He smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "I know that now, but then I thought only she could save me from an eternity of..." His words trailed off and he submerged, leaving only a few black locks floating on the top of the water. He sat up with a loud breath of air, blinking the water from his eyes. The water had clumped his thick, dark eyelashes. He ran his hands through his wet hair, and it trailed over his shoulders.
"Your hair wasn't this long when we first met."
"You seem to prefer longer hair on your men."
"If you're dead, how can your hair grow?"
"That is a question for you to answer," he said. He ran his hands through his hair again, squeezing the ends out. He reached out a hand for a towel.
I scrambled to my feet. "I'll leave you to get dressed."
"Have Jason and Larry returned?" he asked.
"No."
"Then I won't be getting dressed." He stood, drawing the towel towards him. I had a glimpse of one side of his pale na**d body, water streaming from it. The towel moved into view just in time. I fled.
Chapter 30
I huddled in the straight-back chair farthest from the bedroom. But I was staring at the doorway. Shit. I wanted to run from the room, but why? It wasn't Jean-Claude I didn't trust. It was me. Fuck.
I touched the gun in my robe pocket. It was smooth and hard and reassuring, but it wouldn't help me now. Violence I understood; sex gave me more problems.
I honestly didn't want to sleep with him, but part of me was hoping for another glimpse of na**d flesh. A long line of na**d thigh, perhaps. Or maybe... I put the palms of my hands over my eyes, as if I could get the image out of my head by just pressing.
"Ma petite?" His voice sounded closer than the bathroom.
I didn't want to look, as if, just as Grandma Blake had said, I'd be struck blind. I felt him standing in front of me. Felt the movement of air. I lowered my hands a millimeter at a time. He was kneeling in front of me, one of the thick white towels wrapped around his waist.
I lowered my hands to my lap. Beads of water still clung to his skin. He'd combed his hair, but it was wet, slicked back, leaving his face plainer, more unadorned than normal. His eyes seemed bluer without his hair to frame them.
He put a hand on each chair arm and raised himself up. His lips brushed mine in a soft, nearly chaste kiss. He moved back from me, letting go of the chair.
I could taste my heart in my throat, and it wasn't fear.
Jean-Claude touched my hands, lifted them up. He placed my hands on his bare shoulders. The skin was warm, smooth, wet. He held my wrists in his hands, lightly, very lightly. I could have pulled away at any time. He ran my hands down his slick body.
I pulled my hands free. He said nothing, did nothing. He stayed kneeling, looking at me. Waiting. I could see the pulse in his neck jumping against the skin, and I wanted to touch it.
I slid my hands across his shoulders and lowered my face to his. He started to move into me for a kiss, but I slid my hand along his jaw and turned his head away. I touched lips to his neck and slid my mouth down his skin, until I could taste his pulse beating against my tongue. He tasted of perfumed soap, water, and clean skin.
I slid from the chair to the floor, kneeling in front of him. He was taller now, but not too tall. I licked water off his chest, and let myself do something I'd wanted to do for months. I ran my tongue over his nipple, and he shuddered against me.
I licked water off the center of his chest and ran my hands along his waist up the damp curve of his back.
He pulled the sash of my robe, and I didn't protest. I let his hands slide under the robe, around my waist, with nothing but the t-shirt between his flesh and mine. He ran his hands up my sides, his thumbs playing over my rib cage. The gun swung heavily in the loose cloth. It was annoying.
I raised my face to his. His arms slid behind my back, pressing me against the long wet line of his body. The towel was perilously loose.
His lips brushed mine; then the kiss became something more. Harder, nearly bruising, with his arms locked behind my shoulders. My hands slid down his waist, rubbed the sliding top of the towel, and found it had already slipped. My hand touched the smooth top of his bu**ocks. Only the pressure of our bodies kept the towel in place.
He ate at my mouth and I felt something sharp, painful. I jerked back and tasted blood.
Jean-Claude let me go. He sat back on his heels, the towel gathered in his lap. "I am sorry, ma petite. I got carried away."
I touched my mouth and came away with a spot of blood. "You nicked me."
He nodded. "I am truly sorry."