He closed the gap between them, took her by her waist and heaved her over his shoulder. “I’ll have to sweep you off your feet then.”
“Ahhhh!” she laughed. “James!”
He strode with her to the bedroom, Mila shaking with laughter and slapping at him in careless protest.
“Put me down!”
“Sure, Princess.” He let her slip down slowly against his chest, their bodies flush, every curve of hers teasing his shoulder muscles, his chest, his thighs. His erection was soon going to battle for space in his slim-fit trousers. Grasping her hips, he tightened her to him, to his very essence that craved release.
She didn’t let go, her arms following the rest of her, except that they hooked around his neck until she found her feet. Then she leisurely eased her hands over his shoulders, leaving a spread of heat over his skin. They paused on his chest and when she gazed up at him her lips parted, wet and begging.
He wanted to kiss her, deeply. So badly.
The thought stalled every further action.
This was pure fucking madness.
Instead of giving in to the craving that burst to his lips he leaned in and kissed a slow path down her neck.
Her pulse raced under his lips, her chest heaving against his.
“We shouldn’t, James,” she whispered as she tilted her head, making space for him to suck and nibble.
“No, we shouldn’t,” he echoed back, tortured. She smelled of spring flowers, tasted like lazy Sunday afternoons filled with sex.
“But we’re going to, aren’t we?”
What had he been thinking? Now that he was here, with her in his arms, he didn’t know how to stop. He fucking needed to. This was Mila.
He was a man who didn’t acknowledge the concept of sin.
He should have stayed in sprouty Brussels.
He closed his eyes and dropped his head back with a heavy exhale. “Give me five minutes. I’ll give you five minutes. Make sure this is what you really want.”
His eyes met hers in a moment of weighted silence. She searched his gaze, lost. “Why?”
“Mila.” Was he trying to talk sense into her head, or his? “Being in my bed… comes with certain risks. Or risqué certainties. Whichever takes your fancy.”
She nodded slightly; her eyes sparkled and her lips twitched. “Risqué certainties?”
She was so not helping. But he needed to give her every chance to opt out.
“What’s your risk profile, Mila?” he whispered as he leaned in to taste her again.
She shivered at his touch on her sensitive skin. “I don’t know. I’ve never considered it.”
Fuck knew how he was going to contain himself and not fuck her six ways from Sunday. He let go of her and walked into the bathroom. “If you’re the conservative, skittish type, stick to the far end of the bed. I’d get it and leave you alone. Otherwise… rough times ahead.”
chapter 9
Mila held her breath as she listened to the movements in the en suite bathroom. James was brushing his teeth and she instinctively ran her tongue over her own.
For the duration of James’s shower, she’d conjured images of them, together, and those visuals did nothing to slow the rising heat between her thighs. Her heart was beating in her throat and butterflies were high on something and partying in her stomach.
There were no misunderstanding James’s intentions and her pulse sped away in anticipation. There was only one problem—how she was going to hide her inexperience? What if she disappointed him? The thought was too intrusive, so she shut every door in her mind, forcing her focus onto the physical.
Focus on her hymen. On that sneaky little bit of evidence that would give her innocence away without her even trying. She doubted it was still fully intact. Tampons, horse riding, doing ballet and splits… those were all hymen-tearing activities, weren’t they? She hoped it wasn’t still fully intact. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
Dear Lord. Let the hymen be gone. Please. Amen.
She shuddered. Good girls didn’t pray for that.
But the good girl in her had walked out the moment James had walked in. He’d been in the forefront of her mind the whole day, with every step she’d taken and every blister she’d rubbed on her tired feet.
She let out a deep breath, calming herself. He was the proverbial sex-on-a-stick. She’d been fantasizing about him for as long as she could remember, and now everything seemed ripe—she even had condoms with her.
She glanced at the box that still stood where she’d tossed it that morning. She took the package and ripped the cellophane wrapping off, scrunched it together and threw it in the direction of the bin.
There. That should do. Risks covered.
Right.
This was a bad idea.
She got back under the covers with a suppressed giggle, sticking to the middle of the bed. The bathroom door opened and James walked out, still wet and dripping. His towel was wrapped around his hips so tightly that it held everything nicely together. Maybe he was no longer in the mood. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe his cock was just really long… and he’d trapped it with the towel against his body.
He stared at her for a moment, searching her face.
“We need help here, Mila,” he hissed. “Fuck knows I can’t walk away. Aren’t you the conservative type?”
“No.” Why was she lying? He should know she was conservative to the marrow in her bones. She wanted to hide her face, which buzzed with prickles of heat. “We could just fool around?”
He tugged the towel from his hips, baring himself to her, then started rubbing his hair dry. The towel which dropped from his hands covered him… hardly.
Lord Almighty. Did it have to be so big? Where was it all going to go?
A lump jumped to her throat and wouldn’t budge. It was nerves, and her fingers curled into the duvet as his eyes settled on her.
His gaze swerved to the box of condoms and back to her. “Not fooling around at all, are we?” he said, his lips tugging into a smile.
She didn’t have to answer.
He stepped away and threw the towel toward the bathroom, exposing his toned glutes and a smoothly-muscled back. He switched off the lights and closed the shutter blinds until only a yellow haze of the city’s glow scantly lit the room.
He padded over, his figure dark against the window. As he got under the covers, the heat of his body filtered through the linen. The dark room enveloped them, the bed’s covers like a cocoon, trapping their bodies’ heat.
She had to keep her cool. Doing it in the dark would be a breeze. Her face wouldn’t give her away in the dark—the heat of embarrassment had settled like a faint layer of red watercolor on her skin.
He tugged at the cover, sliding it over her breasts and lower, exposing her to the cooler air, which was thick with the scent of his moist hair and freshly-showered skin. Her nipples puckered against her top, sending a shiver of goose bumps over her arms and stomach. He hadn’t even touched her yet, and he was doing this to her.
He edged over, his muscular shape silhouetted in the dark. She inhaled because he was so close, so close that his breath caressed her cheek. Her pulse jumped when he touched her forehead gently, tracing a line down to the bridge of her nose with his forefinger. She turned her face to the palm of his hand, into the hard male skin of his hand.
“You don’t sleep with these, do you?” he quizzed as he pinched her glasses at the bridge and carefully slid them off. A sense of being exposed flitted through her, more so than when he’d removed the sheet.
“No,” she whispered, already missing his fingertips on her body and the small pools of warmth they’d formed on her skin.
The sheet rustled as he reached over Mila to put the glasses on the bedside table. There was a slight pressure of his body on hers, a promise of the weight to come, a sm
all hug of encouragement. He settled back next to her, shrugging the sheet down to reveal her body. Her white tank top and cotton panties seemed totally insufficient as his eyes rested on her. She felt his gaze traveling over her, the white fabric illuminated in the soft shards of light that beamed in from the skylight.
“Do you usually sleep in this?” His finger was back, this time tracing the thin strap of her tank top, tugging it gently until it slipped off her shoulder. She closed her eyes as his finger hooked the strap, pulling the top lower, peeling the fabric from her breast.
“No, I—” Her voice stalled as her nipple broke free, the cool air mingling with his breath as he blew over her skin and nipple. Her back arched and her breast brushed against his smooth palm.
He paused, his hand connected to her, his fingertips resting on the soft under-curve of her breast. “Hmm?”
“It’s too hot for my Hello Kitty PJs.” Why did it sound so… schoolgirl?
A quiet laugh slipped from his lips. “I like Hello Kitty.” When his fingers ambled over, lazily catching her nipple, she inhaled at his touch, at the warmth that shot from her breast to her deepest part. His fingers rode her nipple, up and down, toying with her, so gently, almost in reverence as it puckered in a painful desire for something more.
When was he going to kiss her? She would be calmer if only he’d kiss her.
As if he sensed some need in her his hand traveled to her other shoulder, pulling at the strap. She rolled onto her side, trying to make out his face in the dark, wanting to touch him, too. Wanting to find his mouth.
His eyes glinted as he perused her openly. “It’s too hot for clothes. Don’t you agree?”
She wanted to nod, but he was already on his knees, his penis jutting out, silhouetted in the dark, to which she had grown accustomed. He was so comfortable in his skin, and on hers a permanent blush had gathered, intensifying the pools of heat generated by his touch. He was so close she could cup him in her hand. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and touch him, but she hesitated. The size of him made her quiver. Inside she clenched, unclenched, and burned.
He nudged Mila onto her back and gathered her tank top with his fingers, pulling it lower. “Up with your hips,” he instructed, and, before she could even grasp what he was doing, he had both her panties and top hooked with his thumbs and was pulling them downward. She lifted her hips in time with his actions. “Do you sleep in these?” he asked as he separated the two pieces, wriggling her panties in the air, staring her right in the eye.
“I do keep them on—”
“Not when in my bed.” He tossed everything to the floor, not shifting his gaze. She suppressed the urge to cover herself, to reach for the sheet and drag it over her exposed body. She forced herself to relax her legs, allowing them to fall apart.
He leaned onto his hands, pinning her between his arms. He moved his body over hers, but sliding lower. His cock grazed her knee, leaving a wet trail of his arousal over her skin. Dipping his head, he kissed her hipbone, blazing a path above her trimmed pubic hair. The tender touch sent a gush of heat through her stomach. She dug her fingers into his hair, wanting to pull his head away, but instead found that she steadied him there, edging him down to where she wanted his lips the most.
“You’re such a greedy little thing, Mila,” he smirked as he kissed the soft skin leading to the apex of her thighs, trailing his tongue along the edge between the lips of her sex and inner thigh. “And I’m sure pretty tasty too.”
Her insides oozed at his words, and a drop of arousal trickled between her thighs. He was working his magic way too fast for her, and in a moment of panic, her legs muscles contracted to clamp closed on her sex.
“Baby,” he berated, then shifted, a hand on her knee, pressing it aside and up, splaying her for him, for his hot mouth and rough stubble that scrubbed against her skin. “Ticklish, are you?”
“No…” No one had ever been there before. She probably was ticklish but in that moment, every sensation was too much, desire overriding everything else, creating havoc in her body.
“Relax, I’ll make it good,” he whispered into her skin. He didn’t let go of her, but slipped off the bed and pulled her legs until her bum rested close to the edge. He dropped to his knees on the carpeted floor, making himself comfortable.
A wild fear settled over her—a fear that he would actually kiss her there before having kissed her lips. Every muscle in her contracted away from him, when at the same time she wanted to push her sex to his mouth before he changed his mind. It was wrong, yet the promise of it sent waves of desire through her core.
She quivered when his hands stroked down her legs, spreading them wider. A part of her wanted to bring her knees together and roll away.
“Hello, Kitty,” he sighed as he traced her sex’s outer lips with his fingers, leaving a tingling path. “What do you like?” he quizzed, blowing a heated breath on her exposed, gaping slit. “Tell me?” The impulse to cover up was too strong. She propped up on her elbows, her knees almost catching his face between them as she closed her legs. But as if he anticipated this move he clamped her down. “Relax, Mila.”
“Are you for real?” Was he having verbal intercourse with her kitty?
He met her gaze, eyes shining. “Very.” He looked down at her sex again. Unable to move under his steady grip, her clit beating as if it had its own little heart, she dropped back and covered her eyes with her hands. She couldn’t deal with this. It was torture.
“Just trying to figure out what makes you tick, baby,” he said then, probably sensing her surrender because his steel grip on her knees loosened and his hands moved so that he rubbed his thumbs over her again, this time the merest fraction closer to her clit, each stroke bringing him closer, each stroke becoming smoother as he lubricated his thumbs with her juices.
“So deliciously wet, you needy little thing,” he purred as the soft pads of his thumbs circled her clit, rotating one after the other in an agonizing, titillating game. He wasn’t touching her clit; the build-up of desire to feel him there, where he wouldn’t go, was almost too much.
She anchored her fingers in his hair as her hips started to roll, mimicking his movements. “Kissing usually gets me ticking,” she choked, wanting to slow him down, to distract him, and herself, from what seemed to be an unavoidable collision. On the mouth. Her lonely mouth, which, apart from a few lost words, had received zero attention from him. It felt wrong.
“I’m happy to oblige,” he murmured and his mouth welded to her clit in a tender suck that sent an electric shock through her.
Her whole body jerked. “God!” she yelped, springing away from him, breathing hard against the current that still zapped through her. She clamped her lips down on the blasphemy that slipped from her lips, but no other word had come to mind. Her heart was beating, everywhere, as if it had taken over every other organ.
“Too much?” He stared at her from the foot end of the bed.
“Y-yes… no.” How was she going to tell him that everything was too much?
He was studying her face, waiting for her to explain, his hands still on her legs, letting her know she wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he.
“I’m just used to doing things from the top down, not from the bottom up,” she said—another white lie to help her out in this tight situation. She’d beg God for forgiveness for this, and everything else, later.
A soft chuckle broke from him as he took hold of her feet, stroking them tenderly. “I did promise you a foot massage.”
He inspected her feet, which were more tired than blistered, except for the blisters on her heels. He started a deep massage on her soles, easing the tension from this part of her body with his expert touch. How did he know how to do this to her?
“Change is as good as a holiday.” He got up and walked to the bedside table. He slid the drawer open and pulled something out of it. S
he eyed him warily.
“We don’t need lube in the middle section but I enjoy this bottom-up-business,” he teased. “We might just as well do this properly.”
She could swear he’d winked at her as he drizzled something that smelled like lavender into his palm. He closed the bottle and dropped it onto the bed next to her. As he walked back to the end of the bed he lathered his palms.
His hands were warm as he touched her, oiling her feet with massage oil, spreading it to her shins and calves. “Breathe, Mila. Try to relax,” he said after a minute. “Did I scare you too much earlier, barging in like that?”
The concern in his voice was real, and for a second she almost caved in and told him she was a virgin. He was sensing something was out of tune but would he sleep with her if he knew the truth? She was not going to risk finding out. The embarrassment of his rejection, the notion that he wouldn’t want her would be too much for her right now. He’d kissed her there; it was as if she was already marked as his. She’d rather see everything through and, with any luck, he would be none the wiser.
“Yes, I’m rattled,” she whispered. “I had no idea you’d be here tonight.”
“Shhh,” he said as he worked her soles, “you’re safe with me. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do, so just say stop if it goes too far, or too quickly, okay?”
The rhythm of his hands, the pressure of his thumbs as he massaged her feet and edged his way up to her calves, told her he was looking after her, taking charge, giving her time. He was being generous, waiting for her to relax, to become the clay in his hands that he could shape as he saw fit. He seemed to know each knot as he went higher. Her nervousness had evaporated by the time he reached her thighs and urged her to roll onto her stomach.
It was a relief to hide her face in the soft duvet as he dripped the oil onto her back. Then his hands were on her, still sure and steady as he massaged her, luring and guiding her to what they were going to do together. He went higher now, his touch changing, becoming softer, more erotic. She shivered as he stroked the back of her knees, and higher to the curve of her butt. He palmed her, running his fingers over her buttocks and up her sides, to where her breasts swelled out from her body weight. Her breathing hitched; he was doing it again, making her want to squirm. Her pussy was clenching and unclenching, feeling empty.
The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1) Page 4