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My ego can’t handle how receptive she is. Every little movement elicits a delicious sound from her lips. She’s as passionate as I knew she would be, fiery and aggressive enough that I don’t feel as though I need to hold back once we find our rhythm. She grips my hips and my hand traces its way down, past the slight dip of her navel, the sharp edge of her hipbone, that tantalizing warmth back between her legs. She squeezes around me when I stroke her. I don’t register that I’m saying anything until a string of French curses have already slipped free from my mouth, forbidden French I can’t contain, and Lainey responds to every single word, her head tipping back, her mouth falling open. Her moan is guttural and oh so sweet as she comes. Her body wraps around me, tightening with every wave of pleasure. There’s no possible way I could hold back. I try, I try, I try, and then I see black stars dancing behind my closed eyelids as I squeeze them shut. The pleasure is almost too intense. It’s all baser senses. Her heated skin. Her salty taste. Her sweet scent. That tight squeeze. Her hand holds my neck as my head falls to that safe groove between her chin and chest. I come undone and my body racks against her, and I’m weighing her down, asking for too much, taking even more than I should.
When I feel like I can breathe again, I blink my eyes open to find Lainey staring up at me, wonderment evident in her eyes.
Then a teasing smile unfurls across her lips.
“That was quite a lot of French…”
“Should I translate some for you?”
Her eyes widen with alarm. “No!”
Embarrassment looks too cute on her.
“Okay, how about this?” I ask, toying with her. “Je suis amoureux de toi.”
She looks so serious as she listens then asks, “What does that mean?”
My touch is whisper soft as I press a finger to her furrowed brow, then I continue gliding it down along the bridge of her nose. I can’t resist the urge to touch her red lips. I’m staring at them as I tell her.
“I’m in love with you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lainey
The next evening, I’m sitting on my bed in my grandmother’s house, reading. Logs crackle in the fireplace, and a candle burns on my bedside table. Dinner will be served soon, and then the rest of the day will probably unfold as it usually does. My grandmother and Margaret will go into the sitting room to play cards. I might go for a walk, or I might continue reading.
There’s a knock on my half-cracked bedroom door, and then Jacobs pushes it open further. I set down my book, prepared for him to tell me it’s time to come down for dinner.
“Mr. Mercier is downstairs. As usual, he’s asked me if you’re available. Should I tell him—”
There’s no concealing my smile.
I’ve held out hope that Emmett would come today, but I was doing a good job of trying not to show it. All day, I’ve gone about my normal life. I worked at Morgan’s and ate lunch with Collette and even managed to sell a painting in the afternoon.
Now I leap off my bed, half-running, half-walking toward my door, and then I rush out into the hall.
“I can tell him you’ll come down!” Jacobs says, trying desperately to hold on to some kind of decorum, but I’m already barreling down the stairs.
Emmett stands in the doorway, cradling a book and a box of chocolates. La Maison du Chocolat.
He looks up to see me just as I finish descending the stairs.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I say, breathless.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d turn me away.”
How could I?
“I worried about it all day,” he admits, passing over the chocolates and the book.
We only left each other this morning. I stayed at his house, in his bed, cocooned in his sheets all night until he had to wake for work and I had to dress to get back home so I could shower and hurry off to Morgan’s.
He offered me everything: a change of clothes, breakfast, his driver.
I pressed a kiss to his lips then slipped out his front door, not wanting to be a burden.
Now, I see how silly that was.
“You shouldn’t have worried.”
“You could have stayed.”
“In your bed?” I ask in a lowered voice.
He grins. “Yes. We could be there now, in fact.”
I set his gifts on the entry table beside us and shake my head. “No. I have other plans.”
His brow cocks with curiosity.
“A date.”
At this, he nearly laughs.
“A real one,” I add. “You’ll buy me pizza at a grungy little place and it’ll be the best slice we’ve ever had, and we’ll share a bottle of cheap wine and it’ll be too loud in the restaurant, and we’ll barely be able to hear each other, and all you’ll be thinking about is how you’ll be able to convince me to go home with you at the end of the night.”
