Free Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo Page A

temple. His parted lips bared clamped teeth, and his jaw worked furiously.
    The twinge of pain subsided, and she experimented, wriggling her hips.
    His fingers tightened on the ridge of her pelvic bone. “Are you hurting?”
    “Non. Kiss me, Harry.” She could bear anything when he kissed her.
    One hand left her hip, and he cupped her jaw. Their eyes met and locked, and he kissed her mouth, a chaste touch while their gazes held. Martine couldn"t draw oxygen into her lungs, and an ache grew in her chest under her rib cage. Her lids fluttered shut as his tongue swept the seam of her lips, her bunched shoulders relaxed into the mattress, and she opened for his delicious invasion. When he tickled the roof of her mouth and explored the inside of one cheek, she arched, and her throbbing nipples scrubbed the hairs on his chest.
    He smelled of the outdoors, of the Mediterranean wind, of the tanginess of the sea, of smoke and male arrogance. He tasted like fruit and wine and prosciutto. His damp, heated skin set a fire blazing through her veins.

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    Jianne Carlo

    When he withdrew slowly, his cock almost leaving her warmth, her fingernails dug into his shoulders in protest. When he filled her again, moving so unhurriedly that her inner walls burned around him, Martine wanted to beat his back with her fists. He did it again, even slower, his movements agonizing and torturous. The third time he retreated, she canted her hips off the mattress, her walls sucking at his cock, and she grabbed his bottom, refusing to let his thickness go.
    “Fuck.” She barely heard his muttered curse because he started moving faster, harder, thrusting in and out, his cock growing fatter and longer and filling her more and more. She matched his movements, discovering the rhythm of coupling, of joining two bodies into one. His hand slipped between their bodies, his thumb rested on that spot that drove her insane, and pressure built inside, outside, her thigh muscles tensing, her ass cheeks contracting. Her lungs smoldered, her breath came in short, sharp pants, and she reached and reached and detonated. Bastille Day fireworks burst and exploded into glorious stars and sparks and streaks behind her eyelids.
    Martine collapsed into the bed, limbs molten, spine relaxed, muscles too lazy and drained for any nuance of tension. Harry"s weight pressed her into the mattress, his heaviness both comforting and stifling; his nose settled into her neck, just below her ear. Hot air skirted her lobe as he inhaled and exhaled. She felt as if he breathed through her, his chest expanding and releasing against hers, their hearts beating in cadence. Suddenly he pushed up onto his elbows and cupped her chin. “Look at me.”
    His voice sounded gruff and hoarse and growly and somehow soothing.
    It took all the energy she had left to lift her eyelids. His irises had all but disappeared, and his darkened and dilated pupils had turned the color of his eyes from their normal honey to a rich, dark caramel.
    Harry"s lip curled at one corner. His thumb drew a circle under her chin.
    Heat crawled across her skin, and she knew she blushed all over. “Not too bad?”
    She shook her head.
    “Not going to talk?”
    To her horror a wide yawn she couldn"t stifle captured her mouth; she ducked her head as her skin flamed. Another yawn erupted, and she clapped a palm over her lips.
    “Sleepy?” His knuckles skated across her cheek.
    “A bit,” she replied.
    “Me too,” he said, kissed the tip of her nose, and withdrew from her vagina at the same time. Her sex clutched at his cock, trying to prevent him from leaving. “It"s been a helluva day for you.”
    He snatched his iPhone from the nightstand closer to his side, then glanced at the LCD and muttered, “We don"t have much time left. The Glory will dock soon.”
    She pushed onto her elbows. “I shall dress quickly.”

    Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

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    “You can"t wash. I left you some supplies in the