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He rubs a thumb over my hip, a soft backward and forward brush. “I wasn’t going to do this so soon.”
When he grips my thigh and drapes it around his ass, I place my palms on his shoulders. I’m not going to let him make me forget why I came in here. There are lines he can’t cross. “I won’t let you bully me.”
“Then stop bullying me.”
His words take me by surprise. Is that how he sees my actions, my sharp tongue and spiteful attitude? I gasp, but not because of his words. He’s parted me and slipped inside an inch. It burns, but not as much as last night.
“This isn’t punishment,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you. You can tell me to stop.”
I don’t. A spark ignites when he slides over sensitive nerve endings. Leaning my head against the tiles, I bite my lip, feeling the fire steal over my body, incinerating me from the inside out.
I adapt faster than yesterday. The stretch still hurts, but my body is suppler, welcoming the intrusion instead of trying to push it out. He’s excruciatingly gentle, moving inch by inch until he is fully sheathed. He cups a hand between my legs, massaging my dark entrance with a middle finger. The stimulation makes me clench my knees together, trapping him inside me. My inner muscles squeeze. He curses and lets go, giving me room to relax and take him deeper.
I cling to his shoulders when he starts to move. His pace is slow and careful. He locks his hands around my middle, circling my waist. Bringing down his head, he catches my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it gently into his mouth. He kisses me softly, reverently, as he drags his hands over my ribs to the sides of my breasts. He pushes the curves together between his palms until my nipples brushes over his chest. I feel the quick intake of his breath in our kiss. I hear it as he lets my breasts touch him where he wouldn’t allow my hands.
His soft kiss and gentle touch stoke the fire inside me higher. Its fuel is as effective as the aggressive kiss that started this. Tilting my hips forward, I urge him to move faster and send me over the edge.
He’s good at this dance. He knows the rhythm and the steps. He knows how to lead me. The way our bodies rub together stimulates my clit. I feel it coming, a band that stretches to breaking point.
“I’m going to—” The orgasm hits. It’s white-hot and a symphony of pleasure exploding in every cell of my body. I dig my nails into his arms. A cry escapes my lips as he rips himself from me.
I want to mourn the premature ending of the fireworks under my skin, but when ribbons of cum erupt from his cock and fall over my thighs, I understand. I’ve almost forgotten a fundamental precaution. The consequences of him coming inside me make me go cold. Dammit. How could he disarm me this much? I haven’t even asked if he’s clean.
I’m scolding myself for my irresponsible behavior when he presses his forehead against mine. He’s breathing heavily. We both are.
“Maxime.”
He cups my cheek, this thumb hooking under my jaw. “What is it, Zoe?”
“We almost forgot.”
He leans away to look at me. “I’m careful, but you’re right. I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re my first, but…” I bite my lip. I don’t want to insult him again, not until I’ve decided how to move forward, if I’m willing to fight to the death of my soul or if I’m going to take the white flag he’s offering.
His lips pull up in one corner. “Do you seriously think I’d risk giving you diseases?”
I study him. “I don’t know.” Despite what I said earlier, I don’t really know him, and I’m having a tough time figuring him out. He’s too confusing, a dangerous cocktail of mixed signals.
His mouth tightens. “I’m clean.”
“Okay.” It’s a meek word, a feeble attempt at guarding our fragile peace.
“The water is getting cold.”
He reaches for the sponge, soaps it, and starts to wash me. By the time he’s done, the scalding hot water of earlier is lukewarm. He turns off the water and wraps me in a thick towel before taking one for himself. After drying me, he pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit pants.
I’m lethargic and sore, and I have a strange glowing feeling in my body. I’m also hungry, and my stomach rumbles to announce it.
“Go to bed,” he says, watching my reflection in the mirror as I’m brushing out my hair. “I’ll bring up a tray.”
I turn in surprise. “I can go down to eat.”
“You’re tired.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. He walks from the bathroom, leaving the door open. I go back to the room and rummage through the suitcase Maxime had packed, but there are no pajamas. He didn’t get me any. I settle for a pair of silk panties, the ones that cover my bottom the most, and one of his T-shirts. Then I slip between the cold sheets, resting my back against the headboard.
