Page 95 of The Last Kiss

“I have never in my life met anyone like you.” His statement is sealed with a kiss that tingles right down in my toes. Hungrily, I kiss him back, all thoughts of batter, pancakes, eating forgotten within the tight intensity of how much I want him. I want him more than anything.

“Forget the food,” I mumble into his mouth, words tangled with hot kisses.

“Non.” Leaving me aching in truly painful ways, he pulls away. “Step to the side.”

“I’m cooking.”

“Non, you’re making a mess.”

“And who are you, the clean police?”

He glances at my hair. “I shall help you wash that out, just as soon as I’ve fed you.”

Oooh, now we are talking. Henri in a shower is almost certainly a sight I need to see. I make a mental note to add shower sex to my peacock book. Satisfied that I’ll get what I need shortly, I step over as instructed and watch Henri whisk up a light and thin batter. “The trick with crepes is to keep the batter thin so it spreads around the skillet quickly.”

“Thank you for clarifying, Master Chef,” I say, trying and failing to hold in a snort of a laugh.

“Well, they wanted to film the finals here.”

That kills the laughter in my mouth. “What?”

“Truth.” He crosses his heart with the whisk splattering us with more mix. Who cares? We are going in the shower just as soon as I’ve scarfed some hot food in my mouth to keep him satisfied. “But then Papa died, and it just didn’t seem right. Maybe next year.”

“Wow.”

His gaze becomes serious. “Maybe you could be here when they do it?”

My stomach lurches—no, Henri, I won’t be here. God, the thought makes me feel a little ill and I clutch onto the counter.

“Or maybe not.” He shrugs at my visible, but silent response.

“No, it’s not that…” I don’t have anything to say apart from the truth, which I don’t want to ruin this perfect sunlit moment with. “Come on, I’m starving, and I definitely need some help in the shower.” I wink, trying to lighten the dark cloud hovering between us.

With a shrug, he pulls out a shallow cast iron skillet and cranks the knob on the ancient range.

I can’t stand the silence. With his back turned he feels like the man mountain again I once sat next to in a bar. “Henri,” I wrap my arms around his back, hugging him until he’s wearing me as a backpack, “That’s not what I meant.” Lies, they keep falling from my mouth.

That’s exactly what I meant—my silence said words I can’t.

Space hangs around us as he tips a ladle of mixture into the pan and then swirls it around. The whole time I cling to his back moving with the curve of his muscles. “Henri,” I say and tug him around, pulling his face down to mine, slanting my mouth against his until a shiver of unquenchable desire runs over my skin. Finally, he relents, wrapping me tight, folding me in and tucking me into the curves and grooves I still need to memorise. My heart beats wildly against my ribcage, my breath tighter and shallower until I’m breathless.

Strong fingers wind into my hair, holding me firm as his tongue probes, seeking me out. I let him in, no games to play in the moment, just an endless kiss to end all kisses. Soft, sweet, hard and intense, he switches the assault so I don’t know what’s coming one breath to the next. All I know is that I need his next move like a chess champion needs to protect his queen. I’d be Henri’s queen, forever his, and in the moment I am. Until he pulls away and shouts abruptly in his native tongue.

“What did you say?” I gasp, still reeling from the air he’s stolen straight from my lungs.

“I said the fucking pancakes.” With that he lurches around me and pulls the smoking pan from the heat, shouting more as his skin connects with the handle.

Then his eyes meet mine and I meet his and he reels me back in, laughing against my mouth despite the fact his hand must be agony and I’m pretty sure I’m in heaven. The thought makes tears slip into our kiss tanging our mouths with salt water that I know he can taste but doesn’t mention.

24

How long does it take to start the day?

What heaven tastes like is Henri’s skin slicking against mine, pushing me against water splattered tiles, warm water beating down on our heads, mixing with our kiss the way the London rain once did.

“Julia,” he breathes against my throat, kissing his way across my skin. One hand lifts, cupping a tit and giving a gentle squeeze that makes me moan, water flooding my mouth as I tilt my head with my gasp. Kissing down between my cleavage, he lowers to his knees as I lean against the shower wall for support, his hands splaying my ribcage down to my hips, holding all the womanly parts of me with a true reverence. It shines in his eyes, makes me burn with a burst of life that ripples under my skin, kickstarts my pulse, and makes me want to fight for every damn breath. Tilting my hips, his fingers slip around me and knead my ass; his fingers are someplace between heaven and hell: hard, dexterous, working man’s hands that I’m willing to allow to take me apart. I whimper, closing my eyes, and they dip between my legs, pushing my thighs open from behind. Glancing down, I meet his gaze, his devilish grin as he leans closer and plants a kiss lightly on my heat.

God, this man. On his knees worshiping me. A dark need flickers in my belly. Hot and intense it tells me to take it all, everything this man has to give. Leaning back, I surrender to him and run my fingers through his hair as he makes me forget everything apart from this very moment.