The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele
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His hands stroked their way down her body to the waistband of her skirt. He undid the small metal button at the front, then the short zip, easing the fabric gently over her hips until she was completely free of it and it could also be discarded.
Leaving her with just the minimal modesty of a pair of tiny lace briefs.
Remy made a small sound in his throat, then gathered her to him so closely that his clothing grazed her skin, his mouth closing on hers in a new and fierce demand.
She responded almost wildly, her lips parting eagerly to receive the thrust of his tongue, her hands tangling in the thick dark hair to hold him to her.
And then his mouth began to move slowly downwards, caressing her throat, her shoulders, and the little valley between her breasts, while all the time his hands were stroking her with sensuous delight, lingering in the hollow of her hip, drifting across the faint concavity of her belly, seeking out the silken length of her thighs.
Touching, at last, the lace that was her only covering. Pushing it aside so that his fingers could reach the slick core of her. Moving on her gently, but with such exquisite precision that when he paused she moaned aloud, her body rearing against him.
‘Oui, mon amour.’ His voice was raw with hunger. ‘Yes—and yes.’
And then, at last, the lace too was gone, peeled deftly away, and she was naked in his arms, with no barrier left to his skilfully questing hands.
Or—dear God—his mouth…
For a moment, shock held her frozen. Then, ‘No—please—you can’t…’ Her voice was a small, shaken whimper of distress. She tried to push his head away from her slackened thighs, but Remy’s hands were closing round her wrists, anchoring them effortlessly to the bed so that this new invasion of her most intimate self could continue entirely unhampered.
And her desperate attempts to evade his caress were only making matters a thousand times worse.
With devastating purpose, his lips sought the hot moist petals of her womanhood, parting them so that his tongue could search out the tiny hidden bud within and tease it into delicious tumescent arousal.
And at each sensuous stroke she felt her writhing body succumbing to a languorous weakness, her physical consciousness shifting—spiralling helplessly to a plane whose existence she’d never guessed at before.
Until, at last, there came a moment when she no longer wanted to escape what he was doing to her, even if it had ever been possible.
She heard her breathing change, and the spiral of feeling became an irresistible force, carrying her upwards to some unknown peak of desire. A moan of agonised pleasure burst from her throat, and her body arched rapturously in sheer surrender to wave after wave of utterly voluptuous delight.
And as the storm subsided she lay panting, her sated body damp with sweat, aware that there were tears on her face. She tried to wipe them away with trembling hands, and Remy gathered her in his arms, whispering softly to her in his own language, words of reassurance, words of love, telling her how sweet she was, how clever and how beautiful, while she clung to him, her mouth quivering into a smile.
And when he eventually released her it was only so that he could more easily strip off his own clothing. Allie lay watching him through half-closed eyes as he swiftly undressed, her body shivering in renewed and unforeseen hunger when he turned back to her, naked and magnificently aroused.
It seemed impossible that her body could be capable of such desire so soon again, she thought as she opened her arms to him eagerly, taking him into her embrace and running her hands over his shoulders and back, glorying in the strength of bone and muscle—the texture of his skin. And yet she was burning up for him—melting with need.
‘Do I please you, ma belle?’ There was a smile in the huskiness of his voice as he lifted himself over her—above her. For answer, she clasped her fingers round his jutting hardness, letting her hand slowly travel its length in an appreciation that was as teasing as it was overt.
‘Sorcière,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Witch.’ And he took her with one deep, lingering thrust. She cried out in bewildered joy at the potency—the completeness of their union as he filled her. Knowing that here, at last, was the ultimate in consummation.
For a moment, he paused. ‘There is no problem?’
‘None.’ He was so anxious for her, but it wasn’t necessary. Surely he could tell how much she wanted him? she thought, half-dizzy with this new sensation, her inner muscles clenching round him—holding him.
Remy began to move without haste, his lean hips driving powerfully as he carried her with him into the surging ebb and flow of passion, and she responded avidly, instinctively, matching the rhythmic motion he was creating, her hands digging into his shoulders as her legs lifted to enclose him. To lock round him.
At once she sensed a new urgency in him that he was clearly struggling to restrain, and she knew that he was still trying to be patient, to wait until she was ready to accompany him to their mutual release.
But I, she thought, want it now…
She smiled into his eyes, her lashes sweeping down onto desire-flushed cheeks, letting her hands follow a leisurely path down his back to the flat male buttocks and stroking them with her palms, while one finger traced a delicate, enticing pattern on the sensitive nerve-endings at the base of his spine.
She heard his involuntary gasp, felt the pace of his possession quicken suddenly—fiercely. Recognised with candid female triumph the almost remorseless increase in its intensity that she had coaxed from him.
Was aware of a stirring deep inside her in reply, as warm tendrils of sensation began to spread, to intensify in their turn, splintering what little was left of her control.
Then, a voice she hardly recognised as hers cried out in wild disbelief, as the frenzy of her senses sent her pulsating body into soaring and ecstatic climax.
And Remy followed her, her name wrenched with a groan from his straining throat as he reached the frantic culmination of his own pleasure, and she felt his exhausted weight slump across her, his head heavy on her breasts as he tried to calm the tortured rasp of his breathing.
And she was content to lie like that, holding him tightly, her lips caressing the strands of sweat-dampened hair on his forehead.
Because instinct seemed to be telling her that if ever there was a moment for confession, this was it. When he was in her arms, his sated, emptied body still joined to hers like this, surely he would forgive her anything—wouldn’t he?
‘Remy.’ His name was a breath from her lips. She put her cheek on his hair. ‘Darling—there’s something I have to say. Something I should have told you long ago—when we first met. Only I never knew—never guessed—we would love each other. That you would mean everything in the world to me.’
She swallowed. ‘Sweetheart—mon amour… I—I’m married. I have a husband in England. But I don’t love him, and I never did. So I’m going back to finish it, get a divorce.’
She ended on a little rush of words, and waited tautly for his response. Only there was none.
She was prepared for shock—certainly for anger and recriminations—but not—silence.
Or was he simply too stunned to speak?
She said questioningly, ‘Remy—darling…?’
He mumbled something drowsy in reply, burying his face more closely against her, his body totally relaxed, his breathing deep and steady.
My God, she thought with an inward groan, he’s asleep. Which means he hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said, even though it took every atom of courage I possess to say it.
She was tempted to wake him there and then—to repeat her stumbling confession. But he looked altogether too peaceful, all tension gone from the dark face. He was even