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My fingers curl on his chest. “No,” I silently whisper, but he swallows the protest with a deep lick of his tongue, and just like that, he’s grabbed my panties and yanked them away.
And then he’s kneeling on one knee, his lips pressing to my belly, and the effect is an adrenaline rush up and down my body. My fingers tangle in his hair and I tell myself it’s to pull him away, but his tongue flicks my belly button and I bite my lip to silence my pleasure. I know where that tongue is headed and it’s almost too much.
I manage to tug his hair after all, but it only seems to challenge him. He lifts my leg to his shoulder, his mouth closing down on me, and sensations spiral through me. I cave to the pleasure, my head falling back on the wall.
Then he is licking and exploring, merciless in his attention, his thumb stroking my clit, tongue delving in and out of my sex—around and around and everywhere. And when it’s too much, just too much for this place, his fingers stretch me, pressing inside me, and I’m arching into him.
My pulse thunders in my ears, and the women just keep talking. They won’t stop, but neither will Cole, but then again, I don’t want him to stop. Every spot he touches and licks is bliss, and I’m right there on the edge of that mountaintop, so very close to tumbling over.
A ball of tension forms low in my belly and spreads, and then I’m there, my belly and sex clenching, and remotely I hear my breathing, a soft moan I cannot control escaping my throat. Pleasure overtakes me, stealing time, and then I go limp.
Cole eases my leg down, re-connecting my zipper, and sliding it up my body until it’s back in place, and he’s standing in front of me, kissing me, the taste of champagne and me on his lips before he whispers, “That was so damn hot.”
My eyes go wide at the idea that the women can hear us. “They left,” he promises. “Let’s go back to the room and fuck. Then we’ll call your mother and fuck again. Then we’ll pack and fuck again. And finally, we’ll go home. Because, sweetheart, as much as I love fucking you in Paris, I want you in my bed, which is now our bed.”
The aftermath of my orgasm mixed with all the male perfection of this man, who is my husband, and best friend, fills me. It’s then that it hits me that as perfect a Cinderella story our wedding and Paris honeymoon were, the real fairy tale is knowing that he’s no fair-weather Prince. It’s knowing that in an imperfect world, Cole can still make everything perfect. That I am not alone, and never will be again.
“I love you, Cole.”
He strokes my cheek. “I love you too, sweetheart.” And with that, he leads me out of the bathroom, past several gaping women, and right back to our table, where we eat more chocolate, pay the bill, and leave. Together. The way we will face whatever waits on us in New York City, now and always.
Chapter fifty-five
Cole
Every time I think that I have never wanted to be inside Lori more, I want more—sooner, faster, harder—just more. And with her by my side, walking toward our Paris hotel room, the taste of her on my lips, I can say I have never wanted to be inside her more than right this moment. And it’s not just about sex or how much I fucking love this woman. It’s about how much I want to wash away her fears; ease her need for control, because that control is rooted in tragedy; in her father’s death and her mother’s stroke. Not that I don’t get the need for control, not that I want to take hers away. It’s the reason she needs it that I want to tear away; her fears and her past that have cut deeply, perhaps more so than she realizes. But I realize. I see what she does not. Every moment to Lori is the moment before someone pulls the rug out from under her and us. Every moment is the moment she dared to just be happy when she believes she should have been thinking about how to protect her mother, or me, or us or everyone around her. So, yeah. I want to be inside her. I want to be next to her. I want and want and want, because then she has no room to do anything but feel, moan, and want right along with me. That’s her sanity. That’s our sanity. It’s the place we can go to escape her fears until I drive them all away. And I will. Nothing that awaits us in New York City is unusual, but with her mother there and us here, the next twenty-four hours will be hell for her.
A crazy possessive need that I can’t even explain—she’s my damn wife, it’s not supposed to get much more possessive—overcomes me and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, our legs and hips aligned. No one is taking her from me. A silly protest is not taking her from me. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
I guide us across the street and to the hotel and a doorman opens the door for us. I actually have to force myself to let her go to allow her to enter the building first, but I’m right there, just behind her, quickly settling my arm back around her shoulders. She tilts that delicate chin up and gives me a soft, aroused look that tells me she feels the energy I’m radiating. I lean down and kiss her, keeping us in motion. The sooner we’re in the room, the better. The sooner I’m fucking her, and loving her—I can’t do the previous without the latter anymore—the better.
I manage to keep our pace quick but steady, and we’re now at the elevator. I punch the button, but I don’t look at Lori. If she tilts her mouth to mine again, I’m going to forget what a private person I am and devour her right here and now. For a high-end hotel, the doors open with such creeping slow-ass speed that I want to shove them open. I drag Lori into the elevator and against my body, all her soft perfect curves pressed to mine and she punches in our floor.
She tilts her chin, offering me her mouth, and I quickly turn her to face forward, resting her cute little backside against me, and holy hell, she’s now nuzzled up against the ridge of my pulsing erection. Holy hell again. I think that pretty little backside needs a spanking. Her punishment for driving me this crazy without even trying. No woman should have that kind of control over a man, even his wife, and yet, I fucking love it. The floors tick by and I lean in, inhaling that sweet floral scent of her. “No woman should leave Paris without being spanked.”
She sucks in a breath and tries to turn in my arms, but I catch her waist, a low laugh escaping my throat. There it is. The way to take her mind off the protestors and her mother. One of the few things that I haven’t done since that first night we met. “Cole,” she whispers, her hands going to mine, and my name is a rasp of desperation that is both need and panic.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I murmur, nipping her earlobe. “I’ll make it hurt so good.”
She pants out a breath as if my mouth and hands are already all the places we both know they will be. The elevator dings and I push off the wall, my body cradling hers as I walk her forward, placing her between me and the yet-to-part doors. Adrenaline radiates off her, into me, and I can almost feel the pulse of her heartbeat as she wills the doors to open. Slowly, they creep left and right until they are wide enough for her to try to step forward, but I don’t let her. I make her wait. I make me wait.
Only when the doors are fully open do I find her ear again and say, “Are you thinking about my hand?”
“Cole, damn it,” she hisses, and I release her, laughing as she darts forward, with nowhere to go but our room, but she does what I expect. In true control freak mode, she stops at the door and turns, leaning against it to watch my every slow step toward her, as if she’s in control when she knows that, right now, she’s not, and we both like it that way. Later, she’ll kick my ass if I act like a barbarian, but right now is not later.
I stop in front of her, but I don’t touch her. “Ready to go inside, Mrs. Brooks?”
“Not without some rules.”
My lips twitch. “What rules would those be?”
“If you spank me—”
“I’m going to spank you, Lori.”
“If I say you can.”
“Okay. Am I going to spank you, Lori?”
