Who was standing here, now, in front of her, a glass of champagne in his long fingers, just as she held one in hers. It was probably an exquisite vintage, she knew, but she was incapable of doing it justice. Every atom of her being was focussed on one thing, and one thing only—being here with him.
‘To us, together at last,’ said Xavier, and took a sip from his glass.
She made herself do likewise, though she was hardly aware of doing so. She was only aware of the man who, this very night, was going to take her to his bed.
And she would go. Willingly, ardently. Xavier Lauran wanted her—had come for her—had swept her off to Paris—and she wanted him with every cell in her body, every fibre of her being. Her breath caught for the thousandth time as she gazed up at him, at the lean, elegant body, the incredible planes of his face, and into those dark, long-lashed eyes gazing down into hers with a message in them that turned her knees to jelly, that sent her pulse soaring into the stratosphere. All thought was gone. Only the wonder and thrill of the moment possessed her.
She watched him set aside his glass on an antique tallboy, and then reach to take hers from nerveless fingers. He smiled down at her. She felt her legs dissolve. The smile was warm and intimate and for her alone. His hand lifted, and with the backs of his fingers he stroked gently down her cheek.
She could not breathe, could not speak—could only stand there while his touch caressed her. So lightly—so devastatingly. She felt her skin come alive beneath his touch, her breathing quicken suddenly as his hand turned, and now his fingertips were brushing with tantalising sensuousness over the contours of her lips.
He had stepped closer. She wasn’t sure when—wasn’t sure of anything except the sweet, honeying sensation that was dissolving through her.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he said, and his voice was soft. It sent a tremor of arousal through her, and her eyelids fluttered of their own accord as he held her eyes with his long-lashed dark gaze. She wanted to touch him. To lift her fingers to that sable hair, to feather it and run her fingertip along the high line of his cheekbone. She felt her hand lift.
He caught it. Swiftly, with a soft, encircling grip around her wrist. His hold was not hard, but she could not escape.
‘No,’ he told her, and his voice had the very slightest husk to it. ‘First I want to touch you.’
She let him touch. Let the delicate pads of his fingers explore her lips, the line of her throat, the tender lobes of her ear, the sensitive nape of her neck. And then slide down, down into the valley of the blouse she had hurriedly put on. One by one he slipped the buttons, all the time his eyes holding hers, and she simply stood there, incapable of moving, incapable of anything except letting the exquisite sensation swirl slowly through her, weakening her whole body.
He parted her blouse. Already her breasts were swelling, responding to the sensuous play of his touch, and as his thumbs grazed over her nipples beneath the fine material of her bra they flowered instantly. She gave a little sigh in her throat at the sensation, and then he was sliding her blouse from her shoulders, so that it fluttered to the floor. In the same movement his fingers had slipped open the fastening of her bra, and he peeled that from her, as well.
Then his hands returned to her breasts. They were fully ripe now, heavier than they had ever been, and yet again he turned his hands over and gently, so gently, began to brush the sides of the backs over the twin orbs. The sensation was exquisite, and Lissa felt her head drop backwards, her lips parting. Yet for all the exquisiteness of the sensation there was a lack, too—a yearning within her. Her breasts lifted, and the sheer delicacy of his touch as he stroked them to yet further ripeness was almost unbearable. And then, at last, his fingers trailed over the ripened peaks, his fingers scissoring with almost leisurely enjoyment over their straining coral tips.
Sensation shot through her, quickening her, and her lips parted more.
‘Xavier—’ She breathed his name on an exhalation.
He didn’t answer her, but the long lashes of his eyes swept down as he brought his gaze to where his fingers were.
‘Belle—’ he said softly.
For timeless moments he continued to stroke and play with her breasts, until Lissa could almost no longer bear the exquisiteness of his touch. She felt her body sway. She was hot with desire, unaware of anything except the deliciousness of the sensation in her breasts. And yet she was aware of something—aware that it was not enough, not nearly enough.
As if he read her desire for more, he slid his hands downwards, over the slender wand of her body, his fingers splaying out across her bare flanks. His hands slipped around her waist, and she felt the loosening glide of the zip of her skirt, then the swooshing fall as it cascaded to the ground. She stepped out of it, a little sideways step that she scarcely noticed. Because every atom of her being was focussed on what Xavier was doing next.
His hands were cupping the lush roundness of her bottom, fingers spread, stroking and lifting. Lifting her into himself. He let his hips rest against hers, and with a surge of sudden excitement Lissa felt the hard, revealing strength of his arousal. Her breath caught and her eyes went to his.
There was knowledge in his eyes, and a rich, deep desire.
‘And now, cherie, it is time for you to touch me,’ he said softly.
For a moment she hesitated. She was supremely conscious of the fact that she was standing against him, stripped to her skimpy panties, her breasts swollen and peaked, her hair loose down her naked back—a woman waiting to be taken to his bed while he, fully aroused, was also fully clothed. The contrast shivered through her with erotic intensity.
Her arms lifted, and she draped them loosely around his neck. The movement brought the breasts he had caressed to ripened fullness into contact with his suited body. She felt the contact of his jacket against her nipples, and the sensation excited her yet more.
Her breathing quickened yet again.
She softly pressed hips barely covered by the thin silk of her panties against his, and felt the delicious contact there, as well. Against a yet more intimate part of her body.
She watched his face—quite deliberately. There was a line of tension along his cheekbones. It sent a thrill through her. Oh, she might be one of many women a man as gorgeous as Xavier Lauran could have for his pleasure, but right now she was the woman in his arms—she was the one who was causing that tension, that arousal, that absolute focus of his extreme attention.
It would not last. She knew it with a distant portion of her mind. But she did not care. She would pay the price when it came, and come it would, and then she would return to her real life, but for now she would have what she had never thought she would have, never thought she would experience.
For one delicious moment longer she held still, simply revelling in the feel of her silk-veiled pubis against the strength of his straining shaft, then she leaned back slightly from him, so that their hips were still in contact but she had the space to draw her hands back from around his neck.
Her fingers went to his tie. Teased open the knot. Then, never losing contact with his eyes, which were locked to hers, she slowly slid the tie out from beneath his collar. She discarded it on the floor. It lay, coiled, beside her bra and her other clothes, unseen, unattended to. She had more to attend to with her fingers.
One by one she slipped the buttons on his shirt, easing and teasing each button loose with deliberate slowness. As she worked her way down, the backs of her fingers rested on the smooth white surface of his shirt. She could feel the heat from his hard flesh beneath. Soon, so very soon, her fingers would be gliding over that smooth, firm flesh.
Opened, she eased the shirt little by little from his waistband, and then, when it was loose, her hands went back to his shoulders. His gaze was still locked to hers, still unreadable, although she knew perfectly well, with every feminine instinct, that he was exerting supreme control over his reactions, forcing himself to stay immobile