Twenty-eight
While Yuri and Raf were getting bent out of shape at the Ritz, the small party on the beach in Nice was enjoying the conviviality of good wine and pleasant company.
Vernie entertained them with stories of her travels, her position as nanny having taken her around the world several times. She’d been everywhere and seen everything. Jordi and Marie sat at her feet, enthralled by her descriptions of temples in Thailand and safaris in Africa, of the time she was flooded in Venice, or when she’d dined with an ex-ruler of Timbuktu.
During her narrative, Johnny and Nicky sat side by side on chaises and tried very hard not to look at each other.
And only partially succeeded.
But Nicky was cognizant of Johnny’s relationship with his daughter and perhaps slightly intimidated by Vernie as well. She tried really hard to behave with discretion and tact.
Meanwhile, Johnny was hard pressed to keep from spiriting Nicky away. Only sheer will and the constant reminder that at ten o’clock—give or take—he would be rewarded for his well-mannered restraint, kept him in check.
It was a taut and strained interval before dinner for two of the five people in the cabana. Fortunately, the other three seemed not to notice, engrossed as they were in the tales of Vernie’s world travels. Or perhaps, Johnny and Nicky’s acting abilities were demonstrably better than they thought.
Needless to say, dinner was equally difficult to pull off in terms of projecting the appropriate demeanor. Especially when the third bottle of wine was broached at dessert.
Nicky refused more wine at that point, even though it was a golden muscat she loved. If she had another drink, she couldn’t guarantee her behavior. Johnny looked way too luscious, lounging in his chair at the head of the table—all tanned and virile in his cream silk, open-necked shirt, dark as sin and handsome as a god. And it didn’t help that he casually handled the role of host as if to the manor born. He was gracious, charming, and affectionate to his daughter, erudite and discerning when it came to practically any topic. Although, the fact that he was a world-class stud seriously trumped even the most masterful of hosts in her current hot and bothered mood.
All Nicky could think of was sex, sex, and more sex. Overcome with an almost overwhelming need to touch Johnny, she flexed her fingers against the silky skirt of her green dress, which looked as good in Nice as it had in Paris. It would have been easy to reach out; he was so close. But she had to wait, she warned herself—for numerous reasons… most having to do with not embarrassing herself in public.
Maybe she should have a few quick cups of coffee. They might help mitigate her all-consuming, ravenous urges—further enhanced by alcohol, no doubt. Perhaps caffeine would assuage the need-an-orgasm-right-now mantra running through her brain and make her less inclined to throw herself at Johnny and plead for sex.
Even with three glasses of wine under her belt, she understood that doing that was strictly verboten.
Suppressing a shiver of desire, she stealthily glanced at her watch. “Shit.” Oh, jeez, she’d said it aloud. “Sorry,” she muttered to the table at large, everyone’s gaze having swiveled in her direction. “My watch battery’s worn out again.”
“Doesn’t that always happen when you’re miles from a store,” Vernie said, sympathetically.
“We’ll get one in the morning,” Johnny offered. “Let me take a look.”
As she held her wrist out to him, he leaned over, whispered, “Hang in there, babe,” as though he was a mind-reader. Unbuckling the band, he slipped her watch into his pocket, and said, “Let’s take our coffee and dessert out on the veranda.”
It wasn’t a casual suggestion. With his erection becoming more and more difficult to restrain, he needed to get away from the bright lights in the dining room. The candle-lit veranda would better suit his need for concealment.
He wasn’t usually so impatient. He must have had too much wine. Or maybe sex-on-demand was more of a constant in his life than he’d thought. Perhaps, Nicky simply engaged his interest more profoundly than other women.
Not a thought he particularly cared to pursue. But the lights had to go—that he knew. And quickly.
He waved the houseboy over. “We’ll take our coffee on the veranda,” he said, without waiting for a response from his companions.
“Bring the dessert, too,” Jordi said. “Please,” she murmured after a look from her father. “And thank you,” she added for good measure.
He waited for the rest of the party to precede him, then followed them out to the veranda, grateful for the dusky shadows.
The summer night was ideal—balmy and warm, the stars twinkling in the velvety darkness of the sky, the full moon a brilliant orange above a calm sea.
Over dessert, Jordi and Marie kept up a steady chatter, while Vernie did her share of talking as well. Until, finally taking note of Johnny’s desultory replies, Vernie said, “You must be tired.”
“I am. I’ll go to bed early tonight.” He suppressed a smile at the tantalizing thought.
“Why don’t I take the girls into town in the morning and let you sleep in?” Vernie suggested. “It’s not as though they mind shopping.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Johnny replied, when it actually sounded like sheer, unadulterated bliss. He had plans for the night, and Jordi was an early riser.
“Want to go shopping, girls?” Vernie asked, grinning at the raucous response to her question. She glanced at Johnny. “I gather that’s a yes.” And before long, although it seemed like eons to two adults with sex on their minds, Vernie began gathering up her charges. “We’ve had a busy day. Say good night, girls.”
“Do we have to?” Jordi wailed, looking at her father.
“You two can watch a movie,” Vernie offered. “You don’t have to sleep. Just get in your jammies.”
“Better do what Vernie says,” Johnny agreed. “If you wake up early, you can go shopping early. How about that?”
“Can we watch Jaws'! Please, please. Vernie’ll never let me watch it. I’m nine now. It can’t be that scary.” Kids had that sixth sense when they could maybe get by with something.
Vernie looked at Johnny. “It’s up to you.”
“Why not,” Johnny said, glad Jordi hadn’t asked if she could watch a slasher film, because with his mind focused on getting Nicky into bed as quickly as possible, he just might have said tempted to say yes.
After good-night kisses were exchanged and several more dispensations had been wheedled out of Johnny, the girls and Vernie left.
Leaving a pregnant silence.
Johnny set down his coffee cup, the sound of the cup striking the saucer ringing like a thunderclap.
Nicky jerked in her chair.
Johnny blew out a breath. “Sorry.”
“I’m a little on edge.”
“Tell me about it. It seems like months since the beach.”
“More like years.”
He smiled. “We’ll give everyone five minutes, then take the back way up. With this hard-on, I don’t want to run into anyone.”
“Except me.”
“That’s my plan,” he said very, very softly.
“Just a word of warning,” Nicky breathed, his plan and hers identical. “I might come the second you touch me.”
“I’m about there myself. I almost lost it a hundred times during dinner. You must be some kind of witch,” he murmured. “Definitely a good witch, though. Don’t get me wrong.”
She suspected he’d been the object of adulation so often and with such regularity, she didn’t know if she should add her homage to the cast of thousands before her. Although, what the hell. It wasn’t as though she was planning for any lengthy relationship. “All I know,” she said, honest to a fault, “is that you turn me on like no one has ever turned me on. I don’t know if it’s magic or your talents in bed, but whatever—I’m more horny than I’ve ever been in my life. So—has enough time passed, or what?”
“Oh, yeah.” After that
blunt statement, no man in his right mind would hesitate. Leaning over, he took her hand and rising to his feet, pulled her up.
“Do we have to go upstairs?” she whispered, shuddering against him.
“I’d rather. Can you wait?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Give me three minutes,” he whispered, and knowing he could move faster than she, he scooped her up in his arms. Crossing the garden in long strides, he moved toward the back of the house at top speed. Had they remained on the veranda, they might be interrupted.
And he didn’t want that.
At least not until morning—late morning now, thanks to Vernie’s shopping trip.
In record time he was entering Queen Victoria’s bedroom. Kicking the door shut, he’d barely turned the key in the lock with the tips of his fingers when she panted, “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
“One second.”
“Ohmygod,” she breathed, not sure she could hold back the tide.
“Wait-wait,” he whispered, moving to the bed in two swift strides, dropping her on her back, unzipping his fly, pushing her skirt up, and spreading her legs. Stripping off her panties in a blur, he climbed between her legs, and a second after that he was buried to the max right where they both wanted him to be.
His eyes shut tight against the agonizing jolt of pleasure.
She clung to him as though she were drowning—feeling him inside and outside with every ripe and ready, tingling, pulsating nerve in her body. His heart was pounding as wildly as hers. “Again, again,please!” she begged. There was no question whether she could accommodate him completely, her body unsparingly prodigal in its need. She was throbbing, drenched with longing, fevered and desperate.
As fiercely impatient, he willingly obliged her, quickly withdrawing, plunging back in, ramming in to the hilt, feeling as though he was caught in some powerful riptide that was carrying him along whether he liked it or not.
Over and over again in a mindless frenzy, he crammed her full.
Over and over again she breathlessly rose up to meet him.
And whether a few seconds lapsed or minutes or whatever heaven-sent interval passed, neither was entirely sure.
Although, Johnny was unconsciously monitoring Nicky's orgasmic progress, disciplining himself, waiting, watching. Damned near out of control, he wasn’t sure he could delay his climax much longer when she suddenly went taut beneath him and whimpered frantically. As her orgasm broke over her and she sobbed in gratitude, he poured into her, deluging her slick cunt, ejaculating with such violence, he forgot to breathe for a moment.
Just like he forgot to use a condom—again.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He was out of his mind. He was never so stupid, and with her he’d more or less forgotten the entire concept of using a condom.
She must be a witch.
Who the hell else could inspire this kind of craving? Not that he actually believed in witches; he was reachin’ here. But whatever it was that was fucking with his head, he’d deal with it later. Right now, she was cooing and raining little kisses on his throat and feeling really soft and warm around his rising cock.
Right now, he was going to fuck his brains out.
“Oooooo… that’s nice,” she whispered, as his erection surged inside her.
Nice in flashing ten-foot-high neon, he thought, feeling the pleasure spiking up his spine and into the farthest reaches of his brain. Nice as in fly-me-to-the-moon without any visible means of propulsion other than steamy, flame-hot lust.
For a man who thought he’d seen it all, his eyes were being opened to an entirely new world of sensation. The kind that engaged something other than his cock’s attention. The kind that knocked on doors he’d never opened before. Maybe even the kind that might make him think beyond tonight.
She arched fiercely up into his downstroke, bringing him back to reality, and he kept his mind on business after that because he liked to please her. And please himself in the bargain.
After an initial frenzy of orgasms, he left her sprawled on the bed and, stripping off his clothes, walked over to the French doors and opened them to the night. Standing in the doorway, he let the air cool his sweat-drenched body, gave himself a few moments to come back down, surveyed the moonlit sea with a new appreciation for its beauty.
As though prime sex heightened one’s sensibilities.
“Don’t be gone long.”
He smiled and swung around. “As if I could.”
Opening her arms wide, she wiggled her fingers. “Bring me some moonbeams and yourself and hurry.”
Ordinarily he would have resented such a command. But nothing about this night was ordinary. “You already have me,” he said, softly. “How many moonbeams do you want?”
“Just enough to warm me.”
“I can do that better,” he said with a smile, retracing his path from the bed. “I can make you hotter than any moonbeams.”
“I know—I know, I know,” she said, joyful and full of play. “And it’s early yet.”
“That works out, ’cause I’m greedy as hell.” Bending low, he kissed her smile. “And talking of greedy pleasures, this dress has to go,” he murmured, lifting her into a seated position.
“I thought you liked it.”
Her bottom lip settled into a delectable little pout that made her look sweet and sexy at the same time. “I love it.” He grinned. “But not in bed.”
She smiled, instantly mollified. “Oh, that’s what you mean.” She turned her back to him. “Unzip me, then.”
The way she said it, like it was a routine matter, like he unzipped her dresses all the time, like they’d been here like this in the moonlight many times before—was strangely gratifying. A halcyon, cozy little moment. He might have thought the word cozy foreign to his world. But instead he found it charming.
Unzipping her dress, he bent his head and softly kissed the nape of her neck. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Silly question,” she whispered, turning back and smiling up at him. “Take this off for starters.” She lifted her arms.
He pulled off her dress, tossed it aside, and suddenly grinned. “No bra. I like that.”
“Practicality. I’m always in a hurry with you.”
“But just with me.” Fuck. Why did he say that?
“You want the truth?”
For a second he wanted to say, No, no, forget it. But he didn’t. He said, “Yeah.”
She hesitated, looked away, looked back. “I shouldn’t say.”
“Tell me.” Clearly, he was deranged.
Her nose twitched like a bunny uncertain of what direction to take. Then she took a breath and said with a defiant tilt of her chin, “I only feel this way with you. Are you satisfied?”
“Definitely.” This from a man who had always prided himself on his complete lack of possessiveness.
“So now you know.” She made a small moue. “I’ve been trying hard to stay aloof, but there it is—I’m as adoring as all the other females you run across.”
“You’re not like them at all,” he said, softly. “And I adore you right back—so there.”
“Fucking smooth talker,” she said with a grin.
“I believe that’s in my resume.” He laughed. “But in this case it’s no bull. And once you see the presents I bought you,” he added, sportively, “you’re going to adore me even more.” Preferring playful banter to a conversation that had damned near turned serious, he walked to the dresser and picked up two packages the housekeeper had brought up. Returning a moment later, he handed them to Nicky. “Adore these, babe," he said, dropping into a sprawl beside her.
The two small boxes were wrapped in silver paper. “Here’s where I say, you shouldn’t have,” she murmured, smiling at him.
He turned his head on the pillow and met her gaze. “And here’s where I say, I hope you like them.”
“How could I not if you bought them?”
He was surprised it mattered that she like them. After buying countless gifts for countless women, these simple and inexpensive objects should be irrelevant. But he found himself watching her face as she opened the first box.
“Oh… how wonderful,” she exclaimed, pulling out a miniature, porcelain tree house. “This is what you bought at the toy store!”
He smiled, gratified at her expression of wonder. “I thought of you when I saw it. The door opens; there’s people inside.” Carefully easing the small door open, she dipped her head and looked inside. The detail was startling, the execution phenomenal. A man, woman, and little girl were seated at a table, their arms and legs moveable, even their eyes opened and shut. “It’s gorgeous!” Leaning over, she kissed him. “I can’t thank you enough!”
He grinned. “I can think of a few ways you can thank me. But open the other package first.”
“Ohmygod!” she marveled, unwrapping a small box of Roussel chocolates. “How did you do it?”
“One phone call and a messenger service. Do you like them?”
“Do fish swim? You’re gonna have to wait while I eat these,” she said, setting the tree house on the bedside table, fluffing her pillow up and leaning back with the box of chocolates in hand. “Don’t interrupt me now,” she murmured, a chocolate already halfway to her mouth.
“What happens if I do?”
“I won’t even notice.”
“Is that a fact?”
She looked up at his roguish tone. “Okay, I’ll notice.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t want to be outclassed by a few chocolates.”
But she seemed not to have heard him, and he smiled to himself. Not that his ego couldn’t take a little competition, not that he couldn’t wait to fuck her for a few minutes. Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself just lying beside her and watching her.
Maybe he was just so whacked-out from exhaustion, he was more easily disarmed by her winsome charm.
French Kiss Page 17