How Sweet It Is by Kate Perry Page B

hopeful,” she explained. “You don’t like them?”
    “I love them,” he said fervently. He looked at her, her arms splayed, eyes closed, with her skirt hiked up to reveal a stretch of creamy flesh. Unable to help himself, he tugged down her panties, letting them manacle her ankles. He ran his hand over the curve of her arse, around her hip, and around the front. He slipped a finger in, dipping until he found wetness and then drawing it up until he reached the right spot where she tensed with pleasure. Watching her face, he focused right there, touching her in soft strokes.
    She made soft noises, her hips writhing, her eyes squeezed shut. He kissed her neck and lips before he turned her around. Undoing his pants, he slid into her.
    He closed his eyes—she felt so hot, so moist, gripping him tight like she was specially designed for him. He trailed his hand in front of her, spreading her wetness all over before focusing his touch.
    She gasped, pushing her hips back, imploring. Her inner muscles squeezed him, tighter the closer she got to climax.
    He braced her with an arm across her chest; his hand wrapped around her breast. He pushed into her, driving himself mad by going slow.
    “I can feel you pulsing inside me,” she said. “I like it. I’m going to like using the scarf, too.”
    He thrust faster. “I will, too.”
    Her hands fisted against the door. “I can’t hold on any longer.”
    “Don’t,” he urged. He focused his touch, fast and light.
    He could feel her the moment she started to come—her muscles gripped him, possessing him, demanding that he join her.
    He did, exploding into her. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, completely drained. He could feel her still gripping him, and it made him want to carry her upstairs to his bed and take her all over again.
    The urge was so strong that it scared him. He withdrew from her and said, “Get dressed.”
    She looked at him askance, but did as he said.
    He tried not to watch her primly wipe herself with her knickers. He tried not to notice that she tucked them into her purse—he didn’t need the knowledge that she was naked under the skirt.
    He turned his back. He should send her packing. Now that the sex was out of the way, she’d invariably ask about selling his art again. The sooner she left, the sooner his peace would be restored.
    But then he turned around, and she looked at him with her guileless eyes and he heard himself say, “Come on,” as he took her hand and grabbed his coat.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Lunch,” he said as he led her through the windy streets, toward Odéon and his favorite place in Paris.
    They arrived at L’Avant Comptoir early enough that there was space directly at the bar. Eric, who ran the place, started to smile in greeting. But when he saw Viola, he stopped pouring the wine for the person waiting in front of him to stare at her in wonder.
    Finn shook his head as he took off his coat and hung it on a hook under the counter. He should have known the man would comment on the fact that he wasn’t alone for a change. “ Oui, c’est une femme ,” he said, answering Eric’s unspoken question.
    Eric shrugged as he resumed pouring. “Jesus walked on water, so why not this?” the man replied in French. “Miracles happen.”
    “What did he say?” Viola asked softly, hanging her purse and coat on the hook next to his.
    “He said you look skinny and should eat more.”
    Eric arched his brow. “ Ce n’est pas ce que j’ai dit .”
    No, it wasn’t what the man had said, but Viola didn’t need to know that. “You want red or white wine?”
    “Red, please.” She craned her head, looking around. “There are no tables.”
    He held up two fingers to Eric, who nodded and pulled down a bottle of red to open for them. “L’Avant Comptoir is a tapas bar, French style,” he explained. “They have a restaurant next door that’s fancier, but this suits me.”
    “This suits me, too.” Her eyes lit up