Page 20 of The Last Kiss

His fingers drop their hold on my face, but I understand the unspoken demand. Don’t move. Don’t break the kiss. That’s the rule of the moment.

Don’t break a thing.

No sudden movements.

His hand lands on my hip, soft yet firm, his thumb pressing into the soft spot in front of my hip bone where underneath I’m sure my ovaries is having a little party.

Angling me closer, he presses tight into my body.

Oh.

Ooooh.

More, ooooh.

My toes curl up as the hard outline of what he’s packing under that navy suit presses into my belly.

He breaks the kiss. Rule breaker. Dipping his mouth to my throat, my collarbone, he slips the black of my staid office wear blouse to the side like I’m encased in the sexiest negligee ever made. Every inch of space his lips travel along tingles in his wake, like a riptide after the roll of sand on the ocean floor. I churn into a vortex of desire.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against my shoulder, the slow descent of my blouse taking a hundred years. One cup of my bra is exposed, and my nipple pulsates with the need to be touched. It doesn’t come though.

No.

Torment is in the waiting. A fact I realise he knows.

My fingers find his hair, tugging at the strands. Soft and silky, the tousled waves slip through my touch. It’s how I imagined it would feel, smooth, running like liquid.

“Clothes off, now.” I breathe.

My mystery man lifts his head. “Impatient, ma petite?”

“Yes.” Pushing him away, I sit up, yanking at the buttons he’s been taking an age to undo. Discarding the blouse, I reach around to undo the button on my skirt, and he tuts low, growling almost under his breath. “Stand.”

Okay, no please. I can take that though.

I scramble off the mattress, legs heavy, strangely hot. It’s these bloody tights. Ghastly things. I’m never wearing them again.

He sits, hands on my hips, squaring me between his knees. His toned flat stomach scrunches and I push my knees together making him smirk. I’ll let him have that smirk. I’m on fire down there, raging fire.

“Please don’t think this is what I normally do,” I gasp as he lifts a hand, palming my stomach, running his thumb under the edge of my plain t-shirt bra.

“Does it matter what I think?” He pulls me forward, eyes closed, hands anchored, kissing along the bones of my chest just under my collarbone. I have never been kissed there. Intimate, every delicate bone that creates my form quivers with anticipation.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I feel his smile against my skin.

I think my skirt should come off now. And the tights. Definitely the tights.

Possibly the shoes.

He reaches around me, the side of his face pressed against my belly in the most intimate of holds as he unfastens my bra, freeing my aching breasts. They fall around his face with delight. Glancing up, he meets my gaze and the burn in his gaze dries my tongue so much I close my eyes. Dropping my head back, I give myself over to the stranger I almost didn’t meet, gasping as he slips my nipple into his mouth, pulling and sucking deeply, while his hands drop to my ass and give a firm squeeze.

I gasp and moan at once, a sound I don’t think I’ve created before.

Another smile meets my stunned gaze as he moves to the other side.

This must be the French way of doing things. I can sense that if I was to rush, he would slow. This torture of standing half dressed, tingling nipples standing to attention, begging for his devotion, is already my punishment for demanding more.

Once he’s administered equal consideration to both my nipples: sucking, kissing, nibbling, he smirks up at me. I’m a wreck.