French Kiss (11 page)

“Jordi liked you right off, too.” That at least was true—as for him
…
maybe he
had
noticed her and just didn’t let it register.

His daughter was that important to him. Christ, she felt like crying or at least breaking into one of those songs from a family movie like
The Sound of Music.
“So are we done with this cognac?”

“Are you asking?”

“I guess I am.” Shit, she wasn’t going to.

“I’m glad. Being a gentleman is really fucking hard.”

His gratifying candor along with his smile went a long way toward assuaging her moment of guilt. Setting his glass down, he took hers and placed it next to his. “You can still change your mind,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “But five minutes from now,” he added with a grin, “I can’t give any guarantees.”

“Back at you. I’ve been restraining my carnal impulses. Be forewarned.”

“Nice,” he murmured, drawing her in to his body. “An assertive woman. I like that.”

“Not as much as I like this,” she whispered, moving her hips against his blatant erection. “You’d better have protection.”

“No problem.”

“We’re good then.”

“One small caveat.”

Uh-oh, here’s where he’ll say,
I need you to sign a release. No stories to the tabloids.
“What?” She leaned back a little to meet his gaze.

“I just don’t want this to screw up Jordi’s tree house.”

“This one-night stand, you mean.”

He wasn’t sure of her tone of voice, but he
was
sure about what he needed from her long term. “I just don’t want you to be pissed later and shelve our deal.”

“So you piss off a lot of women?”

That ambiguous tone again, but he answered honestly because there was no point in not. “Once in a while,” he said.

She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

Fuck, he thought. He’d blown it.

“Sex is sex in my world. Tree houses are tree houses”—she smiled—“and never the
twain shall meet.
How’s that?”

“You made my day, babe.” He pulled her back.

“Just so long as you make my night, honey, everything will be kick-ass.”

He grinned. “Now I’m feeling the pressure.”

“You mean the tabloids have been wrong—you can’t satisfy five women in one night?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Arrogant man.”

He smiled. “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it.”

“Now I
am
looking forward to the night.”

“Kidding aside,” he said sof
tl
y, “so am I.”

He led her into the bedroom like he’d been there before, but she wasn’t about to quiz him on his understanding of the hotel floor plans when she had better things to do. Her libido was focused on short-term goals in the form of instant gratification.

And who wouldn’t be with the quintessential stud Johnny Patrick—of five women in one night fame—drawing her toward the bed. Not to mention, he was so handsome, you could practically come just looking at him. A shallow assessment, perhaps, but true. Which brought her senses all aquiver, her pleasure centers revving up for action and “AN-TI-CI-P-A-A-TION” singing big-time in her brain.

“Sit for a minute,” he said, lifting her up on the canopied bed.
“I’ll open the curtains. We’re high enough up to see the Eiffel Tower from here.”

She felt like saying that she didn’t know if she had a minute—if she could actually put two words together in a coherent sentence.

He seemed not to notice—women bereft of speech perhaps a given in his life. “You’ll like the view,” he said.

She smiled and nodded, although the view
she was
looking at right now was more than fine, thank you.
One
could willingly drown in those sexy eyes, his smile was capable of
melting the
polar ice cap, while his hard, muscled body
…
“Could
the
view wait,” she said on a suffocated breath.

A quick, flickering assessment, then a flash
of a smile.
“Not a problem,” he murmured, reaching down to
push her skirt
up over her thighs. “You need some instant gratification,
right?”
It was a question that didn’t require an answer,
because he’d
already slipped his middle finger under the
crotch of her
panties and was running his finger down her silky
wet cleft. “Ummm,
nice
…
”

Hard-up, impatient, she shivered at the
sexually explicit male
appreciation in his rough/soft tone.

“You wouldn’t have lasted if we’d gone
for a drink.” Sliding
his finger up her vagina, he whispered against
her mouth, “How
about we get you off?” As he kissed her, he
added a second
finger to the first, then with slightly more difficulty,
a third.
“Hey, hey, relax,” he soothed, gently pushing her
down on her
back with his other hand. “We’re gonna take this slow
and
easy…
”

He didn’t really expect a reply, with her eyes going shut and her hips arching up into his ha
nd. Although if he needed a go-
ahead, her soft, breathy moan was as good a one as he’d heard.

And he’d heard a bunch.

Oh-oh-oh-oh-God!! In the grip of a feverish delirium, a hot, seething rapture flooded her senses as Johnny’s slender fingers moved inside her with a right-on-target, done-this-before
incredible
sensitivity. Delicately stroking and massaging, he forced his way in re-e-al-ly slowly, pressing gently on that little rough spot on the roof of her vagina both coming and going-over and over again, retracing his route with the kind of virtuoso concentration and expertise that was going to take her over the edge real, real,
real
soon.

Especially when his thumb was on her clit at the same time, his doing-the-tango combination a sure winner.

“A pussy this wet is gonna last for hours,” he whispered, a smile underlying his low, husky tone.

Okay—that did it. Not that she had much farther to go—but the thought of hours in bed with Johnny Patrick’s great hands and hard cock, not to mention his sweet fuck-me talk—was all she needed to push
…
her
…
overthebrink!

Her climax kicked off with a tiny, shimmering tremor that rippled outward from her hot, throbbing core in ever-widening circles, quickly picking up speed and intensity until it reached the outer limits of sensation where it detonated with such explosive force, her shrill orgasmic scream startled even a man who thought he’d heard it all.

Holy shit, he thought, his ears ringing. This little tree-house architect was one fucking hot number.

Not only did she come in literally seconds.

He was pretty damned sure she wasn’t faking it.

Although, even if she was, he figured
he
was gonna have a
real
interesting night.

*
*
*

M
oments later, Nicky’
s
lashes slowly lifted. “Wow, thanks,” she murmured, her green eyes an emerald brilliance in the lamplight. “My very,
very
happy pussy thanks you as well.”

“Don’t mention it,” Johnny replied with a grin, easing his fingers out. “My pleasure.” He gestured toward the windows. “How about the Eiffel Tower now that you’ve come down a notch and can check out the view?” Call him sentimental, but Paris
was
the Eiffel Tower.

She smiled a lazy, self-absorbed smile. “Sure. Break time.”

He quirked a brow. “Am I on the clock?”

“Sorry, my mistake.
I
didn’t mean to
press
you. Although with a hard-on like yours”—her gaze rested on
his
crotch—“I’m guessing your clock and mine might be on the
same time.”

“You don’t mind asking for it, do you?”

“I didn’t know you were looking for shy.”

Christ, he must be too used to accommodating women. His smile instantly appeared—ingratiating, apologetic even. “I’m not,” he said, moving to open the curtains. “Forgive me—it must be jet lag screwing up my brain.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I probably
speak my mind more
than I should, but I figure you’re more apt to
get what you
want that way,” she finished on a teasing note.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, reaching for the drapery cord, “about you getting what you want.” Sex was sex was sex, he reminded himself. “Now, check this out,” he added with a smile of translucent charm. Pulling on the cord, he drew the draperies aside, and there was the Eiffel Tower all lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Ohhh—it’s absolutely
gorgeous!”
Nicky exclaimed, sitting up to take in the glorious sight. The soaring tower was outlined in white lights against the dark sky, stars twinkling in a halo around it, the most dramatic symbol of Paris smack-dab in the center of her bedroom window. “Did you know this room had this view?” she murmured, awestruck, experiencing one of those pinch-me moments again.

“I thought you’d like it.”

It wasn’t precisely an answer, but she wasn’t inclined to grill him after their recent exchange about her asking for sex. “I sure do like it,” she said, this fairy-tale setting doing a real number on her reality-based perceptions. “You really know how to charm a lady, Mr. Patrick. What else do you have in your bag of tricks?”

He laughed. “A couple things you might like.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, there’s one in particular that has my attention,” she pointed out, half lifting her hand in his direction.

“Want me back on the clock, boss?” If she liked to take charge, he was more than willing—until he wasn’t. Which wasn’t right now.

“That would be ever-so-sweet.”

“I didn’t think you were looking for sweet,” he said, kicking off his shoes.

“Maybe one person’s sweet is another person’s—”

“Head-banging sex?” he finished with a grin, unbuttoning his shirt.

“I was thinking more along the lines of non-head-banging sex,” she offered, slipping off her sling-back heels. “Less bruises and more finesse.”

“You like finesse?”

She nodded. “Although, you definitely h
ave it. Virtuoso fingers and al
l.”

“Glad we could be of service,” he casually remarked as he stripped off his shirt.

She immediately lost her train of thought at the sight of his well-chiseled male torso. The man was ripped—every muscle clearly defined, abs like rock, biceps that brought Olympic weight lifters to mind. “You must work out,” she said in
lieu
of openly drooling.

“Occasionally,” he said, unbuckling his belt.

She was definitely having second thoughts
about
taking off her dress after looking at Johnny Patrick. The
last
time she’d worked out was in college gym class. Maybe it
might be
wise to turn off the lights.

“Need help with that dress?” He let his
slacks slide
to the floor.

“Ah—” A thousand excuses raced through
her
mind.

He looked up from stripping off his boxers,
his
gaze amused. “You, indecisive? Am I hearing right?”

One glance at his enormous, upthrust
erection tempered any
impulse she might have to quibble over lights
or dresses on or off.
All she wanted was that rock-hard cock inside
her—NOW.
Sliding off the bed, she turned her back to him.
“Unzip me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, figuring she
must crack the
whip at work. But he wasn’t above acquiescing
since there were
obvious advantages. “And then what?”

“Then if you’d be a dear and let me feel this”—reaching behind her, she ran her fingers down his cock—“as soon as possible.”

“Any place special you want to feel it,” he murmured, pulling her zipper down.

The roguish pitch to his voice struck her with apprehension. Rock stars were famous for kinky sex, and she wasn’t so sure his kinky and hers were the same. “I prefer the usual if you don’t mind.”

“What’s usual?”

Oh God, he
did
want something else. She swung around, holding her dress against her chest. “Just for the record,” she said, not sure she wasn’t screwing herself royally, but unwilling to be
that
obliging, “I don’t like anal sex. And I’m not giving you a blow job right this minute.”

“Okay, that narrows things down,” he remarked, looking entertained.

“I hope that’s not a problem.” She tried to use her most diplomatic tone, wanting what she wanted as she did.

He tried to keep from smiling. “I don’t know.”

If he was toying with her, which appeared likely, she wasn’t sure she was ready to play his game. He probably had women submitting to his every wish 24/7. Bottom line though, she was really selfish when it came to orgasms. “When do you think you might know?” she murmured, needing to come again—quickly.

His mouth twitched. “You sound anxious.”

“I
adore
a perceptive man,” she breathed, smiling faintly. “And
anxious
is a th
ousand degrees too tame a word for what I’m feeling right now.”

“If the party’s starting again”—he glanced down at his cock, then up again and grinned—“count us in.”

“I’d love to
…
seeing how my party started five minutes ago—right after I came last time.”

His brows flickered. “So you’re into multiple orgasms.”

“If at all possible.” She smiled. “Although really good chocolate
comes in at a close second. And a combination of the two is right up there approaching nirvana.”

“If I’d known, I could have called room service and had them send up chocolate,” he drawled.

“Right now—as in I can’t wait—I’d much prefer
that
.” She pointed at his gorgeous erection. “If you don’t think me”—her grin was intentionally flippant, her tone ultrasweet—“too brazen.”

Fucking her had been on his agenda since he’d knocked on her door, so flippant or not, they were on the same
page.
“It would be a real pleasure,” he whispered, lifting her arms
up.

After pulling her dress over her head and tossing it on a chair, he tu
rned back and went motionless.

Christ!—she was wearing white cotton underwear
—plain cotton
…
without a single lace ruffle or even a hint of embroidery. Junior high Bible camp, and all the hominess that went with being fourteen and spying on the girls’ cabins with his friends hit him with a flashback to the past. Hit
his
prick with the same lecherous sentimentality. He must have
seen
too much La Perla of late, that this simple, white underwear was taking on porn status and making him horny as hell. Fucking A. He was getting off just looking at it.

And his resident French translator filled out
those bra
cups real fine, her large breasts straining the cotton knit
fabric
to
the
max, while her delectable cunt was wetting those pure white panties. Suddenly he was on the same speeding
freight
train as she was. Deftly unhooking her bra, he slipped
the
straps down her arms, watching her breasts quiver as they were released from bondage. “Great tits,” he whispered, his voice soft with lechery, his gaze shifting downward. “And I like what’s under these sexy panties, too,” he added, slipping a finger under the waistband.

“Don’t tease,” she pouted, clearly embarrassed. “They’re all I have.”

“No way I’m teasing, babe. They’re turning me on. I remember panties like these.”

“Meaning?” A pettish lit
tl
e sound.

He looked up. “Good memories, babe. That’s all I meant.” He figured he’d better not ask her if he could take them off with his teeth or she might freak, but it was definitely a thought. Man, it’d been a long time.

Vernie’d been right about apple-pie nice.

She was sugar sweet.

Although more importantl
y, she had a hot little pussy, white panties and all.

“I’m real happy you came with me to Paris,” he said, sliding her panties off like a gen
tl
eman.

“Me, too.” She stepped out of them. “And at the risk of pressuring you, I’ll be even happier when I come again.”

Lifting her up on the bed, he gave her a
quick kiss. “Be right back.”

She panicked for a second, thinking she might have offended him—until she saw he was only taking a condom from his pants. Actually several condoms, she was pleased to see. Call her greedy, but she was, thanks to his handsome studliness and utter beauty. Although, let’s face it, his huge dick had the most to do with her current attraction for him. She was literally aching with longing, she wanted him so badly, every nerve in her body was primed for pleasure.

Sliding higher on the bed, she spread her legs.

He smiled at the sight, availability always high on his list of qualities in a woman. Although, he had to admit, Nicky Lesdaux
wasn’t in the usual category of women he fucked. Nor did this night fall under the heading of business as usual in terms of the casual sex he preferred.

Not that he was about to analyze the differences.

Especially now when he was seconds
away
from sinking his cock into that tight little cunt.

He ripped open a foil packet.

She watched as he deftly rolled the condom down his erection without a single wasted motion. He’d done this before, she decided, not that she’d thought otherwise. But it made her feel a bit like a tyro in contrast. A feeling, however, quickly replaced by a more powerful sexual craving, one that had held her in its grip from the moment he’d walked into her hotel room.

“Hey,” she whispered a second later, as he positioned himself between her legs. “Thanks for your understanding about impatience and—”

“We’re both there, babe,” he whispered
back,
swiftly guiding his cock into place. “Although, I’m warning you”—his grin flashed—“I’m on a fucking hair trigger.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Wanna race?”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah.” He pressed
forward with a
controlled thrust he’d learned long ago. He
was large, most
women were not, and penetration required a certain
restraint in
gauging speed and depth in order not to do any
damage.

Meeting with a familiar resistance, he took it even slower. When he would have much preferred ramming speed. But he had plans for the night; no point in ruining a good thing.

As her ready-to-party, hotter-than-hot, and wetter-than-wet cunt was slowly invaded by one world-class dick, Nicky decided it was actually possible to
die
of pleasure. She was going to simply
expire
of pure, unadulterated rapture and do it with a smile on her face.

“Can you take a little more?”

She wiggled her hips in reply, and he forced his way in a small distance deeper while she held her breath, waited for the next wave of ecstasy to break over her, and when it did, she moaned in gratitude and heartfelt appreciation.

Then he started over again, her vagina slowly yielding, and by cautious degrees, between soft kisses and whispered endearments, he crammed her full, stretched her, filled her with both cock and exquisite longing, forced her legs wider to accommodate his hard, rigid length.