Chapter 17 #2
“I want you to make love to me. And I want you to call me by my name.”
“I don’t make love. I fuck. Chloe,” he added.
“Then fuck me.”
He didn’t move. “You saved my life tonight. Why? All your troubles would be over if you’d let that man shoot me.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“That’s inevitable in my line of work.”
She raised herself on her elbows. “I want you to live.”
“Then give me something to live for.”
She climbed out of bed, sleek as a jungle cat, and dropped to her knees before him. She ran her hands up his strong thighs and then put her mouth on him.
How could she not? He was beautiful at all times, but particularly when he was aroused, and she needed to taste him, needed him in her mouth, the silken steel of him.
She knew just what he liked, when to go slow, when to go fast, when to lick and when to suck, and he groaned in pleasure, catching her face in his hands to hold her as she went down on him.
He was everything she loved, and his thumbs caressed her cheeks as she pleasured him, and herself.
It always astonished her that some women didn’t like this, when it was one of her favorite things to do. She loved the smell of his skin, the taste of him, the texture, and she made a low, groaning noise, an echo to his growl of arousal.
A moment later, he pulled her away from him, and she let out a moan of distress. “I want…” she said, but he stopped her.
“Get on the bed,” he said. And she did.
There was one small lamp at the end of the bed and he left it on, when she’d rather be subsumed in darkness.
He came down on the bed, covering her, and she could feel his cock hard against her belly, and her need ramped up.
She spread her legs, but he made no move to take her, simply looking down at her with a troubled expression on his face.
She felt so empty, so bereft. “I need you inside me,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he said, stretching out over her, and she felt surrounded by him, awash in him. He took her hand in his, then frowned at the bruised mark on her arm. Leaning down, he pressed his lips against the mark, a healing, a benediction, and she closed her eyes.
He kissed her other arm, then drew away. “And here?” he murmured, looking at her bruised thigh, and she remembered the pain of his subduing hand under the table as they ate dinner.
He bent down and touched his mouth to that bruise, sucking slightly, and she knew the love mark would join it. “Have I hurt you anywhere else?” His voice was a rasp.
She put her hand to her heart silently, and a shadow crossed his beautiful face.
“Oh, chérie,” he said in French, low and feverish, “you’re going to be the death of me.
” Burying his face between her breasts, he kissed her there, before latching on to the one breast, sucking at her as she felt his hand roaming the softness of her belly, then below as he slid his fingers into her.
He lifted his head. “Tell me you want me.”
She was going mad with longing. “I want you,” she whispered.
He put his mouth on her other breast, sucking hard, swirling the peak with his tongue and she jerked with helpless need. “Tell me you want me more than any other man in your life,” he said.
That was easy. She was sinking into a velvet darkness, and all that mattered was his mouth on her breast and his long fingers between her thighs.
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life,” she said obediently. It was only the truth. Reality was fading—she only knew that this was her husband, the man who adored her, who knew just how to touch her with his mouth, with his hands, with his cock.
“Then take me,” he said, moving over her, between her thighs, and she could feel him against her. He pushed, and he seemed bigger than ever, hard and heavy. And then he snapped his hips and filled her so quickly she cried out in pain and satisfaction.
He rode her, with full, hard strokes as he pushed inside her, and every time he pulled back, she clung to him, her arms around his neck. He was slick with sweat, and so was she, and they slid together in perfect harmony. His thrusts were inexorable and she gloried in it, wanting more and more.
“Harder,” she whispered, and the word unleashed whatever rein he’d kept on himself. He pounded into her and she met every thrust, soft little cries of satisfaction coming from her mouth as he filled her, and she rose up to meet him, wanting everything he could give her.
There was no warning—the orgasm hit her like a storm—thunder pounding down on her, lightning sizzling through her veins, her skin, her soul. A moment later, he followed her down, into a swirling eddy of consummation.
She clung to him, so tightly she would have thought she’d leave bruises on him, if she’d been capable of thinking.
He lay on top of her, winded, his heart racing against hers.
She wouldn’t cry this time—she’d cried enough, but she clung to his sweat-slick shoulders with all her strength, hiding her face against his chest.
“I love you,” she whispered in a daze. “Bastien.”
He was used to having women tell him they loved him.
He wasn’t used to them thinking he was someone else.
He should pull out, move away, but she felt too good beneath him, her creamy skin, her cunt still spasming from the aftermath of her orgasm.
He stayed where he was, feeling her body relax beneath his, her heart slowing its hammering, her beautiful brown eyes closing.
There were no tears this time—that was an improvement.
She looked like a woman who’d been expertly fucked, the way he wanted his women to look. The way he wanted her to look.
Bastien. Who the hell was this fucking Bastien, that a moment when she was most vulnerable she cried his name? If he had any doubts that her so-called husband wasn’t real, her calling his name just made things clear. He was real, and he was a problem.
He could feel one of his headaches coming on. He pulled out of her and rolled to the side, but she followed him in sleepy longing and curled up against him.
He put his arm around her, hauling her closer, though he wasn’t sure why. She was warm and the night was cold. She was soft and sweet when she was drowsy, and he wanted to feel her up against him. It didn’t matter why.
Chloe was sound asleep already, though her heart was still slowing down.
He didn’t like to think of her by her name, for any number of reasons.
He’d told her the truth—he didn’t like to be too familiar with women he might have to kill.
But it was more than that. Maybe he’d known a Chloe long ago and things had ended badly.
But that was lost in the mists of memory he didn’t bother with.
The past was irrelevant—now was the only time that mattered.
Right now, lying in a warm bed, a soft, sweet body pressed up against his, coming down from a roaring orgasm, he was just fine. The headache was ebbing, and he was at peace. Looking down at the woman in his arms, he sighed.
“Chérie,” he whispered, “you’ll be the death of me.”
She stirred, moving closer to him, and sighed
He closed his eyes and slept.