my hands in his hair as my cries ring through the air.
He’s touched me, his fingers have been inside me, yet I’m somehow shocked when his mouth meets mine. Maybe my shock stems not from the kiss, but the way that he kisses. The intensity. The sense that he’s all power and command restrained, and I know at this moment, he’ll fuck like he kisses. There’s nothing tentative in his most thorough of applications as he presses me into the mattress. He swallows my carnal groan, everything speeding up in that instant. Hands grasp, tongues thrust, fingers biting skin. Our mouths fused, and our minds deaf and blind to anything but this. But then my body mourns the lack of his as he suddenly pulls back, rising before me on his knees. And, oh my God, is he beautiful. My gaze follows the bold curve of his shoulders down his muscular arm—deltoids and triceps, oh my!—my attention drawn to the ladder of abdominals with the movement of his hand. The long powerful line of his thighs and that delicious V, lower still to where his cock stands proud. Proud and so vulgar and so beautiful.
And so big.
I don’t realise I’ve pushed up onto my elbow until I’m reaching for it. He’s so hard, like satin over steel as my thumb caresses his silken head, he exhales a wholly masculine groan.
‘You’re huge.’ I’m certain I don’t mean to sound so awe-filled. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a cock in my hand, but it’s easily the loveliest. And the longest. Fullest? To put it another way, this man wins the Rose Ryan Prize for Penii.
‘J’aime ça . . . I like that a lot. But if you keep doing that while looking at me as you are, we’re both going to be very disappointed.’
‘I wish I understood,’ I murmur, taking him in my fist. Then suddenly I do as he releases a long, measured exhale, almost arching into my hand.
‘Like that?’ I tighten my grasp, running my hand from root to tip.
‘Plus fort . . . harder.’ His words are taut, his gaze glued to my bare breasts as he covers my hand with his. But in a sudden fit of daring, I pull my hand from under his.
‘Let me watch.’
Head lowered, he stares up at me through thick, dark lashes. My heart moves into my throat. Was that too bold? Too forward? Was it lost in fucking translation?
‘Aimes-tu regarder . . . You like to watch.’ His sudden smile is a study in sinfulness, and he moves so fast, I find myself squealing as he reaches for the hem of my pyjama pants, whipping them off and leaving me feeling thoroughly undignified with my toes around his ears. ‘Bon . . . Good. So do I.’
I don’t have time to cogitate his expression as, palm flat against the pillow, he presses me back with a kiss. A hungry kiss. A thorough kiss. The kind that fries my brain, melting me across the bed.
‘Touche toi . . . Touch yourself for me, darling. Make yourself come.’ With his words, he lifts my hand, pressing it between my legs as he kisses me again, coaxing my fingers to begin.
My eyes flutter closed. I’m so turned on, I’m almost embarrassed to let him see just how much. But they don’t stay closed for long. Not as cool air settles between us as he pulls away. Not as he exhales. Groans. Not as the rhythmic sound of skin on skin fills the room.
Oh my. That looks so at home in his hand.
On his knees between my open thighs, his gaze settles on where my hand rests between my legs.
‘C’est ça . . . That’s it. So beautiful. I was right about how you’d look touching yourself.’
His gaze is so focussed and the cadence of his voice so rich and deep, I find myself teasing a finger along my crease. My tremulous whimper joins his praise, the digit dipping inside as I gather my own arousal and roll it across my clit.
If he says anything else, I don’t hear it, lost to the sight of him taking his cock firmly in his hand. A vein stands to attention in his forearm, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen taut as his hand moves from root to crown, twisting his fist a delicious amount. Delicious for the both of us. His attention is so focussed, his expression a mixture of agony and relief as his