Carnal in Cannes (8 page)

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against his groin. The lingering traces of fear and apprehension evaporated as the mad euphoria climbed to the heavens, to the stars shining above them.

His warm palm slid under her top, stroked her bare skin, and a strangled sound escaped her throat. One hand slipped between their bodies under the crepe material of her blouse, and his thumb rolled over her nipple. The caress electrified her pores and sent sunspot heat to the throbbing and pulsing folds at the apex of her thighs. He took control of her kiss, slanting his lips over hers, teasing her tongue with his, circling, sliding in and out of her mouth in tormenting slowness.

“Ahem.” In the distance, somewhere far away, a throat cleared, but the sound hovered above the reality of his torturous tasting and touching.

Harrison jerked his lips from hers, and he tucked her face into the nook between his chin and chest. “This better be good, Austen,” he growled.

“Two vessels left the bay and are headed this way. I thought you might want to take precautions. I arranged for a cold antipasto to be served in your cabin, and we"ve stocked your bar.”

“We"ll be outta here in a few.”

“I"ve arranged for us to head back around four a.m. tomorrow before the early-morning workers start heading into town. You"ll still have the cover of darkness to get back into the hotel. Want me to buzz you with a heads-up an hour before we fire the engines?”

“Yeah.”

Martine listened to Austen"s barely audible retreating footsteps, and the insane passion of moments before vanished with each hushed swoosh.

“He"s gone, Martine. Let"s set you to rights.” Curving one arm across the top of her thighs and the other midback, he lumbered to his feet and then slid her down the length of his body. Fingers curled around the sides of her waist, he pulled back and murmured, “You look much like I feel. Dazed and lust-drunk. It"s a good thing Austen interrupted us. Things were getting a mite out of hand.”

By the time they had reached the entrance to the yacht"s second level, Martine"s lungs no longer burned, and the roaring in her ears had subsided. But the aching and burning making her nipples spark when they scratched the silk top wouldn"t abate.

If I’d only known
… She shook her head.
Concentrate. I must concentrate. He
cannot see my back. I must keep my bodice on. But his hand felt so good.

She pressed her lips together, fighting the small smile tugging at the corners, and sneaked a peak at Harry"s profile, the stubborn angle of his square chin, and elated relief won. She ducked her head to hide her sudden grin.
I am whoring for
money, but I think I may enjoy fornicating with you, Harrison Indiana Ford.

Martine had never been on a boat like the
Glory
, and though she tried to stay focused, her eyes darted back and forth as they ventured down a narrow corridor alighting on a burnished wooden frame decorated with glass-encased swords and 36

Jianne Carlo

daggers and another displaying two side-by-side nautical maps of the Mediterranean.

The hallway opened into a wide space, and she glimpsed chairs and a sofa and a bar before Harry towed her to a door where he halted.

“These are my quarters,” he said. “Now yours as well.” He indicated a keypad to the right of the door. “The pass code is 071069.” He punched the numbers as he spoke, an LED circle glowed green, and he turned the knob.

“I believe this is customary,” he quipped, bent his knees slightly, and swept Martine off her feet. He carried her across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them.

Harry set her down, and Martine curled her fingers around his forearm to steady herself. He shifted behind her and pulled her back against his chest, firming his hands around her waist. Resting his chin lightly on the top of her head, tipping her head back and left with his forefinger, he looked into her eyes, and his mouth crooked up at one corner. “Let"s grab some grub.”

She was hungry, but then she was always starving. Too many years of never knowing when or where she"d find her next meal left her with a mental hunger that never left her belly.

Martine surveyed Harry"s quarters. A small sitting area held an alcove with a microwave, minifridge, and a coffeepot with a couple of white porcelain mugs. A flat-panel TV hung on a wall opposite a wide sofa tucked against a wall.

Through an arch to the left of the couch, she glimpsed a large bed nestled into the curve of a half circle of windows with a built-in low row of shelves acting as the headboard. On the right of the arch, a table fronted a bench nestled into a cozy corner. The table held a cornucopia of mouthwatering antipasti.

“Let"s see what we have here.” He cupped her shoulder as they both surveyed the dishes displayed on the table. “Stuffed miniature peppers, prosciutto with goat cheese and basil, sausages, mushroom tarts. Want to stick with the sangria? Or would you prefer champagne or wine?”

“The sangria, please,” Martine replied. The champagne had tickled her nose and made the room spin. Her stomach growled silently, and saliva coated her tongue as the smell of tomato and roasted garlic hit her nose.
Will I ever feel full?

“Dig in.” Harry gently pushed her onto the bench and sat, his hips brushing hers. “Try this one. Open.”

Martine opened her lips to tell him she could feed herself, and he popped a prosciutto cylinder into her mouth. The burst of intense flavor disarmed her indignation. She chewed, and each bite revealed another surprise—a hint of green olive there, smoky red pepper here—and her eyes closed automatically.

“Lord almighty, I love the way you eat.” Harry"s breath skipped across the side of her face.

Her lids flew open.

“Try a meatball.”

Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

37

She accepted the canapé from his fingers and bit into the meat and cheese.

“Like?” he asked.

“Délicieux. Delicious,” she replied after swallowing. “Now you.”

They fed each other, taking turns, Harry insisting she take a sip of the sangria after each hors d"oeuvre. Gradually Martine relaxed, and when Harry interspersed tongue-drugging kisses with food, not only didn"t she object, but she anticipated his mouth as much as she did the nibbles.

Somehow, they ended up lying on the bed facing each other. The wine had warmed Martine"s insides and her extremities. She arched her back slightly, relishing the downy softness of the bedcovers against her bare calves.

“Dessert?” Harry asked, reaching an arm over his head.

Martine pushed up onto one elbow and couldn"t prevent her lips from lifting at the corners. The built-in headboard had three shelves, the lowest of which contained about a hundred hardback books. The top shelf displayed stacked magazines and cases of computer games.

But the middle shelf made her beam, and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to stifle the impulse to throw her arms around his neck. Strawberries, some covered in white chocolate, some in milk chocolate, some plain, some dusted with powdered sugar—bowls and bowls of the glistening red fruit filled the space above Harry"s and Martine"s heads.

“Austen said you ate all the strawberries from the fruit bowl in the hotel suite.” Harry plucked one plain berry from a crystal container cradled in one palm.

“Open.”

“I can
oofg
—” Martine couldn"t speak around the fruit in her mouth, so she bit into it and didn"t bother to choke back a soft moan as the sweet-tart liquid coated her tongue. She"d discovered strawberries in the markets in Marseille. Once a month she splurged, buying a selection of different berries; she"d yet to meet one she didn"t adore.

“Good?” One eyebrow quirked up, and he shot her an uneven grin.

She nodded, chewing slowly, savoring the sour and sugar flavor of the fruit, her eyes half closing in sheer ecstasy. A sticky drop leaked from her mouth and trailed the middle of her chin. Before she could swipe the trickling juice, Harry"s tongue lapped at the liquid, tickled the corner of her mouth, and when her lips parted, swept in.

Their tongues, morsels of berries, and sweet fluid mingled and merged, doing a slow waltz. Harry"s palm slipped over her clavicle, curled around her nape, and his fingers tangled in her curls. A whimper she couldn"t prevent welled up her throat.

Hot prickles covered Martine"s exposed flesh, her skin quivering under the stroking of the calloused pads of his fingertips.

His arm curved around her waist, and his open hand splayed over her ass, urging her closer, sliding her pelvis against his groin. Her breasts rubbed on the cotton of his T-shirt, and her nipples puckered, throbbing fire and ice at the same 38

Jianne Carlo

time. His teeth captured the tip of her tongue, and he bore down softly, the burning-chill sensation echoing in the throbbing wetness of her folds. Martine canted her hips forward, and a frustrated groan escaped her lips when her mound made contact with his erection.

Her hands kneaded the hard muscles of his chest, fingers moving side to side, flicking at the small nipples she discovered, and she cried out when his thumb and forefinger pinched hers lightly and rolled it between his fingertips. He drank in the sound, his mouth eating at hers, nipping the bottom lip, holding the flesh hostage.

He captured her hand and slowly dragged her palm down his chest, over the slight hollow of his belly button, onto the rigid, pulsing head of his erection. She flinched.

Mon Dieu. So big, so very big.

When had he opened the front of his trousers?

She had not survived the streets of Port-au-Prince by having faint courage.

Martine slid her finger over the crown of his cock. His organ felt smooth, like the feel of silk and satin, yet the head throbbed and pulsed against her palm. She traced the rough ridge, ran her thumb across the slit in the crown, and the pads of her fingers grew slick.

Warm air kissed her stomach as he gathered her skirt above her waist. His palm covered her belly, slid to the thong the Gypsy Bandoleer"s wife had insisted she purchase, and he drew the material down, edging the fabric over her hips. She lifted her bottom off the bed, and he slid the scrap of silk off her legs. His fingers combed softly through the curls between her thighs, his touch electrifying. Only when he separated her folds did she realize she too was slick and moist and weeping excitement and desire.

“Oh,” she said, the word almost a yelp, when his thumb stroked a spot that made her hips arch off the bed. “Non.”

He stilled. “Did I hurt you?”.

“Non. Oui. More.” Her hand crept behind his head, her fingers snarling in his hair, and she tugged him back to her, opening her mouth over his, sliding her tongue to touch his, to stroke the nubby surface. His fingers moved easily as her folds grew creamier, the dampness coating the tops of her thighs.

Harry eased her onto her back. A few tugs and pulls and he had the silk bodice unbuttoned, exposing her breasts.

“So beautiful,” he crooned, his fingers flickering a blistering outline of her breast, and a voice in her head screamed a warning—
Your back, your back. Do
something now.

She"d seen the whores in the allies.

Holding her breath Martine scooted onto her side, reached for his erection, and curled both hands around his cock. Mesmerized when the thing jerked and pulsed, almost singed by the heat of it, she gawked as his arousal grew thicker and the head redder. Using her thumb she traced the underside of the crown, and his Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

39

hardness swelled and burned under her touch. Harry covered her hand and showed her how to caress him, curling her palm around his engorged cock and sliding her fingers up over the head, down the damp length, and over to cup his balls, repeating the process over and over.

“Christ,” he growled as he loosened her hold on him. “I can"t hold back any longer.”

Dazed and unable to stop staring at his cock poking through his pants front as he rolled off the bed, she didn"t register his rapid-fire shedding of his clothes until his long legs settled between hers and the hard length of him massaged her bare sex, no barrier separating the skin-to-skin contact. His mouth latched on to her breast, her heels dug into the mattress, and she couldn"t stifle the sounds spewing from her lips. Didn"t know what she pleaded for, couldn"t think, could only follow his mouth, his fingers, writhing and squirming to have his hands, his lips, touch, lick everywhere all at once.

“You okay, sugar?”

He lapped at her breast, and the soft pull of his teeth on her aching nipple made the walls of her sex clench and jerk, and she murmured, “Oui, non. Please.”

Martine"s lungs stopped functioning when the head of his cock rimmed her entrance. Her legs fell open, and she went still, her heartbeat accelerating, the drumming so loud in her ears she could hear nothing else.

“A quick cut, sugar.” His mouth took hers, his tongue plunging in, his hands gripped her hips, and he lifted her off the mattress. His cock impaled her, one hard thrust as his thickness stretched her walls and he filled her to the womb.

She winced at the jagged pinch as he broke through her hymen, the sting bee-sharp intense. He froze, and from somewhere far away, Martine realized he waited on a sign from her. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her face, beads of sweat trickling down from one temple. His parted lips bared clamped teeth, and his jaw worked furiously.