The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  With his guidance gone, she had no idea what to do. The water trickled from his broad shoulders in small rivulets, losing track in the hair on his pecs, diverting when it hit some oily patches.

  “You smell like lavender,” she whispered, lifting a finger to trace a patch on his skin where water and oil didn’t mix.

  “Hmm, you smell edible. Same as last night.” He still stood with his head tossed back, but a smile played on his lips.

  He was waiting for something. He was waiting for her, letting her set the pace.

  For some reason the stress of expectation slipped from her, making her feel light and silly. Rising on her toes she pressed her lips to his ear, her breasts rubbing his chest. “May I soap you down?” The idea of her hands roaming over his gorgeous body, free to touch where she wanted, to see how he reacted, excited her.

  He met her gaze. “Do whatever pleases you, Mila.” He turned the water down to a slow trickle. “Explore all you want.”

  “I’m not good at any of it.”

  He stared at her, silent for a moment. “Then I’ll teach you.” He reached for the soap and slipped it into her hand.

  “Shower 101?” She widened her eyes, mocking primly.

  “Just a little lesson, baby.”

  His tone held a pinch of threatening tease, and she swallowed. A part of him was still pissed off. Why did she feel that she was going to pay for lying by omission? “I promise to be a fast learner.” Remember. Just once.

  “I won’t mind you taking your time,” he grinned, lifting an eyebrow.

  His words made her quiver inside. Making deals with James was a bad idea because he already had the upper hand. Wasn’t making million-dollar deals what he did for a living? If she took her time and failed, he might deem it fit that she had another… lesson. Her conscience was knocking heavily, but she went deaf as her body surged with lust.

  Just once. She’d make it count.

  She rolled the soap in her hands, then pressed her slippery palms to his chest, slowly sliding them to his shoulders. One hand still held the soap and she drew a path with it over his body, circling his ridges and valleys.

  He settled his arms again on either side of the shower’s walls, giving her access to every part of him. She didn’t dare look down, for the tip of his cock brushed against the under-curve of her belly on every breath he took. He was warm and wet, the damp air heavy with the scent of his arousal. Her need intensified and her hands slowed of their own accord. She stroked him gingerly, running her fingers over the soapy fuzz on his chest, and back to his neck and sandpaper stubble.

  He moaned as she retraced her steps, going lower to the V carved in his abdominal muscles, which beckoned where she was not quite ready to go. It was one thing fondling him in the dark at night, and another to touch him in the morning light that filtered through the bathroom window, where her inexperience was clear and embarrassing. Her breathing was strained as it was, her pulse jetting her blood through her veins as she blinked. His cock was begging to be touched.

  Instead of going lower, she chickened out and slipped her hands around to his glutes, the soap slipping from her fingers as he shifted his weight.

  He murmured something unintelligible and lowered his head. “I need more, Mila,” he whispered as he guided her soap-sudsed hand to his penis, suspended like a bridge between them. “Touch me.”

  Her fingertips brushed against the silky skin of his shaft. “I—” His reaction to her touch was immediate, and her voice broke as he clasped his fingers over hers, wrapping them around his cock. His grip was much tighter than she’d expected, and she gasped as he thrust against their hands in solid, slow strokes.

  His breathing became strained, and she quivered inside knowing she had this effect on him. She wanted to give him more, but after a minute he loosened his grip with a groan and she let go. “I’d love you to jerk me off right now, but this is about you.”

  She inhaled sharply at his soft-spoken desire. “I’d like to learn how to—” Inwardly she shrunk at her own boldness, wishing she could liquefy and disappear down the shower drain.

  “God, you’re sweet when you blush, Mila,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. She melted at his loving touch and turned to press a kiss to his fingers.

  She hesitated for a split second, but she wanted this, as much as his body told her he wanted it too. Gazing up at him, she felt decidedly liberated at his reaction and the softness of his gaze. “It could be part of the… lesson?”

  He groaned as he shifted on his feet, his cock lifting as if to give its own consent to this scheme. “You know that no man can resist that, right?” He pursed his lips as if struggling to make a decision. He shook his head then, lowering their hands to where his cock was waiting impatiently.

  “If this is what you want, hold on tight,” he instructed. “I like it hard and fast in the mornings.”

  He didn’t let go but continued to guide her hand, clasping his over hers. At their slow, deliberate rocking his cock hardened even more, lengthening, and she looked down as he built up speed. He breathed in short snatches, but suddenly he paused and cupped her chin in his free hand. His eyes looked drugged as he studied her face through half-mast lids. He ran his thumb savagely over her lips, spreading them open. “This would be more comfortable for your hand if you were on your knees,” he whispered.

  To her, going on her knees meant something different. She shuddered at what it could imply. She couldn’t do it, not now, not like this—the connotation was too religious, and as if he read her mind he let go with a groan and reached for her other hand instead.

  “Cup me,” he said between gritted teeth, as he settled her hand to his balls.

  One hand palmed his sack, which was heavy. He adjusted their grip on his cock with the other and resumed their stroking, this time with more vigor as he stabilized them by pressing against the wall with his free hand. She glanced down at their hands, desire swelling between her legs at the image, knowing she was part of it. Her body swerved with her own unreleased tension, which was becoming more powerful as she watched his need building up.

  “Tighter, baby,” he said with a curse, his hips undulating with each push and pull. “You can do it.” He sped up even more, his fingers now hovering over hers, only guiding her rhythm.

  She was in awe, feeling him surrendering to her movements alone as he relaxed his grip. It would be her that would send him over the cusp. At the thought she clenched him, and the rush of release as his semen ran through his erection, to the tip, rippled up the inside of her hand. He moaned, holding onto her as his seed squirted over her, spurts of male paint recklessly splattering her breasts and stomach.

  He drew in a sharp breath as he ejaculated, and fisted his hand over hers again, making sure she couldn’t let go. Her heart was pounding, her arousal seeping to her thighs. Only a minute later, finally spent, did he unfurl his steel grip from her fingers and pull her hands to his chest. When he dropped his chin to her head, wrapping her in his arms, she had to steady herself at his unexpected weight. She pressed flush to him but inside she was floating, weightless, and with his heart beating under her palms, she felt more liberated and empowered than she’d ever felt in her entire life.

  “Sweet baby,” he murmured as he kissed the tip of her shoulder, nipping gently to the slope of her neck.

  “My hands—” She stretched her fingers over his pecs to ease the strain in her hands. The pursuit of his release had been almost savage. She was clearly not jerking fit.

  A giggle bubbled up but her breathing stalled as he brought her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers, one by one, slipping his tongue over them, his eyes closed.

  “Your hands are very precious… and very handy,” he said when he finally looked into her eyes. He let go and pushed her a small step away. Her hands dropped to her sides. She felt empty and dejected at the sudden
distance between them.

  “Was that it?” The question popped out. He was spent. But what about her? Her body had been begging for him to touch her, to take her where he’d promised. And now… the disappointment crashed through her. Surely he wouldn’t be that selfish?

  Touch me.

  His gaze dropped to her breasts and the semen that slowly gravitated down, aided by the trickle of water that occasionally drizzled over her as he moved.

  “That was just leveling the playing field, Mila.”

  She didn’t understand and gazed up at him.

  “Since Marl—” He broke off and shrugged as if to say never mind. “I have a pile of orgasms.” He grinned now. “Each one waiting its turn. It would be unfair to you to open the door and gush them all into your sweet, virginal pussy, don’t you agree?”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. The image he’d conjured was weird… and worrying. A pile of orgasms.

  She swallowed at the thought. She’d enjoyed his lesson, but from the start she’d planned for this whole sex-thing to happen only once, to know what it felt like… but already she was at it for a second time with James. With his confession, the danger of her own moral decay while spending a week in his apartment—with him alone—suddenly seemed inevitable. Why did she sense that once sexual desire and need was switched on, it wasn’t so easy to switch off?

  But his words also implied that he hadn’t been around the block as she’d thought. He hadn’t been messing around much if she’d understood him correctly. There was relief in knowing this. Mila hoped that she wouldn’t be one of so many that she’d just become a number to him.

  “You’re thinking too much, Mila,” he murmured. “All I meant was that I’d be able to go on for longer the second time around, making sure you orgasm that little voice out of your mind.”

  That little voice—the one she hated—she’d do anything to be rid of it.

  He raised his hands to her hips, splayed his fingers over her and traced a burning web of heat up her belly. Reaching his semen, he idly spread it over her ribcage and massaged it into her breasts, into her areolas and nipples. At his slow, calculated touch she quivered, her nipples going painfully taut, bolts of desire shooting to her core.

  He was marking her, spreading his scent over her, making her his territory. She wished he’d mark her with his mouth, with his tongue, blending with her in what she deemed the first token of love.

  “James,” she murmured, “why don’t you kiss me?”

  He shot a glance at her eyes, then dropped his gaze back to her breasts, his ministrations slowing, becoming even more titillating as he squeezed her nipples. “I have been kissing you.”

  She licked her lips. “Real kissing. French kissing.”

  “I haven’t shaved.” He didn’t meet her gaze. “You’d be raw around that gorgeous mouth if I started kissing you now... in the way you should be kissed.”

  He hadn’t shaved, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He was lying and she knew it. This wasn’t love or being in love. This was just raw sex. And yet… she wanted him to kiss her. Just once.

  “Turn around,” he said, dismissive of her question as he nudged her around, propping her arms on the wall. He stroked her arms, cupped her elbows and kissed her shoulder tenderly. He gathered her wet hair, twisted it and piled it on her head in a knot. His hands eased down her back, one letting go as he picked up the soap.

  The smooth, slippery bar ran from her lower back up to her neck, and she shuddered at the feel of it against her skin. It was cooler than his hands, gliding, and with the little pressure he applied the sensation was totally erotic. He ran his hand with the soap over her hip, her ribcage and higher to her breasts, lathering them one by one. His other hand joined in, rubbing the soap over her chest and breasts. She’d never known her skin to be so sensitive. Every trace of his touch drew a map of roads that were only leading south where she tightened more with each stroke. She was melting under his tender touch, similar to last night, every gesture aimed to reduce her to a begging mess of sexual desire.

  He turned the water on again, and it gushed over her back. He drew her into his arms then, kissing the back of her neck and her shoulder whilst he rinsed the soap off her breasts with his hands. She could feel his arousal against the small of her back and the cheeks of her butt. Every muscle in her contracted at the thought of making love with him. Yet she had to control the urge to turn around in his embrace, circle her arms around his neck and kiss him, as she’d wanted to from the first moment. Something in his actions told her not to do that. He had this boundary, one that she’d never imagined could exist, and one he wouldn’t allow her to cross.

  This was not love. This was just sex. Just once.

  chapter 13

  James turned the faucet off, having washed off everything except the guilt. It had been eating into him since he’d realized that he’d taken her virginity. But now, after her innocent question and his hypocritical answer, he felt even more.

  He had to get his mind on board, or he would go down the same spiral that had floored him for the past eight months. Not that the two issues were the same—no, they were as opposite as fire and ice—but still, it annoyed the hell out of him that he’d managed to develop a conscience. His moral limits had never been tested, not until those last months with Marlène when she’d asked him to cross a boundary he hadn’t known he had. Now Mila was testing him again, on the opposite side of the spectrum. How far could he take her without one of them—or both of them—getting more deeply involved?

  Stepping out of the shower he reached for a towel and held his hand out to her. Mila took it, carefully stepping out onto the bathmat. He hunched down, taking the towel to her feet. They had a slight sandal tan and her toenails were painted flamingo pink. Each toe was straight and in perfect alignment with the others, in perfect proportion, like the rest of her. He swept the towel higher, over each of her calves, knees and to her thighs. She wobbled and groped his shoulder for balance. Instinctively he went slower, for she was quivering under his touch. As he reached her glistening pubic hair, he rubbed over her pelvic bone with both his thumbs. A moan escaped her lips as she raked her fingers into his hair, anchoring herself against his slow onslaught.

  When he looked up to meet her gaze she’d closed her eyes, and his lips broke into a quiet grin. If he weren’t careful, sassy Miss Johnson was going to come all by herself.

  As he rubbed her dry, working his way up her stomach to her breasts, he stared at her lips. She licked them, bit them, and now they were slightly apart as she inhaled through her mouth, her chest heaving under his gentle rubbing. Now would be the time to kiss her, when she least expected it. Explore her mouth with his tongue and taste her.

  Kissing would bring a new layer of intimacy, a deeper emotional layer to what they were doing. He couldn’t go there with her; she’d get hurt and had nobody to fall back on. Kissing was the no-go zone for a reason.

  He bit down on his tongue and straightened. Instead of kissing her, he focused on untying the knot of twisted hair piled on her head and drying it. But his mind wouldn’t let go of the notion of their lips melding because his own craved the connection. When he looked down at her flushed face again, her gaze rested on his mouth. She raised her hand, touching his chin, tracing his bottom lip with such longing that James knew he should pull away. He almost succumbed to her hesitant touch as he let his stubble scrub her palm and fingers. He had to be the stronger one—he knew what was best. Her trembling slowed as he clasped her hand with his and kissed her palm, the rise of her thumb and her wrist.

  He dropped the towel and pulled her by the hand. “Come.”

  He went slowly, wanting to build her anticipation and to get a grip on his thoughts. She followed. Why did it seem so hard to do this without kissing her? Last night it hadn’t been an issue. Kissing would never have entered his mind with someone else—it had always been easy. His
deal with Marlène had been that they could do whatever they’d wanted with other people—as long as they’d been going for it together as a couple and it hadn’t involved any kissing. And now he found it hard to slip out of that “no kissing” frame of mind.

  He shoved the thought away, unwilling to let the presence of his ex in any form intrude on this moment, which should be Mila’s. The fact that he’d even thought of Marlène was messed up. It had been eight months and he still hadn’t been able to move on. What was up with that?

  That nagging voice had been whining in his head, telling him he needed to sort out his shit. Yeah, it was still there. That echo just wouldn’t shut up. He couldn’t move on because the situation had been about more than Marlène. She’d only embodied his whole screwed-up life until she’d technically gone off and cheated on him, crossing the boundary he hadn’t wanted to cross, doing so alone with another man.

  Clearly, neither their open lifestyle nor their swinging had precluded him from being cheated on. He’d been such a fucking idiot.

  He hadn’t been hurt; he’d been irate about Marlène’s backhanded duplicity. Had she really thought he wouldn’t find out?

  Breaking up with Marlène and stepping away from the club had been the right thing to do. But the lapse of time had been worthless if he still couldn’t get his head around such a simple thing as kissing the sweet girl whose hand now rested on his back.

  Mila was waiting for his lead. He inhaled slowly, trying to sort his rambling thoughts into some kind of order.

  Mila was pure, uncharted territory. She was only here for a short time, and he’d promised her this would only happen once. Inexperienced as she was, kissing would lead her on, making her think they could be more.

  He stopped in front of the freshly-made bed, reached for her hands and circled her arms around his waist.

  Just once.