Perfect Strangers

32

He winds me tighter and tighter, coiling me up into a superheated ball of nerves. Powerful waves of heat lash me, scorching my skin and hardening my n*****s to two aching points of need. I reach out blindly and brace myself against the shelf, clawing at the wall of Russians like I might start to climb.

James breaks away from my mouth. Breathing hard, in a guttural voice, he says, “I could f**k you here, sweetheart. I could take you right here. Do you want that?”

“No! Yes! Oh God…” I groan, frantic for release.

“Or I could get on my knees and push you up against the shelf and make you come with my mouth.”

My moan is soft and pleading. I’m so wet I can feel it on my thighs. Incoherent, I rock against his hand.

“Or I could put you on your knees and make you suck me off. Would you like that, sweetheart? Having me f**k your mouth with my hard c**k while you play with your wet p***y, on your knees in the Russian section?”

I picture it. My cheeks hollowed, his big hands gripping my head, his erection sliding in and out between my lips as I kneel in front of the open fly of his trousers, finger f*****g myself while taking the entire thick, hard length of him deep down my throat as all the shelves of books look on.

A sob breaks from my chest.

James whispers hotly, “Oh, yes, you’d love that. My sweet, dirty, beautiful girl.”

He tugs firmly on the swollen bud of my c******s, and I come.

He swallows my gasp with a kiss, holding me tightly with that arm like an iron bar around my waist again as I convulse and shudder through a violent orgasm. He plunges his finger deep inside me once more, setting off another series of hard contractions.

James turns his face to my ear and says through gritted teeth, “I need to feel your gorgeous cunt throb like this around my dick.”

I’m lost. Lost to his voice, his taste, his filthy words. Lost to pleasure, to sensation, and to a sudden, overwhelming fear.

This isn’t me.

This woman, so reckless and overtaken by desire, isn’t anyone I recognize. She’s wild and uninhibited and doesn’t care who might see her jerking helplessly through her orgasm as a beautiful man in a beautiful suit holds her tight against his body and growls obscenities into her ear. She doesn’t care what she looks like, arching in ecstasy as he works his hand between her spread legs. She doesn’t care what anyone might think, seeing her so exposed.

The only thing she cares about is the man behind her and how he’s brought her back to aching, blistering, terrifying life.

I lean against James’s chest, throw my arms up and back around the mass of his shoulders, and tilt my head for his kiss.

Because f**k it.

I’ve already jumped off this high cliff I’ve been standing on since I met him. Might as well do it with my eyes open and my arms flung out wide.

At least I’ll be smiling when I smash into a million pieces when I hit the ground.

12

J

ames whispers

sweet words against my lips that I don’t hear because I’m floating somewhere out in space. It’s only when he slips his hand from between my trembling thighs that I open my eyes and find myself back in the book store, in a hazy cloud of afterglow.

Through a gap in the shelf in front of me, I see the blonde cashier. She’s looking right at me. Our gazes hold for a moment, then she turns away to help a customer.

I know she saw us.

I don’t care.

James turns me toward him and kisses me softly, then whips out the silk pocket square from his suit jacket and swipes it between my legs, gently drying me. Then he stuffs the square of silk back into its place, adjusts the hem of my dress, and kisses me again, cupping my face in his hands.

Weaving slightly on my feet, I grasp his jacket’s lapels and pronounce, “This is the best book store I’ve ever been to in my entire life.”

He chuckles. “It’s my favorite, too. Been coming here for years, since I first moved to Paris.”

I bite my tongue not to ask From where? Instead, I manage the presence of mind to tease him. “If you tell me you bring all your girlfriends to the Russian section, I’ll be forced to take off one of my shoes and stab you with a heel.”

His expression turns serious. Rubbing his thumbs back and forth over my jawline and gazing into my eyes, he murmurs, “I’ve never brought anyone here, love. No one but you.”

Love. My heart does this complicated thing where it seizes up and melts, all at the same time. Then I notice the hard pressure against my hip and suffer a twinge of guilt.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sharply.

I blink, startled again by how easily he sees through me. “Did you take a course in mind reading? You’re crazy good at it.”

He hesitates a moment before answering. “I’m experienced with deciphering people’s facial expressions.”

I can tell we’re in Touchy Subject area, but I’m not sure why. It makes total sense that an artist who creates portraits as detailed and full of emotion as his would obviously have a lot of experience reading the nuances of people’s expressions, but he’s acting like there’s more to it than that.

You’re the one who insisted on no personal questions, genius. Move on.

“I was just thinking that you’ve, ahem”—I glance down briefly toward his erection, trapped between us in his trousers—“taken care of me twice now, but I haven’t taken care of you at all.”