Page 85 of The Last Kiss

I snort a laugh and he catches it with his mouth, reeling me in close to his body, pressing me into what has become my favourite place. “Mon dieu, Julia, you’re a breath of fresh air in this life I’ve found myself in.”

I glance up and try to read his expression, but with his back to the sun all I see is shadow. Reaching onto tiptoes I seek out his lips again. Kissing really is a superior way to communicate. It’s taken me nearly thirty years to find this out.

The kiss aches with hunger. I can’t taste enough of him. His hands slide down my back, strong and firm, pushing me into the blatant evidence that he’s missed me too. “I need you,” I say into his mouth. My body is burning with the intensity of a bonfire on a crisp November night.

“Let’s get back to the house.”

“Too far.” I wind my fingers into his shirt, pushing my lips into the small triangle of skin exposed at his throat where his pulse beats, strong and even. My own pulse is doing something that’s making my head spin, but that might not be failing heart syndrome and more a Henri one.

“The barn?” he doesn’t sound convinced.

“How many steps?”

“None.” He lifts me easily in his arms and I wrap my legs around him, mouth firmly fixed on his, tongue dancing into his mouth as he stalks us for the large green shed. He breaks his mouth from mine to demand something rapidly in his native tongue and there’s the scatter of feet followed by the clang of the door.

“This will give the hands something to talk about for a while.” He backs me onto a workbench and I peek a glimpse over his wide shoulder. No cows, not that it probably would have stopped me anyway. “This isn’t what I wanted for us, Julia. I wanted to do this right for once.”

“Henri. Every time is right.” I can say this hand on heart and hope not to die. “Now fuck me quickly before I have to meet your mother.”

Who the hell is this woman and what’s she done with Julia Brown? Who cares? I don’t.

To live I need to feel. To feel I need to have Henri inside of me, right damn now.

Impatiently, I slip my hand under my skirt, exposing my thighs, making his eyes burn as I lift up and pull my knickers down. His hands palm my skin, pushing my legs apart as he stares at my exposed core, the lick of fresh air foreign against the apex of my thighs. “I don’t know who you are, or what I’ve done to bring you into my life, but fuck, Julianna—” I cut him off, grabbing his face roughly and bringing it to mine while his fingers skim high, brushing my thighs, seeking out my wetness and slipping inside, arching me backwards as long fingers hook and curve. Closing my eyes, I moan deeply and the sound rumbles from my chest as his free hand slides down the front of my dress and roughly palms my tit through the material, squeezing and making me cry out.

“Henri,” I gasp. There’s a burning need inside, unquenchable and so low it’s on the point of pain. “I swear you can take your damn sweet time later, but right now I need you inside me.”

His hand slips out of me and he steps back, eyes on the prize. “Don’t move an inch.” It’s a guttural demand I have no plans on breaking. Unfastening the waistband of his chino’s and then swiftly pulling out his trusty wallet and condom supply, he pushes his trousers down just enough for that beautiful big cock of his to spring free, standing to attention between us. I lick my lips but don’t move as directed while he puts on a condom. He hauls me forward and lifts me into his arms and then gently drops me down, one long hand reaching around and down to connect us together. I gasp as he fills me, stretching me wide. It’s been weeks and the sensation is enough for me to throw my head back. Sure, we are connected, he paces a few steps from the bench to the wall, pining me between him and it, like I’m stuck between the very best of a literal rock and a hard place. His hips drive, while his hands push down on my shoulders, ensuring that every thrust is so deep it makes me whimper. My shoulders scrape the wall, a mild sting overridden by the sensation of him inside me. The fire stokes quick, burning bright and making me push down harder, so every stroke is hitting the place I need it most.

“Oh God,’ I cry as a wild and fast climax begins its journey from the tip of my toes. In response, his hips buck faster, his mouth falling to my neck, sucking the skin on my collarbone. Inflicting another perfect pain that has me shouting out. “Henri!” I scream his name.

“Julia!” He chases fast behind me, thrusting deep inside as he collapses us against the wall, whooshing the air out of my lungs. “Jesus, Julia.”

We both still, breathing fast, in and out, in and out, and then I kiss his cheek and clutch him tight, my faulty heart bursting at the seams, while silent tears, a lethal cocktail of disappointment and joy, slip down the back of his shirt.

21

Féroce Mama Bear

“Stop fidgeting.” Henri squeezes my hand as we walk down the hallway of the inner house. The family apartment is on the west wing. Yep—they have a wing.

And no wonder he’d looked at my small grey box of a flat with such horror.

“I can’t help it.”

With a tug of his fingers, he wheels me around and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s just a meal.”

“In a two Michelin starred restaurant in a hotel that you own.” Ah, the secrets have unravelled while we’ve been locked in his private quarters. I wish we still were there, naked preferably. Instead, I’m wearing a midnight-blue silk dress that belongs to his sister and a pair of heeled sandals that his friend Odile has loaned me.

Getting dressed up for dinner is a new experience. I suppose I did say I wanted to live. Another thing to tick off my half-arsed bucket list.

“Would you prefer the mafia?” His smile widens, which is total cheating because it steals thoughts and words directly from my brain.

“Yes, I’d rather be stuck in the middle of a mafia turf war.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh really?”