by Donna Alam
‘You’ll injure yourself.’
‘A risk I’m willing to take, though I’d rather the fault be yours.’
I pull away, sitting back on my heels. ‘You want me to hurt you?’ I ask, deadpan. ‘You know, there are names for people like you.’
‘I want you to fuck me, and if I die in the course of that fucking, you can mention in my eulogy that I died visiting my favourite place. That I went with a smile on my face.’
‘Nobody’s dying. And nobody’s getting laid. How about a compromise?’
‘As long as this compromise does something about this.’ He takes my hand, pressing it to the part of him that’s clearly defined through the fabric of his shorts.
Pleasure licks at me at the unexpected contact, my mind already awash with plans. Yet I blink back, almost owlishly, as though not quite sure what he’s asking. But I can’t hold onto my grin as I answer, ‘Oh, I think I can manage that.’
37
Rose
Thirty minutes. I asked him to give me thirty minutes before following me upstairs.
Sure, I could have lifted him out of his shorts and taken care of him on the sofa, but that’s not what he asked for. Seeing the outline of him right before me was more than a little tempting. His hands in my hair, his eyes glazing over at my touch.
Could have. Would have. Gladly. But he’s right. We’ve both been scarred by this week. We need to come together, and we need to heal.
Also, in coming together, we might even come together.
If we’re lucky.
So, I flit around, carrying things to and fro between the master bedroom suite and the adjoining bathroom, which has the kind of styling you’d see in a home magazine. A copper bathtub sits in the centre of a room that’s a very handsome mix of modern and heritage stylings. The dark, sleek tiling is contrasted by pale marble vanities, the black and copper-coloured veining tying the look together.
I don’t have time to admire the gilt-framed mirrors or the shower that’s the size of a squash court because I have plans, the first of which involves stripping off to treat myself to a super quick d-i-y trip to the spa. Slather and shave in record time. I’ve been kind of preoccupied the past few days.
Dumping my clothes into the laundry basket, I pull out my beautiful kimono robe, grateful Remy’s housekeeper thought to pack it. When Rhett sauntered into the house the first afternoon we were here, I’d flinched, noticing the familiar suitcase in his hand. He’d dumped it down, along with a masculine looking leather weekend bag, and announced he’d visited our apartments and packed us both clothes to save us the trouble.
Great!
Actually, not great at all. I’d almost choked at the thought of Rhett selecting clothes for me, of him thumbing through my underwear drawer. Worse still, of him finding the Pussy Pounder 2000.
Like I’d ever live that down.
I couldn’t even use a lethal weapon defence, not without opening a whole other can of big-ass worms. But as it turns out, Remy’s housekeeper had packed my bag, and very thoughtfully too, because she’d included my gorgeous kimono. One of my first gifts from Remy.
The silk is heavenly against my skin, and it’s so glamorous, I feel like a silver screen goddess in it. As I slip it on, it makes me want to float around my boudoir. But again, timing issues.
I twist up my hair then carry a couple of fluffy towels into the bathroom, my insides bubbling with nervous anticipation. The good kind of nervous. The excited kind. The kind of nervous that makes a girl feel like she’s balanced on the precipice of something great.
‘Are we having a Wiccan gathering?’
I pivot at the deep sound of Remy’s voice to find him standing at the open doorway, the shape of him framed by the light from the bedroom.
‘Well, I am all about the glow,’ I reply, eyeing the dozen candles I’ve placed strategically around the room. I think it looks kind of sexy, and the smell of scented oil rising up from the hot bathwater is heavenly. I place one towel on the floor next to the bath, the other folded over the lip of the tub near the top. To make it more comfortable for his head. ‘But any more nonsense from you,’ I add, moving to the vanity to ostensibly tidying my hair in the mirror, ‘and I’ll offer you up as a sacrifice.’
‘I thought you needed a virgin for such dark arts. I’m sorry to say that ship sailed more than twenty years ago.’
‘You have not been having sex for twenty years.’
In the mirror, Remy smirks as he sidles up behind me. Maybe because slack-jawed isn’t a good look. But he lost his virginity at the age of fourteen? Yikes.
‘You know what they say.’ His arms envelop my waist as he presses his lips to the place my neck and shoulder meet. ‘Practice makes perfect. No complaints because you, ma Rose, get to reap the benefits of my early corruption.’
‘Is that so?’ I try to suppress a shiver.
‘I’m not sure about so, but it is a promise. And one I intend to keep.’ Flames dance in the mirror, sparking off the copper bath, bringing out the highlights in his hair, his eyes like green glass. ‘We’re bathing together, are we?’
I turn my head as though only just realising there’s a tub full of water behind us. I’m not distracted for long as his mouth returns and I gasp as his hand slips between the gaping sides of my robe. He holds the soft fullness of my breast in his hand, and I find I have to stifle a whimper as his thumb lightly brushes the already hardened bud of my nipple.
‘I love how sensitive you are,’ he whispers in that velvet voice of his, clever fingers beginning to tease. A soft swipe, a firm pinch, a kiss, a whisper of breath blowing the soft hairs on the nape of my neck, and the line between kindness and cruelty melts my body against his. He presses his whole length against me, hard and unyielding.
‘You’re spoiling my plans,’ I complain, even as I’m pulling his head closer to press my breast into his hand.
‘Shouldn’t we at least get a little dirty before our sins are washed clean?’
He finds his answer in a sensitive spot under my ear, a place that seems to be inextricably linked to the point pulsing between my legs. I arch, my hand slipping between us to feel his want of me, our joint moans resounding through the heat-filled room. My arm curved around his neck, I pull his mouth down to meet mine in a kiss, a kiss that can’t claim any kind of finesse. We’re greedy, teeth clashing and tongues swiping, need colliding with need. It’s a kiss that’s wet, hot, and long overdue. A kiss that would easily lead to other things as his free hand slips to my thigh.
‘What are you doing?’ I still his hand with my own. I feel his smile curving against my shoulder and his lack of restraint pressed at the small of my back.
God, I want it. Want him. This infuriating and frustrating man who will cause me a lifetime of strife and trouble. This man who offers me his love. I want him so badly my heart is fit to burst.
‘Taking a little visit to the promised land.’
I almost laugh. ‘More like trying to distract me.’
‘If by distract, you mean fuck then yes, I am guilty.’
My gaze slides to the tub as I over him more skin to kiss as I give second thoughts to my plan. It’s certainly big enough for both of us. But it would be awkward. And just . . . not how I want this to be. Instead, I turn in his arms as I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. ‘You’ve got an answer for everything.’ I pull the soft cotton up and over his head.
‘That’s what my mathematics teacher said the year I turned fourteen.’
‘Your teacher?’ My scandalised tone is more an act of subterfuge to hide my distress at the sight of his torso. Even in the darkened room, I can make out at least a half dozen shades of blue, green, and red, the contusions and bruising healing at different rates along his sides. It’s not the first time I’ve seen his bruising, and I know his back to be much worse, but it still catches me off guard that his beauty is so marred. I won’t acknowledge his hurt or his suffering. I want only to help him heal. Help us heal.
�
�Have I shocked you?’
‘I’m . . .’ I nod my head a little, stalling for time. ‘I’m never ever roleplaying with you.’ His deep burst of laughter resounds through the space, a moment later a groan of discomfort taking its place. ‘Remy.’ I press my hand to the side of his face. ‘Let me love you now.’
I help him with his shorts, sliding the waistband down the long line of his thighs, and watch as he sinks into the scented water, the discomfort easing from his face inch by warm inch. His elbows hook over the sides as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes.
‘Is it good?’ I’m almost reluctant to speak as I press my knees to the folded towel next to him.
‘Oui. C’est bon.’ His eyes close, the heat in the room turning his lashes into spiky half-moons against his cheeks.
‘Français? I hope you’re not trying to trick me like you did back in March.’
‘Ah, March.’ The word rolls from his tongue like a favourite dessert. ‘Where it all began.’ His voice has the kind of quality to it that suggests he’s edging towards sleep. He dips his hand into the water before dragging it down his face. ‘You were my last thought, you know.’ His eyes are still closed, his words spoken so quietly, it’s almost as though they weren’t meant for my ears.
‘Your last thought? You mean the accident?’ If that’s what it truly was as I take the noise from his throat as one of assent. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ I ask, taking care to keep the intense need to know from my tone. I know what he said to the police, thanks to Rhett’s translation. It seems the meathead understands French better than he speaks it. But at least he speaks French. Unlike me.
‘I was . . . happy. Happy to be with you that evening. Happy to be given a second chance. One minute I was almost on deck, and the next.’ He pauses, his chest moving with a deep inhale. ‘The next I was in the water, my head feeling as though it had been split. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, though my mind did find you.’ His hand reaches out, covering mine where I grip the edge of the tub. ‘Worse than the pain was the sorrow. I had lost you, and the bitter taste in my mouth was one of regret.
‘No regrets. We’re here now.’
Remy sighs as I trail my fingers down the centre of his chest, over the hard, ridged planes of his stomach, taking care to avoid the places that might make him flinch. Air leaves his chest again as I trace the same path back, grazing a swirling pattern across his chest. A drop from the faucet hits the surface of the water. Cicadas in the garden begin to sing their night-time chorus. I register the sounds, but I don’t really hear them, aware of little more than the silky-soft feel of him and his deep, even breaths. His knee appears quite suddenly through the mound of bubbles, a surprising glimpse of his wet, bare skin that makes my insides draw tight. He’s a little battered and bruised but so beautiful. And he’s all mine.
His head turns, his eyes open, glittering green now almost midnight.
Midnight eyes that watch me with such intensity.
Such love.
‘You feel so good.’ Midnight eyes and bedroom tones, his voice is all husk and want.
‘I think that’s supposed to be my line.’ He rests his knee against the side of the tub, the position not so much a suggestion as a dare. A dare I ignore, for now, as my touch continues to steal and swirl against the narrow path of hair from his navel down.
‘Embrasse-moi.’ His words are more a growl as he reaches for me, his hand wet on the fine silk of my robe, darkening a patch of peacock blue to black as his forefinger circles my nipple. A teasing touch, yet one of such touch of intent.
‘Kiss you or . . .?’ Or kiss it. Something thrums deep inside me, a desire so acute it cleaves.
‘Give me your mouth, Rose. Bring yourself to me.’
‘So you can pull me into the water?’ I retort. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would it be so bad? There’s space for two.’
‘But there isn’t space for what I want to do.’ His responding smile is like sin itself. ‘Close your eyes,’ I whisper. ‘You wanted to feel my love. So feel.’
He doesn’t answer but rests his head back against the folded towel as I continue to touch and tease over the coarse hair of his thigh and knee, from fingertip to bicep, to where his hair is beginning to curl at his nape in the heat of the room. I follow a bead of moisture as it makes a path down his neck. Acting on a moment of instinct, I lean forward and lick.
‘I couldn’t resist,’ I whisper, sinking my teeth into the fleshy part of his ear. And my breasts to his arm.
‘I think you’re trying to kill me,’ he whispers, his hands tightening on the sides of the bathtub.
‘You can suffer a little time not being in charge,’ I murmur, aching at the brush of silk and the feel of his hard flesh beneath.
‘Oh, I suffer. Certainement.’ Certainly.
Breath stutters from his chest as I trace the flat circle of his nipple, an achingly perfect moment building between us. He’s affected by my touch, and I’m affected by his response, from the tiniest of tremors and inhalations to the way the taut muscles in his jaw flex. Blood sings in my veins and pulses between my legs, and as I inhale a soft breath, Remy reaches across his body, drawing the robe from my shoulder with his wet hand.
‘This is silk.’ My protest is half-hearted as his gaze brims with heat and unspoken promises.
‘If it shrinks, it will be all the better for it.’ The backs of his fingers graze my newly exposed nipple. ‘The view will be all the better for it.’ As he sits forward, the water moves almost soporifically, clinging to his skin. I don’t blame it. His head bends to mine, his lips a teasing glance. ‘You are so beautiful.’ His voice is low and husky, and almost filled with wonder. ‘A picture of such delicious dishabille.’ His touch echoes my own, the feeling so delicious, I’m almost swept away.
I push my hand into the water, and he gasps as I draw my fingers down his length from tip to hilt. As I take his hardness into my hand, I consider pulling out the bath-plug to better see the whole of him. The water ripples, his body undulating, his expression the most heavenly mixture of pleasure and pain.
‘Does that hurt?’ I already know the answer as his sharp bursts of breath disturb wisps of my hair.
‘It is the sweetest of agonies, and I never want it to stop. I want to laugh with happiness,’ he says through a groan as I tighten my grip, ‘but it hurts too much. Not in the fun way. I want to dance around the room, throw you down on the bed and sink into you.’
Ideas for later, I suppose, yet my thoughts fall away like blossom in a breeze at his sexy stream of consciousness, his hands falling to the sides of the tub, grasping the rim as I work him.
‘Yes,’ he grunts. ‘Plus fort. Harder.’ The sounds he makes are almost unravelling.
He groans again as my hand tightens, his next breath is a long, measured exhale, almost like he’s preparing himself. An instinct that’s proven correct as scented bathwater suddenly spills onto my robe as he pushes himself to stand. I sit back on my heels and just marvel at him. The width of his shoulders, the supple curve of his bicep and the long line of his thighs. The ladder of his abdominals and the trail of glistening hair that leads to his jutting cock. There are just so many delectable spots. And I want to investigate them all.
He reaches for the towel, his long legs bending at the knee as he steps from the bath. I stand, my reflection wanton in the mirror opposite. Cheeks pink, eyes dark, the silk dripping from my shoulder, exposing me. Wordlessly, I take the towel from his hand and begin to pat him dry. His shoulders and arms, moving down, ignoring the part of him that extends as though inviting touch. I slip behind him, tending gentle touches to the bruises, pressing my mouth to his heated skin as though my lips could heal.
His body trembles as I trace a finger across his hip, moving in front of him once again.
He’s a feast for the eyes and, boy, do I feast. I touch. I handle. I kiss until his masculine groans become strained, and I drop to my knees. My palms against his toned thighs
, I press the most gentle of kisses to his crown.
Above me, his face half in shadow, half washed in the glimmering light, he tips back his head with a curse.
‘Rose.’ My name is a thing with thorns as I slide my lips down, down, over him, hollowing my cheeks for the return. His skin is hot to the touch and he smells so heavenly, a mixture of bath oil and man as I take the weight of him into my hand.
His responding moan is taut and desperate, his body seeming to vibrate with restraint as I work him, as I lick, suck and swirl, need twisting inside me, the heady sensations unspooling like silk.
‘You look so beautiful on your knees.’ His accent thickens, his words like velvet as he brings his hands to my head, almost in gentle benediction. ‘And you suck me so well.’
Desire builds in my veins, demanding more. More kissing, more sucking, more of this man inside me as I begin to work him harder, his hands directing me, sliding the fallen hair from my face, punctuating his shallow thrusts with a whispered catechism of, ‘yes, yes, yes.’
His chest rises and falls rapidly as he suddenly slides his hand under my arm, encouraging me to stand. ‘Tu vas me faire jouir.’ My insides begin to pound at the knowledge of the one word I’m able to pick out. Jouir. Come. His thumbs stroke a path along my cheekbones, his whisper fervent. ‘I need you.’
As though to emphasise the point, he flexes his hips, pushing against me. ‘I’ve dreamed of this all week while you slept so peacefully next to me.’ His mouth is just mouth a breath from my ear. ‘Now it’s time for to make these dreams real.’
Bedroom, I think as I turn, when Remy twists me back, my hands falling to the marble vanity.
‘Do you remember the mirror, Rose?’ His hand spans my collarbone, his touch skating across my nipple, barely touching. It throbs all the same. ‘You were so beautiful. I knew then I would never get my fill.’
My cheeks heat at a sudden deluge of memories; the scarf around my neck. The way it fluttered against my skin. How his gaze lingered and burned.