Free Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo

flinched.
    Mon Dieu. So big, so very big.
    When had he opened the front of his trousers?
    She had not survived the streets of Port-au-Prince by having faint courage.
    Martine slid her finger over the crown of his cock. His organ felt smooth, like the feel of silk and satin, yet the head throbbed and pulsed against her palm. She traced the rough ridge, ran her thumb across the slit in the crown, and the pads of her fingers grew slick.
    Warm air kissed her stomach as he gathered her skirt above her waist. His palm covered her belly, slid to the thong the Gypsy Bandoleer"s wife had insisted she purchase, and he drew the material down, edging the fabric over her hips. She lifted her bottom off the bed, and he slid the scrap of silk off her legs. His fingers combed softly through the curls between her thighs, his touch electrifying. Only when he separated her folds did she realize she too was slick and moist and weeping excitement and desire.
    “Oh,” she said, the word almost a yelp, when his thumb stroked a spot that made her hips arch off the bed. “Non.”
    He stilled. “Did I hurt you?”.
    “Non. Oui. More.” Her hand crept behind his head, her fingers snarling in his hair, and she tugged him back to her, opening her mouth over his, sliding her tongue to touch his, to stroke the nubby surface. His fingers moved easily as her folds grew creamier, the dampness coating the tops of her thighs.
    Harry eased her onto her back. A few tugs and pulls and he had the silk bodice unbuttoned, exposing her breasts.
    “So beautiful,” he crooned, his fingers flickering a blistering outline of her breast, and a voice in her head screamed a warning— Your back, your back. Do something now.
    She"d seen the whores in the allies.
    Holding her breath Martine scooted onto her side, reached for his erection, and curled both hands around his cock. Mesmerized when the thing jerked and pulsed, almost singed by the heat of it, she gawked as his arousal grew thicker and the head redder. Using her thumb she traced the underside of the crown, and his Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

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    hardness swelled and burned under her touch. Harry covered her hand and showed her how to caress him, curling her palm around his engorged cock and sliding her fingers up over the head, down the damp length, and over to cup his balls, repeating the process over and over.
    “Christ,” he growled as he loosened her hold on him. “I can"t hold back any longer.”
    Dazed and unable to stop staring at his cock poking through his pants front as he rolled off the bed, she didn"t register his rapid-fire shedding of his clothes until his long legs settled between hers and the hard length of him massaged her bare sex, no barrier separating the skin-to-skin contact. His mouth latched on to her breast, her heels dug into the mattress, and she couldn"t stifle the sounds spewing from her lips. Didn"t know what she pleaded for, couldn"t think, could only follow his mouth, his fingers, writhing and squirming to have his hands, his lips, touch, lick everywhere all at once.
    “You okay, sugar?”
    He lapped at her breast, and the soft pull of his teeth on her aching nipple made the walls of her sex clench and jerk, and she murmured, “Oui, non. Please.”
    Martine"s lungs stopped functioning when the head of his cock rimmed her entrance. Her legs fell open, and she went still, her heartbeat accelerating, the drumming so loud in her ears she could hear nothing else.
    “A quick cut, sugar.” His mouth took hers, his tongue plunging in, his hands gripped her hips, and he lifted her off the mattress. His cock impaled her, one hard thrust as his thickness stretched her walls and he filled her to the womb.
    She winced at the jagged pinch as he broke through her hymen, the sting bee-sharp intense. He froze, and from somewhere far away, Martine realized he waited on a sign from her. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her face, beads of sweat trickling down from one