her shoulders and let it drop, then lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bed, throwing back the sapphire quilt before placing her with great care against the heaped pillows. Then, kicking off his shoes, he came to lie beside her.
She turned on her side to face him, her hand going shyly to brush a strand of thick dark hair back from his forehead, and he captured her fingers, brushing them softly with his mouth.
‘You are the dream of my life, Alys,’ he murmured, then began to kiss her, his lips touching her forehead, her eyes, her cheekbones and her pliant mouth in a series of brief, delicate caresses that seemed to give but then withdraw. Which tantalised but offered no immediate satisfaction.
Yet that was what she wanted, she realised, startled. What she’d craved ever since that first afternoon at Les Sables, when she’d first felt the touch of his hands on her bare skin.
She longed to be taken—to feel him inside her and know the heated steel of his arousal as he possessed her.
She moved closer, pressing herself against him, her lips finding the opening of his shirt, pushing the crisp cotton aside to caress the base of his throat before moving down to the warm hair-roughened skin of his chest.
Remy groaned softly. ‘Doucement, mon ange,’ he ordered, his voice faintly breathless. ‘I want to make this good for you, and for that I shall need every atom of control I possess.’
She looked up at him, running the tip of her tongue slowly round her lips. ‘Are you—really so sure of that, monsieur?’
‘Ask me again, chérie—later,’ he told her huskily, and recaptured her mouth with his.
His hand moved to her breast and stroked it gently, moulding its softness and cupping it in his palm, before allowing his fingers to trace her nipple with a delicate precision that made her gasp as he brought it to sharply delineated arousal against the clinging material of her top.
For a moment he looked down at her, surveying the exquisite havoc he had created, the vivid eyes darkening.
‘You are wearing too many clothes, mon amour.’ His voice was a whisper.
He slipped down the straps of her top, freeing her arms, then deftly tugged the little garment over her head and tossed it aside, baring her to the waist. For a brief, searing moment she was acutely aware of her body—almost ashamed of how slender it was—how slight the curves he’d just uncovered. And her hands went up to conceal them.
But he guessed her intention and blocked her, his fingers closing firmly round her wrists.
‘Don’t hide, Alys,’ he murmured. ‘Not when I have waited so long to see you like this. Show me, ma belle, how truly lovely you are.’
He bent his head, his mouth slowly adoring each swollen rosy peak in turn, the erotic brush of his tongue creating a new, aching excitement that was echoed deep inside. She sighed, her hips moving restlessly, as the sweet, languorous torment continued, her nipples throbbing with a pleasure that was almost akin to pain.
When he raised his head at last, she lay looking up at him, her eyes dazed, her ragged breath sobbing in her throat.
His hands stroked their way down her body to the waistband of her skirt. He undid the small metal button at the front, then the short zip, easing the fabric gently over her hips until she was completely free of it and it could also be discarded.
Leaving her with just the minimal modesty of a pair of tiny lace briefs.
Remy made a small sound in his throat, then gathered her to him so closely that his clothing grazed her skin, his mouth closing on hers in a new and fierce demand.
She responded almost wildly, her lips parting eagerly to receive the thrust of his tongue, her hands tangling in the thick dark hair to hold him to her.
And then his mouth began to move slowly downwards, caressing her throat, her shoulders, and the little valley between her breasts, while all the time his hands were stroking her with sensuous delight, lingering in the hollow of her hip, drifting across the faint concavity of her belly, seeking out the silken length of her thighs.
Touching, at last, the lace that was her only covering. Pushing it aside so that his fingers could reach the slick core of her. Moving on her gently, but with such exquisite precision that when he paused she moaned aloud, her body rearing against him.
‘Oui, mon amour.’ His voice was raw with hunger. ‘Yes—and yes.’
And then, at last, the lace too was gone, peeled deftly away, and she was naked in his arms, with no barrier left to his skilfully questing hands.
Or—dear God—his mouth…
For a moment, shock held her frozen. Then, ‘No—please—you can’t…’ Her voice was a small, shaken whimper of distress. She tried to push his head away from her slackened thighs, but Remy’s hands were closing round her wrists, anchoring them effortlessly to the bed so that this new invasion of her most intimate self could continue entirely unhampered.
And her desperate attempts to evade his caress were only making matters a thousand times worse.
With devastating purpose, his lips sought the hot moist petals of her womanhood, parting them so that his tongue could search out the tiny hidden bud within and tease it into delicious tumescent arousal.
And at each sensuous stroke she felt her writhing body succumbing to a languorous weakness, her physical consciousness shifting—spiralling helplessly to a plane whose existence she’d never guessed at before.
Until, at last, there came a moment when she no longer wanted to escape what he was doing to her, even if it had ever been possible.
She heard her breathing change, and the spiral of feeling became an irresistible force, carrying her upwards to some unknown peak of desire. A moan of agonised pleasure burst from her throat, and her body arched rapturously in sheer surrender to wave after wave of utterly voluptuous delight.
And as the storm subsided she lay panting, her sated body damp with sweat, aware that there were tears on her face. She tried to wipe them away with trembling hands, and Remy gathered her in his arms, whispering softly to her in his own language, words of reassurance, words of love, telling her how sweet she was, how clever and how beautiful, while she clung to him, her mouth quivering into a smile.
And when he eventually released her it was only so that he could more easily strip off his own clothing. Allie lay watching him through half-closed eyes as he swiftly undressed, her body shivering in renewed and unforeseen hunger when he turned back to her, naked and magnificently aroused.
It seemed impossible that her body could be capable of such desire so soon again, she thought as she opened her arms to him eagerly, taking him into her embrace and running her hands over his shoulders and back, glorying in the strength of bone and muscle—the texture of his skin. And yet she was burning up for him—melting with need.
‘Do I please you, ma belle?’ There was a smile in the huskiness of his voice as he lifted himself over her—above her. For answer, she clasped her fingers round his jutting hardness, letting her hand slowly travel its length in an appreciation that was as teasing as it was overt.
‘Sorcière,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Witch.’
