The Chocolate Temptation (Amour et Chocolat) by Laura Florand Page A
Authors: Laura Florand
Tags: Romance
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what this apartment said about her. “Did you have a bigger apartment, in the U.S.?”
“Of course,” she said, puzzled. “This is Paris. Plus I was earning twenty times more.” Her mouth twisted, and she added defiantly: “I was probably earning nearly as much as you are. Maybe more.”
I should go , some whisper managed to make itself heard in his brain. She’s giving up everything for this dream. Don’t break it.
But he wouldn’t go. He would eat her dream alive, take all of her for his. He couldn’t stand this anymore.
He sat on the bed, as the only space to sit in that room, sat right in the center of it, legs splayed. My bed, now.
And that anxious, perfectionist furrow formed between her eyebrows, as if she didn’t know what to make of him. I’ll show you, chérie. I’ll show you exactly what to make of me.
And, oh, God, am I going to make some things out of you.
She shrugged out of her coat, still focused on him, and he loved that, he loved her automatic undressing while all her concentration bent on him. He could get used to that – coming home with her every evening, until she undressed so automatically around him that she stripped right down to her toes, all while thinking about him and what he might do to her and what she might want to do to him.
She hung the coat in the closet, frowning at the empty net pockets inside the door that probably sometimes held an umbrella. When she closed the closet again, she spotted herself in the mirror on the door, and her hand touched her fraying hair in a kind of despairing self-consciousness.
It was hard for him to lay a truth about himself out there, but he was doing so many terrible things tonight, he thought maybe he should force himself, for her sake. “Do you know you’re one of the prettiest women I have ever seen?” he asked, far more quietly and honestly than he usually let himself speak.
Her head whipped around, and she stared at him with her lips parted, completely stunned.
He shrugged funnily, to minimize his self-exposure. “It works for me.”
“Patrick.” She pressed back against the mirror, sounding wary. “You just got in a fight over Summer Corey.”
“Luc got in a fight over Summer. I got in a fight because I’ve been wanting to get in a fight for some time now, and he’s by far my favorite candidate for it.” And that was probably enough honesty for one month, wasn’t it? “Could the umbrella be under the bed?” He looked down vaguely, not lifting the comforter himself to check because he would far rather she come closer and bend over herself.
“No,” she said definitely. Ah, an organized woman. But then he knew that about her already. He knew so many, many things about her. Sarabelle, let me find out all the rest. God, his skin was going to split with the need.
“Do you mind if I wait just a few minutes to see if the rain lets up, then?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket with enough care to make sure her umbrella didn’t fall out of his pocket.
She didn’t answer, her forehead crinkled, but she moved to her tiny stovetop, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the burner, opening a little canister of crumbled leaves whose peppermint scent reached him through the small space. She must do this every evening, he thought. The little ritual she defaulted to even when he was here to disturb it: take off her jacket, make her little herbal tea. Kick off her shoes, curl up in this bed. He bet his presence was all that was keeping her shoes on right now. And his own toes curled with the desire to see her feet bare. Padding toward him. Oh, sweetheart, you are going to curl up in this bed with me. Yes, you are.
He looked at her feet, just willing those little street tennis shoes off with everything in him, and looked up to find her trying not to watch him. Her slightly tilted eyes so very serious, in that way that seemed to just run little fingers everywhere all over his body, tickling him unmercifully.
Could
“Of course,” she said, puzzled. “This is Paris. Plus I was earning twenty times more.” Her mouth twisted, and she added defiantly: “I was probably earning nearly as much as you are. Maybe more.”
I should go , some whisper managed to make itself heard in his brain. She’s giving up everything for this dream. Don’t break it.
But he wouldn’t go. He would eat her dream alive, take all of her for his. He couldn’t stand this anymore.
He sat on the bed, as the only space to sit in that room, sat right in the center of it, legs splayed. My bed, now.
And that anxious, perfectionist furrow formed between her eyebrows, as if she didn’t know what to make of him. I’ll show you, chérie. I’ll show you exactly what to make of me.
And, oh, God, am I going to make some things out of you.
She shrugged out of her coat, still focused on him, and he loved that, he loved her automatic undressing while all her concentration bent on him. He could get used to that – coming home with her every evening, until she undressed so automatically around him that she stripped right down to her toes, all while thinking about him and what he might do to her and what she might want to do to him.
She hung the coat in the closet, frowning at the empty net pockets inside the door that probably sometimes held an umbrella. When she closed the closet again, she spotted herself in the mirror on the door, and her hand touched her fraying hair in a kind of despairing self-consciousness.
It was hard for him to lay a truth about himself out there, but he was doing so many terrible things tonight, he thought maybe he should force himself, for her sake. “Do you know you’re one of the prettiest women I have ever seen?” he asked, far more quietly and honestly than he usually let himself speak.
Her head whipped around, and she stared at him with her lips parted, completely stunned.
He shrugged funnily, to minimize his self-exposure. “It works for me.”
“Patrick.” She pressed back against the mirror, sounding wary. “You just got in a fight over Summer Corey.”
“Luc got in a fight over Summer. I got in a fight because I’ve been wanting to get in a fight for some time now, and he’s by far my favorite candidate for it.” And that was probably enough honesty for one month, wasn’t it? “Could the umbrella be under the bed?” He looked down vaguely, not lifting the comforter himself to check because he would far rather she come closer and bend over herself.
“No,” she said definitely. Ah, an organized woman. But then he knew that about her already. He knew so many, many things about her. Sarabelle, let me find out all the rest. God, his skin was going to split with the need.
“Do you mind if I wait just a few minutes to see if the rain lets up, then?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket with enough care to make sure her umbrella didn’t fall out of his pocket.
She didn’t answer, her forehead crinkled, but she moved to her tiny stovetop, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the burner, opening a little canister of crumbled leaves whose peppermint scent reached him through the small space. She must do this every evening, he thought. The little ritual she defaulted to even when he was here to disturb it: take off her jacket, make her little herbal tea. Kick off her shoes, curl up in this bed. He bet his presence was all that was keeping her shoes on right now. And his own toes curled with the desire to see her feet bare. Padding toward him. Oh, sweetheart, you are going to curl up in this bed with me. Yes, you are.
He looked at her feet, just willing those little street tennis shoes off with everything in him, and looked up to find her trying not to watch him. Her slightly tilted eyes so very serious, in that way that seemed to just run little fingers everywhere all over his body, tickling him unmercifully.
Could
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