Page 50 of The Last Kiss

“Every part of you feels good.” He shrugs out of his shirt, thrusting it to one side as he cages me in his arms, holding his weight from me as he settles between my legs.

“How good?” I smile up, trying to stop the wide grin that wants to escape.

“Better than my English will ever allow me to express.”

“Tell me in French then.” I wiggle down, trying to connect us, but he holds firm.

“I will, hold that thought.” Pecking a quick kiss to the end of my nose he eases away and stretches from the bed, long lithe body flexing in pewter and pale gold. Streetlamp and moonlight.

My French lover under a London starlit sky.

I giggle as, with condom in hand, he stalks towards the bed. “Do you speak French, Juliette?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

“Non.” I snort a laugh that he pounces on with a kiss.

“Just as well, ma petite, I’m about to turn the air blue.”

And with that he pushes deep inside me and I’m pretty sure heaven has just landed on earth.

12

Valentines for those with an Actual Broken Heart

“Tell me about your home.”

“Hmm?” He plants a sleepy kiss on the top of my head as I sprawl across his chest. Last time I stole into the dawn, untangling myself from the warm knot of his legs and arms. Tonight, my legs wouldn’t move me if I wanted them to—I’m not even sure they are still attached to my body.

I point my toes and stretch, just to make sure, not at all disappointed when his hand runs up my thigh.

“Your home. What’s it like?” I lift my head a little and rest my chin on my fingers. “I mean if you had got on the train and were nearly home by now.”

He chuckles, rocking us together. “I wouldn’t have been home yet. First would have been the Eurostar, then a short flight from Paris, and then a taxi ride.”

“Wow. Can’t you fly direct from London?”

“Of course, but I have contacts in Paris too, so I’d normally stop to see them, check everything is okay.”

Mmm… cheese intrigues.

“And who is your contact in London?” And why does it sound like we are talking about the Mafia and not cheese production?

“Harrods.”

I laugh, but then when he doesn’t laugh back it quickly dies and I push up a little straighter. “Harrods. You sell your cheese at Harrods?”

“Oui, Mademoiselle. As well as direct to some restaurants in the country.”

“What restaurants?” I narrow my gaze a bit.

He shrugs, which let’s be honest isn’t an answer at all.

Okay, he can keep his cheese secrets. I’ve got enough of my own. “So, what would happen when you get home.” I’m about to lay back down, my cheek needs to be pressed against one of his firm and vast pecs, but I have a thought that perhaps I should have asked before dinner, maybe even a month ago. “No girlfriend waiting for you is there?” Wincing, I try to avoid eye contact. First the no names, then the belated relationship status update. I’m not entirely sure why he shouted out to me across Waterloo. I’m clearly a woman of loose morals.

Oh, I know why. We’ve just had mind blowing sex twice, and I’m pretty sure we are an exact, surprising, but undeniably perfect fit.

He tilts my chin up, so I have to look at his honest and disarming smile. “No girlfriend.”

“Phew. I’d have had to send her some apology chocolates or something.”