The Bad Boys of Eden (98 page)

Dammit!

Is there really a decision to be made?

“Fine.” I exhale deeply, stride further into the room and plop myself down on the couch. Yep. It’s fucking comfortable. A girl could lose herself—and her virtue—in a couch like this. Before Christophe can join me, I raise my finger in warning. “But…hands to yourself.”

“Of course,” he says, taking a seat across from me. “Regardless of the opinion you have of me, I am a gentleman.”

He ignores my snort and presses an inconspicuous button beneath the table. I wouldn’t have even known he’d done it except a voice comes from a hidden speaker, asking in French what we need.

“Le Macallan cinquante-cinq dans Lalique. Et deux verres de l’eau.”

He’s ordered scotch with water. This much I know. “Ice too, please.”

A small smile appears at the corners of Christophe’s mouth. “Et des glaçons.”

Within minutes there’s a knock on the door and a man enters, followed by three others carrying silver trays. One has a tray with tulip-shaped crystal glasses that he sets on the table in front of us, two empty, two with water and two glasses with ice. He carefully places utensils on the table, lining them up just so. Another server places a board of charcuterie—meat, cheeses and fresh fruit—on the table before joining his colleague by the door. It’s like a procession of mimes, all this careful, silent, exaggerated movement. The third server approaches Christophe with a box of Cuban cigars on his platter. He opens the box in front of Christophe who waves him away.

“Non, merci.”

The man glances in my direction and though I’m not a cigar smoker, I appreciate the consideration that I might be. I shake my head.

The three exit the room, leaving the man holding the leather box. He approaches Christophe and removes the lid of the box. Inside is what looks like an extra-large bottle of perfume on ivory satin. I read the label,
THE MACALLAN Highland Single Malt Scotch Whiskey in Lalique
.

“Très bon.”

The man sets the box down and lifts the bottle out of the satin lining like it’s the Hope Diamond. “Puis-je vous servir?”

May I serve you?

“Non, merci.”

The man carefully sets the bottle down, bows and leaves.

I touch the beautiful crystal bottle. “I take it this is expensive.”

“Yes.” He removes the ornate topper and then twists off the cap. “It is also rare. But more special because it is the marrying of two beautiful but very different traditions: an aged, full-bodied, woodsy spirit of the highlands housed inside the delicate artistry of French crystal. It is masculine and feminine in perfect harmony.”

What is it about Christophe that makes everything he says sound suggestive? I’m thinking it’s his accent. I am partial to accents. Mostly because my naughty mind hears his voice and imagines him talking dirty in that delicious accent.
My full-bodied cock housed perfectly in your delicate vagina. It is masculine and feminine in perfect harmony
.

Yep. Now, that’d be the perfect pairing.

I swallow. With difficulty. “Sounds lovely.” Hoping to cover up my naughty thoughts, I reach for the ice tongs and place three cubes in my glass. “However I’m afraid the subtleties will be lost on me.”

He eyes my glass of ice with disdain before pouring. Then he pours himself a glass and sets the bottle aside. “I see you drink scotch like you play poker.”

“What do you mean?”

“With very little thought or consideration.”

“If by that you mean with very little pretention, then yes, I’m not the best of friends with arrogance.” I lift my glass—meaningfully—to Christophe and then take a big gulp.

Wow. Strong!

I fight the urge to cough but have no control over my watering eyes.

When I manage to regain focus, Christophe is watching me with an expression that is somewhere between amusement and horror.

As I raise my glass to my lips again, he reaches for my arm and gently forces me to lower my hand and glass back to the table. “You are going to kill me if you drink the Macallan like that.”

“Why? I enjoy it like this.”

The twist of his lips is scornful. “Then you have never drunk it properly. Would you like to learn how?”

His entitled, contemptuous behavior reminds me of Tal and I’m tempted to gulp the rest of the scotch in my glass, just to aggravate him. But the irreverent challenge in his cobalt gaze stops me, warming the bare skin of my arms and stirring up longing in the pit of my stomach. Good lord, when’s the last time I’ve felt this way about a man?

It’s been a while—I’ve been nursing a broken heart after a certain biker rode out of my life. Hopefully not forever…

But it feels as if Christophe has awakened my senses and my body is raring to go again.

I know I should tread carefully around someone like him but it’s hard because his words are a challenge and I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. That, coupled with his much too sexy for words persona, puts me at a disadvantage because he tempts me. Oh, how he tempts me.

“I am always open to trying new things.”

Even though he doesn’t articulate his thoughts, it’s like I can hear him in my head saying,
Yes, I can see that about you.

“You barely know me,” I blurt out.

“Excuse me?”

Stupid outside voice expressing my innermost thoughts.

At least he has the good grace to ignore my outburst and carry on with his lesson on drinking scotch. Though if I’m not mistaken, his expression seems to say he knows me much better than I think.

“This scotch has been casked for over half a century. It deserves respect.” He lifts the glass high, observing the color through the clear glass. He swirls the amber liquid and shows me. “You see, it coats the crystal when I do this. This allows it to breathe so that all of its intricacies can be released. Much like a fine wine.”

Bringing the glass to just beneath his nose, he breathes in deeply, eyes closed, then slowly exhales as he draws the glass away. He holds it beneath my nose. “Tell me, what do you smell?”

I breathe in deeply and the alcohol burns my nostrils. “Smells like booze.”

He takes the glass away, watching me, making me squirm, then brings it close. “Try again. Close your eyes this time.”

Obeying, I close my eyes and breathe in, slowly and deeply. This time my nose doesn’t feel singed by alcohol. In fact, I smell…something.

“What do you detect?”

“I don’t know. Smoke, maybe.” I breathe in again. “Um, lemon or…grapefruit. Something citrusy.”

“Very good.”

When I open my eyes, Christophe is holding the glass below his nose and breathing in deeply. “Currants.” He breathes in like he’s drinking. “The smoke is peat smoke.”

With his eyes still closed, he takes a small sip. Barely a taste. His facial expression is…intense. I don’t know how else to describe it. I thought he was being pretentious but he’s not. There are real lines of concentration and pleasure etched across his face as he moves his jaw, not like he’s tasting alcohol, like he’s tasting something else.

Like he’s tasting me.

Chapter Four

I can picture exactly how he’d look, propped between my parted legs, his dark hair brushing my thighs, his tongue making a thorough pass before he raises his head to gaze at me, his handsome face serious, his nostrils slightly flared as he licks his lips.

Oh God. He’d be magnificent in the oral sex department. The image is so vivid in my mind, I’m sure he must see what I’m thinking because when he opens his eyes, they are on fire and I am consumed by their blue flames.

Holding my gaze, he raises the glass to my lips and my hands cup his. Together we tilt it and I take barely a mouthful. The alcohol is thicker, more dense than I remember from my early gulps. It coats my tongue and mouth, not burning this time, but with spice and zest.

“Open, let air mingle inside your mouth.” Christophe’s hand is on my face, his thumb lightly parting my lips. My tongue touches just the pad of his thumb and then retreats back into the smoky cavern of my mouth.

My mouth feels soft. Warm. Alive. I taste the citrus again, mixed with…is that raisins? There’s the smoke again. Yes, it’s not wood smoke. I thought Christophe was making that shit up about the peat, but he was right. The smoky flavor is earthy. I take another breath. It’s salty too. Like the sea.

Or…that could be Christophe’s thumb. I seem to have sucked it into my mouth.

I open my eyes, slowly, like coming out of a deep sleep, pulling my head back, withdrawing his thumb. Unbeknownst to me, my other hand is on his knee, caressing. I’ve totally leaned into him while I was concentrating on the scotch and the result is I look (and feel) like I’m about to jump him.

He regards me with half-lidded amusement and with a whole lot of desire flickering in those gorgeous eyes.

“You know,” he says, stroking my cheek, his fingers lingering for a second along my jaw before sitting back. “Enjoying scotch like you just did is actually Tantric.”

“Tantric?” The word releases me from whatever spell the scotch and Christophe have put me under. There was an article I read recently in Cosmo on crazy Tantric positions, and they had silly names for them too, the
wicked wheelbarrow
, the
pleasure pretzel
, shit like that. “How on earth is this related to sexual positions?”

“Tantra is not just about sex. It’s a philosophy combining spiritual, emotional and physical desires. It is about living in the moment. It is exercising our senses, enjoying where we are. Right here. Right now.” He lifts his hand as if about to touch me again but instead retrieves the glass from the table and studies it. “I drink scotch because I enjoy it. But my enjoyment is tenfold when I take my time and experience it with every one of my senses.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and sips.

This sip should
not
look masculine.

But the look of near ecstasy on his handsome features does. Frustratingly masculine.

I am so grudgingly drawn to him that I think I hate him a little bit.

When he opens his eyes, his gaze has that hazy, lusty look I’ve seen on the face of plenty of lovers. Suddenly—in my mind—I am naked, legs spread and he is braced above me, looking at me with that hazy, lusty expression.

“I want to experience you. Completely.” He thrusts and I feel him in the deepest, most private part of me.

A small sigh slips past my lips.

“Tell me, honestly. Which glass of scotch did you enjoy more?”

His words jolt me back to real time. I may have been reluctant to be honest earlier, but I’m past that now. There’s no point. The man can see right through me. “Okay, okay. It’s much better your way.”

He nods. “Now…imagine—if you can—something as sensual as making love.” He wets his lips, knowing full well the effect it has on me. “Imagine experiencing one another in the same way; slowly, thoroughly, with all your senses. That is Tantric.”

Oh God. I’ve already been imagining it.

I clear my throat. “If you are suggesting I don’t enjoy my sex life, you couldn’t be further from the truth.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pours my watered down, icy scotch into one of the other glasses and then pours me a new glass.

“I have a very healthy sex life,” I insist.

This doesn’t get his attention either. He’s too busy carefully adding less than a teaspoon of water to each of our glasses.

“I’m very experimental.”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound but doesn’t meet my gaze.

“I don’t need a bunch of crazy positions to get off.”

Finally he looks up. “Tantric sex is not about positions. It’s about the connection.” He motions between the two of us. “It’s about sensations.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his face. Before I know it he’s drawn my thumb into the warm cavern of his mouth, holding it captive while his gaze holds me captive as well.

You’d think my automatic reaction would be to pull away. It’s not. You’d think my brain might kick in right about now and remind me that I’m not supposed to be having any sort of physical interaction with him because of Tal. But it doesn’t. My brain has turned off and all I can do is feel.

The soft heat of Christophe’s mouth.

The warm wetness.

The promise his tongue makes my thumb, of experiences we could—and will—share together.

The promise his eyes make of pleasure beyond my wildest dreams.

My eyes flutter closed as he sucks with more pressure. It’s like the warmth from his mouth seeps down my hand and wrist, along my arm and settles into that sensitive crease of my elbow. Not many people know that this is an erogenous zone for me. I’m pretty sure there’s a nerve connecting my inner elbow to my clit.

Before I’m ready, Christophe pulls away. He kisses my palm and places my hand face up in my lap. “Tell me, Tessa Savage, do you make love like you play poker? Like you drink Scotch?”

My eyes fly open. My fingers curl into fists. I scooch back on the couch. “That sounds like an insult.”

“Not an insult, a simple question.”

“I don’t think I want to answer that.”

“So the answer is yes.”

“No.”

For the amount I moved away, Christophe moves one and a half times closer. His smile is so fucking seductive and knowing I want to kiss it right off his face. “Let me guess how it goes for you.”

“Fine. Go ahead and try.”

His nearness makes me quiver and I grasp onto my thighs to keep him from seeing how much he affects me.

“You meet a lover, someone you haven’t seen in a while and the two of you can’t keep your hands off one another.”

I shake my head and frown. Not because he’s wrong…

“Kissing wildly, passionately.” He glances at where my legs are crossed. “Your pussy already dripping wet just from the thought of the reunion.” He shifts on the couch. “His cock hard the moment he sees you.”

I raise my finger to stop him right there but he plows right ahead.

“Your clothes fly off. Some get torn in the process. All that pretty lingerie, disposable. Barely appreciated.”

How the hell does he know about my penchant for pretty lingerie?

“Once you’re naked, he pushes you down on the bed. The act has become primal. The two of you functioning on instinct. Him needing to claim you. You needing to be pinned beneath his weight. Both of you needing to be joined and making it happen like wild animals. Hard and fast.”

I stop trying to interrupt him.

He takes my hand, unclenches my fist and gently caresses my damp palm while his gaze never leaves mine.

“Fucking,” he whispers, his fingers weaving between mine.

I lick my lips.

“Hard. You like it hard.”

A tiny whimper tickles up my throat.

“Racing toward your goal of momentary bliss.” His fingers trail softly to my wrist and up my forearm, his touch in complete contrast with his words.

“Needing to release.” His hand moves gently up my shoulder to my neck.

“Needing to explode…” His words trail off as his thumb slides into my mouth.

“And then you do.”

My eyes are closed and I feel him lean in. He’s going to kiss me. I know it. I want it.

“Your orgasm rockets through you.” His breath fans my face. “Destroying you for one brief moment. Unable to think or act.” His voice so low, so deep, the timbre of it plays a chord deep in my belly.

God! How does he know me so well? I suck on his thumb in a way that I hope tells him I’ve dropped all pretense of being unavailable.

“And then…” he says softly. “It’s gone.” He pulls away, moves away. I feel the loss of his heat and the absence of his scent.

“Poof.” Christophe snaps his fingers like a hypnotist bringing a subject out of hypnosis.

I open my eyes, blinking in order to focus. I clear my throat. “Sounds lovely.”

“Unsustainable. Eventually, unsatisfying. Not Tantric.”

“Fuck Tantric. Sounds pretty damn hot to me.”

He regards me with a heavy lidded, intense look. “That is drinking fine whiskey with ice, much too quickly to enjoy it and all its intricacies. Playing poker blindly. These are all the same sort of practices.”

“So?”

“So, I think you would enjoy experiencing making love in another way.”

What is it about his voice? Is it the timbre? The accent? Whatever it is, the mere sound sets off fireworks in my belly and rains little shivery stardust down my neck and bare arms.

“Where the goal is not a momentary orgasm, but an orgasmic state.”

“Orgasmic state?” I shake my head. “Not possible.”

His smile says it is.

Damn, his smile!

“Either way, I can’t.”

Wow. Where did that resolve come from?

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“You’re afraid.”

“Excuse me?”

“In order to experience what I speak of, there must be connection, a deep bond. This scares you.”

For whatever reason, I go from hot to cold within the span of his statement. “You think you know me but you don’t.” I point at the glass. “You may have been right about the scotch, Monsieur Chevalier, but the only other thing you’ve been right about tonight is the fact that you and I
do not
share a connection.”

“But we do.”

“No. We don’t.”

When I don’t get up to leave—which is something I definitely should be doing—he smiles.

“You and I are so much alike it is as if we are two halves of a whole. Together we could be magnificent.”

“How can you say that when you’ve just met me? You don’t know me.”

“I have seen you before. Watched you.”

“Stalked me.”

He laughs. “I know you better than you think. You are me two years ago.”

“What does that mean?”

“Shall I tell you about yourself? Then you can tell me if I’m wrong.”

“Go ahead.” I wave dismissively. “Try if you must.”

He settles back on the couch with glass in hand, never taking his eyes off me. After an extra-long pause that is surely meant to make me feel uncomfortable, he says, “You have enough money to live in luxury, yet material things mean nothing to you. Your life is about experiencing as much as you can, not accumulating as much as you can. So, you love often but not deeply.”

“See, you’re wrong. I do love deeply.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Why does the word sound like a question instead of a statement?

He does that tilted head gesture and drinks. Afterwards he says, “I used to think I did too. I had many love affairs, with beautiful, exciting women.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “But always,
always
the excitement faded. The scenario I described to you? Tearing at one another’s clothes, the fierce need of being inside of a lover’s body? I lived that for so many years, the excitement intoxicating…it always ends.” Finishing his scotch, he sets the glass down on the table. His gaze meets mine. “So, I would find another. And another. And then the quicker I traded one lover in for the next, the quicker the feelings of passion subsided.” He reaches across the table and takes my clenched hands, rubbing my knuckles. “I became more demanding. Needing more all the time. Anger taking the place of love.”

I try to pull away but his hold is too tight, as if he’s reliving some of the anger in his previous relationships. I can totally picture him, the fierce dominant, tying up his lovers and taking them hard, always needing more, more, more.

“Until I discovered Tantra.” His grip loosens. “And I realized I was going about it all the wrong way.”

I slowly pull my hands from his softened grasp. “So, how does this relate to me?”

“You are the same. Going from one lover to the next. Always looking for new experiences. Always needing more.”

“Ah.” I raise my finger at him. “That is where we differ. Your relationships were not satisfying. Mine are.”

“Are they?”