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I press kisses to her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, the hollow of her neck beneath the jawline. Lingering there, I lick against her skin, savoring its taste. The only hint of perfume that I can discern on Camille is lemongrass, probably from the wipes they used to clean her face up after the race. Lemongrass isn’t a sexy scent, but what turns me on is the smell of her own skin. Go figure.
I rake my fingers in the straggly hair on either side of her face and push it back. Gathering her hair at the nape with one hand, I use the other to gather her messy, too-long bangs. I pull them up and hold them against the top of her head. With the hair out of the way now, I can finally see the outline of her face. It’s delightful. Camille has high cheekbones and soft, rounded cheeks that taper to a cute, pointy chin. I believe faces like this are called heart shaped.
I draw back to enjoy the picture even better. “You’re getting a haircut before the consecration ceremony the day after tomorrow.”
“Aren’t we bossy today?”
“I mean it, Camille.”
“What kind of haircut do you have in mind, Lord Bossy Pants?”
“Garçonne.”
She blinks. “You want me to get a pixie cut?”
“Few women can pull it off, but you have the perfect face for it, and it reflects your nature.”
“How would you describe me,my lord,seeing as you’ve grasped my nature?”
“I’d describe you as a wild thing.”
She seems unsettled.
Is this about the hair or the “wild thing” comment?
I can make a concession. “If you absolutely hate the pixie cut, then, by all means, go for a longer one. Anything would suit you better than this mussed-up chaos.”
She swats my hand theatrically. “You flatter me so, my lord!”
I go in for the kiss. Angling my head, I take hers between my hands and claim her mouth. Perched on my lap, she shifts her body closer and adds more points of contact. We’re crushed together, hungry, excited, lips locked in a hard kiss.
A low groan of satisfaction comes from my throat.
As my tongue explores her mouth, my hands grow bolder. They slide down from her face to stroke her neck and shoulders. With a hand on her upper back, holding her firmly, I reach my other hand farther down and slip under the triple layers of her sweater, shirt and silky camisole. I wonder if it’s an item I bought her in the lingerie shop in Gruyac…
Camille doesn’t object to any of my caresses so far.
Stimulated by that observation, I trace every curve and hollow of her back. Her skin is soft, smooth, and warm. My hands discover a shape that is pleasing and a lot less boxy than I’d assumed based on her avoidance of anything formfitting.
There are too many layers of clothing between us. I’m dying to peel them off her, one by one, and discover—at long last!—what her naked body looks like.
I slip my fingers under the straps of bra.Shall I unclasp it? Is she ready?
If her passionate kissing is any indication, then she is. But first, I want these outer layers gone. Grabbing the hem of her sweater, I hike it up.
She stiffens. “Don’t!”
“Why not?” I pull away slightly and look at her. “Let me see you.”
“Because.”
“If you worry I wouldn’t be able to stop, then please don’t.”
She seems to hesitate.
“Listen,” I say, “if you’re not ready or not in the mood for the full menu, we’ll just have the appetizers. I’ll stop the moment you ask me to.”
“That’s not the issue.”
