Frenched Series Bundle (56 page)

“No.” He threw the gown on the bench at the foot of the bed and swept me off my feet. “No more waiting.”

“What? I thought you said I was worth the wait,” I protested as he carried me over to the bed.

“You
are
worth it, love. And you deserve a man who’d wait all night.” He tossed me onto the bed and braced himself above me. “But I am not that man.”

But I have wedding night lingerie
, I wanted to argue, but when his mouth closed over my breast and his fingers slipped between my thighs, I stopped thinking about what I wanted to put on and thought only about what I wanted to take off—like everything Lucas was wearing.

“See?” Lucas whispered, easily sliding one finger, and then two, inside me. “You don’t want to wait either.” His tongue circled one hard, pink nipple before taking it into his mouth and sucking.

I groaned, arching my back and threading my fingers through his hair. “No, I don’t want to wait. I just wanted to—oh!” I gasped when he bit me, but moaned in pleasure when he soothed the sting with his warm, wet tongue. “I just wanted to give you something pretty to look at.”

He picked up his head. “Nothing is prettier than what I have right here in front of me. Just you, your body, your skin. Every inch of you.” He planted kisses down my stomach and pushed my thighs apart, making my insides tremble. “Let me taste you.”

“Yes,” I whispered as his tongue swept up the seam of my body. “Yes,” I whispered as he swirled delicious little circles around my clit. “Yes,” I whispered as he flicked it lightly before sucking it into his mouth. “Oh God, that feels so good.” I kept my hands in his hair, holding his mouth right where I wanted it, becoming greedier and needier with every passing second. “I love your mouth on me,” I said, looking down at the dark curls buried between my legs. “I love it when you fuck me with your tongue.” He groaned, pushing his hips into the bed.

“Lucas, I want you inside me. Now.” I fisted my hands in his hair and pulled him up. I was one breath away from an orgasm, but I wanted to wait for him.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, finally working them free. I tugged at it, and he shifted his weight to his knees just long enough to wrest it from his arms and throw it to the floor. His pants and underwear followed, and a moment later his body covered mine again, and he was sliding into me.

Looking up at him, my heart pounding, I thought how lucky I was that this gorgeous man had spoken vows to me this afternoon. Yes, the wedding had been everything I’d dreamed about and all the details had been perfect, but if I forgot the taste of the champagne or the sound of the guitar or the scent on the breeze, I wouldn’t care. Because I had this, this, for the rest of my life. This feeling of opening myself to him, being filled by him. As he moved over me, his hips thrusting slowly but pushing deep, I wrapped my legs around him and swept his hair back from his face. “I loved today. But I’d have eloped, you know. All I wanted, all I will ever want, is right here.”

“I know. But today made you happy. And seeing you happy is everything to me.”

I smiled. “Then I guess you have everything, because I am
insanely
happy right now.”

“I do,” he whispered, rocking into me with a little more pace. “I do have everything—even a wife.”

“Oh God—I love—being your wife.” My hands moved down his sides and over his ass, and I pulled him tight to my body, lifting my hips to take him deeper, feel pressure and friction just where I needed it. “I love—everything—about it. Especially—“

“My cock?” Lucas finished for me, fucking me harder and faster.

I laughed deliriously—at the joke, at the way he could read my mind, at the way he made me fall deeper in love with him when I didn’t think it was possible.

And then words were lost to us as our bodies spoke another language, one of sighs and gasps and incoherent cries of pleasure as we took each other to the brink of rapture, and then beyond.

In French, orgasm is sometimes called
la petite mort
, which, when translated literally, means “the little death.” When Lucas first told me that, I argued that, on the contrary, I never feel more alive than when I have an orgasm with him.

“It’s not that it kills anything,” he explained. “It’s more like…it takes something from you. Some element of life force, or energy, and that’s why you feel so depleted and exhausted afterward.”

I could definitely see that.

But that night, our wedding night—a night of many little deaths, let me tell you—I began to understand the phrase on a different level. It’s not that I hadn’t had a thousand blissful climaxes with Lucas before, but somehow, now that we were willingly, timelessly bound to each other, it felt different. Somehow I had a deeper appreciation for the
exchange
of intimacy—we were giving one another something more than pleasure, something more than love, even. Something that resided deeper inside us than flesh and bone, deeper than mind and heart. A piece of our souls?

Maybe.

I don’t know if I believe in soul mates or fate or one perfect person that complements you in some cosmic, enchanted way. But when I think about taking some part of Lucas inside my soul and keeping him there, I am completely at peace—for me, it is heaven.

So if I have to die a little death to get there, I’ll do it willingly. Thoroughly. And hopefully, often.

Those French really know their stuff.

Pleasures tasted sparingly and with difficulty

have always a higher relish…

Heloise d’Argenteuil

I’m in the shower. The light in the bathroom is low, just a few scented candles burning on the vanity. The air is heavy and warm and suffused with the scent of orange blossoms. I close my eyes, the tension in my muscles melting away. When I open them again, a shadow appears beyond the curtain. Before I can scream, the curtain is thrown aside.

I gasp.

It’s Brad Pitt.

In his Achilles armor. (But not the silly helmet.)

His hungry warrior eyes devour the sight of my wet, naked body as he wrests the breastplate from his chest. It makes no sound as it hits the tile floor. “I want you.”

“But Brad…” My eyes widen with shock as he sheds his leather… (skirt? shorts? No, that’s not right. Tunic! Tunic is good. Manly but still Greek.) …his leather tunic. “What about Angelina?”

“That unsightly hag? She’s dead to me.”

My nipples pucker at the sight of his rock hard body. His movie star skin is radiant in the flickering light. So is mine, and not in the usual blanched, I-just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock-pass-the-SPF 90 way, either. In my fantasy, I am not pale…I am golden. I am shimmering. I am luminous.

But enough about me.

Brad Pitt steps into the shower.

At this point, I make a sort of half-hearted attempt to hide my nakedness behind the curtain, but my modesty is no match for Brad Pitt’s lust. Through the steamy semi-darkness, I see his towering cock, feel his penetrating stare, sense his uncontrollable desire. My legs start to tremble.

“Give me what I want, or I’ll take it from you.” He backs me against the wall, his muscular chest barely brushing the tips of my breasts, because Brad Pitt knows how sensitive they are. How crazy a light touch drives me.

“No.” My protest is demure, feeble. It turns him on.

Without another word, he grabs my wrists and pins them behind my head. Holding them there with one hand, he slides the other one between my legs, running the length of his index finger through my silken folds. I try to get my hands free, but I’m no match for the strength in even one of his warrior arms. “What are you going to do to me?” I whimper.

“I’m going to fuck you, Erin. Right now.” He takes his warrior cock in his hand and rubs my clit with the tip. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the tension coiling at the center of my body. “Fuck me. Right now.”

He slides in slowly, a little at a time, until he’s buried to the hilt, practically lifting me right off my feet. Then his cock begins to vibrate against my clit but it’s Brad Pitt so I don’t question it or anything and he’s whispering dirty words and fucking me hard and I want to claw at his perfect warrior ass but I can’t because I cuffed one hand to the towel bar behind my head with my pink fuzzy cuffs like it’s him restraining me and the other is holding my vibrator and oh god oh god oh god Brad Pitt can make me come so hard…

“Yes!” I cry out softly as the orgasm swells to the breaking point, my core muscles clenching the firm shaft of the Naughty Rabbit. “Oh God, Brad, you’re so—“

THUMP.

My eyes opened. Did I just hear something downstairs?

Fumbling with the off switch, I removed the Naughty Rabbit and hid it behind my back, as if shame would be my biggest problem if some intruder was in my house. (Actually, the thing was pretty solid. I could’ve probably used it as a weapon.) With my heart hammering in my chest, I set the vibrator down, uncuffed my hand from the towel bar, turned off the water, and listened.

Nothing.

I stayed that way, dripping and breathless and shaking for another minute or so, then I pulled the curtain aside. The bathroom door was still closed.

But I couldn’t remember locking it.

Stepping over the side of the tub with the fuzzy cuffs still dangling from my left wrist, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the lock didn’t pop.

Omigod!
My jaw dropped open and my hands flailed. I’d been so anxious to get to the Brad Pitt part of my crummy day that I’d forgotten to lock the door! I lived alone, but I always, always locked the bathroom door when I showered at night, especially if I was taking toys in with me. (After all, my mother had a key to my house.) But I’d been so worked up—and tipsy—when I came upstairs that I hadn’t done it.
Note to self: three glasses of wine in an hour is too many.

Suddenly I couldn’t recall double-checking the lock on the front or back door before coming upstairs, either. Wait, had I even locked it after coming in from the grocery store? My stomach churned as I tried to piece together the last couple hours—after a late rehearsal at the studio and two difficult conversations with helicopter dance moms, I’d gone to Kroger, come home, put away groceries, and answered a phone call from another dance mom I should have ignored. Looking to unwind, I’d guzzled some wine and gotten distracted by Troy on HBO when suddenly the urge to shower with Brad took hold and I couldn’t ignore it (I wouldn’t have turned down Eric Bana or Orlando Bloom either. Sweet Jesus, all three of them in one movie…). Telling myself I deserved a little break from reality after the week I’d had, I’d poured a third glass of wine, stumbled upstairs, and dug out my personal Secret Box of Sexy from under my bed. The wine and the Box were now sitting on the vanity next to the candles in a sad little romantic display of a typical Friday night in my life.

But I had a bigger problem.

Had someone gotten into my house? Worse, was he still there? Friday night fantasies aside, an actual stranger intruding on my shower was not sexy.

Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, I held it to my chest and peeked out into that hallway.

Nothing.

But something wasn’t right. I could sense it. With dread coursing through my veins, I slid the cuffs off my wrist, tossed them into the Box and hastily dried myself a little. Still half wet, I exchanged the towel for the robe on the bathroom door hook and slipped my arms into the sleeves, moving slowly, trying to calm my galloping-out-of-control heart by telling myself not to be paranoid.
Really, what are the chances that the one night you forgot to double check the locks is the night something bad happens? And you probably locked them anyway; you always do.

But just in case, I said a quick Hail Mary.

Confession: I am not a very good Catholic. My Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Unfailing Prayers to St. Anthony and whatnot unfailingly coincide with moments of great calamity or impending humiliation in my life. I try to make up for this by attending mass (sort of) regularly and helping out at the Capuchin Soup Kitchen on holidays. Whether or not this actually evens the scales as far as God is concerned remains to be seen, but so far so good.

Tiptoeing into the hall, I immediately felt cool air blowing up the stairway. A draft, as if I’d left a door not just unlocked, but open.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
Poised at the top of the stairs, I listened hard, but my heart was booming so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else. My chest hurt, too. After a minute or two of tense silence, I started down the stairs. It’s nothing, I told myself, although a small part of my brain thought I might be having a heart attack.
Maybe I left a window open. Maybe I didn’t lock the door and it blew open. Maybe I just forgot to turn the heat up when I got home from the studio and that’s why it feels cool. See? Look at that, front door’s closed.

I tried the handle. Locked.

Exhaling in relief, I walked to the back of my townhouse, through the small front room and dining room into the kitchen.

Which was where I panicked.

Because the back door was open.

Frantically, I scanned the kitchen counters, my breath trapped in my lungs.

My purse was gone.

My computer was gone.

My iPad was gone.

My phone was gone.

For a few moments, I stood blinking in disbelief, like maybe there was some mistake and I’d somehow simply misplaced the items. But all the power cords and chargers were there, and I knew I’d plugged my phone in after hanging up with that mother earlier. It didn’t take long before reality sank in—I’d forgotten to lock the door. Someone had been in here and stolen my things.

Someone could still be in here.

Too stunned and scared to even make a sound, I bolted back through the dining room and front room and right up the stairs to my bedroom, where (at my mother’s insistence) I had an actual land line phone.

I locked the door and dialed 911, gave the dispatcher my address and a rundown—leaving out the part about showering with Brad Pitt—and told her I was staying put until the cops checked the entire house and told me it was safe to come out.

I forgot about the Box of Sexy.

It was that kind of day.

#

I waited under my covers the entire time the police were checking the house, about twenty minutes. I had the phone under there with me, and I called both Mia and Coco, but neither of them answered their phones. I left messages, telling them what happened and begging both of them to call me back. I would’ve called my mother, but she’d left this morning for a twelve-day religious pilgrimage to Spain.
I should have gone with her, like she wanted me to. Now God is punishing me! He knows I have unholy thoughts about Brad Pitt (a married man!) and now I have to pay for it!

A knock sounded on my locked bedroom door, making me jump.

“Ma’am? We’ve checked the house. There’s no one here.” The officer’s voice was deep and reassuring. “When you’re ready, we’d like to speak with you. We’ll wait in the kitchen.”

I peeked out from the covers, eyeing the door suspiciously. “How do I know you’re really the police and not the intruder?”

“Well, you could open the door and take a look at me in uniform.”

“No way. Slide your badge under the door or something.” That’s what they did in the movies, right?

“Come on, Erin. Open the door.”

“No. And how do you know my name?”

“The police department has all kinds of useful information, like who lives where. Either that or I’m psychic.”

I made a face at the door. Did I know this guy? His voice was familiar somehow, but I couldn’t think of who it could be. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“You never did have much of a sense of humor. Now come on out and see me in uniform. I think you’ll be impressed. The ladies usually are.”

My jaw dropped. Who on earth was this? Curiosity got the better of me, and I threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. In front of the door I paused for a second, my hand on the handle, thinking that if it was a scary hairy madman I’d be ready to give him a great big
grand battement
to the balls. Then I turned the handle and yanked it open.

Oh dear.

Oh
dear
.

The crazy thing was, he was so handsome I had the fleeting thought this whole burglary thing was a hoax and this “cop” was actually a stripper. For a second I just stared at him, half expecting him to rip open his shirt at the chest and start gyrating.

Confession: I really, really wished he would. (For a couple of reasons.)

But he didn’t.

“Have I changed that much, Red?”

It hit me. “Oh my God. Charlie Dwyer. You’re a
cop?
”

He smiled, and if he hadn’t been such a turd when we were younger, I might have melted right there at his feet. As it was, I could only shake my head in disbelief at this nightmare—not only had more than two thousand dollars’ worth of electronics been stolen from my townhouse while I was upstairs getting myself off, but here to protect me was the bully next door who’d kidnapped my hamster for ransom and held up my charity lemonade stand with a Taser. And he was drop-dead gorgeous! Where was the justice in the world?

“Since your manners are evidently lacking in the wake of this unfortunate event, I’ll take the lead here. Nice to see you again.” Charlie held out his hand, and I took it without thinking. He didn’t really shake it; he just sort of closed his fingers around my palm and held it. I looked at our hands—mine was much smaller and paler. He squeezed it gently. “You’re shaking.”