Jean-Baptiste dropped his head and strung kisses across her hipbones; slow, hot kisses, the silver hoops gently scraping against her flesh. Genevieve stilled, her breath little pants interspersed with swallows of saliva. She’d never been kissed there before, but she’d fantasized about it too many times to count. A male’s head between her legs, his fingers gripping her inner thighs almost to the point of pain as he slid his hot tongue through her wet folds.
“So pink and swollen,” Jean-Baptiste whispered, his fingers easing her lips apart, one brushing over the sensitive bud of her clit. “As your sex cries, rains down, down, into a true river of pleasure.”
“Oh, god,” she uttered, wanting to drag herself up, see what he was doing—watch him. But she just felt too dizzy, too heavy.
His breath…it was close…so close and warm against her pussy as he circled her clit gently with his finger.
“Please,” she moaned, begged, her hips lifting, straining for more, for everything.
“Soon, Miss Burel,” he whispered, his mouth so close now she could feel the cool edges of his lip piercing against her opening. “I just want to see how tight you are before I eat you.”
And with that, he drove his tongue up, so deep inside her pussy Genevieve cried out. Her hands tensed and her nails scratched against the marble at her back. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t slow herself. She writhed and pumped, the feeling so shockingly perfect, she believed in that moment that she might go mad if she didn’t have this—him—twenty-four hours a day for the rest of her life.
He eased out, lifted his head and locked eyes with her. “You, Miss Burel, are the sweetest, most tempting thing I’ve ever had on my tongue.”
She stared at him, panting, her entire body on fire, her hips thrust up in a silent plea. “Please don’t stop,” she whimpered.
He chuckled wickedly, his eyes so gold they looked on fire. “Oh, Miss Burel. I’m just getting started. It’s a feast I plan to savor.”
His head dropped then, and his tongue made one long sweep from her pussy straight up to her clit. Crying out softly, Genevieve closed her eyes, and gave up everything from her past and everything in her future to accept this incredible, perfect, pleasure-filled moment.
Her thighs trembled uncontrollably as he licked her, as he made slow circles around her tight, hot bud. She made sounds from somewhere otherworldly, deep in her chest, her throat. And when his lips closed around her clit, when he started to suckle, his head lifting and lowering rhythmically, stunningly, she came apart.
“Jean-Baptiste!” she called out, her head thrashing from side to side against the cool, hard marble. “Yes! Please, yes!”
A fearsome growl escaped his throat, and he forced her legs even wider apart, burying himself even deeper as he started flicking her clit with his tongue. Over and over, back and forth, so fast, she felt tears behind her eyes. She bit down on her lip to halt them, her head pounding, her heart slamming so hard inside her ribs she was sure they were getting bruised.
Everything inside of her, every pain, every hope, every secret burst like an emotional and physical dam, and she was nothing but raw lust and unapologetic need. As his tongue worked her, and his growls and groans intensified, Genevieve came. She came so hard she couldn’t breathe, pressing her mound against his mouth and rough chin as she writhed and convulsed, circling her hips, squeezing her muscles as she took wave after wave of orgasm.
Before she was even replete, before the breath held inside her lungs had a chance to escape, Jean-Baptiste lifted her boneless frame into his arms and stood. “I’m taking you to bed, Miss Burel.”
“Wait,” she said breathlessly, clinging to him.
“What is it?” His tone was rough and impatient and fierce. “I don’t think I have it in me to discuss or flirt. If I don’t fuck you this very instant, my cat will destroy my insides and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I’m not Miss Burel,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Not right now,” she said, her drowsy eyes opening to meet his blistering amber gaze. “Not tonight. Not when you’re inside of me. Do you understand?”
His nostrils flared and he nodded. “Genevieve,” he snarled hungrily as he headed for his bedroom. “Beautiful, provocative Genny.”
Jean-Baptiste stalked down the hall, removing as many pieces of clothing as he could. His. Hers. Fuck if he knew or cared. He just wanted them skin to skin as quickly as possible. He’d never felt this frantic, this desperate to connect, to feel, to know a female.
And it scared the shit out of him.
The lights were out in the bedroom, but the moon shone bride-white and brilliant through the open balcony windows. Enough for him to see her incredible face, her hungry eyes. And when his thighs hit the edge of the bed, when he gathered up the comforter, tossed it to the floor and laid her out on her back, her golden skin against stark white sheets, her exquisite body.
He growled as he settled her against the mattress. He’d done pretty damn well in stripping her. The bun was no more, and the shirt was gone, pearl buttons no doubt leading a pathway from the living room to the bedroom like opalescent breadcrumbs. All she had on now was her bra and that skirt he’d yanked to her hips on the marble table. The skirt that was nearly ripped from hem to waist.
Shit. He’d get her a new one.
He’d get her twenty new ones.
His eyes clung to her curves, her mouth, her wide, eager gaze as he yanked off his jeans and T-shirt. When he saw her hands disappear behind her back, working the clasp on her pale pink bra, he loomed over her, growling.
“That’s my job, Genevieve.”
Her hands stilled and her eyes flipped up to meet his. “I like that. The way you say my name.”
Something hot and liquid moved through him, and it had nothing to do with sexual desire. Jean-Baptiste dipped his head, slid a canine inside the front of her bra and tugged. There was a quick pop and Genevieve gasped. Both silky pink cups flew to opposite sides, revealing a pair of the most spectacular breasts he had ever seen.
His mouth started to water.
“And I like that, too,” she said breathlessly, her gaze raking over him; his face, neck, his chest. “And these,” she continued, putting her hands on his forearms, moving up, over his pumas, tracing the lines of the water and grass. “Did they hurt?”
He shook his head, jaw tight. He was poised above her, his muscles straining, his skin vibrating, his cock so hard it could drill granite. He’d never wanted anything more. To be inside this female, so deep he lost himself. So wet, he drowned. So enveloped, all thought and anxiety bled from him.
“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo,” she whispered.
Fuck. He spread her legs with one thigh and demanded, “Where?”
Her gaze slid from his neck to his eyes. “I don’t know. Any suggestions? My back? My hip? My ankle? My inner thigh?”
“Oh, Genny,” he breathed, dropping his head, nuzzling the underside of her breast. “You have such beautiful skin. So perfect.”
He lapped at one dusky pink nipple and she gasped, wriggled beneath him.
“I think the only mark you should have on your body is mine.”
Her eyes slammed up to his. “What?”
He grinned. “You heard me. And you know what I meant by it.”
He dipped his head again, but this time he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled it deep. A groan escaped her throat, raw and hungry, and her back arched off the bed. God, she tasted so sweet. He was never going to be able to forget it, forget her. His cat was right there with him, wanting the same thing. Snarling, threatening to emerge if it wasn’t satisfied.
For one brief second, Jean-Baptiste felt the feline at the surface of his skin, felt the beginnings of a shift, but then Genevieve reached for him—her hand sliding between her bodies, her fingers wrapping around the trunk of his cock—and the puma growled and retreated back into its cage.