Page 63 of Risks of Temptation
He says something in French, and I don't recognize any words.
Be brave.
"Do you not want me?"
He traces my cheekbone. "I've wanted to make you mine since I opened the folder and saw your picture."
My heart soars. "Good. Make me yours." I lean forward and kiss him, circling my hips fast and tilting them so my clit rubs on it.
Possession and hunger grow with every kiss he returns until I'm moaning in his arms.
Life is breathed into me. Heat swathes my skin. Desperation to have him festers.
His hand slides under my shorts and between me and his cock.
I whimper, and he groans.
"You're so wet, ma belle."
"For you," I breathe.
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they are engulfed in heat and torment.
My chest tightens. He's going to tell me no.
"Hold on a minute," he says.
I don't move, fearful he's rejecting me.
He digs in his backpack, pulls out a blanket, and spreads it out. In a quick move, he removes my shirt and flips me onto my back.
French fills the night air as he strokes my hair.
I tug at his T-shirt, and his warm flesh is a security blanket. I want to snuggle into it and never get out.
He kisses me deeply, and I reach for his pants, but he seizes my wrists. "I'm in charge, ma belle. If you don't like something, you tell me to stop. Don't keep going just to prove something."
How does he know what I've done in the past?
"Promise me, or I'm putting your shirt back on you."
I nod. "Okay. I'll say stop."
"Good." Lips, tongues, and teeth light me up with excruciating anticipation. He takes his time, moving slowly down my body, pausing at times to speak French while teasing my clit with his fingers.
His focus turns to my breasts.
An initial flashback of Zaka hits me, and I inhale quickly. He looks up and says something in French, and I relax. He kisses me, flicking his tongue in a way that makes my pussy throb.
Speaking more French, he refocuses on my chest. He drags his fingers over my fullness, licks my areolas with his tongue, and grazes his teeth against my pebbled nipples.
Typically, if a man touches my breasts, anxiety paralyzes me. It's nowhere to be found right now. Zings and tingles consume my flesh until I'm panting.
He puts his face next to mine then traces the curve of my waist while speaking more French.
Something bounces in the trees above us, but I barely hear it. His deep, sensual voice could be a song.
His fingers dip to my mound, stroking it, tapping on my clit, then circling back above it.
