Carnal in Cannes (16 page)

“Don"t stop, sugar. If you have any mercy in you, don"t stop.” The slight pressure he exerted on her head receded. “Maybe pick up the pace a tad? A giant step tad?”

“St. Pete is unhappy?”

“St. Pete"s insanely happy. Aching for you to touch him, lick him.”

“Like so?” She licked across the swollen head. “So smooth.” Curiosity spiked her veins and directed her actions; Martine slid down the mattress and crossed over his thigh to settle between his spread legs. Cupping his sac in both hands, she said,

“These are the testicles. The British say bollocks, the Yanks, balls. The sperm are stored here, non?” She squeezed the taut testicles;, he grunted, and his hips came off the bed.

“Gentle there, Martine. Gentle,” he commanded.

Martine let go of his flesh, and her gaze flew to him.

Harry had risen to his forearms, the tie no longer a blindfold but hanging loosely around his neck, and he wore a grimace, one eye shut, his mouth twisted.

All at once she understood. “I am sorry, Harry. The balls are the things that hurt when men are kicked there. I thought it was this.” She pointed to his cock. “I did what you did to me here.” She touched her breast. “I liked it.”

His lips twitched into a half smile; he lifted his chin, pointing at his genitals.

“Kiss them better.”

“But, but…”

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“Soft kisses, no hands,” he coaxed. “If you stop now, it would be the most cruel and unusual punishment in the universe.”

Not completely convinced, Martine barely touched her lips to one side of his sac and then the other.

“Martine?”

Her nose brushed the base of his cock when she shifted to peep at him.

“St. Pete loves to be squeezed. C"mere.”

She skittered along the mattress, and he shifted to his side so they faced each other on the same pillow. Cradling one of her hands between his, he drew their twined limbs down their bodies and curled her hand around his cock and then cupped his palms on her shoulders. Manacling her gaze, he said, “Go ahead.

Squeeze.”

St. Pete throbbed, heated, and engorged as her grip tightened, and Martine gasped and looked down. The vision brought to mind all the nuns" warnings of the sins of carnality and a delicious, devilish shiver swelled her nipples to peaks, sent cream trickling down the folds of her sex.

“Touch the glans,” he ordered, his voice coarse and rough and low.

“Here,” she whispered, running her finger over the glistening bulbous head, and glanced up for his approval.

“There,” he agreed. Then he covered her fingers with his again and slid their joined hands down the length of his cock. “Like this.” He positioned her so her thumb rubbed the apex of the glans as she stroked him up and down.

Harry leaned his forehead on hers, his wine-scented breath fanned her upper lip, and the aching between her thighs flared and blazed. “Harry,” she muttered.

“How does the game end?”

“Like this,” he replied, taking her mouth with his. She loved the sweet invasion of his tongue, the first taste of him almost as heady as the first pressure of his sex as he entered her. Kissing Harry, being kissed by Harry, erased all her worries, all her problems, all her dread of the future. Martine surrendered to his conquering tongue, moaning when he swept the roof of her mouth with a fleeting, tingling caress in the middle and then a feathering of the sensitive flesh rimming her upper molars. Her hold on his cock slackened. Her fingers skated over his damp stomach, grazing his bunched trapezius and then tangling in his hair.

Writhing on the downy comforter, she couldn"t stop a pleading whimper from parting her lips when her nipples scraped the coarse hairs scattering his chest. He cupped the curve of her rump. He dragged her closer and lifted her thigh over his waist, opening her sex to his.

All the while his tongue coaxed hers into play, plunging and retreating until she tentatively mimicked the way he"d stroked her, learning that he growl-grunted when she sucked on the tip, and that his fingers kneaded her bottom if she bit lightly. She ground on his hot, rigid erection, her folds so wet and slippery she slid up and down easily.

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“Sugar, sugar,” he rasped, and his hand slipped between their bodies, and he guided his cock to her entrance.

Her neck went limp as he penetrated her, stretching her walls, and she recognized the fierce clenching and jerking of her inner muscles as the precursor to ecstasy. He thrust upward, hard and fast, grinding a circle over her mound, and she climaxed as his mouth captured hers, his kiss deep, greedy, and devouring. Harry pumped faster, his grip on her hip increasing as he pounded into her heat. Her widespread position exposed the nub normally hidden by her folds, and each thrust created a friction that sent her walls into frenzied contractions. He gave one final thrust, and she closed her eyes and bit his neck as an abyss of pleasure blasted every nerve ending in her body.

His grasp of her ass slackened, and his head collapsed onto the pillow. Harry"s audible panting subsided, and the burning in Martine"s lungs gradually eased.

Wanting to prolong the magic, she kept her lids lowered and tried to memorize the nuances of the intimate moment—the way a stray curl tickled her ear when he exhaled, the wetness dripping from his hair down his nape to dribble over the heel of her palm curved around the base of his neck.

A series of convulsions erupted into a muted climax when his cock flexed inside her, and she couldn"t choke back a faint cry. He gathered her into his arms and rolled her onto her back. A kiss on the tip of her nose coaxed her heavy eyelids to open.

Merde, she"d married the handsomest man on the face of the earth. She with the scars on her back, and hands calloused from day after day of digging soil and sand, and feet with soles the texture of rough leather from being barefoot for most of her youth.

His mussed hair only served to enhance his impossibly symmetrical, perfect features, his cultured background, and his born-to-money ease in the midst of the sophistication of L"Espuitte. How mismatched they were, yet Harry"s eyes held nothing but warmth and kindness.

“Okay, Martine?” He ran his knuckles up the side of her cheek. “I didn"t push you too far too fast, did I?”

I want to experience everything, have every moment of you for as long as I can.

Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes, and Martine blinked fast and furiously. She
never
cried.
Never.

“Martine?” His finger tilted her chin. “What"s wrong?”

“
Rien
. Nothing,” she replied and managed to return his intent stare. “It is overwhelming this f—Um…making-love business.”

“Thank you.” He skipped his forefinger along the seam of her mouth, and she couldn"t repress the frown forming between her brows. He chuckled. “I know what you were going to say. I told you before, Martine. What we have is special. Sex can be just that, a physical release. With us it"s more.”

I wish I could believe you.

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“Before we had dinner tonight, you asked me about what happens after the baby"s born.” The severity of his gaze and the somber expression he wore caused her breathing to falter. “I"m not going to abandon either of you. And I intend to protect you from Delora.” He rolled a shoulder. “My stepmother"s vicious, Martine, and if anything happens to me, she"ll come after you with an army of lawyers.”

Panic flared, and she didn"t hear beyond the words “if anything happens to me.”

“Ouch,” he muttered and loosened her fingers, which had reflexively dug into the flesh of his shoulder.

“Pardon. What can she do to you?” Martine had no defenses left and knew her fright showed.

“Aw, she"s not likely to harm me physically, although those talons of hers missed my eyes by a cactus needle.” He brushed his lips over her chin and trailed tiny sip-kisses to the corner of her mouth. “I was referring more to a car accident or sickness.”

Her tense muscles sagged, her back burrowed into the mattress, thighs shifting on the smooth comforter, and St. Pete slid out of her, prompting a wince of regret and a slight pout.

“Not to worry,” Harry crooned as he rolled onto his back. “St. Pete"s insatiable as far as you"re concerned.”

Determined he wouldn"t repeat the embarrassing offer of last night, she bounded to her feet, sprinted to the bathroom, and locked herself in. She had the three-minute shower of the frugal poor—wet, turn off the faucets, soap, turn on the shower, and then rinse.

Her reflection in the mirror showed the splotches of pink suffusing her face when she remembered how long she"d greedily remained under the spray of the oversize showerhead earlier, luxuriating in the hot stream. The room she"d rented in Marseille after leaving Grasse didn"t have plumbing. Instead the fourteen tenants on her floor shared a bathtub, a sink, and a chain toilet. All coin operated.

Harry"d turned the covers down, and he lay naked on the bed, one knee bent, the other resting on the sheets, his skin a rich walnut against the snowy linens.

“There"s no need to be a miser with the agua, Martine, especially when we"re docked.” He shuffled the remote he held in one hand to the other side of the bed.

“Don"t think I didn"t notice your quick getaway. You"ll have to be faster"n a jackrabbit to pull that trick again.”

She admired the lazy, unselfconscious way he swung his legs to the side, stood, arched his back, and cricked his head side to side. As he walked past her, he chucked her chin and said, his eyebrows jerking up and down, “Next time we have a long, long shower together.”

She"d lived on an island all her life but never learned how to swim and had an irrational terror about falling overboard and the sea bubbling into her lungs. It had taken greater courage to leave the blouse in the bathroom than it had to sneak onto 80

Jianne Carlo

the boat ferrying supplies to the cargo ship destined for Marseille. Yet he hadn"t seemed to notice her exposed back, and his eyes had never left her face.

When the door clicked shut, she bolted for the bed, but the crumpled comforter and mussed sheets halted her midstride. A childhood spent in servitude had her smoothing the wrinkles and tucking the fabric under the mattress. Her palms lingered on the rich silken feel of the cotton. She felt rather than heard Harry enter the room, the grassy aroma of the soap he"d used heralding his approaching nearness, and she managed not to flinch when he curled an arm around her waist and tugged her back to his chest.

Now he will say something
. The air in the cabin grew thick and heavy, weighting her shoulders.

“It"s late, wife.” His lips skated warm drafts of air over the whorls of her ear.

He nipped the lobe and murmured, “And you must be plumb tuckered out. Let"s hit the sack.” He smacked her bottom.

The sharp sting made her jump, pivot, grab both cheeks, and blurt, “Why"d you do that?”

“Because the scars on your back don"t make any difference to our relationship, and I want you to relax when we"re together.” He cupped her jaw. “I have your back—Shee-it,” he hooted. “Lawd Almighty, what a time for my warped sense of humor to rear its ugly head.” He jiggled her chin. “Come on, you gotta admit that was funny. Every time I"ve tried to reassure you by telling you I"ve got your back, I"ve been shoving both feet into my mouth. A free fall for a man whose legendary charm"s the talk of all the trophy wives on the Monte Carlo circuit.”

She couldn"t resist the dancing twinkle spreading a trail of gold when his irises caught the light of a flickering candle, and the breath she"d been holding whooshed out of her lungs.

“Relax, Martine. All I"m interested in now is a good night"s sleep. You"ve drained my libido with your sexual demands.” He pinched one nipple.

“I did not demand anything,” she protested, batting at his hands. “You were the one.”

“Not so, sugar. You couldn"t wait to taste St. Pete, and look what you"ve done.”

He waved a hand. “See, he thinks he"s getting lucky again.”

“I—” She stared at his rigid sex. “But…more?”

“Nah, the flesh is willing, but in this case the spirit is weak.” He tweaked her nose. “I know you really want it, so we"ll try again in the morning. But you"re going to have to use all your womanly wiles.”

Bewilderment spiked her submission, and she let him scoop her into his arms and settle them both on the mattress. He had his mouth sucked in hard, and then he shot her a look and hooted again. “I can"t remember the last time someone tickled my funny bone the way you do. I forgot to blow out the candles. Snap to it, Martine. In Texas the wife turns off the lights.” Patting the side of her bottom, he yawned. “Go on.”

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She rubbed her temple, but he pushed her to the other side of the bed. A glance over her shoulder showed him yawning again and stretching his hands to the headboard as he arched his back, ignoring her completely. Martine hurried through the task, snuffing the first eleven candles in panicky haste. Every two seconds she peeked at him, but he had turned to set his iPhone into a dock and didn"t even glance her way once.

A muted light on the balcony allowed her to pick her way back to the bed. He threw the covers back and patted the mattress. “Slide in. Time for forty winks, wife.”

“Why is it called that?” she asked as he helped her under the sheets and tucked the covers over her shoulders.