one little indiscretion and I promise I won’t kiss another man as long as we both shall live. Amen.
Luc’s lips pull up in a wicked, sexy smile. He crooks his finger and beckons me come.
Thank you, Jesus!
Chapter 10
Sex, Lies & Louboutins
“ Mon Dieu ,” Luc whispers against my mouth. “Do you know how damned sexy you look in that dress? I can’t decide whether I want to rip it off you or make you wear it for the rest of our lives.”
Our lives. My stomach flips. My stomach always flips when Luc kisses me, or looks at me, or talks to me, or…
He is still sitting on the wingback. I am straddling his legs, my miniskirt pushed high on my thighs, my arms around his broad shoulders. Not to be pervy or anything, but I fell in love with Luc’s backside the first time I saw it riding at the head of my “honeymoon” bike tour. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, sculpted ass, muscular legs flexing with each push of the pedal. Just remembering that day makes me horny.
I scoot closer to him, press my breasts against his chest, and flick my tongue over his lips. If that’s not an invitation to tear my beaded dress from my body, I don’t know what is.
Luc groans low in his throat. “Wrap your legs around me.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I murmur, wrapping my legs around his lean waist. “What took you so long?”
Luc grins.
He carries me to the bed as if I am nothing more than a sparkly dress and pair of empty Louboutins, his arm muscles flexing around me, his broad hands cupping my bum.
He removes one hand from my bottom and sweeps the flowers off my pillow. And then we are on the bed, frantically tearing at each other’s clothes, driven by a feverish desire to press our bodies together.
I try to kick off my heels.
“ Non ,” Luc moans, against my mouth. “Leave them on. They drive me wild.”
We make love—Luc still in his suit, me naked except for my Louboutins—until our bodies are slick with perspiration and our chests heave from the exertion.
Luc falls onto the bed beside me and we listen to the sounds of our ragged breathing and London’s late night traffic outside the window. Drowsy from the champagne, wrapped in a contented post-conjugal relations cocoon, I am about to drift off when Luc gets out of bed.
“Where are you going?” My words tangle together.
“I will be right back, mon cœur .” Luc leans down and kisses me, his tongue circling my lips. “I just have to get something.”
When he climbs back into bed beside me, he has removed his suit, turned off the lamp, and closed the curtains against the loud London night sounds. It’s dark, but I don’t need the light to recognize my lover’s hard body.
He pulls the blankets over us and I snuggle against him, resting my head on his shoulder. It’s the best pillow in the world.
“Happy Anniversary, mon cœur ,” Luc says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “One year ago today, you walked up to me in your ridiculous pink riding gear and walked away with my heart.”
I love when he kisses my temple and I love when he calls me mon cœur . My heart.
“Happy anniversary, Luc. I love you.”
“When you didn’t show up in Paris, I was afraid maybe…” He clears his throat. Several seconds pass before he speaks again, his voice thick with emotion and heavily accented. “I was afraid you had fallen out of love with me.”
Tears fill my eyes. I have been a crap girlfriend, leaving Luc alone in Paris on our anniversary to pursue a story about shallow fame-whore reality television stars.
“That’s not possible, Luc.” I roll onto my side, facing him. “I will love you forever.”
Luc is strong, confident, and in possession of just a little of the arrogance that comes with being a noble-born Frenchman, so seeing him being vulnerable feels strange. I am usually the vulnerable, anxious, emotionally needy one.
“Does that mean I don’t need to worry about you running off with Bishop Raine?”
Ouch. What is that sharp
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