21. Primrose
PRIMROSE
I’m good, or I strive to be. But I’m neither little nor a girl. I also don’t understand why I’d allow him to call me such a thing. Or understand why my insides turned to marshmallow fluff when he did.
“Give me your mouth.”
Um, okay. W—wait. O, my God!
Every kiss I’ve had in my life was wrong. I know that now.
We kiss for eons, it feels like. Galaxies are made and destroyed in the time he takes exploring my mouth. Darkness moves to daylight, weeks to months, seasons then years, all passing in a blissful, soft porn moaning haze.
His tongue swirls the shell of my ear, and he slides wet open-mouthed kisses down my neck. As an encore, his lips find my nipple over the fabric of my T-shirt.
“Beautiful, Primrose.” Butterfly light, his fingers trail down my spine, before grasping my hips as though to slow himself down. “You make me so hard.”
He flexes into me and my stomach somersaults.
“Why is this mouth such a distraction?” His thumb rests on my bottom lip, eyes darkening as my tongue darts out to lick the tip. “Again,” he whispers, so I do. He slides the digit into my mouth. “Suck.”
The noise he makes, God, I want to bottle it.
“That’s it, beautiful. Suck harder.”
I give a breathy sigh and hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper into my mouth.
“Yes, take me all the way in. I want you to paint your mouth for me, red like that night. You’ll look so pretty on your knees, your mouth stretched wide around me.”
I groan at the picture he paints, groan as I fellate his thumb like I’m staring in a dirty movie. His dirty movie. I am in way over my head. But oh my God, there is such bliss here.
He trails the wet digit down my chin, and then we’re back to heavenly kissing.
The rasp of his cheek against mine is another layer of pleasure, one I could never have anticipated as something I might enjoy.
That night in Paris, he was clean-shaven.
And every day since. But I kind of like how he is now, unguarded and loose.
He’s been drinking, and I can taste the liquor on his tongue. Maybe cigarettes?
“This body was designed to torture me, I’m sure.”
His words pull me out of my own head, and I give a soft laugh. “Have you been perving?”
“I don’t know this word,” he murmurs, sounding very French.
“It means to watch,” I whisper, stretching out under his gaze.
His eyes follow the sinuous ripple of my body.
“How could I not? Your smile, your hands. The elegant curve of your neck.” His gaze touches each in turn.
“Your legs. You make me feel like a deviant,” he whispers, putting his hand to my sternum and pressing me back against the countertop. He puts his big hands to my thighs.
I swallow a sharp gasp as his thumbs tease. So close yet not there.
“I’ve wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you. You looked so lost. So innocent. I wanted to corrupt you.” Such temptations, but this time in French.
Such a pity I’m not supposed to understand them.
“Is this your version of everything sounds sexy in another language?”
“Is that your version of use your mouth for another purpose?” As he gives a soft chuckle, I begin to wonder if that night in Paris wasn’t a fluke at all. No man could be this confident unnecessarily, right?
“No, I—” That’s as far as I get when Luc (God, that sounds so weird in my head) hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pajama bottoms. His expression is wickedness personified as he slips them under my bum, then down my legs.
“I want those back,” I say, my words sort of shivery.
Anticipation mainly, and maybe a tiny dip in confidence.
The feeling doesn’t last long as he moves back a touch, his eyes falling to the space between my legs as he just…
stares at me. Stares at me there. It makes me feel so strange.
Vulnerable, yes, but also kind of powerful.
Like my skin is a net of live wires powered by his gaze as pleasure pulses through me.
What sorcery is this given he’s not even touching me?
No one has ever looked at me this way. Examined me. It should make me want to hide, not make sure he keeps looking. And for the first time in my life, I understand why someone might enjoy being objectified.
It feels intoxicating. A potent aphrodisiac.
My gaze moves to the glass wall overlooking the patio and pool beyond. The lights are still on out there. Anyone could see in. See me lying semi naked across the warmed marble.
That thought shouldn’t feel at all thrilling.
“Everyone is asleep,” he says, following my line of sight. “There’s no one to interrupt.” He presses his lips to my knee.
“The security team?” That wasn’t at all wishful thinking.
“They don’t come this close to the house.”
“Good.” The word sounds as tremulous as my pulse feels.
“But if they did, they would bow at your feet and crown you their queen.”
I close my eyes, imagining just that. People watching. Praising me. A shiver runs through me as his big hands slide up my sides. Higher, higher, exposing my breasts from under my T-shirt.
“I knew you would be beautiful.” He rolls my hardened nipple between the pads of his fingers. I give a soft moan, and my legs seem to fall wider all on their own. “Yes, that’s it. Let me see you. Let me drink you in.”
The way he parts me with his thumb, swiping through my wetness, feels like a taunt. I sound so slick, I think as I close my eyes, rolling my lips together as I try to retain some impression of control.
“Open your eyes, little flower.” His eyes glint in the low light as his thumb makes another teasing pass.
My body reacts almost violently, a harsh breath expelled from my mouth.
“Good?” He circles the pad of his thumb.
“Yeah. Yes.” I feel like I’m levitating, high on the moment as I squirm, struggling to keep that contact.
“I’ve been dreaming of tasting you again. Would you like that? To see me on my knees for you.”
“Oh, God.”
“If I fuck you with my tongue, will you make those breathy little noises again? Will you beg for me?”
His dirty words spark inside me like tiny, pleasurable jolts, but I clamp my mouth shut. I want this more than I want propriety, or decency, or anything else I’ve ever told myself is right or true. But the man’s ego is big enough.
“I’ll make you come like no one else, little flower.”
“That remains to be seen.” I didn’t mean to say that, to goad him, but the man is scrambling my brain.
His ego reveals itself in the tilt of his mouth, though he says nothing else.
Why the heck does that do it for me?
“You talk a good game at any rate,” I say with more carelessness than I really possess. Brave. Be brave, I tell myself as I arch and stretch, leaning back on my palm. Look at the way his eyes follow.
“You do want me to use my mouth for something else.” The dark amusement in his tone makes me want to smother him with a certain part of my anatomy.
His wet thumb finds my clit again. I stifle a whimper as it rotates. Lightly pets.
“Just don’t build your hopes up.”
The look that spreads across his face should be illegal. “Idiots,” he mutters before expelling a whole lot of French, cursing the fecklessness of modern men. “Three times,” he then says in English. Kind of out of nowhere.
“No, it was only once.”
“Three times tonight,” he replies, his gaze full of heat and all kinds of promises. I almost jump as his other hand lands on my thigh, opening me up.
“Let’s make things a little more interesting. For us both. You will come three times tonight.”
I begin to laugh, chuckle. Scoff, maybe.
“Or you can leave.”
My amusement cuts off mid-chuckle, and I feel my brow flicker.
Talk about confidence. Maybe after this, I’ll want to leave.
To run far away to a place where I won’t have to see him silently blame me.
Where he won’t see me cringe when I think of how he couldn’t make me come once, never mind three times.
As though he sees those fears in me, his thumb slips away.
“I’ll take that bet,” I whisper, feeling the loss and yearning for the opposite. What I don’t expect is for him to lift his thumb to his lips. For him to lick it. For his lashes to cast shadows against his cheeks as he sucks on it with the most carnal groan.
I’ve been lashed by a live wire at the sight. He sounds like I do when eating cake.
“My sweet little flower,” he says, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. I want to melt at the endearment—and I want to protest at his use of it. “I am going to make you scream.”
I also want to demand he gets on the eating thing when he suddenly pinches my clit between his fingers.
“Oh God.”
“So good,” he purrs, circling. Stroking. Lighting up my nerve endings and making them sing.
“Oh, that’s nnnn,”—not fair—“nice.”
He quirks a brow, exchanging fingers for his thumb now, swiping it back and forth before scissoring his fingers and opening me up.
An appreciative hum. A small circle, a delicate pet, as he watches.
As he weighs my responses, drinking me in.
“I don’t know where I want to kiss you first.” His thumb swipes far too lightly over my clit, not that I don’t exhale a soft sigh anyway.
“Or here.” Through the slick ribbon of my flesh it goes.
“Or perhaps…” I stiffen as he slides farther, feathering over my no-go zone. No go but feel good.
“Please,” I beg. Shudder. Moan. “Stop teasing. Please put your mouth on me.”
“You’re so pretty when you beg, Primevère.”
In one fluid motion, he drops, his warm breath brushes over me in a shiver-inducing caress, the bristled brush of his cheek against my inner thigh.
It already feels like a sensory overload as that’s before the hot lick of his tongue.
My body bows and I cry out, my fingers finding purchase in his dark hair as I chase the sensation.
“N-not begging,” I grate out as my toes curl, and my eyes threaten to roll back in my head. “Sssuggesting.” My grip tightens, and he gives a low grunt, the sound reverberating through my insides.
Ohmygiddyaunt.
He gives a low laugh as he lasciviously licks into me, like his tongue is chasing dripping ice cream.