In a blur, Ansel is on his feet and pulls me down onto the floor, falling on top of me and still hard enough that he can push inside with a steady, hard thrust. He looms above, blocking out even the tiny bit of light from the few candles still burning, and reaches up to pull the strap of my negligee off my shoulder, baring one of my br**sts.
“Did you come just now?” he whispers into my skin.
I nod. My pulse was barely slipping back to normal, but the feel of him stretching me even now brings all of my sensation back to the surface. I can feel his orgasm still wet on his stomach pressed to mine, on the hand he has curled around my hip. But feeling him begin to harden in me again so soon gives me a dizzying sense of power.
“If I had been Satan tonight . . .” he begins and then stops, his breath choppy so close to my ear.
The air between us seems to grow completely still.
“What, Ansel?”
His lips find my ear, my neck, and suck gently before he asks, “Have you ever been unfaithful?”
“No.” Sliding my hands up his back, I whisper, “But I did once shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”
He laughs and I feel my body squeezing his as he lengthens slightly, getting even harder.
I pull back slightly to look up at him. “The idea of marrying a killer turns you on? Something is wrong with you.”
“I love that you make me laugh,” he corrects. “That turns me on. Also, your body, and what you did tonight.”
He cups my other breast through the negligee, thumb passing back and forth over the peak. He is strong enough to break me in half, but the way he caresses my skin, it’s as if I’m too valuable to risk hurting.
I thought I might be the only one who noticed the new, fascinating sway to my hips, the heaviness of my br**sts, but I’m not. Ansel lingers at my br**sts, playing and pushing at them. French cuisine has been good for my body . . . though maybe I’m indulging a little more than I should. It doesn’t matter; I love the feel of my curves. Now I just need to find the Frenchwoman’s secret for enjoying it and still looking like she could fit inside a straw.
“You’re taking care of your body.” He hums into my chest, tongue sliding over my collarbone. “You know your husband wants more flesh on you. I like your hips fuller. I like to be able to squeeze your ass in my hands, feel your br**sts move over my face when you’re f**king me.”
How does he do this? His hair falls over one eye and he looks almost boyish, but his words are coarse on my skin. His breath, his fingertips, they brush across my ribs, the bottom swell of my breast, my nipple.
He begins to rock inside me, slowly, lips moving across my neck and up to my ear. My body responds, tensing and thrilled, waiting for the pleasure I know will make me explode. Like I’m made of a thousand tiny beating wings.
“Tonight, Cerise . . . thank you for wanting to save me.” He puts a tiny inflection on the last word.
It takes a beat for my brain to process the inflection but then adrenaline courses through me so fast my fingertips flush, my pulse thunders.
Come to France for the summer.
He knew his life didn’t have space for this but it didn’t matter. He was trying to save me first.
Chapter SIXTEEN
SOMEWHERE IN MY subconscious I sense Ansel crawling on the bed and hovering over me beneath a sun-warmed blanket cave. He wakes me up with the pressure of his stare.
I stretch, frowning up at his neatly pressed dress shirt, white with small purple geometric shapes.
“You’re going in to work?” I ask, my voice still thick with sleep. “Wait,” I add, once consciousness forces its way to the surface. “It’s Tuesday. Of course you’re going in to work.”
He kisses my nose, running a warm palm from my shoulder, down over my breast, to my waist. “I only have a few weeks left of this craziness,” he says.
“Me, too,” I say, laughing. And then my smile drops like a hammer out of the sky and I pout. “Ugh. Why did I even say that? Now I want to eat my feelings in the form of an enormous chocolate croissant.”
“Croissant,” he repeats, kissing me before whispering, “Better this time, Cerise. But we call it pain au chocolat.”
He touches my lip with his index finger. I smile and bite his fingertip. I don’t want him to be frustrated with my impending departure, either. We’re both so much happier when we’re pretending it doesn’t exist.
He pulls his hand back and runs it over my breast again. “I’m pretty sure Capitaux will settle eventually.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Me, too.” He kisses me, so softly, so earnestly that something swells painfully inside my chest. It can’t just be my heart because it sucks the air from my body, too. It can’t be only my lungs because it causes my pulse to race. It’s as if Ansel has taken up residence inside my rib cage, making
everything go haywire.
“Do you have very important plans for an adventure today?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Then today you practice speaking French,” he says, resolute.
“With who?”
“With Madame Allard downstairs. She loves you and thinks we’re going to have a baby soon.”
My eyes go wide and I press both hands to my stomach. “I have not gained that much weight.” I look down at my hands and ask, “Have I?”
He laughs, and bends to kiss me. “You don’t look very different from when you arrived. Tell me how you say ‘I’m not pregnant’ en français. You can go downstairs and tell her yourself.”