Pleasure Games part 2
1340 Words
Cautiously, as though petting a lion, she turned his hand over and set her cool, small palm against his. She gingerly laced her fingers through his. At the unexpected touch, a violent ache tightened low in his gut. His head fell back against the seat, a groan welling deep in his throat. Paralyzed by a sudden, sharp arousal, he dragged in a terse, uneven breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
She inched closer, tightening her grip until her lips came within a breath of his ear. "Does that satisfy you, Your Highness?"
He didn't let the emotion show, but the surge of heat made his limbs tremble. "Come closer," he said, his voice thick.
I want her. The thought was a roar in his mind. He wanted all of her—right here, in the dark, right now.
He inhaled deeply, his chest near bursting with her scent. Clean, womanly, sweet. "Closer," he repeated, hearing the predatory growl in his own words.
When she hesitated, he glanced down at their joined hands. She was tiny and fair, her hand nearly engulfed by his. He ran the pad of his thumb along the back of hers, tracing the ridge of her knuckle and the smooth slope of her skin. She felt incredible. For a moment, he felt eighteen again—reckless and raw.
"Soft," he murmured, his voice trancelike.
Transfixed, she watched the movement of his thumb. He noticed the way her breasts strained against the fabric of her dress as her breathing hitched. He dipped his head, discreetly brushing his nose across the springy curls of her hair. God. Edible. He could smell her shampoo and fought the urge to plunge his fingers into those locks, tilt her face up, and claim her mouth. He wanted to kiss her softly at first, savoring her breath, before searching deeper.
Ducking his head so the driver wouldn't overhear, he whispered, "You might try to appear to enjoy my touch."
The car had become a dark, intimate cocoon, the air heavy with the warmth of their whispers.
"Henri."
Their gazes locked. It was the same look they shared across the office, over the heads of the staff, or in the silent vacuum of the elevator. Those clear, infinite eyes always sought his, only to find him already watching. He remembered the accidental brushes of fingers over coffee mugs, files, and phones. At every contact, they seemed to flare up like matches—tense, coiled, heating the room. Even with a wall separating their offices, his awareness of her had escalated to an alarming level.
"We're pretending, remember?" he reminded her, his voice husky.
"Yes, I know."
"Then relax for me." Lightly securing her fingers, he delved his thumb into the center of her palm with a deep, intense stroke. He felt her sharp intake of breath. "Very good," he cooed. "I'm convinced you want me."
"Yes." Her voice was a mere whisper, betraying how the sinuous stroking of his thumb affected her. "I mean… I’m trying to… appear as though I do."
But she seemed startled, like a mouse unsure which way to bolt, and Henri was more than happy to play the cat. He wanted to play, to corner, to taste.
He glanced up. "Don't tax yourself too much, hmm?"
Her warm, fragile fingers trembled in his. The excitement of the new country had faded from her eyes, replaced by a wild, stormy yearning. "I'm trying not to… get bored."
His thumb pressed deep into her palm, then eased back. "Hmm. Yes. I can see you're fighting a yawn." His eyes ventured to the top of her head, taking in the gloss of her hair. "You have beautiful hair. Can I touch it?"
He didn't wait for an answer. It felt like silk under his fingers, tempting him to dig deeper, down to the scalp.
She made a low sound in her throat, almost a moan. A hunger of the most painful kind clawed inside him. She had a way of staring at him with those wide eyes, as if he were something otherworldly. It was a miracle he’d resisted her this long.
"A man," he began gruffly, massaging the back of her head as he greedily surveyed her features, "would be lucky to make you his."
Her breasts brushed his rib cage, the heat of her supple body singeing him through their clothes. He intensified the stroke of his fingers. "A man would be lucky to make you his, Elizabeth."
Her lashes swept upward. Her eyes were ethereal, yet distrustful. "What are you doing?"
His gut tightened. What does it look like I’m doing? He wanted to yank her onto his lap, find his way under her skirt, and kiss her until her lips were bruised and red. His vision blurred with the force of his need. He had to force himself to let go of her hair.
She exhaled a broken breath, then relaxed slightly, shifting on the leather seat to face him. Her smile faded. "Who are we fooling, Henri, with this charade?"
"Marie Poitier, the owner of Gagnon Auto."
And maybe you. Definitely me.
He caught her hand before she could wring the hem of her dress, securing her wrist as he lifted it. He turned it over and pressed a lingering kiss to the center of her palm. A tiny, breathless gasp escaped her.
"We must practice," he murmured into her skin.
"And why must we fool her?" Her question was a silky wisp of sound.
"Because she wants me," he answered. She tasted divine; her skin was satiny under his lips. He imagined every inch of her would feel exactly the same. "It wouldn't do to insult her." Against his mouth, he felt the vibrant tremor that danced up her arm. Emboldened, thirsting for more, he opened his mouth and gently grazed his teeth against the heel of her palm.
"I happen to want someone else."
"I'm sure—" she began, swallowing audibly. "I'm sure you can have anyone you want."
"If I want her badly enough and set myself to the task, yes."
His lips closed and opened against her hand. Before he could restrain himself, he flicked his tongue against her palm. Pleasure shot through him. "And I've grown to want her… badly," he strained out, swallowing back a growl.
"Oh, that was…" Her hand wiggled as she tried to pry it free. "I don't think…"
"Shh."
He maintained his gentle grip on her wrist and raised his head. He watched her expression melt as he whisked the pad of his thumb across her dampened palm. He lifted the glistening thumb to her lips, his voice thick with arousal. "Pretend you like it when I do this."
A sound welled in her throat as he stroked her lower lip. She nodded, her lips gleaming with each pass of his thumb. "Yes, yes… I’m pretending," she breathed.
He had never seen a more erotic sight than Elizabeth’s quivering lips as he teased them. "Me too. I will pretend… you’re her."
"And I very much want her." He watched her pupils dilate, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
"O-okay."
His thumb continued to brush and rub right where his mouth ached to be. He bent lower to whisper against her lips. "Let’s pretend… we’re lovers, Elizabeth." His voice broke, rough with desire. "Pretend that every night we touch… and kiss… and our bodies move together. And when we finally find release—"
"Stop!" She pushed herself back with surprising force, sucking in great gulps of air. "God, stop. Enough. Enough pretending for tonight."
He reached out, tugging her back toward him. Both were breathing hard, the air between them electric.
"You should kiss me," he said hoarsely.
- Writer
