Pushing his elbows into the mattress at my sides, Saint leaned down and kissed me gently. It was so soft—a mere brush of lips—at odds with the hardness of his cock pressed against me.
Lifting his head, he looked down, allowing his eyes to roam. His lips curled up, and he shook his head slightly. One hand moved to my hair, a fingertip curling around one of my locks.
“I love your fucking hair,” he murmured as he took me in. “When it’s spread out on the pillow like this, it looks like a damn halo around you. You’re a fucking angel, Sin.”
I laughed, knocking his hand away because he was embarrassing me. I should be used to it by now—Saint’s ability to lay compliments at my feet like sweet poetry. He did it all the time, and I had a hard time accepting it.
“My anti-halo, you mean,” I returned jokingly.
Saint chuckled, then gave me a hard kiss. “You’re cute when you can’t take a compliment.”
Then his eyes warmed… turned profoundly serious. “But now, I think I very much want to fuck you.”
“Of all the things you’ve said to me tonight,” I said with a sly smile. “That’s my favorite.”
“Hmmm,” he murmured, and I could hear the doubt in his voice. He knew my favorite thing was that I loved passionately, but I wouldn’t admit it.
He knew me so damn well, this thief of mine.
Saint’s mouth came back to mine, and we kissed. It was always a perfect mating of lips and tongue. So damned perfect all the time.
I did love the way he kissed me with a passion.
His hands on my breasts, he whispered how much he loved my skin.
Cafe au lait was what he called it. I once tried to joke—Just say coffee and cream. He’d given me a chastising look and told me to stop diminishing his feelings. It had put me in my place, and I passionately loved his desire for me.
Then Saint was inside of me… filling me to my depths. It always felt like too much, but I wouldn’t want a single inch less. I shifted and formed around him, melding around his perfectness as he fucked me.
And I definitely loved his cock with a passion.
Saint drove me higher, always breaking through the ceiling he’d set before. Always better and better and better.
Thrusting until I’m mindless, he played his fingers on my body like a musician. I exploded with a scream he swallowed down, taking it inside himself for safekeeping. Saint pushed deep, moved his face to the crook of my neck, and growled out his release, the vibrations echoing through me.
When his arms tightened around me, I embraced him back.
Squeezed hard.
“You love me passionately, don’t you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Within his tone was a dare for me to disagree.
There was no hesitation when I responded.
“Yes. I do.”CHAPTER 8SinJames Dennison pulls his Aston Martin up to the front of his 18th-century apartment building located in Ile Saint-Louis on Quai d’Orleans. It’s one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. Six-thousand square feet, four bedrooms—all en suite—two kitchens, and private parking with personal valet service. All his for six and a half million euros.
Of course, he didn’t tell me this. I learned it from William’s research.
No, Lord James Dennison doesn’t throw his wealth around. I’m glad of it, too, as I didn’t want to come off tonight as a brash young gold digger. The best way to get an invitation to the man’s apartment tonight had been to act genuinely interested in him as a person, because William’s research was meticulous.
Lord Dennison’s loneliness from his wife dying a few years ago is a shroud around him. He wants to find love again, even if he’s looking for it in all the wrong places and with all the wrong women. His move to Paris was in hopes the city of love would inspire a way to quell that loneliness.
We met tonight at a wine tasting. I joined a small group of people, sidled in beside him, and made a poignant comment that caught his attention.
I kept his attention by discussing politics while twirling my necklace that hovered above the deep cleavage I’m displaying in a fire-engine-red dress. Poor man tried to stick with the conversation, but his eyes kept dropping to my breasts.
When James brings his car to a stop, the valet opens my door first, offering a hand to help me out. By the time I’m on the sidewalk, James is handing the keys and fifty euro to the valet.
“Thank you, my lord,” the valet says in a lilting French accent, surprising me a bit by referencing James’ English title. James returns a forced smile, telling me he doesn’t care about such things. It endears me to the man a little bit because I’ve found him charming and down to earth, despite the English title and incredible wealth.