Free The French Detective's Woman by Nina Bruhns

to make it last and last. All night.
    He slid even further down her body. Over the dip of her belly to the joining of her legs. And he feasted there. Teasing and inflaming her with his tongue and teeth. As he did, he slipped a finger into her and sought the rough spot that would make her light up like Bastille Day.
    He wanted her out of control. He wanted her helpless and boneless with need. He wanted her begging for his cock. For him .
    She screamed. And came apart, sobbing his name.
    He banked the immense gratification and kept at her, until she came again. Until she lay under him, trembling helplessly with the pleasure he’d given her, moaning in bliss.
    Completely his.
    He lifted off her and she watched with slumberous, half-lidded eyes as he slowly stripped off his gun and his clothes, and sheathed himself. Preening for her. Making her wait. Making her spread her thighs and whisper, “Hurry.”
    She reached for him as he mounted her, wrapping her arms and legs around his body. But he didn’t enter her. Not yet.
    “Who is your man now?” he demanded softly.
    A shiver purled through her and her eyelids drifted closed. “You are, Jean-Marc.”
    “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “And say it again.”
    She did as he bid. “You’re the only man I want, Jean-Marc,” she whispered breathlessly.
    He thrust home in triumph, his male pride swelling along with his member. “You are mine, Ciara. Don’t try to hide from me again.”
    He twined his fingers through her hair and held her still for his kisses. He pulled out and plunged into her again. She gasped. He hilted again.
    “Mine,” he murmured, thrusting over and over, claiming his right to her body, and imprinting his name on her will.
    He didn’t even want to think about why he was acting like this. Didn’t want to think about anything but burying himself as deep as he could inside her. He had her now. And he would keep her. She was his .
    Her body trembled and shuddered under him, filling him with an erotic sense of power. Of possession. She cried his name in climax once again, and he knew that she had surrendered completely.
    With three final, powerful thrusts, he allowed himself to fall into the ecstasy. Sweaty and burning in the flames of their passion, he held her tight and flung himself into the pleasure of orgasm. Roaring his completion like a man possessed.
    Because he was. For as much as he’d claimed and taken her tonight, she had claimed him just as surely.
    And for the first time in many years, belonging to someone else felt like a good thing.
    ♥♥♥
     
    The next morning in his office, Jean-Marc leaned his elbows on his desk, propped his chin in his hands and hummed in satisfaction.
    Dieu , he felt great.
    Exhausted, wrung out and emptied. But in a good way. A very good way. Thanks to Ciara he was alive again.
    And he was definitely in love.
    He hadn’t left her place until practically dawn this morning, and even then he’d had to tear himself away from her delectable, awesome body. Ah, the things they’d done! Just thinking about them—and her—left him hard as a pistol and counting the seconds until they met again.
    He would take her to his flat tonight. Where they’d have better wine, more horizontal surfaces to explore, and carpeted floors. A bigger bed, too, when they finally made it that far. His cock swelled with alacrity.
    “You look like Hades on the second day of spring.” He opened his eyes to find Pierre grinning at him with amusement.
    “You should see Persephone,” Jean-Marc said with a contented smile.
    “Won over, sated and panting for more, eh?”
    “Did you doubt it? Thanks for leaving the interview. I take it that was planned?”
    Pierre shrugged and gave him a wink. “ Peut être .” Perhaps. “So, what’s all this?” he asked, indicating the piles of file boxes stacked around Jean-Marc’s desk.
    “Archives sent them up. With a note for you.” He handed Pierre a white memo slip.
    “ You owe me