The French Detective's Woman (23 page)

When introduced, he politely greeted Madame Felicité—a distant aunt or cousin of Etienne’s whom Ciara had been friends with since the old days—and brought out his wallet when Ciara asked if they could borrow a room for a few hours.

“Pfft!” Felicité said, waving the money away. “Don’t be silly. You are family. It is my pleasure.” She eyed Jean-Marc appreciatively. “Or...perhaps yours.
Chérie
, we really must talk more often. Victoire!” she called to a young girl in a diaphanous robe. “Show Ciara and
le commissaire
up to the blue room.” She urged them toward the stairs with a hand on each one’s shoulder and spoke between their heads. “Take your time, darlings, it is early. We won’t be needing the room until after supper—hours from now.”

Ciara’s face blazed with embarrassment but Jean-Marc’s remained impassive. Not a good sign. Whenever his expression went carefully blank he was usually furious with her.

With every eye in the place following them up, it felt like it took forever to climb to the top of the stairs. Etienne had occasionally brought her here, just for fun and adventure, and the ladies had been all teasing giggles and indulgent laughter as they cheered them upstairs. But this was different. Now everyone was wide-eyed and mute with disbelief.

Tell her about it
. She’d had no idea her old family kept such close tabs on her. News traveled fast.

Victoire showed them to the very last room at the end of the hall. Ciara went in and stood uncertainly as Jean-Marc stepped in, shut the door and locked it with a decisive twist of his wrist. He leaned his back against the door, tossed his jacket and tie onto a nearby chair, and gazed at her.

Her knees shook. “You’re angry with me again.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he said deceptively calmly.

The clenched teeth and hands? The steam rising from under his collar? The daggers from his eyes?

“Um, lucky guess?”

“A
brothel
? You really are trying to get me fired, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Jean-Marc. I never thought she would recognize you.”

His eyes narrowed. “And the stack of hundred-euro notes on the street in broad daylight yesterday? Didn’t think anyone would notice that, either? Or sneaking out from under my surveillance?
Twice
? Never thought my superiors would catch that tiny detail, eh?”

“Jean-Marc—”

“It won’t matter, you know,” he cut her off. “If I get thrown off the case, Pierre will just take over. He knows as much about you as I do.”

“That’s not—”

“And as for what you said in the bar, you can’t possibly think—”

“I meant that,” she interrupted stubbornly, fending off a wellspring of hurt that he’d think she could lie about her feelings for him. “Though under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t have said it,” she admitted. “I...I’m sorry.”

The slashing angles of his face grew severe and his half-lidded eyes burned darkly from beneath a scowl. Lace-patterned shadows danced on the wall behind him as he regarded her.

“Fine. You meant it,” he said. “Prove it.”

A tingle of apprehension wrapped her in goosebumps. “Wh-what?”

“Prove you love me. Take off your clothes,” he ordered roughly. “Now.”

♥♥♥

Ciara’s cheeks heated as a surge of sexual desire slammed through her body at his growled command. She swallowed heavily, unsure of what to do. What to make of the sudden change in him.

Or was it a change?

“Not what you had in mind?” he asked, tilting his head arrogantly.

She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie. Not about this. “Yes. It is.”

“I’ll give you what you want, Ciara. But we’re doing it my way.”

She finally understood. Jean-Marc was a man who needed to be in control of his world. With her, he wasn’t. He had to reestablish his dominance. If nothing else, at least in bed.

She could live with that.

“All right,” she whispered.

“Go on, then.”

Haltingly, she toed off her sandals, then unsnapped her jeans and unzipped them. She hazarded a glance at him. Not moving from his spot propping up the door, he was watching her with a hard expression. She almost faltered completely, except he jerked his chin impatiently at the jeans. She quickly shimmied out of them.

Dropping the blue denim to the floor, she reached for the hem of her black T-shirt.

“Panties first,” he ordered.

She hesitated, because for some reason that felt far more vulnerable—her T-shirt reached only to her navel. But his expression was growing even more impatient, so she hurriedly slid off her panties.

“Now your bra.”

She bit her lip. And reached for the hem of her T-shirt.

“
Non
!” he barked. “Just the bra. Leave the shirt on.”

For a second she was confused. “But—”

“Do it.”

She found and fumbled with the hook of her bra. It took her a moment to slip the straps off from under the sleeves, but somehow she managed it, even with her hands shaking badly.

How well did she know him? Had she pushed him over the edge by bringing him to a place like this? How could she be so sure he wouldn’t hurt her? Her thoughts strayed briefly to Beck, and she closed her eyes.

“Look at me!” he snapped. “Don’t ever stop looking at me. I want you to know who you’re with.”

“I know who I’m with, Jean-Marc. I told you that I—”

“
Arrète
!” He held up a palm. “Do not say you love me,
mon ange
. I know you mean to betray me, so I don’t want to hear it.”

He stood there with his back to the wall, looking so bad-tempered she forgot all about her fears.

She walked up to him and put her hand on his cheek. “
Mon amour
,” she whispered.

The scent of his cologne, subtle, expensive, masculine, wrapped itself around her. She felt her body quicken. Heat. Melt.

And that quickly she wanted him again. That desperately. She moved closer and drew her fingers down his chest, the silky-fine cotton of his white dress shirt hot and slippery under their tips. Like she would be, if he touched her.

His harsh breaths scorched over her temple. She leaned into him, rubbing her nipples against his chest. A low rumble sounded deep in his throat. Like the warning growl of a wolf. But he didn’t touch her.

She reached for his shoulder holster and slid it off, laying it over his jacket on the chair. Then she went for his shirt buttons.

Slowly, one by one, she undid them. She could smell him now...the strong, musky odor of light sweat and potent lust. He didn’t utter a word, just watched her with wary, carnal eyes.

Pulling aside his shirt, she raked her fingers deliberately across his chest, sifting through the thatch of black hair, pausing over his tight, flat nipples erect with need. Like he would be, if she touched him.

She put her nose to his jaw, his throat, inhaled the erotic scent of his skin, the unique scent of her lover. Her insides clenched in recognition, twisting with the nearly unbearable desire to be united with him.

She was wet. Slick with need. Trembling with a tumult of sensations and emotions. Wanting him. Wanting him. She touched the button on his waistband.

He grabbed her wrists. “
Non
.” Then with strong, powerful hands he urged her down. Down to her knees.

He was hard, the bulge in his trousers long and thick. Excitement zinged a path through her body straight to her center.

His cruel, sculpted lips curled up at the corner. “Shoes,” he ordered softly. “My shoes and socks.”

With a moue of disappointment, she complied, quickly ridding him of the nuisances.

“Now get up,” he said. “Up on the bed.”

She blinked.

“
Now
!”

She scrambled to obey. Tucking her legs under her on the mattress, she sat self-consciously on her heels, awaiting his next command.

At last pushing away from the door, he took his time closing the distance. He halted at the edge of the bed.

She shivered, freezing cold in the hot, close room. Terrified. Electrified. Excited beyond reason.

He put his fingertips on her knee and she nearly jumped a foot in the air.

“Nervous?” he asked softly.

“What are you going to do to me?”

He smiled. The knowing smile of a devil. “Anything I want.” He paused. Raised a black brow. “
D’accord
?”

Her pulse went into hyperspace. What exactly did he have in mind? Did she trust him...to do anything he wanted?

She felt like she was about to jump off a cliff. But the amazing part was, she
did
trust him. To jump with her.

She fought not to gnaw her lip, and nodded. “Yes.”

His eyes glittered like black obsidian. “
Bon
. Kneel up, and spread your knees.” She did. “Wider.” She did.

 Even kneeling on the bed, she was shorter than Jean-Marc. His broad-shouldered body towered above her, making her feel overpowered and helpless. Surprisingly, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. The fact was, she’d had to take care of herself for so long, it came as an unforeseen relief...to be under his complete control. To give herself up to his will.

Dangerous
, a part of her warned—the sensible part.
Don’t lose yourself to him. Don’t give in.

But she was beyond reason and beyond warning. She wanted this.

His fingers skimmed up her thighs and she shivered harder. His touch was light, illusive, as he explored the curves of her lower body, almost teasingly. Then they dipped under her T-shirt, more insistent as they reached for her breasts. The fabric was taut around her, so he had to shove his hands under it to get to them.

Her breath sucked in as he roughly seized her. His eyes never left hers; probing, analyzing, calculating. His thumbs rubbed over her sensitive nipples. She swallowed a cry as he did it again. And again. All the while watching her, his devil’s lips curved in their infuriatingly knowing smile.

“Unbuckle my trousers,” he finally said, rolling one nipple between thumb and forefinger.

She could barely stay upright. Moisture trickled down her inner thighs and there was an unbearable pressure clamping her sex in a vise of craving. She wanted to be filled.

But her fingers refused to cooperate. They fumbled with the button of his waistband and struggled with his zipper until she nearly screamed with frustration. But at last the trousers slid to his ankles, followed quickly by his boxer briefs.

Her breath caught. She’d seen him before, of course. Knew intimately how large and finely-proportioned his cock was. But today it seemed even bigger. Thicker.
Angrier
.

Her quivering hands reached for him.

He stepped back. She wanted to groan.

Removing his pants, he set them aside. His smile, such as it was, disappeared. “Get down on your hands and knees,” he ordered.

Her heartbeat stuttered. “Jean-Marc—”

“
Do it
!”

Haltingly, she dropped to her hands and knees along the length of the bed. Head up, she awaited his next move. It seemed like an eternity before it came.

Coming close to the bed, he gathered her long hair in his left hand and wound it around his fist until the knot rested tight at the back of her head. The pull on her hair was almost painful, the strength of his muscles as he held her there immobilizing. His right hand he placed on her naked bottom.

“Spread your knees,” he ordered her again. This time she spread them wide apart, desperately wanting him to touch her there.

Which he did. With almost clinical interest, he moved his hand down her bottom and along her cleft. Touching her with his palm and his fingers, gliding, squeezing, probing.

“
Dieu. Tu est en feu
.”

She was panting by now. Definitely on fire. “Jean-Marc—”

A sharp slap stung on her backside. “
Ta bouche
!” Quiet!

A cry escaped before she could stop it. Not so much of pain as pure surprise. And shock. He had spanked her!

His palm rubbed over the sore spot, soothing the sting on her derrière. Then his long finger slid into her, making her gasp in pleasure. She moaned, undulating against his hand.

“
C’est bon
?” he asked, his voice like the crunch of gravel under a car tire. “You like that?”

Though barely able to move her captive head, she decided just to nod, mindful of his last command. She was looking down at the pillow and wished she could see his face, but he stood too high above her back.

He withdrew his finger. She whimpered. He shoved her T-shirt up, tugging it off her breasts so they hung down ripe and begging for him. She had never felt so completely exposed in her life.

At least until he exerted pressure on her neck and urged her head to lower to the pillow. She wanted to drop her bottom too, but his hand between her legs prevented it. Her pulse thundered at her position.

“Stay like this,” he said, voice low. “I want you just like this.”

“Jean-Marc,” she began, and again a sharp slap stung across her ass. “Unh!” she cried.

“Do you understand?”

She swallowed and nodded quickly. But he spanked her anyway. Not hard, but fast and stinging. And again. And again. Her ass burned and she cried out to him. But all at once she realized she was crying out in pleasure. It didn’t hurt, it felt...arousing. He spanked her, and every agonizing sensation shot straight between her legs and throbbed there, increasing her desire for him.

Suddenly her hair was released, the bed dipped, and she felt him behind her. His fingers gripped her and his thumbs spread her apart and in one powerful thrust he mounted her.

His roughened voice caught on a roar as his cock pushed deep inside.

She came apart. She shuddered and shook as he scythed in and out twice, then swiftly joined her. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his chest tight to her back as he spasmed, his hot essence spurting into her with each jerk.

He swore. Even before he was finished, he swore.

She was too wrung out, too sated, too filled with heated pleasure, to wonder why.