Liar Liar

Midnight eyes that watch me with such intensity.

Such love.

‘You feel so good.’ Midnight eyes and bedroom tones, his voice is all husk and want.

‘I think that’s supposed to be my line.’ He rests his knee against the side of the tub, the position not so much a suggestion as a dare. A dare I ignore, for now, as my touch continues to steal and swirl against the narrow path of hair from his navel down.

‘Embrasse-moi.’ His words are more a growl as he reaches for me, his hand wet on the fine silk of my robe, darkening a patch of peacock blue to black as his forefinger circles my nipple. A teasing touch, yet one of such touch of intent.

‘Kiss you or . . .?’ Or kiss it. Something thrums deep inside me, a desire so acute it cleaves.

‘Give me your mouth, Rose. Bring yourself to me.’

‘So you can pull me into the water?’ I retort. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Would it be so bad? There’s space for two.’

‘But there isn’t space for what I want to do.’ His responding smile is like sin itself. ‘Close your eyes,’ I whisper. ‘You wanted to feel my love. So feel.’

He doesn’t answer but rests his head back against the folded towel as I continue to touch and tease over the coarse hair of his thigh and knee, from fingertip to bicep, to where his hair is beginning to curl at his nape in the heat of the room. I follow a bead of moisture as it makes a path down his neck. Acting on a moment of instinct, I lean forward and lick.

‘I couldn’t resist,’ I whisper, sinking my teeth into the fleshy part of his ear. And my breasts to his arm.

‘I think you’re trying to kill me,’ he whispers, his hands tightening on the sides of the bathtub.

‘You can suffer a little time not being in charge,’ I murmur, aching at the brush of silk and the feel of his hard flesh beneath.

‘Oh, I suffer. Certainement.’ Certainly.

Breath stutters from his chest as I trace the flat circle of his nipple, an achingly perfect moment building between us. He’s affected by my touch, and I’m affected by his response, from the tiniest of tremors and inhalations to the way the taut muscles in his jaw flex. Blood sings in my veins and pulses between my legs, and as I inhale a soft breath, Remy reaches across his body, drawing the robe from my shoulder with his wet hand.

‘This is silk.’ My protest is half-hearted as his gaze brims with heat and unspoken promises.

‘If it shrinks, it will be all the better for it.’ The backs of his fingers graze my newly exposed nipple. ‘The view will be all the better for it.’ As he sits forward, the water moves almost soporifically, clinging to his skin. I don’t blame it. His head bends to mine, his lips a teasing glance. ‘You are so beautiful.’ His voice is low and husky, and almost filled with wonder. ‘A picture of such delicious dishabille.’ His touch echoes my own, the feeling so delicious, I’m almost swept away.

I push my hand into the water, and he gasps as I draw my fingers down his length from tip to hilt. As I take his hardness into my hand, I consider pulling out the bath-plug to better see the whole of him. The water ripples, his body undulating, his expression the most heavenly mixture of pleasure and pain.

‘Does that hurt?’ I already know the answer as his sharp bursts of breath disturb wisps of my hair.

‘It is the sweetest of agonies, and I never want it to stop. I want to laugh with happiness,’ he says through a groan as I tighten my grip, ‘but it hurts too much. Not in the fun way. I want to dance around the room, throw you down on the bed and sink into you.’

Ideas for later, I suppose, yet my thoughts fall away like blossom in a breeze at his sexy stream of consciousness, his hands falling to the sides of the tub, grasping the rim as I work him.

‘Yes,’ he grunts. ‘Plus fort. Harder.’ The sounds he makes are almost unravelling.

He groans again as my hand tightens, his next breath is a long, measured exhale, almost like he’s preparing himself. An instinct that’s proven correct as scented bathwater suddenly spills onto my robe as he pushes himself to stand. I sit back on my heels and just marvel at him. The width of his shoulders, the supple curve of his bicep and the long line of his thighs. The ladder of his abdominals and the trail of glistening hair that leads to his jutting cock. There are just so many delectable spots. And I want to investigate them all.

He reaches for the towel, his long legs bending at the knee as he steps from the bath. I stand, my reflection wanton in the mirror opposite. Cheeks pink, eyes dark, the silk dripping from my shoulder, exposing me. Wordlessly, I take the towel from his hand and begin to pat him dry. His shoulders and arms, moving down, ignoring the part of him that extends as though inviting touch. I slip behind him, tending gentle touches to the bruises, pressing my mouth to his heated skin as though my lips could heal.