Liar Liar

I planned, but I failed.

I mean, not entirely. He’s not dead. But he is up.

Let me clarify. He’s not out of bed. He’s just up.

And hard. And pressed against me as his mouth plays some sort of enchantment against the soft skin behind my ear.

‘Bonjour, Rose.’

If I could bottle his voice, I’d be able to sell it as an aphrodisiac.

‘M-morning.’ I release a long, shuddering breath, absorbing the feel of him. The softness of his lips is contrasted by the delicious friction of the hair on his thighs behind mine.

‘Aves-vous rêvé demoi? . . . Did you dream of me?’

I exhale a breathy sigh, fighting hard to retain my senses. As if his deep voice and accent weren’t hard enough to resist, his touch is nothing short of unravelling.

‘J’ai fait . . . I did. I dreamt I was inside you. Tell me I can make my dream real.’

‘Yes.’ Yes to all of it—yes to his husky whispers and yes to his lips as I turn my head into the pillow, giving him better access to my neck. The sibilant whisper of the cotton sheets is overlaid by my quiet gasp as his hand slides under my T-shirt to cup my breast.

Yes. Oh, yes . . .

‘Embrasse-moi . . . Kiss me. Give me your mouth, Rose.’ His rasping demands find my ear, his teeth closing on the sensitive lobe and giving it a sharp tug. The pressure resonates between my legs. My body opens, arching into his hand, and the movement earns me a low growl of his approval. ‘J’ai envie de toi . . . I want you.’ Remy grinds against me, his head falling to rest against mine. ‘Ta peau est si douce . . . Your skin is so soft. I want to kiss every inch of it. Taste it with my tongue.’

As his hot breath blows against my neck, the thought arises that what we’re doing is wrong. Not wrong exactly, because I can’t remember wanting anything like I want this, but it’s risky. For him at least. I bring my hand to the back of his head in an attempt to get his attention, tightening my grip on the silky strands in a very poor attempt to stop him.

‘We really shouldn’t be doing this. Not for forty-eight hours the doctor said.’

And I do get his attention. The kind that makes me feel like I’m losing my mind as he squeezes my ass, sort of low and dirty, settling the hard length of his cock between my butt cheeks

‘Je . . . ta tête,’ I whisper. I’d meant it as a warning. It sounds more like an invitation.

‘Ta tête . . . My head? Which one.’ A filthy-sounding chuckle reverberates against my skin.

Yeah, I kind of guess where he went with that one.

‘But the doctor . . .’

‘Le médecin qui . . . The doctor who looked down your cleavage when your coat gaped? He probably got his degree from a counterfeiter. Trust me, I know exactly what will make me feel better.’

‘We shouldn’t,’ I whisper as his hand moves down my thigh, his calloused fingers adding another level of deliciousness as he lifts it over his. I find I’m barely able to retain my train of thought let alone try to convey the risks sex might have on his health.

‘J’ai hate. J’ai besoin de vous.’ I need you. I can’t wait. His tone is dark and delicious, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t exactly know what he’s saying because my body understands his need, and my ears know praise when they hear it.

His hand slips between my body and the mattress, palming my breast and banding my back to his chest as his other hand slips into my pyjama shorts.

‘Oh my God.’ My body bows, the sensations overwhelming as his long fingers swipe through the slickness between my legs.

Everything inside me clenches, my heart beating wildly as he begins to pet and tease the buds of both my nipple and clit with the sweetest percussion.

‘Vous êtes si belle . . .You’re so beautiful. So wet for me. I can feel you pulsing against my fingertips.’

I’m no stranger to coming by hand, usually by my own hand, but never has it felt so intoxicating. Every swipe and circle, every press and pet makes me feel like I’m being peeled open, my every whimper and tremble exposing me shamelessly.

‘C’est ça . . . That’s it, beautiful girl. Take it. Take it all. I can’t wait to taste you.’ His is so voice low and tone fervent, yet I’m unprepared for the intensity as his fingers thrust inside, his thumb unrelenting on my clit.

‘Oh, God,’ I whimper as I buck up into his hand, chasing the sublime sensation. It’s been so long, and this feels so illicit, his hands working under the covers, slipped into my clothes. Sensation layers upon sensation—his accent, his praise. The way I’m captive to more than just his commands.