Page 76 of Ravishing Camille
He prayed he had not misjudged the value of what he did here. For his own life, he had few questions. To Camille’s best interests, he was devoted.
When she appeared in a flowing summer cotton gown of grass green printed with a thousand yellow butterflies, her hair loosely pinned and barefoot, he questioned if she was presenting him with the virtual innocent she was or the lover she wished to be.
Her large dark eyes took in the al fresco offerings upon the tiny round table. Cheeses of every color and shape, sausages, fresh strawberries, cucumbers, and pickled squash piled high and offered up with fresh baguettes. “I am hungry. Are you?”
“I am.”And while what I crave is not spread upon this table, I must discover if what I want is still on offer.
He pulled out her chair and she sat, sending the fragrance of her jasmine to mix with his raging need to taste the skin beneath her earlobe or the pulse beat at her throat.
“I know what you think,” she said, not looking at him but focusing out the window toward the veranda and the sunshine.
He dare not answer. Instead, he served himself from the array before them. His plate full, he waited.
“I’m here but hesitant. Not…” She swallowed and occupied herself with choosing cheeses and sausage tidbits for her plate. “Not because I’ve change my mind.”
He contained the urge to groan his approval of that.
“I have not…” She faced him, her gaze locking on him for the first time in days. “I have not changed my mind.” Her lashes fluttered. “How could I? I have never wanted any man as much as I want you.”
A bit of bread stuck in his throat. He had to wash it down with a good swallow of fine white wine.
“I simply don’t know how this is done, you see. I’ve never gone away with a man. I even debated after my bath, if I should put on my corset again.”
He choked on his bite of bread then. And reached for his napkin. When he recovered, he stared at her.
And she giggled. “I didn’t.”
He nodded. His brows wrinkled in feigned horror. “I’m very glad.”
“Oh good. I must say, I hate corsets.”
It was his turn to chuckle. “Wise.”
She rearranged her napkin in her lap. “I wish to never wear them again.”
“Wiser still,” he said seeking another good draught of wine.
“Tell me what you think of the house, really.”
So they were making conversation, were they? What to say? “It’s lovely.”
“It’s perfect,” she said wistful. “The Barrères are, too. And far away.”
“Unobtrusive,” he agreed, his aspirations for their solitude this afternoon taking flights of fancy and encouraging his cock to stand tall and hard and beg for her.
Suddenly, she dropped a morsel of cheese to her plate. “Pierce?”
He tipped his head, the look in her eyes that of a cat in heat.
“Can we do this now?”
Now?
If he hesitated, he would vow afterward that he did not remember.
What he did recall was that she reached over to him, put her hand to his jaw and kissed him. Her lips were warm and tender, appealing to him with short sensual blessings to his mouth. He’d been approached by women before, but none with the bright allure of Camille Bereston’s soft, warm lips to his own.
He wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of her upper arms and drew her flush to him. She made a little noise of delight and insinuated herself to sit on his lap. Her arms wended around his shoulders and her heavy pointed breasts with hard little nipples drilled into his chest. Her kisses grew longer, hotter as she settled against him and he cradled her near him.
