One Kiss in... Paris: The Billionaire's Bedside Manner / Hired: Cinderella Chef / 72 Hours
murmured as his palm cupped her nape and she nuzzled down to find a hot pulse throbbing in his neck.
“What’s that?”
“Clothes.”
Delicious heat flushed through her. They’d made love so many times these past weeks, she’d lost count. But something about his voice, his touch, tonight went beyond anything that had come before. Every cell in her body quivered and let her know … whatever they shared would never get any better than this.
But this time she wanted to be the one to lead … to tease and control and drive the other insane with want.
She lifted her face to his and let his lips touch hers before she slid away from his hold and stood in the firelight before him.
“You build a good fire,” she said.
He sat straighter. “You’re warm now?”
“Beyond warm.”
She caught the hem of her lighter shirt and drew it up over her head. The heat of the flames kissed her bare back while Mateo’s intent gaze scorched her front. Her heartbeat thudding, she reached around and released her bra and let the cups fall from her breasts to the soft-pile rug at her feet. When he tipped forward, her flesh tingled and nipples hardened beneath his gaze.
She could see in his eyes that he wanted to drag her to him … wanted to kiss and taste her as much as she wanted to devour him too. But she didn’t go to him. Instead she recalled how he’d entered the hotel suite bathroom the night before, without a stitch on, ready to stroke and tease.
She first released the clasp above the zip of her dress pants then eased the fabric past her hips, down her thighs. As the pants came down, she leaned over, nearer to where he sat and waited. Close enough for him to reach out and touch. When she straightened, only one item of clothing separated her from her birthday suit.
His breathing was elevated now, his chest beneath that black shirt rising and falling in the firelight. She recognized the fiery intent in his gaze. How long would he go before hauling her in?
She edged a step closer and a muscle in his jaw began to jump. When she reached for his hand and set his hot palm low on her belly, he came forward and traced his warm mouth over her ribs. Trembling inside, she drew his hand down over the triangle of silk at the apex of her thighs then slowly, purposefully, back up again. His kisses ran higher, brushing the burning tip of one breast as his touch trailed and fingers twined around the elastic of her panties sitting high on her hips.
Groaning, he nipped her nipple at the same time he dragged the scrap of silk down.
Time melted away when his head lowered and his mouth grazed what a second before her panties had concealed … tenderly and then deeply as he cupped her behind and urged her ever closer. She didn’t resist when he lifted her left leg and curled her calf over his broad shoulder. She only knotted her fingers in his hair as he continued to explore, his tongue flicking and twirling at the same time the heat at her core kindled, sparked and caught light.
A heartbeat from flashpoint, she recalled she hadn’t wanted to surrender to these burning sensations this soon. Now it was too late. This felt—he felt—too good to stop.
As she was sucked into that void, all her muscles locked, the fire raged and, dropping back her head, she gave herself over to the tide and murmured his name.
She was barely aware of being lowered down upon that soft pile rug or Mateo’s hard frame lowering on top of her. As the waves began to ease and, sighing, she opened her eyes, she found the wherewithal to smile. He hadn’t taken the time to take off even his shirt before he thrust in and entered her, filling her in every sense while whispering French and Italian endearments in her ear.
Her legs twined around the back of his thighs as her palms grazed up the hot, hard plate of his chest. He began to move, long measured strokes that built on that fire again. Each thrust seemed to nudge precisely the right spot as his lips sipped lightly from her brow, her cheek. When he drove in suddenly hard and fast, she gripped his head and pulled his mouth to hers. His tongue probed as his body tensed and burned above her. Then she felt the warm touch of his palm sculpting over her breast, the pad of his thumb circling the nipple before he rolled the bead and she gasped as a bright-tipped thrill ripped through her.
His mouth left hers as he levered up. Amid the flickering shadows she could see his muscles glistening and working as his hips ground against hers. She trailed her fingertips down the ruts of his abdomen. Then, scooping them lower, she fanned his damp belly before she gripped his hips, closed her eyes and moved with him, feeling the inferno growing, wishing this sensation would never end.
When he groaned and stiffened above her—when he thrust another time and never more deeply—she reached, held on to his neck and joined him, leaping off that glorious ledge again.
Later they moved into the bedroom. While Bailey slipped under the covers, Mateo built a fire before joining her. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they didn’t wake until after eight. He couldn’t let her leave the bed until they made love again.
An hour later, Mateo met Nichole at the orphanage. They plotted a workable scheme for regular excursions to the city and surrounds, the first planned in the spring to visit the Louvre with a weekend stay over at a boardinghouse. Nichole was beyond excited for the children, many of whom had never set foot much beyond this district. With a deep sense of satisfaction, Mateo signed his name to the draft document. Opening the world could be an invaluable experience for any child, with regard to education as well as a sense of self. He should know.
They ended their meeting on another high note. A child—Nichole wasn’t obliged to say who at this time—would leave the orphanage today for a new home and bright new future. Mateo left the room wondering.
Could this child be Remy? He would only be happy for him if it was.
Mateo had promised Bailey a trip to the neighboring village where she could soak up more of the rustic atmosphere she enjoyed so much. But when he found her in the large undercover area, she and her company looked so enthralled he didn’t have the heart to disturb them. Bailey was playing house with a few of the younger girls, one of them Clairdy, a blond angel who Remy was fond of.
As the girls’ conversation and laughter filtered through the cool late-morning air, Mateo rested back against that enormous oak-tree trunk and crossed his arms. This was the place he’d wanted to escape as a child. These were the grounds he still recalled in disturbing abstract dreams at least once a year. And yet, whenever he visited, the longer he stayed, the more difficult it was to walk away. Today—this minute, watching Bailey play with the girls—he felt that contradiction more strongly than ever. He couldn’t seem to settle the opposing forces playing tug-of-war in his mind. Memories reminded him how much he’d once wanted to leave this place and yet something else whispered for him now to stay.
This, of course, was absurd. He had a practice, friends, a life back home. Here, at times, he felt almost like a ghost.
Bailey saw him and arced an arm through the air. “Mateo, come over! Clairdy and Eleanor are baking cookies. You could help.”
Clairdy and an equally small Eleanor chattered on in French as they rolled and cut play dough then put the tray into their playhouse oven. Mateo smiled. Reminded him of when he’d helped Mama in the kitchen all those years ago.
“What cookies are you baking?” Mateo asked, sauntering over.
“C’est notre recette spéciale,” Clairdy said. It is our special recipe.
“Remember not to have the oven too hot or the bottoms will burn,” he pointed out.
Eleanor immediately pretended to alter a temperature dial.
Clairdy patted her friend on the back and exclaimed, “Bon travail!” Good job!