Frenched Series Bundle (21 page)

Suddenly he pulled all the way out and shoved my shoulders back. “I have to taste you. Now.” He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me and yanked me toward him so my ass hung off the edge of the couch. I reached behind me to grab the back of it, crying out at the first stroke of his tongue against the lace panties.

“Don’t you want to take them off?” I asked between pants.

“No.” His fingers gripped my thighs as his mouth worked me through the lace until I could feel how soaked they were. Then he pulled them aside and flattened his tongue on my clit, pressing hard before sliding it in a slow circle. My eyes nearly popped out of my head watching him devour me in the candlelight.

“Oh my God,” I moaned, reaching down to slide one hand into his hair.

He looked at me, but I could only hold his gaze for about five seconds until my head dropped back and my eyes closed in utter ecstasy.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Come for me. I want to watch you.” He reached up and untied the bow between my breasts, and the bra fell open. “Touch yourself.”

I moved my hand to one breast, squeezing it before twisting the hard, tingling nipple between my fingers.

Moaning, Lucas slid two fingers into me and flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking on it hungrily. My body moved of its own accord, my hips rocking against his fingers and my hand pulling his mouth into my core. I opened my eyes again, desperately wanting to see myself come undone at his mouth.

“You want to watch me?” I whispered, the fire rising inside me. “Watch me now. Watch me come. Lucas, oh my God!” I cried as the climax rocketed through me. My feet came off the ground, knees toward my chest, toes pointed in my high heels.

The moment the pulsing bliss subsided Lucas pulled me to my feet and dragged me over to the wall between the windows. My legs were so weak I could barely stand, and I fell forward, bracing myself with both elbows. He stood behind me, and in my heels I was the perfect height.

“Spread your pretty legs.” His breath was hot on my shoulder.

I did as he asked, and he moved my thong aside, teasing me with the tip of his cock at my entrance. I arched my back, desperate for him to plunge into me, but he loved to make me beg.

“You want my cock?” he asked, giving me one more inch.

“Yes,” I panted. “I want it.”

“Say please.” Another agonizing inch.

“Please. Fuck me, I want it now.” I looked over my shoulder, and maybe it was seeing my face that finally made him give in, but he gave up his teasing and shoved into me, deep and hard.

I almost laughed it felt so fucking good. My mouth fell wide open as he gripped my hips and pulled me back against his thrusts. “Yes, like that,” I said. “I love the way you fuck me.”

“Oh my God, I can’t even last,” Lucas moaned.

“Good.” I arched my back even more, sticking my ass out and bringing my feet together to make myself even tighter and wetter for him.

He must have liked it because two seconds later he cursed and squeezed my hips harder with his fingers, yanking me back as he throbbed inside me. I pushed against the wall and closed my eyes, reveling in the feel of his release inside me.

When it was over, he reached up and pulled my upper body to his, an arm across my chest. “I love you.” His lips rested on my shoulder. “Oh my God, I love you. I never expected this to happen.”

I hugged his arm to me and smiled. “Me neither. But someone once told me Paris was magical. I guess she was right.”

Dear Mia,

Unless you cheated and peeked, you’re reading this on the airplane. I know you’re nervous about the flight, but don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. (God, my handwriting is really bad. Sorry. If I’d known how bad it would be, I might have typed this or something. But anyway.)

I wanted to tell you how much this entire week with you has meant to me. No seven days have ever felt so short, and yet they made me feel as if I’ve known you for much longer. Time is a strange thing when you’re in love.

And I love you. So much.

I promise I will be back in the US within a month or so. As soon as I’m in New York, we will make plans to see each other—if you don’t want to fly to see me, I will be on the first plane to Detroit. I cannot wait to hold you again. Please call me as soon as you’re home to let me know you’ve arrived safely.

And now, since I know how much you love lists and you’re feeling a little tense right now, I thought I’d write my own list for you. I hope it makes you smile.

5 Things I Will Never Forget About This Week

1) The moment you burst into the bar the night we met, looking gorgeous and insane in equal measure. I think I loved you then.

2) The way your eyes lit up when I told you the story of Abelard and Heloise, and the sweet sound of your voice when you read the letters out loud at the villa. I keep hearing this in my head: “God knows I never sought anything in you except yourself; I wanted simply you, nothing of yours.”

3) The first time I kissed you, standing on the street corner on Quatre Vents—I’ll walk by that spot every day and think of you.

4) The shower... I knew I loved you then.

5) Watching you sleep next to me the first night you stayed over and thinking how happy I would be waking up to you every morning.

You know what? I can’t do this in five things. Because every moment with you was unforgettable, and everything about you is burned in my brain—your face, your hair, your skin, your laugh, your smile, your eyes, your hands, your lips, your legs, your smell, your taste—oh God, your taste. I’ll think about all of it every single day.

Sometimes I think about how you almost didn’t come to Paris.

Thank you so much for taking a chance.

All my love,

Lucas

Turn the page for two special bonus scenes from Lucas's point of view!

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The girl burst through the door like a racehorse across the finish line, and she looked just as wild-eyed and determined. Her chestnut hair reminded me of a horse’s mane too, wind-mussed and untamed, although I didn’t think that was a comparison a pretty girl would appreciate. And damn, this girl was pretty. More than pretty.

Standing still, she scanned the bar with a penetrating gaze, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene—a few tables of people watching television in the back, a few patrons along the bar up front. She was clearly looking for someone, probably a guy, judging from the way she was scoping the joint. Like a woman hoping to catch her lover in a compromising position.

Picking up a towel, I began drying the tall beer glass in my hand, hoping she wouldn’t turn around and walk out if she discovered the guy wasn’t here. She had to be American. It was something about the way she stood, with her shoulders back and her chin up, a don’t-fuck-with-me look on her face. She was breathing a little heavy too, and the whole package was enough to increase the blood flow to strategic parts of my anatomy.

“You looking for someone?” I asked.

She whipped her head toward me, challenging me with light green eyes. It took her a moment to answer. “I’m sorry, what?”

God, she was beautiful. “You had a very determined expression on your face. Are you looking for someone?”

Her face screwed up. “How did you know I spoke English?”

Was she serious? “I know an American when I see one.”

Right away I could see the comment irritated her. She parked her hands on her hips and blew a strand of that messy hair out of her face. “I could be Canadian.”

Oh, she was
so
American. “Nah.” I set the glass down, enjoying the way my comments were riling her.

“What makes you so sure?”

I shrugged. “A Canadian would’ve just answered the question.”

She dropped her hands and stood a little prouder, thrusting her chest forward in the process, her little denim jacket opening up. My eyes went south immediately—she had perfect round breasts, not too big, not too small, the tops swelling above the strapless neckline of her blue flowered dress.
What the fuck? Don’t stare at her tits, asshole.
I looked up again to see her appraising me carefully, and I was glad to be standing behind the bar so she couldn’t see the semi in my pants.

“No, I am not looking for anyone,” she said flatly.

“Oh. The way you were scavenging the crowd with those big eyes, I thought maybe you were here to catch your boyfriend with somebody else.”

“I do not have a boyfriend!”

Her outburst had me lifting my hands in a gesture of peaceful surrender, but I couldn’t resist poking at her a little more. “Sorry. Or girlfriend, whatever. I just meant you looked like you knew what you came in for, but it wasn’t a good time.”

“For your information, that is
exactly
what I came in for.” She stomped over to the closest barstool and slid onto it, a frown on her face. “And no, I don’t have a girlfriend either. I’m alone.
Alone
.” She repeated the word loudly, throwing dagger eyes toward the guys sitting to her right. One got up and moved to the next stool down. “Is that OK with you?”

Jesus, this girl needs a drink.
“Love, it’s all OK with me. Why don’t you tell me what you want to drink?”

“Don’t use that word.”

“What word?”

“Love,” she said distastefully, scrunching up her face.

“Sorry, I just haven’t learned your name yet.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t care what you call me, I just don’t want to hear any more about love tonight, or see it, or smell it in the goddamn air.”

So that’s it. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes. That’s what I was doing when I came in, making sure there were no obvious couples in love in here.” She threw a hand in the air. “They’re fucking everywhere in this city. You can’t even walk down the street without seeing people hanging all over each other, kissing and hugging and being fucking happy together. It’s like a crime to walk down the street alone.”

“There’s plenty of people alone here.”

She grimaced. “Not that I’ve seen.”

I shrugged. “Well, Paris is a romantic place.”

She leveled me with a fuck-you stare. “Paris can kiss my ass.”

Jesus, what a firecracker. I was enjoying this way too much and didn’t want her to leave. “Why don’t I get you a drink, um…”

“Mia.”

“I’m Lucas.” I offered my hand and she took it, giving it one firm shake before settling her chin on her palm. ”So what’s your pleasure, Mia?”

She frowned, and even that was adorable. I liked how her bottom lip was a little fuller than the top. “A plane ticket back to Detroit. I want to go home.”

My spirits flagged a little, but not my erection. “Well. Can’t help you there, but I bet you can grab a flight tomorrow. And since it’s your last night in Paris, let me pour you a glass of wine.”

“It’s my first night in Paris,” she said miserably, and I worried for a moment she might cry. “And my last.”

What the hell? Someone had really done a number on this girl. Had she been deserted in Paris? “In that case, the wine’s on me. Hang on.”

I poured her a glass of wine, pausing briefly to fill a few drink orders and greet a couple regulars. I could tell she was looking at me, and I lingered at the far end of the bar with my back to her, giving my dick time to recover from the sight of her. After a few minutes, I felt like I could turn around without being indecent, so I picked up her glass and brought it to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” The smile she gave me was so pitiful, I winced.

“Jesus Christ, Mia. It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, yes it can.”

I leaned onto the bar in front of her. “Try me.”

She took a deep breath. “OK. But wine first.” She brought the glass to her lips, which were plump and adorable and not covered in goopy lipstick. I liked the way she took a big sip and let it linger in her mouth a little before swallowing. Fuck, I was getting turned on again.

“This is incredible.” Her face lit up for the first time since she’d come in.

I smiled at her. “I’m glad you like it.”

She took a few more sips before setting the glass down and staring at her fingers on the stem. The pout on her lips made me want to kiss them. “This trip to Paris was supposed to be my honeymoon. But my fiancé called off the wedding.”

Oh, shit. I had no idea what to say, so I just walked to the end of the bar, retrieved the wine bottle, and topped off her glass.

She looked up with wide, grateful eyes. “Thanks. It’s been rough.”

“I’m sorry. Was it a total shock?”

She sighed. “Yes and no. If I’d been honest with myself, I think I would’ve realized that things weren’t perfect. But I was so caught up in planning the perfect wedding that I didn’t want to admit the marriage might be a mistake.”

I thought marriage was pretty much always a mistake, but I didn’t think it would help her to hear that. “Did he give you a reason? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s OK.” She paused to sip her wine. “It’s nothing earth-shattering, really. He said he loved me, but that he wasn’t ready to get married yet.”

I wondered how old she was—she didn’t look much older than twenty-five or so. Why the hell would anyone want to get married that young? “And you were?”

“Sure. I mean, I’m twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. I’ve always planned on being married by that age, and, you know…” She shrugged. “We were in love. We were the perfect couple.”

Was she hearing what she said? It was fucking nuts. “Clearly.”

That pissed her off. “All I meant was I thought we were a good match at the time. I could totally see our life together.”

Oh, she was one of those girls. “You had that all planned out too, huh?”

Her spine snapped straight in irritation, and I was about to apologize but heard my name being called down by the register.
Why are you even bothering with her? She’s hung up on some other guy and on the idea of getting married—you don’t need any part of that.

But as I filled some drink orders and chatted with a few friends, I peeked at her a few times. She looked so miserable and lost, sitting there with her rapidly diminishing glass of wine. Good wine can help many a crap situation, but this girl needed more than that. She needed a friend.

An idea popped into my head—what if I offered to spend tomorrow afternoon with her? Just show her around a little bit so she didn’t feel so alone?

Immediately my gut instincts shut that idea down.
No. Forget that girl. She’s beautiful, but she’s not right in the head. Plus she’d be all vulnerable and shit. Something could happen and then you’d have made it even worse.

I made up my mind to stay away.

The bar was getting busy, but when I saw her pull a tissue out of her bag and dab at her eyes, I snagged the wine bottle and refilled her glass. She drank that one pretty quickly too, and it seemed to perk her up. I couldn’t stop glancing at her, thinking about her. There was something about her I liked—I didn’t want her to leave Paris thinking it was a miserable, lonely place.

She waved me over, credit card in her hand.

But I didn’t want her to go.

“Give me one second,” I said, filling a glass at the tap. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She didn’t look too thrilled about waiting for me, but didn’t argue.

“Sorry about that.” I approached her again. “Can I pour you another glass?”

She blew her hair out of her face again. Fuck, that was adorable. “I probably shouldn’t. It’s really good, though. What is it?”

“It’s a wine from the Rhône Valley, where I’m from.”

Her face lit up a little. “I wondered if you were French. You speak English so well, you could almost pass for American.”

“French mom, American dad. I was born here but raised in both places.” I was surprised she was interested, but she kept asking about me.

“Where in the U.S did you live?”

“In upstate New York mostly, but I live in the city now.”

She smiled with perfect white teeth, although her lips were a little stained from the ruby wine. “I love New York City. But I hate flying, and New York’s a long drive from Detroit.”

I crossed my arms. “You hate flying, yet you want to get on another plane first thing in the morning?”

“I have to,” she insisted.

“No, you don’t.”

Her chin jutted. “Yes, I do. You don’t understand.”

“Sure I do. Your fiancé called off the wedding and you’re angry and sad or whatever because you’re getting close to your marriage deadline or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time here. You came all this way, even though you hate to fly. There must have been a reason.” I was trying to help her see that she was being ridiculous and should stay in Paris, but right away I saw that I’d only aggravated her further. Shit.

She sat up taller and spoke with an edge to her voice. “The reason was that I’ve always wanted to see Paris. It’s been a dream of mine since I was a kid. I had every day planned out, I knew exactly what we would do, the things we would see. And I thought I could handle it on my own, but now that I’m here, I can’t, OK? I can’t handle all the love and romance and fucking happiness all around me when I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon! It isn’t fair!”

Not fair? She sounded like a toddler. “Lots of things in life aren’t fair. Doesn’t matter what city you’re in.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard a boatload of them in the week since I was unceremoniously dumped—via text message, mind you—seven days before my goddamn wedding.”

Oh, man. This girl needed help. “You’ve got a problem.”

“Yes. My problem is that I’m on my honeymoon, alone.”

“That’s not your problem.”

Her jaw practically hit the bar. She was so stunned she didn’t even argue, and I knew I was being kind of an asshole, but I couldn’t help it. This girl had everything going for her and couldn’t get over that one thing didn’t go her way—she hadn’t even said she still loved the guy, only that she was mad he ruined her plans. So even though I thought she might get up and walk out, I went on.

“Your problem is that you thought things were going to be one way and they’re not. You’re not even telling me you miss the guy who was supposed to be here with you. You just don’t want to be here alone because that wasn’t the plan.”

“That is not what I said!” she yelled, her face coloring.

I laughed. “That’s exactly what you said.”

“Well…” She flapped her hands above the bar. “That’s not what I meant. I’m flustered. And drunk.”

And gorgeous. And feisty. And the more I talked to her, the more I wanted to make her feel better, convince her to stay here and hang out with me. But something told me straight sympathy wouldn’t work—this girl was stronger than she realized and needed a little tough love. “So you do miss him? Because I don’t see a heartbroken girl here in front of me. I see someone who’s angry that her relationship ended badly mostly because it ruined an idea she had about the perfect life. And she flew all the way here, but even Paris isn’t enough to distract her from the fact she didn’t get exactly what she wanted when she wanted it.”