Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LAURA
T he kitchen is quiet except for my muttering and the sound of wood scraping against wood. I’m standing on my tiptoes, yanking at the stubborn window frame with all the strength I can muster. But it won’t budge. The stuffy, stinky air of a Parisian summer afternoon seeps in through the gap, mocking my efforts.
It must’ve been the TV crew intern who opened it earlier while they were filming Antoine and me moving in.
What was he thinking? Well, given the nonviable length of his painted fingernails and his moon boots, not much.
Blaming the intern won’t solve the problem, Laura.
For a moment I consider giving up. But then I pull myself together. This place is air-conditioned. It’s only for two weeks, so you can be sure I’m going to enjoy cooled air to the fullest, courtesy of WAFS! The system at the Cala Stella resort may have been more advanced, but this is still so much better than the sauna in my apartment!
I’m not going to let a jammed window ruin the bonanza.
Swearing under my breath, I give the frame another hard tug. In vain.
“You’re going to dislocate your shoulder,” Antoine says somewhere behind me.
I look over my shoulder and find him perched on a bar stool, arms crossed, watching me like I’m his evening entertainment.
“Thanks for the commentary,” I snap.
Turning back to the window, I yank harder, exhale, and yank again. Still no joy.
“You know,” he says after a pause, “there’s a radical concept called asking for help .”
“I don’t need help. I just need this stupid thing to—” I tug harder.
The thing in question doesn’t budge. My fingers slip off the frame, my wrist aches, and I can feel my face heating with frustration.
Antoine shoots me a look that says, I’m about to do something you won’t like. Then, without a word, he comes over, close enough that I can feel his scent and his breath at the back of my neck.
“Move,” he says softly, reaching for the window.
“I got this, I just need to?—”
But he doesn’t listen. His hands brush mine as he gently but firmly moves them aside. “Let me, please.”
Before I can protest again, he grips the window frame and gives it one firm push. The window slides shut with a loud thunk. He flicks the latch into place and tests it, just to be sure it won’t get stuck again. Then he turns to me.
His eyes meet mine as he rests a hand on my shoulder. “You need to learn to ask for help, sweet cheeks.”
“I don’t have a problem asking for help,” I bristle. “I just didn’t think you’d know how to fix it.”
His eyebrows lift. “You didn’t think I could manage closing a window?”
I cross my arms and refuse to elaborate.
His expression hardens. “What exactly do you think I am? A useless soy boy? A hippie incapable of solving practical problems?”
The moment those words are out, a ginormous oops flashes in his eyes. It lasts a fraction of a second before his expression shifts into his usual unreadable mask.
I stare at him with defiance. “You’re a flamboyantly inked tattoo artist. Are you not? Forgive me for assuming that fixing a jammed window wasn’t part of your skill set.”
My taunt hits a sensitive nerve. He drops his poker face again—twice within a minute!—and lets his hand fall off my shoulder.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he says, his voice low and his eyes aflame.
I lock my gaze on his. “Then fill me in.”
“Oh, I’m going to fill you in, Laura, without delay.” He steps closer. “Orally first?”
It isn’t so much the double entendre as the raw lust in his eyes that flips some secret switch deep inside me. Suddenly, I’m horny beyond belief. Dammit! How can I be so mad at him, so annoyed at my own weakness, and so turned on all at once?
For a moment, I just stare at him, unable to form a coherent reply. The tension—sexual and otherwise—crackles between us. The sultry image his words conjured up in my head won’t go away. Worse, it gets more vivid by the second.
He leans in and rasps. “Admit you want it.”
“I—”
The words catch in my throat. You bet I do. I’m already wet just thinking about it.
“Laura,” he says. “You drive me crazy. In every way.”
And then he kisses me. It’s sudden and fierce. Even as my brain scrambles to catch up with what’s happening, I’m kissing him back, eagerly, hungrily. His hands slip around my waist to pull me closer. My arms slide around his neck. The kiss is all heat and frustration—a truly wild mixture. When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless like I’ve just run a marathon. My thoughts are spinning. My knees are weak.
Which reminds me. I kneel comfortably before him. His bulge twitches in response, making me smile.
Aren’t we eager?
I take my time as I unbuckle his pants. His breathing becomes staggered, heavy.
He sinks his hands into my hair. “Laura.”
It sounds like a plea. He adds something too bungled to make out, but I get the gist from the desperation in his voice.
What happened to the dirty puns, chéri ? None come to mind?
I’m faster with the zipper than I was with the buckle. He releases a ragged sigh when his erection springs free. Now desperate myself, I waste no time in taking him into my mouth. I use my hands, lips, and tongue to pleasure every inch of his engorged cock. I savor the feel of it, the heady scent of his skin, and the way his hard flesh quivers and shudders as I take him as deep as I can.
Antoine groans above me, tangling his fingers in my hair. His hips start to move in time with my rhythm. It’s been only a week since we started having sex, but we’re already a well-oiled team. When I go down on him, he knows he can allow himself to come, because I know he’ll be ready again in five minutes—tops. There’s no holding back for either of us. I increase the pressure and pace. He hardens even more in response, twitching, straining against the inside of my cheeks.
I know he’s close when he takes full command of the action. His big hands grip my hair as he rocks into me, his hips jutting out and his head thrown back.
Is it wrong to find this hot as hell?
Even if it is, I don’t care. My hands wander over his hips to his muscular ass. I stroke it and squeeze it, delighting in its perfect shape and firmness. With a final groan, he ejaculates. I swallow everything, enjoying the tangy, savory taste.
My name on his lips, he pulls me up.
“I really like your butt,” I say.
He skews a crooked, sexy smile. “I could tell.”
“Do you work out?”
“What gave me away?”
“You’re too well sculpted for someone who doesn’t, so it was easy,” I reply. “But there are things about you that are so much harder?—”
“Yeah, my dick,” he interrupts, pointing down. “It’s much harder already.”
My gaze drops to the proof of his statement. Watching me watch him, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I drag my gaze back up to meet his. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something about it?”
“God, Laura,” he growls.
Moments later, I’m bent over the kitchen table, with my skirt bunched at my waist, my tank top and bra above my breasts, and the crotch of my lacy panties pushed to the side. I hear a condom foil tear.
Come on, move it!
Finally, he enters me—and I moan my unadulterated joy. Holding me by the shoulder and the hip, he begins to pound into me. I can’t tell if it’s his technique, the angle or the curve of his manhood, but he manages to hit all the right spots.
I grip the edge of the table as his hips slap against mine with each thrust. Our skin is slick with sweat and arousal. My breasts are pressed against the polished wood of the table. I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensations, in the raw erotic power that we’re willing slaves to right now.
Antoine grabs onto one of my breasts and fondles it as he continues to bear down on me, switching between rough and gentle movements. It drives me wild. I’m edging toward my orgasm, when he pulls out and flips me onto my back on top of the table. He stands up straight in front of me. I remove my panties and reach for the top, but he can’t wait. He slips a hand between us and guides himself right back in.
I close my legs around his waist to lock him in place. As the joining of our bodies resumes, I realize this might be our favorite position, although we haven’t gone through the entire Kama Sutra yet.
Antoine’s pace becomes frenetic as he grinds against me, his thrusts deliciously rough. He takes my mouth in a hot, intimate kiss, cradling the back of my head with one hand, while gripping my backside with the other. My orgasm begins in the quiver of my thighs. Then my legs start to shake. My core clenches. I feel like I’m about to fly apart—and I want it.
It’s glorious when I peak. Moments later, Antoine comes, too, his cock throbbing inside me. Somehow, I manage to ride that to a second orgasm, moaning breathlessly.
Can this be a glimpse of the rest of my life? Have I unwittingly hit pay dirt? Can this man I barely know, my “revenge husband,” actually be the one for me?