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The summers here are as unforgiving as the wet winters with its icy winds. It gets so hot most days I feel wilted, but the old house is fresh inside and sometimes there’s a breeze from the sea that cools the air down. On those days, we have dinner prepared by a grumpy Francine on the terrace.
I work hard on my designs during summer and have a collection ready when the school submissions open in July. I’m nervous until August, much to Maxime’s amusement, who says he finds my enthusiasm endearing. When the results finally come, Maxime calls me downstairs for dinner. The table in the garden under the old pine tree is set with a white tablecloth and a silver candelabra. It’s a windless evening with no breeze to blow out the candles.
I eye the crystal flutes and the champagne in the ice bucket. “What’s going on?”
“We have something to celebrate.”
My chest expands. My cheeks heat in a rush of excitement. “We do?”
He pours two glasses and offers me one. “Congratulations.”
I clutch the stem so hard I fear it may snap. “Really? I’m in?”
“I told you.” He kisses my lips. “I never had a doubt.”
“Oh, my God.” I slam a hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe it.”
“To you,” he says, raising his glass.
I watch him from under my lashes. “Thank you.”
His voice turns husky. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like how?” I bite my lip.
The cold color of his eyes darkens to a stormy gray. “Like you want it rough.”
He knows I do. I’ve never asked again, nor taken, not after the beach, but he’s good at reading my body language. He’s a master at predicting my needs.
Taking the glass from my hand, he places it with his on the table. Drops of condensation run in rivulets over the two glasses that stand side by side in the setting sun.
“Everyone out,” he barks out in French.
The guards scatter, disappearing to wherever. For a rare moment we’re alone in the garden and our exchange unobserved.
“Francine can—” I was going to say come out any minute, but Maxime has already fastened his hands around my waist and lifted me onto the table.
Impatiently, he pushes the candelabra away. His rugged features are heated and his concentration one-track minded as he sweeps his palms under my dress and up my inner thighs. I shiver when he reaches my sex. My underwear is already wet. Holding my eyes, he pushes the elastic aside and shoves three fingers inside. I like it when he’s tender and gentle, but this is what I love. I love it when he doesn’t prepare me, when the friction is unbearable and the stretch too much, when I can lose myself in the sensations and fall into the oblivion of ecstasy.
He rests his thumb on my clit and curls his fingers inside. He doesn’t play with my clit. He just keeps his touch there. It drives me insane. I need more. He knows. Bracing my body with a palm on my lower back, he brings his lips to my nipple. When he sucks it through the fabric of my bra and dress, I arch against him, shamelessly surrendering to the pleasure he offers. I moan as he grazes the hard tip with his teeth. My nipples are sensitive. Just sucking on them is enough to bring me close to orgasm. He knows my body inside out. He knows what makes me beg and scream.
I know what he likes too. I cup his length while he twirls a tongue around my nipple, teasing me through too many layers of clothes. When I squeeze, he leans into my palm. My favorite way of feeling him is outlining the shape of the broad head with a finger. The light caress drives him crazy. With a growl, he rips his fingers from my body and brushes my hand away to center his cock between my legs. His hard length rubs over my clit, pushing the wet fabric of my panties over the bundle of nerves, but it’s not the silk I want to feel on my skin.
Digging my hands into the lapels of his jacket, I pull him to my mouth and take the kiss I want. He never denies me. He kisses me back with abandon and skill, making my body melt against his as all my nerve endings hum in need. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He rips away my underwear. I’m starving, moaning as I pull down his zipper and sighing into his mouth when I finally fold my fingers around his cock. I stroke twice before catching the pre-cum on the tip and letting it lubricate my palm. It’s the firm downward slide of my hand that makes him lose control. His groan is guttural as he grabs my wrist and forces my upper body down. My free hand is in his hair, pulling at the silky strands, holding his lips to mine, but he easily catches that one too, pinning both wrists in one hand above my head. He grips the base of his cock and guides it to my entrance. I brace myself, but never enough.
