Chase Me (Paris Nights Book 2) (6 page)

He had not even been conceivable as a person who existed when she put on her panties that morning. She couldn’t even remember. “Black lace,” she said randomly, writhing against the door. That seemed like something that would keep him motivated. “At least—in front. In back there’s not much at all. “

“Yeah?” He loosed one of her thighs to run his one finger down the seam of her pants and up, up the cleft of her butt, where a thong would go, under that leather. She writhed, pressing herself against that finger. “Now that’s a nice goal, right there. The thought of you on your hands and knees on your bed, with nothing but a thong on and me standing right behind you. How we doing on this leather, baby? Am I getting through?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. No.
Not enough.
”

“Well.” He sat back on his heels and cocked his head up at her. “
You
have your hands free. You could help.”

She stared down at him—that wicked humor in his eyes, but all that hunger, too. More and more hunger. It made him look…dangerous. Like a man with well over twice her strength, who knew exactly how to use that strength against far bigger and more lethal enemies than a knife-throwing chef.

“I should have known you couldn’t handle me on your own,” she said.

His face just lit in this wicked, wanton way, like a hellion who’d finally broken out of a monastery. “Oh, honey, you like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, on the giddy rush of that danger as he slid his grip of her thighs up to the uppermost possible point, his thumbs sliding deep between her legs to pinch folds of leather and her up to his mouth. His elbows came into play, forcing her legs to stay spread.

“I think I’m handling you…just…fine,” he purred, as his thumbs and teeth worked her.

She had an intense level of self-confidence, and she thrived on adrenaline, but she liked to be in control, too. Well, normally, she
had
to be in control. Even a male top chef had to maintain control at all times in his kitchens, but because she was a woman, running that starred kitchen full of arrogant and physically intense men did not allow her to falter in her control ever. Not for a millisecond.

I can falter here. I can give it all up and
love
it.

No consequences tomorrow, just the sex-filled adrenaline charge of playing with this hot and cocky guy who could…handle her just fine.

The arousal of what was happening to her kept pushing up her body in huge hot waves, flooding out all thought, leaving nothing but burning, frantic pressure in her breasts, in her brain, between her legs. This itchy longing heat that spread at the nape of her neck, at the base of her throat and down over her chest, at the insides of her elbows, behind her knees…everywhere.

“Well, let’s try this,” he said and worked his mouth around to the discreet black zip that ran over her hip. When she’d bought these pants, she’d originally thought that near-invisible side zip, with no button since the pants had no obvious waistband, was part of their sexy appeal. Now, as his tongue teased the zipper’s pull tab up so that his teeth could close around it, she arched her body back against the door and cursed the day she hadn’t bought pants with a normal center closure.

He laughed low in his throat as he worked the zipper down in his teeth, pressing her thighs back more firmly against the door when she writhed too hard. “Oh, honey, I’m kind of glad you threw that challenge at me, because I am having so much fun.” He nuzzled his face between the spread panels and bit her hipbone, a teasing little nip. Then he caught the bikini strap of her underwear between his teeth and pulled it a couple of centimeters from her body before releasing it so that it snapped against her skin, a playful sting. “Honey, this looks like black cotton to me. Were you lying to me about your underwear?”

“You actually thought I would wear pink peekaboo panties to work all day in a hot kitchen?” she managed.

“Sweetheart, I could probably imagine you in pink peekaboo panties in any situation whatsoever. Be a sweetie and pack some for our honeymoon, okay?”

Him and his wedding jokes. She tried to roll her eyes, but he just smiled and lifted her thighs onto his shoulders, pushing her back up against the door so that her feet no longer touched the ground. Oh, God. She sank her hands into his hair. He rolled down the waist of her pants, folding it over rather than pulling it down, so that it revealed just a couple more centimeters of her pelvis.

“I’m going to die,” she panted incredulously. Where had this man
come
from? Her entire experience of men had just been exploded out to the edges of the known universe. Maybe he was some kind of superhero come to Earth from the planet Sexton.

“Oh, yes, you are, honey,” he purred in that crazy drawl of his. “
Le petit mort
, right?”

She winced, even through that much adrenaline and arousal. “It’s
la. La petite mort.
”

He pulled his head back and frowned at her. “Did you just correct my French? At a time like this?”

“Never mind,” she said. “You can…keep going here.”

“Do you know how frustrating it is to have people dissing on my French all the time in this damn city?” He drew a finger very slowly down the center of her black panties, to where the folded band of leather stopped him. That damn leather. “Because I could maybe give you some idea. Of the frustration. Of what it’s like to work a long…long…long time on something and not…get…anywhere.” His finger twisted along the edge of that band.

“Oh, no,” she said, trying to climb the door again, clutching him too hard with her thighs. His shoulders and neck seemed perfectly able to withstand the pressure, though. “No, no, no, no, no. No lessons in frustration.”

He grinned, slow and wicked. “But it hurts my feelings,” he said woefully. His finger wormed its way down under that folded band, stroking in far too short and limited a motion. “And this makes them feel all better.”

“Oh, my God.” She fisted his hair, trying to drag his head closer.

He didn’t let her, for just long enough to let her know she couldn’t make him if he didn’t choose it, and then yielded, dipping his head in close to nuzzle his face against her panties and that damn band of leather. “God, I love this smell,” he said.

She’d met some pretty physical men in her life, men who liked to live with their senses wide open, but she’d never ever met anyone as unadulteratedly
physical
as he was. He just wallowed in the pleasure of everything about his body, and hers.

It drove her absolutely out of her mind. Her brain shut down for it and let her become purely physical, too.

“It’s not lace, but I think I’m enjoying these textures, too,” he said wickedly, stroking his finger down between the tight leather and her very wet panties, rubbing them against her.

“The texture could maybe stand to be a little…firmer,” she said, bucking.

“I know.” He sent her that wicked grin. “But making you ask for it is a hell of a lot more fun.”

“If you ever fall asleep around me, I’m going to tie you up and make you
beg
,” she swore, clutching his head.

“Hell, you’d kill me,” he realized, on a note between awe, hunger, and genuine alarm. “And here I’ve been revealing all my weaknesses for lace and knife-throwing leather, too. Now
that
is a deadly warning.” He opened his mouth over her panties for a deep hot breath against her.

Violette might actually have whimpered. The heat in her body had reached such a point she was surprised she didn’t burn her way through the door.

“You’re so hot,” he said. “If you’ll unzip your jacket for me, I might be willing to give you a little more pressure down here.” A teasing rub of his mouth over her panties.

Vi fumbled with her jacket zip as she tried to get it off. He did
not
help—teasing her, breathing on her, blowing gently against her. She finally got the damn jacket off and just threw it somewhere.

He looked up at her and tilted his head consideringly. “Okay, that’s not going to do it. You’re wearing a T-shirt!”

“You promised,” she said between her teeth.

“I promised a
little
more pressure.” He pressed his thumb against the leather, where it shielded her from the pressure she really wanted. He did press, but with that leather in the way…she gripped him, arching, fighting for what was so maddeningly elusive.

“If you want a
lot
more pressure, like in a…rhythm”—he blew her a kiss, his eyes so laughing and so aroused—“I think I’m going to have to insist you strip at least down to your bra.”

“When I tie you up,” she swore, “it’s going to involve…silk…and pink peekaboo panties…and maybe, if you’re really good at this, my mouth.” His thumb jerked a little against her. Ah, yes,
almost
what she needed. She twisted to try to get more of it, but he pulled it away. She swore. “And you’re going to cry.”

“You first,” he said, and rubbed his finger leisurely deeper through her weeping folds.

“Oh, hell, yeah,” she said and yanked her T-shirt off, throwing it across the room.

“Now
that’s
a view a man can get inspired by,” Chase said reverently, gazing up her torso to the black, lace-edged bra that cupped her breasts.

Yeah, she could get inspired by her view, too, down at that cocky, handsome man on his knees before her with his rogue’s humor as he used that beggar’s position to take all the power over her he wanted.

“How bad do you want it, baby?” he murmured, in a deep, deep voice that seemed to vibrate against her skin as he pressed his mouth to her panties. “Bad enough to come right here? With me watching?”

She whimpered again, her nails digging into his skull, her thighs trying to lock around his head like a vice. He forced them back open with an ease that shot even more heat through her. Her legs were
strong
. They should be strong enough to give his hands some resistance. And yet he pressed her inexorably wide again.

“Bad enough to come like this?” he coaxed in that deep, rich drawl, angling an arm so that he could still brace her thigh with it and press the leather against her sex.

She bit her lip, closing her eyes, breathing fast, chasing it.

He deepened the pressure, the leather riding against her in just the right spot. And began to work it. Her body relaxed in relief at the deliberate rhythm. Now he
meant
it. Now he was going to let her—

“I like this,” he breathed along the upper edge of her panties, then followed it with a stroke of his lips, as his thumb kept up that steady rhythm.

“Oh,
merde
,” she said, and came suddenly and dramatically, this wave crashing through her body that jerked her hard against the wood. Her elbow hit the doorknob and she grabbed onto it, rocking and rocking against him, utterly helpless before the massive rush of pleasure, this great flash flood of it, filled with adrenaline and surprise and delight, that just crashed through her and obliterated her.

“Hell, you are fine,” Chase said, hauling her into his arms as he came to his feet, hand still riding between her thighs as he found her bedroom and tossed her onto the bed, stretching the orgasm out, making it last.

It was too hard to last that long, though, and she pressed her hands over her face, shuddering and shuddering.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he muttered, pulling at her leather pants. He peeled them down her legs and came over her, his hand sliding back now under her panties to freely touch her slickness. She jerked a little, so vulnerable there now, almost too vulnerable for open touching. And yet she liked it soo…ooh…she moaned, shifting.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, hand delving along the length of her in long strokes up and down. “Yes, go. Keep going. Oh, yeah.”

The waves came back at her, taking her again, this flood-tossed, I-can-barely-breathe-now second orgasm like being borne exhausted back to some shore.

“Oh, God.” She bit into the side of her arm as the waves slowly lapped down and let her rest. “Oh, God.”

“You and me both, baby.” Chase was stripping off clothes and his vest, shoving them off his body with the speed of a firefighter in reverse. “God, you are so damn fine.” He kicked his underwear off his ankles and stood there completely naked.

Oh, wow. Wow. Wow. And he said
she
was fine. She had never seen a body so ripped and hard in her life. If-I-wrestled-a-T-Rex-I-would-win hard. Tough and big and utterly cut.

“
Bordel
.” She brought her hands to her lips. “
Tu es
…”

“Oh, God, yes, tell me dirty things in French,” he muttered, coming down over her. “And then translate. Translate every. Single. Word.” He kissed her, hot and deep, taking her mouth like he was fucking it, this devouring pleasure.

Having given her two orgasms and won his challenge, he was quite obviously focused on his own pleasure now, and she loved it. She loved that kissing was part of his pleasure, this glorious, deep kissing, over and over and over, as his hands gripped her head and dragged down her body, as he found the catch of her bra and got it off her, as he slid both his hands to grip her butt too hard and then got her panties out of the way.

“Did I win that challenge, honey?” he managed, his voice rough as he scraped his jaw down her throat and suckled against her collarbone.

“What if I said you didn’t?” she couldn’t resist asking as she wrapped her thighs around him.

“Then you sure as hell better not complain and beg me to stop five or six orgasms from now.” He cupped her breasts. “Oh, fuck, these are so pretty. Are you daring me?” He paused with his thumbs held just above her nipples.

She hesitated.

His eyes narrowed just a little, and that blue gleamed dark with the love of challenge.

“No,” she decided quickly. “No, uh, not…this time.”

He grinned in pure triumph.

“Well, I’m daring you to
do it
,” she said, and wrapped her thighs tight around him, sliding her hands under her legs to grip his butt as hard as she could.

He loved that, his butt muscles clenching as he thrust toward her. “Fuck, half a second,” he remembered suddenly and rolled away, scrambling for his clothes. He sheathed himself so fast she actually wrapped a hand around him to double-check he had done it right.