The marshal saluted us and disappeared into the crowd.
“The bastard,” Hunter said, but there was no heat behind it.
My chest still felt tight, bands of nerves making it hard to breathe. “He… he knows.”
“Of course, he knows. That’s a voyeur if I ever met one. Hard to blame him, though, considering.”
That was awfully level-headed. I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought you’d be upset.”
“That a jaded security guard let us fool around in the storage closet? Nah, not upset. I’d have slipped him something in thanks if it wouldn’t have offended him.”
Okay then.
* * *
After breakfast, it took us another hour to get into Paris and to our hotel. I was used to a lot of travel by now, but after the expansive, cushy seats of Hunter’s truck, the stiff-back chair of the train and the ripped cushions of the cab left something to be desired. The man at the front desk was courteous and faintly judging, so on point I wondered if he was planted to entertain American tourists.
Or then again, maybe he really did feel that way.
Either way, the room itself was beautiful, larger than I’d been given to expect from the travel guidebooks. A small wall divided the sitting area from the bedroom, which left a spacious area across where the sunlight streamed through filmy curtains. I took a hot shower, admiring the marble floor and overlarge tub in the bathroom.
Now I knew why Hunter had picked this room.
I had a new set of lacy bra and panties to go on under my fresh clothes. For that bit of planning, I deserved a round of applause. A lot of my lingerie would get torn to shreds during our two-week stay here.
At least, I sure hoped so.
When I emerged from the bedroom, Hunter was reclined on the bed. He tossed his phone aside.
“Come closer.”
I planned to jump him, just jump directly on top of him and tussle for control. I loved it when he won, so I gave him every opportunity. But before I could make it to the bed, he said, “Now stop. That’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
“For you to show me those lacy panties you had on.” When I blushed he added, “You’re lucky I didn’t rip them off you right there on the plane. Shove them in your mouth and make you taste our own come.”
God. I clenched my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that started every time he talked like that. His grin was pure devilry, smug and tempting.
Two could play at this game.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feigning innocence. “I’ve already changed.”
“Then show me what you’re wearing now,” he growled.
I pulled my jeans and top off as slowly as I could without being silly. There was only so seductive rumpled travel clothes could get. But my silk bra with its little pink flowers—oh, those would do nicely. He sucked in a breath when he saw it. And my panties. Not only did they match, but the panel was still damp from his come. It leaked out of me for hours after he came inside me, a musky reminder of what we’d done. He came a lot, copiously.
And often too.
“Do you mean these panties?” I asked.
I’d found that dirty talk didn’t need to be particularly clever to turn Hunter on. In fact, simple worked best. Please. Do it like that. And my coup de grace had been a quiet No, no, I can’t take any more during a particularly rough scene that had made him come for what felt like hours.
Hunter grunted something like assent. “Get over here.”
His hand absently rubbed himself through his jeans, a sign of dwindling patience. Soon enough he’d grab me, fling me to the floor, and have his dirty way with me. An excellent recipe for orgasms if I ever heard one. But this time around, I had a different idea.
My panties slipped over my hips and down to the floor. I unclasped my bra and held it against my chest for a moment before letting it fall. But instead of leaving the lacy fabric on the Aubusson rug, I hooked it with my forefinger.