do this to her? Did he not want her as much? She could make him. She could make him. But she couldn’t take control while he held her like this.
His fingers spread a little inside her sex. The purr or growl inside his body reverberated through hers. “Yes, beg me,” he whispered into her nape. “I like that. Say it again. Say it with my name.”
“You bastard.”
He pulled his fingers out. “No, that one I’ve heard before.”
Her sex clung bereft to emptiness, and she tried to buck up to press herself against his palm. He pulled it away.
“I love you, Magalie. Have I mentioned that lately? And I want you to beg me.”
The words Je t’aime washed over her, seeming to loosen something in her while making some other part more afraid. Combined with the open declaration that she should beg, it forced the most uncontrollable heat everywhere through her. “Why?” she protested furiously.
“I just do, Magalie,” he said, so it wasn’t clear if he was saying why he loved her or why he wanted her to beg. “I have for a long time. Since I met you, really.”
“I knew you wanted me to beg you in that meeting.”
“That, too,” he agreed, and her body sparkled all over at the double admission. “You’re begging me with your body already, Magalie.” His palm rubbed lazily, heavily over her, deliberately just short of her clitoris. “You’re so hot and so wet and so . . . open.” His fingers flicked elusively over the innermost folds that were all exposed.
Her body jolted helplessly against his imprisoning arm.
“Can’t you open yourself to me in other ways, too?”
She did. He was in her room right now with her.
“If you invite me in nicely,” he breathed against her nape, “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
“Philippe.” She tried to arch and couldn’t and made a little moaning curse under her breath.
“That’s a start.” His fingers glided in reward more deeply up and down the length of her sex. But he didn’t touch that nub. He drew one little circle just around it but never touched it before his hand continued exploring.
Why was she so stubborn and closed and proud? She pressed her head back against his shoulder. “There might be some rewards in it for you, if you stop trying to play power games.”
“You mean, if I give up and let you have all the power.”
Given how powerless she felt, that was the height of irony.
“Besides, you’re always complaining that I barge in where I’m not wanted,” he murmured provocatively, the tips of his two fingers playing just inside her but not going deeper. “I’m trying to respect your territory.”
“Philippe . . .” She put all the menace a naked, involuntarily clutching and writhing woman could into the word.
“Allez, Magalie.” His chin was rough against her neck. “Say it,” he breathed. “I’m begging you to say it. It excites the hell out of me when you say it.”
He was begging her to beg him. That was—like the words Je t’aime, it freed something in her. She felt almost protected, held against him so tightly and so helpless. As if the strength of his arm was his promise: Let go. I’ve got you.
I’m as vulnerable as you. Which he couldn’t possibly be, but—
“S’il te plaît.” She had never asked anyone for anything she desperately needed in French before. She felt, oddly, a spark of hope. It was like a new beginning. “Philippe.”
He bit into the nape of her neck like a cat and pressed his palm down hard, rotating her sex against her pubic bone. She jumped into him, convulsing against his hold, her body giving itself up so uncontrollably, everything i
n her dissolving and shattering while he held her together so tightly, that when she finally begin to sink limply against him again, tears were leaking out of her eyes.
His hand rode her down gently, caressing her through the aftershocks, keeping them going, and letting her subside slowly, slowly, until so much had drained from her that she was almost asleep.
Then he turned her over onto her back and licked the tears from her temples like an animal craving salt. He combed her hair back from her damp face and pressed it to the bed, holding her head still as he kissed her everywhere, all over her face, coming back to take her mouth again and again.
He wrapped both his arms under her and squeezed her up against his chest hard as he slid into her, as if he couldn’t hold her tightly enough. Her body started to tremor again around him, tightening reflexively in what she thought at first were more aftershocks, and he made a low, hungry sound.
She ran her hands down his back, feeling the hardness of the muscles all in play, the arch of his spine. Finding tight buttocks and digging in, holding on for the ride as it got harder. She was close to coming again from the pleasure of that hard, steady ride, the use of her, the way he so clearly loved it, but she didn’t think he realized it, his focus seeming to have drawn down, down, into his own body. She clenched again on him, and his body thrust deep, deep into hers, and he came, holding her tightly against him.
Afterward, when he eased off her and rolled them both to their sides, her body curled back against his in the position that had started this, she found his hand and slid it between her legs again. His muscles were all heavy against her, and she thought he was almost asleep, her second peaking like a secret. But his thumb curled up and cooperated, and he pressed a kiss against her shoulder when she finished.
He pulled the comforter over both of them, no cold left in her bed, nor in all the room. “It’s not so bad being invaded, is it?” he murmured provocatively.
She smacked his forearm, but without force, and he nestled his head a little in the bed of her hair and laughed, drifting to sleep.
Chapter 30
When the contact at the Restos du Coeur called back to say they couldn’t get a pick-up van through the streets, Philippe grimaced and pocketed his phone, gazing down through the snow at his shop. “Talk about a waste,” he said. “And everything we had half-prepped for today is going to go, too. But”—he shrugged. What can you do?
Magalie came to stand beside him in her heavy bathrobe, tucked up against the warmth of his body, the cold of the window before them. “You should have a block party,” she murmured.
“What is that?” he asked blankly.
“It’s an American thing. It’s kind of like a fête villageoise, but your village is your street. I mean, everyone on the Île is in their apartments all up and down here looking out at the snow. You should just invite them all over.”
He gazed at her for just a second before a white grin split his face. “That would be incredible fun.”
She grinned back, taken by her own idea and his enthusiasm for it. “It would, wouldn’t it?”
“And I bet a lot of people are dying for a cup of your chocolate about now. You know, it’s hot-chocolate weather.”
She made a face. “Our place isn’t big enough for that kind of crowd.” Plus, she had been imagining herself at Philippe’s side, having fun in this event, not down the street, feeling exiled.
Wait just a damn minute. When had being in her own place making chocolat chaud ever felt like exile?
“But, Magalie,” he purred, “you know you are entirely welcome in my kitchens. Je t’invite.”
She prickled just a little, but the idea was irresistible. Grinning, they bundled up again, pounding on the aunts’ door as they went downstairs, Magalie calling people she knew in different buildings to get them to start shaking out the neighbors: Thierry, Claire-Lucy, Aimée. Claire-Lucy was, in fact, at Madame Fernand’s when the call reached her, having walked her dog for her to make sure the old lady did not slip and break her hip in the snow, and she promised to hold her arm all the way down the street.
Geneviève had applied her life-ironing abilities to getting Gérard to spend the cold night at his daughter’s, but he was back outside already and regarding Geneviève with a particularly gargoylish glare. But he came, too, freshly showered at his daughter’s insistence, and Philippe let not only him in but his German shepherd with him. “Because”—he grinned at Magalie—“I have kind of a fondness for that dog now.”
Magalie clenched her fist but managed not to hit him. Sissi the poodle snubbed the German shepherd haughtily today, sticking to Madame Fernand at her little elegant table, over by a rosebud-entwined marble pillar.
Thierry brought all his leftover roses and passed one out to every single woman there, making some of them entirely happy. Claire-Lucy chatted happily with Aimée as each of them waved a red rose in one hand and a pastry in the other to punctuate their comments.
“It’s too bad all that dough in the refrigerators still has to go to waste,” Philippe said to Magalie. “I can’t make all the kouign-amann single-handedly, though.”
“We can do it!” Claire-Lucy exclaimed, overhearing. “Just tell us how.”
Philippe exchanged a long, thoughtful look with one of the lion heads in the corners of his ceiling, presumably asking it for patience against the presumption that just anyone could make his pastries with a few simple instructions. Then he laughed suddenly, that rich laugh that had been one of the first sounds Magalie had ever heard from him, reaching out and grabbing everything around it into its vivid embrace. “Allez. Pourquoi pas?”
A laughing group spilled back into the kitchens, the fun and adventure of the snow party infecting everyone.
“You know a lot of women,” he murmured to Magalie as he opened one of the walk-in refrigerator doors on shelves and shelves of dough. “The milk’s in the next one, by the way. And the chocolate is in those cabinets. Are they all single?”
Her chin jerked up. “Why do you want to know?”
He just looked at her for a second. “You know, I might feel self-satisfied at the jealousy, if it wasn’t so incredibly stupid.” He pulled out his phone again, texting, then showed it to her. A group message to Équipe Labo, it read: No, I’m not making anyone come in today, don’t worry. But if you feel so inclined, there are one hell of a lot of single women who don’t know how to cook trying to make kouign-amann in our kitchens right now.
It was amazing, he said later, how passable the streets were with the right motivation. It was almost as if the city had a Métro or something.
Half an hour later, counters were lined with women and men leaning over them, some grinning, some intent. A group of children on stools were playing with dough on one floured counter. It must have gotten onto Twitter, because Christophe, Le Gourmand, had somehow slipped in, even though his apartment was way over in the Ninth, and he seemed entirely unaffected by the occasional exasperated glances from the store’s owner. “Hi, Chantal,” he said, stopping to stand near a woman Magalie remembered vaguely for her ability to toss her head and the fact that she had, like a lot of women who came to La Maison des Sorcières, a tendency to sell herself short.
Chantal looked up, stiffened, and looked awkward but oddly hopeful. Some old history there, huh? Christophe considered her for a careful, thoughtful moment. “Do you want me to help you?” he asked at last. “I’m not saying I’m up to Philippe’s standards, but I did a long exploration of kouign-amann for my blog.”
Chantal ran her fingers through her hair, which left it coated with flour. A little of the white stuff ended up on Christophe’s cheek when she tossed her hair “Thank you,” she said softly. “That would be nice.”
Where had Chantal come from, anyway? She wasn’t an island resident. There seemed to be quite a lot of people who had walked across Paris in the snow and found themselves here, and most of them asked for hot chocolate first thing.
“Wow,” one murmured to another
as they sipped from their cups, walking away from Magalie’s pot of chocolate, a giant thing so big and heavy, Magalie felt as if she should be muttering “Double, double, toil and trouble” over it. “I think I’m glad that Sorcières place we read about was closed. I don’t care what that blog said, their chocolate can’t possibly be better than this.”
Magalie ground her teeth together. Then she wrote a big sign and set it in front of the pot, saying, Chocolate provided by La Maison des Sorcières.
Philippe, helping Madame Fernand fold her kouign-amann, glanced across at her and laughed out loud.
Claire-Lucy looked up with flour on her nose and beamed at Magalie as Grégory put his arms on either side of her to show her how to fold. “This is fantastic,” she told her. “I’ll never forget this snowstorm in my entire life. What a fabulous idea Philippe had to do this.”
Magalie, stirring her chocolate, bit her teeth together on an indignant protest. Philippe gave her a salt-in-the-wound grin.
A minute later, he helped Madame Fernand place her kouign-amann on a pan and came over to put his arm around Magalie’s shoulders. “Let me have a cup?”
“You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Magalie muttered, filling it. But she could hardly try her first adventure in cursing chocolate when the pot was for such a big crowd.
“I should think that would be obvious by now.” He lifted the cup to the gathering. “A chocolate toast,” he said, and that easily, his golden voice took over the entire room and brought everyone’s attention to him. Even Claire-Lucy’s, and she had been busy getting Grégory to help her fasten a pastry jacket over her breasts. Philippe pulled Magalie snugly in front of and back against him. “To Magalie Chaudron, who had the idea for this party and so graciously agreed to make her hot chocolate in my kitchens for all of you.”
Well, that was finally appropriate behavior on his part, Magalie thought. To give her credit where credit was due. It took her a second to realize the way everyone was looking at her: stunned, amused, pleased, indulgent, approving, incredulous, thoughtful in Aja’s case, and outraged in Geneviève’s. It was quite a range, really. And then they all looked above her to Philippe. She twisted her head back suddenly to try to catch his expression.
The Chocolate Kiss Page 24