Authors: Wylie Snow
Momentarily speechless, Clara couldn’t shift her gaze from their interlocked hands. It felt right and natural, and they fit together perfectly. His long, tapered fingers were tanned to a lovely bronze against her pale skin and French manicure. It made her nervous, excited, fluttery, but she wouldn’t pull away. Never.
She looked into his eyes, stunningly blue in the artificial light, and said the only thing that came to mind. “I could pull a Charlie and tell you about my politics and religion.”
“You could, but I’d rather hear your views on spanking.”
“Naughty, Luc. Spanking should never be discussed before politics.”
“Right,” he said with a solemn nod.
Luc guided her from the booth and out the door without letting her hand go. “So, politics,” he said, once they were on the street. “We could start with Italy’s ex-prime minister’s shocking indiscretions, and that should segue nicely into spanking,
non
?”
“Good heavens, no. That’s all very passé.”
“Passé?”
“Yes, yes, completely over-discussed in Europe. Can’t find a pub patron who isn’t willing to give their two pence on that Italian man-whore. Any juicy tidbits in Canadian politics?”
“Uninspiring, unfortunately. They never seem to get up to any shenanigans.”
“What about the Americans? Surely there’s some wickedness happening over here.”
“Nope, sorry. Not since the Clinton administration. How about Great Britain?”
“All rather dreary on that front, I’m afraid.”
“We may have to go straight to religion,” Luc suggested.
“Agreed, but where do we start? It’s like a bloody buffet of scandal there.”
“At the top, of course. The Borgia Pope is our best bet.”
“Too right,” Clara said with a nod, admiring his choice. “The Borgias were notoriously scandalous.”
“The whole sister-brother-father sex triangle… very creepy.”
“
That
,” she corrected, “was never proven, you know. In fact, there are many who feel Lucrezia was a victim and not a willing participant.”
“You’re delusional. The whole family was poison.”
“Pun intended?” Clever Luc, referring to the Borgia’s alleged penchant for poisoning their enemies.
“Of course,” he said with a wink.
A wink!
The sheer playfulness of the conversation, verbally sparring with a man whose intelligence spanned geographical borders and world history, made her lightheaded.
The rest of the stroll along Ocean Drive was magical. They flirted shamelessly, hand in hand, while Luc pointed out some of the famous art deco landmarks. They wandered down to the beach and, while Clara dipped her toes into the surf, their conversation forayed into waters inappropriately deep for a first date—serious politics. Their only point of contention was the legalization of marijuana: Luc argued for, and not because he used but because he felt it should be controlled as a taxable industry and get it out of back alleys and the hands of organized crime, while Clara argued against because she didn’t want her airline pilot stoned while flying.
“At least you could smell a boozy captain or taxi driver!”
she argued.
Best of all, they laughed.
The high wire of emotions she’d been balanced on this past year since her accident had grown progressively taut with worries about the takeover, Biscuit’s death, and her impending doom as a food critic. None of these issues would have been so draining had they not been bundled together. Clara felt as if invisible bogeymen were clawing at her from all sides, waiting for her to slip up so they could mercilessly consume her.
Yet, the moment she laid eyes on Luc, as cliché as it seemed, she felt calmer, safer, shielded against those nasty, grabbing monsters.
She gave herself a little mental finger shake for acting like one of
those
women, women who believed a man could make all of her problems go away. No matter how bloody gorgeous, Luc hadn’t made her dog come back to life, couldn’t magically restore her damaged brain, and couldn’t secure her job. Logically, he was simply providing a temporary distraction from it all.
But she couldn’t argue with how at peace she felt.
“Oh, we’re home,” Clara said, disappointed to find her hotel in front of them. “Thank you, Luc, for a most engaging evening.”
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Clara.”
He should have left, she should have gone into the hotel, but neither moved. She sensed he didn’t want the night to end any more than she did.
“I should see you in. I promised Lydia.”
“Ah yes. Miami is a dangerous place.”
Luc followed her into the white lobby, lit brighter than the noonday sun to highlight the works of art. As they walked beside the row of busts, Luc whispered, “Notoriously dangerous. You never know what could happen. There could be menace behind every pedestal, peril lurking in shadows.”
“What do you mean?” she laughed. “There are no shadows in this halogenic gallery!”
“Mayhem brewing at every turn,” he continued as they rounded the corner to the elevator.
Clara smiled as she stepped into the waiting, vacant car. She didn’t know what would happen next, but her insides flip-flopped with anticipation as she turned to face the door. He stood on the other side, giving no indication he was going to follow her any further.
Bugger.
Chapter 6
W
ithout thinking, Clara slapped her
hand against cold steel frame to prevent the door from coming between them. She recalled that movie with Gwyneth Paltrow—the one where she missed a train, stopped by the sliding doors, changing her life’s path. “Should I not worry from here, then? Has the lift been declared a safe zone?” she asked, forcing a nervous smile.
Luc couldn’t say goodbye here, like this. Not without a hug or a handshake. They’d forged a friendship, hadn’t they? A flirty, fun bond that surely warranted a kiss, at the very least.
Clara was about to step back out, but the elevator door jerked forward. Luc slid his foot into its path, holding it there until the door surrendered back into the wall.
“You’re the most dangerous thing in Miami at the moment.” His tone was light but his eyes were dark, unreadable.
“Am I? Surely you’re not afraid of a little spanking?” It was a brave attempt at levity on her part. She would quite simply die if this was to be the last time she laid eyes on Luc.
His mouth, full-lipped and sinfully sexy, quirked up in the corners, but only when he crossed the threshold did Clara release the breath she’d been holding. Relief quickly turned to raw excitement, the kind usually reserved for the first incline on a rollercoaster ride, as she leaned forward to press the number three.
A hot shiver blasted up her spine, sparking the part of her brain that sent signals to the rest of her, prompting her knees to wobble, her nipples to perk up, her inner muscles to clench. She bit her tongue, scared she’d spontaneously titter.
They rode in silence, unspoken intentions filling the enclosed space with heat. They were steps from her door before she had the courage to ask, “What made you change your mind?”
“If you didn’t arrive in your room safely, I’d have to answer to your friend Lydia and, just between us, I’m scared to death of her.”
Clara giggled. Again. She’d laughed more on this night than any time she could remember. It was freeing and wonderful. Better than champagne.
Luc took hold of her hand and tugged her to a stop, bringing her around to face him. “You have a delightful laugh.” His voice resonated through her like the bass strings of a cello, making her quiver from head to toe.
“Thank you.”
Her cheeks were on fire but weren’t as hot as the fingers that caressed her cheek. It was a slow burn as he trailed the back of his knuckles along the edge of her jaw. He continued up her cheek, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear with gentle deftness before cradling her in his palm. She wanted to turn her lips into his hand like a content kitten. Her eyes drifted shut, just for a moment, just long enough to enjoy the frisson of pleasure. She gave into the slight pressure of his thumb on the underside of her chin and tipped her head up.
This was it. The moment.
Her heart pumped a little faster, feeding blood to the gathering warmth in her belly. She swallowed as he took a step closer, forcing her back against the closed door. If God were a woman, she surely would have granted Clara her sense of smell, even for a brief moment, so she could fill her nose with this man. Every other sensory organ revelled in him—her eyes in his gorgeousness, her ears in his strangely accented voice, her skin when he touched her, and finally,
finally
, she was going to taste him.
“
You
scare me, too,” he whispered.
“Why ever so?” she asked, breathless and fluttery.
“At how badly I want to kiss you.”
Clara’s lips parted ever so slightly as she leaned into his solid length. She stole a glance toward his mouth, saw his tongue dart out, saw his nostrils flare, heard his breath quicken. She watched his sooty lashes drift down before her own fell, before his exquisite mouth pressed against hers.
His fingers wove into her hair, his tongue glided over her bottom lip before probing deeper. Heavenly bliss, the man could kiss. Deprived of his scent, Clara eagerly welcomed him into her hungry mouth, instantly intoxicated. She whimpered when it hit her—honey, cinnamon with berry undertones, and a finish of mocha. Her palate was as fulfilled as her libido. Luc’s kisses were an enthralling combination of teasing, pressure, and finesse.
Breathless and light-headed, she feared she would collapse if she didn’t hold on. She grasped the silk collar of his shirt and surrendered into him, kissing him back with fervor. She wasn’t exactly sure her feet were on the ground but didn’t dare break the connection to check.
She wanted more of him, to feel his flesh beneath her fingers.
Skin.
Clara tugged his shirt from his belted trousers and ran her palms up his hard torso, fingering the planes and ridges of his muscled abdomen. He tore his mouth from hers with a husky moan, snaked his fingers into her hair, and tugged her head back. A day’s growth of whiskers scraped her cheek as he trailed hungry kisses along the underside of her jaw, stopping on the pulse point, quickening it with his tongue.
The pain-pleasure barrier was an interesting concept. If one had sandpaper rubbed across one’s face, one would presumably feel discomfort, but when preceded by the pressure of warm, full lips, hot breath, and muttered sentiments like
so beautiful… so sweet… God, what are you doing to me?
one derives only the purest form of pleasure. And Luc’s beard was one hundred percent unadulterated pleasure.
He travelled to a tender point just below her ear and nibbled, his teeth grazing her flesh. Clara’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy and she let out a shameless moan. He seemed to hone in on the exact points that would bring her the most pleasure, as if they’d been marked with fat red
X
s.
She wanted him—his touch, his mouth, his body. Overwhelmed with raw need, she lost the good sense to plan her moves, her reactions, and blindly ran her palms across his chest, grasping indelicately at his unyielding muscle. She wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to lick him everywhere, but she could do little more than keep her knees locked and herself upright.
Luc’s mouth travelled lower, leaving a trail of whispered kisses down her neck and over the blade of her collarbone. He ran his hands down her bare arms and slid them around her rib cage. Her nipples pebbled, strained against the fabric of her dress. But he continued to play with her, moving only his thumb to skim the swollen, sensitive underside. An eternity later—or maybe seconds, who could tell—he brushed her with the palm of his hand.
Clara cried out, desperately wishing he’d rip her dress off, dispose of all the barriers. Instead, he rolled the hardened bud between thumb and forefinger through the thin material, squeezing with an achingly delicate touch. At the same time, he licked the shell of her ear, then caught the lobe between his teeth and nibbled as if his mouth were on her breast, as if he were teasing the throbbing peak with his tongue, devouring her. Her shoulders gave an involuntary shudder as a wave of desire flooded her core. She arched into him, pressed into his hand, sighed his name.
Luc cupped her bottom and pulled her against him so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him. His erection, bold and unapologetic, pressed against her.
Raw lust ripped through her. She wanted him, God she wanted him, on her, in her, all over her. Whatever bounds of propriety she possessed completely shattered. Shamelessly, she bracketed his face in her hands and brought his mouth back to hers, except this time she was leading the dance. Insatiable, she thrust her tongue between his parted lips and daringly explored.
He welcomed her, encouraged her with his throaty moans. Tongues clashed, fought for power, for satisfaction. There was no gentle choreography, no timing, no rhythm, just need. Demanding need.
Heat and need coursed through her veins. Clara wanted him.
Now
.
She hooked her ankle around his and rubbed her calf up the back of his leg. She pressed into the back of his knee, drawing his thigh against her,
there
, and practically exploded on the spot.
Luc reached under her skirt and stroked up the length of her thigh.
Clara’s skin felt hot and cold at the same time. Goosebumps spread over the surface of her arms, her back, anywhere Luc wasn’t touching, while the rest of her flamed. Her hips quivered, longing to thrust against him, but it wasn’t his thigh she wanted between her legs.
As if reading her thoughts, he removed his leg from between hers and replaced it with his hand. Clara gasped against his mouth as he cupped her mound. Dizzy and afraid her legs would give out, she snaked her arms around his shoulders and held on.
Clara’s knees trembled as Luc rubbed her with gentle pressure. She tore her mouth from his and buried her face against the taut muscles of his neck. “Oh yes. God, yes.”