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‘Not all of us normally swing from chandeliers,’ she prevaricated, but he noticed she began pushing his jacket over his shoulders, and he helped her. Then she was pulling at his shirt-tails, but he wanted to see her face.
He tucked a finger under her chin, drew her eyes up to his. ‘I promise no chandelier-swinging—even if you beg.’
Her grey eyes grew unbelievably soft, her whole expressive face somehow radiating a warmth and trust he knew he didn’t deserve. For a moment he was distracted with the thought that the woman in his arms was taking all of this far too seriously for his comfort.
But his blood was pumping, and if he didn’t learn every inch of her body tonight he was going to explode.
Clementine made his decision as she reached up and wound her arms around his neck. He gave way to the rush of desire he had to possess her, to know her.
Clementine heard him murmur something in Russian and his hands spread over her hips, moving down to cup her bottom as he drew her up to kiss her. His mouth was everything she remembered, hot, but tender this time, stealing her breath and any free will she had left. He seduced her with his mouth, kissing her mindless, until it was his body, hard and muscular, she began to explore helplessly.
She reached for the button and zip on his trousers, slipping her hand inside. She gave a little murmur of surprise. She gently learned his size and shape as he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling with flattering intensity.
‘Keep that up, kisa, and this may be over before we know it,’ he murmured, his voice deep and dark in her ear.
‘I don’t believe that,’ she whispered back, but he scooped her up and finally carried her through the other rooms and into the bedroom, lying her down on the slippery white satin quilting. Then methodically he began to unbutton his shirt.
Clementine lay back, biting her lip as she watched his big shoulders emerge and then his chest, broad and heavy with muscle, hazy with the dark hair she remembered, his powerful arms next, his waist, lean and defined.
Then he shucked off his trousers and boxers and long, muscular hair-roughened thighs and calves came into view, and what she’d had her hand on only minutes before. And then he came down onto the bed with her.
His hand cupped her face and he turned her mouth towards his before his lips brushed over hers, and then he was kissing her slowly, sensuously, dragging his fingers through her hair, loosing it so that it toppled down, a heavy mass that swam across his shoulder and bicep as he supported her.
His big rough hand curled into the underside of her left knee, stroked her there, moved up under the length of her thigh to squeeze the lush curve of her bottom.
Clementine trembled as his fingers pushed up the delicate silk of her knickers, anticipating every move he was making. But when his hand continued its exploration over her hip, dipping into her waist and smoothing up over her ribs, covering her breast encased in the same silk of her knickers, it wasn’t familiar. He wasn’t going for broke. He was taking his time.
His thumb made a slow perambulation of her nipple and his mouth caught hers again in a slow, sweet kiss as he gently handled her body.
‘I knew you would have an amazing body,’ he told her appreciatively, ‘and it’s more beautiful than I imagined.’
She reached behind and unhooked her bra for him, baring her breasts and trying not to show the faint ripple of anxiety she was feeling.
‘It just gets better,’ he murmured, that flaring gaze sweeping over her. He framed one breast with his hand, exploring the shape of her, bending his head to take her nipple into his mouth.
Clementine made a helpless noise and arched her back, the rhythms of her body taking over. She knew how to do this, or thought she did, but Serge seemed to know her body better than she did.
When she was almost crying with need and distraction he lifted his head, only to abrade her nipple lightly with the bristly skin along his jaw, watching her shudder. It had never been like this for her before—the want, the magic of having one hundred per cent of a man’s attention on her pleasure. This man’s attention—knowing, practised, skilled—was beyond her experience.
His hand slid down over her hip and he hooked a thumb under her knickers, and then he was sliding down the bed, settling between her thighs, and with a wink he applied his mouth to the heart of her.
Clementine threw back her head and whimpered as little starbursts of sensation blurred her vision. She felt swollen and ultra-sensitive, and when his tongue swiped over her clitoris she went with it, her cries filling the warmly lit room.
Serge shifted up over her, pausing only briefly to don a condom. Then suddenly he was inside her. He only gave her a moment to adjust before he was moving, and the sensations began to build again. She found her own body matching his rhythm. She clasped him around the neck and he forged his mouth to hers in deep open-mouthed kisses that mingled their breath and tongues with Russian words Clementine didn’t understand but knew had to do with how good this was. His eyes were dark with pleasure and he kept making eye contact with her, as if testing the depth of her enjoyment but also letting her see his.
