He was going to kiss and caress her, taking his time, and she’d self-combust at any moment. She’d never known anything like this spike of arousal.
‘Please, Thierry.’ Finally, she got his buckle undone and slid the belt free with clumsy hands. ‘You can seduce me later. Whatever you like. But I need you inside me now.’
Fire washed from her throat to her hairline. But she didn’t care about embarrassment or appearing unsophisticated. Desire was too tame a word for this urgent, visceral need. Nothing mattered but being one with this man.
Imogen bit her lip as her fingers slipped on his zip. She tried again and heard his sharp inhale. Hard fingers closed around hers.
He wasn’t going to stop her, was he? Not now. She almost sobbed with frustration, her whole body burning like a single, vibrant flame that would at any minute consume her.
‘Let me, ma chérie.’
* * *
Thierry kept his eyes on her face as he shucked his shoes and grabbed one of the condoms he’d brought.
She was glorious, her skin flushed with sexual arousal. Her eyes were bright as stars, veiled by long black lashes. Her reddened lips were plump and inviting, but not as inviting as the rest of her. His movements quickened, sheathing himself as his gaze dropped to proud breasts straining against that tight bodice. A surge of hunger hit and he drew an uneven breath. Despite what she said he needed to rein himself in, not surrender to hunger and take her with no preliminaries. He needed to...
Thierry’s thoughts spun away as she reefed up the hem of her dress. Long, pale, toned thighs. Skimpy, emerald-green lace panties. The subtle, enticing scent of vanilla sugar and feminine arousal.
Slender fingers hooked the green lace and she arched her hips up, wriggling, to pull it away.
His hands tangled with hers, stripping the lace off. Then his hands were on her, skimming satin-soft flesh, stroking the dark silk, already damp, at her core.
He didn’t register moving closer. But an instant later he was there, pressing against her softness, his hands planted beside her on the bed. Her skirt was up around her waist and her hair had come down on one side, dark tresses curling to her breasts.
A shudder ripped through him. He wanted to feast on her, take his time to build their pleasure, but he couldn’t.
It wasn’t the tug of her fingers digging into his shoulders that shattered his control, or the tiny, throaty purring sound she made. It was simply that he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.
His hand shook as he lifted her to him. Then in one sure, glorious stroke he surged home, high and hard, till he felt nothing but her, knew nothing but her liquid heat, sweet scent and indescribable pleasure.
Tawny green eyes snared his. Her head pressed back, baring that delectable throat. He heard his name in a throaty, broken gasp. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, and to his amazement was all it took for him to lose the last of his control.
She quivered, jerking and shaking around him, drawing him into the most mind-blowing climax he’d ever experienced.
It was a long, long time before his brain functioned again. Imogen shifted drowsily, and he found himself quickening into arousal again. His immediate thought was to wonder if he’d brought enough condoms.
His second, when her eyes fluttered open and her tentative smile hit him square in the chest, was to congratulate himself on finding her. He’d never known a woman so unstinting in her passion.
Two weeks would barely be enough to enjoy all she had to offer. Yet that was all they had. She’d be gone in a fortnight.
Thierry felt a flicker of something almost like regret. But it would dissipate. A temporary lover was all he wanted. A couple of months and he’d be free of the shackles that had tied him down for four years. Then he’d leave, ready for adventure and the physical and mental challenges he missed. Which was why Imogen, who could only ever be temporary in his life, was absolutely perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
IMOGEN STARED FROM her hotel window at the London square with its communal garden and neat Georgian buildings. A couple strolled by hand in hand and her stomach did a little somersault. She looked away, lifting her peppermint tea to her lips.
She’d developed a taste for herbal tea since that night in Paris when Thierry had ordered it for her.
Turning, she found her gaze following the couple and felt a pang of regret. They were in their seventies, she’d guess, yet they held hands, heads turned towards each other as if in conversation.