Page 126 of Bottles & Blades

“Need something, baby?” he murmurs, that finger tracing again—over the tops of my breasts, down into the deep V again. It trails over the material, dragging the lace across my nipples.

I gasp. “Yes.”

“What do you need?” He tugs at the top, and my breasts pop free.

“That. I needthat,”I groan as he cups me, massaging my flesh, rolling my nipples, dropping his head forward so his mouth can join in on the action. And paired with the bristles of his beard, I endure the sexiest assault on my senses—warm and wet, firm and confident, rough and needy.

Another tug has the material of my lingerie sliding down, catching on my hips.

His mouth follows that path—light kisses, silken grazes of his tongue, roughened fingertips teasing and?—

“Oh!”

Touching.

Lips on my waist, my hips, my…pussy.

I groan as I drop my head back, legs falling open, giving him full access as he yanks the lacy material free. It’s not scary or embarrassing. It’s comfortable. It’s desperate. It’s needy?—

And hegives.

Working me with his mouth and fingers, bringing me up to the edge and then sending me toppling over the other side.

It’s great.

It’salwaysgreat.

But it’s also not nearly enough.

So when I can move again, I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he meets me halfway, yanking it over his head, tossing it to the side. And when I flick open the button on his pants, he doesn’t stop me. He helps me—undoing the zipper, pushing the fabric down, dragging it off his legs.

He snags his wallet before he tosses his pants in the direction of his shirt, opening it and pulling out a condom.

His eyes come to mine, and I see the question in them before he asks.

I touch his cheek. “I’m sure.”

“I love you.”

My heart fills to bursting, and I lean up, pressing my lips to his. “I love you, too.”

His touch is gentle but sure as he nudges me back onto the pillows, as he takes his time coaxing me back up to the edge of orgasm. It’s the stuff of my fantasies, those gentle caresses and soft lips, the unhurried movements. But it’s better because I’m not just lying here, stuck in my head, dreaming about something that lives only in my fantasies.

I’m here with Jean-Michel.

I get to touch his body, stroke my hands over his broad shoulders, down his strong back.

I get to push at the waistband of his underwear, drag my nails over his taut behind.

I get to feel the velvet steel of his erection, get to wrap my fingers around him and stroke as he touches me between my thighs again.

Only, my strokes don’t stay steady.

They get jerky and lose rhythm.

Mostly because he’s driven me to the razor’s edge again.

And that’s when he reaches for the condom, tearing it open, rolling it down the hard length of his erection.

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