Carnal in Cannes (7 page)

Harry gave in to temptation and brushed his lips on her forehead before pulling back to lock their stares together. “Dead right. We have a formidable enemy.

From now on, it"s you and me against my stepmother. I have to trust you, and you have to trust me. I"m not saying that"s going to happen overnight. All I"m saying is that we have to have each other"s backs.”

The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip, and she frowned, actually frowned, three creases etching the space between her brows.

“Go ahead,” he urged, splaying his palms on her backside and nudging her closer. “Ask me what it means.”

“I am not an imbecile,” she snapped. “It means we fight the enemy back-to-back, non? Like D"Artagnan and his
amis
in the
Three Musketeers
?”

What I’d give to see her in a full-blown temper, those obsidian eyes flinty and
sparking.

Damn but she scrambled his concentration.

“Precisely. So are we agreed? We have each other"s backs?”

Her hesitation had his lungs stuttering.

“Oui, Mon—yes. Yes, Harrison.” She said the words in a quiet, even tone.

“Okay. Let"s go eat.” Sliding one arm around her waist, he sidestepped, and she mimicked his actions. They now faced the stern. Harry pointed to the top deck.

“I asked the chef to serve us dinner up there. The view is phenomenal. From there you can see clear to Italy.”

“Italy,” she repeated, staring at the stairs.

“Ladies first,” he ordered, gentling the command by bowing at the waist and waving an arm at the top tier.

By the time they reached the balcony deck, St. Pete leaked precum and fought the constraints of his pants. She had an athletic rear, and those Vegas showgirl legs 30

Jianne Carlo

had his mouth watering, and lurid images of her naked body doing a samba hazed his vision.

“
C’est magnifique
,” she whispered, halting in the middle of the top deck.

“Absolutely,” he concurred, unable to stop gawking at the first unmasked expressions flitting across her face. Her eyes, big and round and hypnotic, inched along the vista of the Mediterranean coastline as if she were memorizing the scene.

Long, muscled arms hung loosely at her sides, and she stood with her legs hip-width apart to brace against the
Glory’s
gentle rocking.

Edging forward he snugged a palm over the curve of her narrow waist, and giving her time to read his intent, he snaked the other hand into the same position and tugged her back to his chest. She flinched, but before her tension accelerated, he crooned, “Nothing"s going to happen until you"re ready. We have all night and then some.”

She dipped her chin. “I would prefer we just do it, Harrison. Very quickly. It is only fornic—”

He cupped a hand over her mouth. “Never say that word again. Not in my presence. And for your information we are going to make love, not, not
that
. Got it?”

Shee-it. Amazing how the freaking word slammed St. Pete limp.

It took every gram of training to refocus.

“How"s about we sit and have a bite to eat?” He spun her around to face him.

The top of her head met his forehead.

Unable to resist he touched his mouth to her forehead, his teeth clamped together to prevent his wayward tongue from escaping.

Moving with slow-mo deliberate precision, she rested her palms on his cotton sweater, that sculpted chin jutted up, and she looked him in the eyes and answered,

“I, too, am hungry.”

His testicles engorged, every miniscule pubic hair tingled, but he didn"t dare surrender to St. Pete"s sycophantic begging. Harry"s buttocks clenched hard enough to shoot bursts of the most painful daggers over every inch of his groin, he forced his hands from the ridge of her behind, gestured to the table and bench curved into one corner of the deck, and croaked, “Shall we?”

The
Glory’s
bosun appeared the minute they sat.

“Martine, you remember Austen Tanner from the hotel? He"s also the
Glory’s
bosun and a decided PITA.” Harry"d ensured he and Martine sat side by side facing the twinkling hazy streetlights doing a dot-to-dot zigzag along the steep gradient of the hills rising from the coast. He felt more than saw Martine"s automatic shrinking into the padded bench. She frowned at the acronym.

“PITA is pain in the ass,” he explained.

“The chef wanted me to ask if you have any allergies or if there are any foods you aren"t fond of.” Austen transferred a dome-covered dish from the tray to the table and then set down a carafe.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

31

“No,” she replied.

Harry barely caught her low murmur above the slapping of the Mediterranean on the yacht"s hull.

“In that case, may I present your amuse-bouche?” With an exaggerated flourish, he whipped the silver lid off the white platter on the table, and immediately the aroma of charred shrimp and rosemary leaves enveloped the deck.

“I"ll leave you two to enjoy. Harry, buzz me when you"re ready for the next course.”

Martine stared at the platter, examining each of the ten different bites displayed on the white porcelain. She didn"t seem to notice Austen"s quiet departure, her attention fixated on the food. Her pert breasts rose and fell as she inhaled, and she closed her eyes as if on the brink of gastronomic orgasm.

St. Pete tap-danced against his linen trousers; they"d changed so hastily in the hotel that he hadn"t bothered with boxers.

“You do like shrimp, then?” he asked while filling her wineglass with the sangria. A burst of orange-lemon perfume hit his nostrils.

Shifting a tad on the plush leatherette, she dipped her chin. “Oui—yes. I like them very much.”

Lifting his glass he said, “Shall we toast the success of our venture?”

Her lips tugged upward and flattened. She searched his gaze, then answered,

“Success.”

Their glasses clinked.

The tinder of lust simmering in his groin sparked and ignited. Harry gulped a third of the goblet in one go.

Martine surreptitiously sniffed the wine before she sipped, and when she swallowed, her eyelids fluttered half-closed.

Harry slipped his arm along the back of the bench. He picked his favorite canapé from the platter. “Here, try this. It"s one of my favorites. Shrimp and goat cheese with basil in puff pastry. Open,” he coaxed, brushing the warm, crisp dough in the center of her mouth.

“I—”

He slid the amuse-bouche between her parted lips, and their glances bolted together. Harry couldn"t remember ever being so aware of another human being.

As she chewed, her eyelids did a little half shutter, St. Pete jumped, and Harry fell under her spell. Three flakes of golden brown pastry dusted her bottom lip.

Her eyes flew open when he lapped the buttery speckles off her lip. One fleck resisted his tongue, so he captured her lip between his and sucked gently.

Sweet almighty, she tasted like heaven and hell and spun sugar. Harry leaned in, and his tongue and St. Pete did a Fred-and-Ginger tango, the little head grabbing command of his frying brain. His palm curled around the side of her neck; her smooth, supple skin rippled under his touch. He traced her lips, learning their shape. The tang of the sea blended with her honeysuckle bouquet, she filled his 32

Jianne Carlo

senses to overflowing, and he tickled the center of her mouth. Her nails bit into his shoulders, hard, sharp, and insistent.

Jerking up, he swept his hand away from her neck and breathed in.

Shee-it. I fucked up. Too much too fast.

Determined to set things right, Harry shifted sideways. She lay exactly where he"d left her, wedged into the bench, her head cradled in the corner. One forefinger traced the path his tongue had, following the ridge of her lower lip. Her swollen mouth glistened, her hooded eyes and the shadows concealing her emotions.

“Martine…”

Her head whipped up, she elbowed off the bench back, met his stare like an adolescent about to give a double dare, and ordered, “
Montrez-moi
.” She shook her head, and her curls swirled and twirled. “Show me.”

“That was your first kiss,” he muttered. “We have to slow down, Martine. I promised myself your first time would be special—”

She lunged at him, wrapped her arms around his neck, climbed onto his lap, and smacked her lips hard to his; then her little tongue stabbed at his mouth. He groaned, his lips parted, and she slid inside.

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

33

Chapter Four

“Slow down, sugar,” Harrison said, his voice husky and low.

His lips moved on Martine"s, and a wave of his wine- and orange-scented breath feathered her nostrils. Her mouth vibrated, the sound of his words echoing over her lips.

Très facile,
this kissing. Why did I think it would be revolting?

He sucked on her bottom lip, his teeth grazing the length, his tongue tracing and soothing in the tingling wake.

Who knew a tongue could be so
délicieux?

Martine stuck hers into his mouth. His thumb caressed her chin, tugging their lips apart, and he leaned his forehead against hers. The skin-to-skin contact spiraled warmth around her neck, corkscrewed down her torso, and coiled down her legs. He lifted his head, touched a finger to her cheek, and reached over to pick up the wineglass.

I’m doing it all wrong. He can think. When he does it to me, I can only feel.

“Have a sip.” He touched the wine goblet to a spot that throbbed and pulsed as if the flesh of her mouth had a life of its own. She swallowed a teaspoonful of the fruity liquor and kept her gaze downcast, centered on his throat, on the rope of muscle binding his neck and shoulders. He set the crystal on the table and kissed her temple. His palm cupped her bottom, and her stomach shrank and hollowed out as a heated flutter rippled across her hips and up her back.

“I like this position.”

Mon Dieu, I’m sitting on top of him, on top of his cock, my legs spread like a
whore’s.

The hardness grazing her sex twitched and enlarged and expanded. She couldn"t help but gape in the direction of his cock and couldn"t stifle her gasp.

Shame roasted her neck and face at the sight that met her eyes—her skirt gathered at the tops of her thighs, her legs straddling his groin, damp spots glistening on his beige trousers.

A thumb and finger captured her chin and applied gentle pressure, forcing Martine to look at him. “Relax, sugar. This time let me kiss you. I"ve got your back, remember?”

When he called her sugar, Martine caramelized like thick brown cane syrup turning molten and golden in the bottom of a frying pan. Then his mouth slanted 34

Jianne Carlo

over hers, and her thoughts splintered and scattered, and she flew from sensation to sensation.

His tongue teased her parted lips, tickling, lapping, and licking. She opened her mouth wider, offering her surrender, willing to follow his lead, longing to follow wherever he led. In a zillion years she"d never have believed kisses came in so many varieties. Long, lingering tastes when he swept the edges of her teeth; short, hungry explorations of the roof of her mouth; a tingling suckling of one lip; a toothed sawing of the other.

When he touched the tip of his tongue to hers, she leaned full against him so they were hip to hip, belly to belly, her breasts flattened on his T-shirt-swathed chest. When his mouth pulled away from hers, she tangled her hands in his hair, her lips straining to find his, her mouth opening over the dimple in his chin as he lifted his head and cupped her jaw.

Gradually his features went from blurred to sharp as she blinked. His thumb swept the sensitive spot beneath her bottom lip, and he whispered, “Now
you
kiss
me
.” His hold dropped away, and he rested his head on the padded bench.

The scent of his aftershave mingled with the wine on his breath, and the slight puffs of air emanating from his parted lips butterfly-caressed the flesh of her cheek.

Martine let her instincts take command. First, she kissed his jaw, tasting the salty spiciness of him, closing her eyes at the sheer pleasure of being able to do so, of the safety of being in control. Then she nuzzled the side of his face, marveling at the way his soft stubble prickled tiny sparks from her mouth to her navel. Here he smelled of soap and cigar and man.

She laid her cheek against his and opened her eyes and caught the glint of a diamond stud twinkling on his earlobe. Tracing a kissing path to his ear, she hesitated, then touched the cold, round stone and bent to lick the smooth surface.

He made a choking sound, and she froze and glanced at him over one shoulder.

Her confidence vanished like a thief in the night, stealing away in the seconds it took to bring his features into focus. His head turned, their eyes met, and she forgot about breathing, forgot to feel self-conscious, forgot to feel afraid.

“Kiss me, sugar. Put me out of my misery.”

I make him feel the way he makes me feel—aching and empty and wanting.

Her lips curved, and she snaked her way across his body, her gaze still locked on to his, framed his face with her palms like he"d done hers, and touched her mouth to his. She mimicked his earlier actions, tracing his lips and then biting his flesh softly. When she grazed the tip of his tongue, his nostrils flared, searing short pants over her top lip, and a wildness took hold of her the way the voodoo spirits snared control of a mortal"s soul.

Hungry to get close, so close their breaths mingled, so close their hearts would beat with the same rhythm, so close he could join their bodies together, she sucked the rough surface, her heartbeat spiking when he groaned into her mouth, the rumble firing moisture to her center. She writhed against him, her pelvis rubbing Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes