Free The Paris Caper by Nina Bruhns

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 big-time,
Rousselot ,”