Текст книги "The Gilded Chain"
Автор книги: Lauren Smith
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“Come over here.” He scooted over so she could perch on the bed beside him as she handed him the pad. He took it with such obvious reverence, she started to blush. His keen gaze swept over the birds, not missing any detail. A wild flutter of nerves exploded in her stomach and her breath came a little shorter.
“You managed to capture them in motion. I always admire artists who can sketch a pose from memory when the subject is in constant motion.” His gaze drifted to the birds in the cage. The two lovebirds were nestled together, watching him and Callie.
“You little rascals,” he called out, then stroked Callie’s back. “They stop moving the instant you’re done. I bet they believe they’re training you in the difficult act of capturing their likenesses.”
Callie giggled, delighted that Wes was teasing her.
“I doubt that’s their secret goal.” She reached for her pad, but Wes moved it out of her reach.
“I’m not done looking.” He flipped back a page before she could stop him, staring at the image she’d drawn of him in bed. Callie held her breath for so long her lungs burned. Would he be angry? Would he not like it? She didn’t think she could bear either reaction.
“Callie.” His voice was soft and low, his hand on her back stilled.
She shifted restlessly, worry and tension knotted painfully in her stomach.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” he said and set the pad down before he leaned in and kissed her soundly.
Dazed by the quick, passionate, and all too thorough kiss, she blinked up at him.
“You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Of course not. I’m honored you drew me. You’re incredibly talented.” He traced her lips with his thumbs.
“No. I’m not. You don’t have to flatter me, Wes. I’m already in your bed.”
Dark clouds obscured the pure blue cobalt of his eyes.
“What we do in bed has nothing to do with this.” He lifted the pad up. “If you were an old man with a bald head and completely unattractive, I would still tell you the truth about your art. You are talented. Luckily for me, you’re a beautiful young woman who I happily seduced into my bed.” He captured her chin. “Never for a moment think that I want to encourage your art simply to bed you. I wouldn’t have cared about that if sex was the only thing I wanted. Do you understand?” His question seemed so earnest, as though he really did wish for her to understand.
“I think so,” she replied. He liked her, and her art. He wasn’t using her art as a way to sleep with her. He genuinely thought she had talent, and he genuinely desired her. That was a good thing.
When she smiled at him, the tension coiling in his body seemed to release.
“Good. Now why don’t you join me in bed. I’m still a little tired.” He set her pad safely out of the way and tugged her down beside him. She expected him to initiate sex and was surprised when he seemed content merely to hold her.
“This is nice,” she whispered, nuzzling his throat and closing her eyes. She’d always wanted to have this sort of intimacy with a man, but hadn’t, not until now. And the feel of her body with his nestled together like lovebirds made her chest nearly burst with a soft, sleepy warmth, like a glass of bourbon by a warm winter’s fire.
Wes rubbed her back with one hand and rested his cheek on the crown of her hair.
“At the risk of ruining this pleasant moment,” he said, laughing softly, “I want to talk to you about art school.”
She stiffened but his arms tightened around her, keeping her from retreating.
“Historically,” he continued, “artists with talent were financially supported by patrons. All I am proposing is that you allow me to be your patron.”
Callie breathed in his warm masculine scent and relaxed. When he phrased his argument like that, it made it impossible to argue without sounding silly.
When she raised her head and faced him, she gazed at his mouth firmed into a solid line. She brushed a finger over his pursed lips, smiling a little.
“Patron, huh? I could agree to that.”
His lips curved into a grin beneath her finger.
“Good. Then you don’t have any objections to spending the next week receiving some private lessons at the Louvre?”
“Private lessons at the Louvre?” Callie blinked, staring at him. “Is that even possible? Who would give me these lessons?”
“Quite a few talented artists I know would happily volunteer.” He seemed entirely serious.
“Okay…assuming you can get people to teach me, then I suppose I can’t refuse.”
“No.” Wes touched the tip of his nose to hers. “You can’t refuse, not any longer.” The blue of his eyes was scorching and she knew he was right. Whatever he gave her, out of bed, in bed, she couldn’t say no…and she didn’t want to.
“Darling, when your eyes burn me like that it makes me hard.” He lifted her onto his lap so she could straddle him. Then he fisted his hands in her hair and devoured her mouth. “Fuck, I want you wet for me.”
“I am.” She rubbed herself against the press of his erection through the thin layer of sheets that separated them, delighting at how comfortable she was becoming with her own sensuality.
“Not wet enough.” He suddenly flipped her flat on her back and she squealed, laughing as he wrestled her out of her shirt and panties, despite her halfhearted attempts to escape him. When she was naked and flush beneath his lean muscled body, she finally stilled in her struggles and surrendered to him.
She gasped when he thrust into her without warning, but she was more than ready. He pumped his hips, wild and hard, gazing down at her as he claimed her. He kept her wrists pinned on either side of her head. No matter how she fought him, it was no use and that excited her all the more. The idea that he’d keep her beneath him, helpless, only to bring them both pleasure was what made the difference in her arousal. Being restrained by him only ever ended in pleasure, so much pleasure she would scream again and again if he didn’t muffle her mouth with his. Wes groaned and sank deeper into her, the pressure of him filling her too much to bear for her to keep silent, either.
“Wes,” she moaned, arching her back, her breasts aching for his attention.
With a little knowing smile, he swiveled his hips, striking a spot deep inside her. “Unable to get free, baby,” he said and laughed darkly. “Makes you that much wetter for me, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, God, yes.” He’d reduced her to one-word expressions. The connection between them only deepened as he filled every part of her.
“Can you take more? Harder?” Wes growled out the questions, his focus on her face as if memorizing her reactions to his every move.
She nodded, out of breath. She could. She wanted more, harder. He slowed his pace but deepened his penetrations and at the same time making them harder. Throwing her head back, she arched with each jerk of his hips. Wes dropped his head toward her, nipping her chin, her throat, teasing her lips in ghostly kisses, making her desperate. Her fingers curled into fists as she panted and whimpered. Without mercy, he claimed her so completely, their union consuming her, burning her up until she had nothing left to give and all she could do was embrace the fine line of pain and pleasure.
“Let me see your eyes,” he demanded, his voice rough.
She met his eyes and what she saw unmade her, like a star in the distant reaches of the galaxy, bursting in a brilliant flash of light. She saw desire and need beyond the physical in his face and that exploded her from the inside out. He needed her in a way no one ever had and it filled her with excitement and hope. She exploded with pleasure and his body shook above her as he shouted and then settled heavily upon her. Struggling to breathe, she sucked in breath after breath, hoping to ease the wild beating of her heart and the thundering blood in her ears.
Wes, panting and grinning, rolled their still-fused bodies so she lay on top. He pulled the blankets up around them and then lifted one of her hands to his lips. He kissed the tips of her fingers, then her knuckles, and then the inside of her palm. Wes’s eyes were soft, and the tiny lines around his eyes showed as he smiled at her. Her heart squeezed and she took one of his hands and kissed the inside of his palm. His hands were an object of fascination to her. The fingers were strong, yet long and elegant. Hands that held her, hands that stroked and teased her until she forgot her name.
“Are you happy you came here with me?” he asked, his expression gravely serious.
It was hard to explain what she felt. Up until now, she’d ridden down one path, a path clear and open. But when Fenn had gotten engaged, she’d felt as skittish as a filly during a storm, and she’d run off her path and into the dark wooden glen of a place she’d never been. This new world was exciting but frightening at times. There were just as many shadows as there were pools of light cutting through the canopy of trees. Being with Wes didn’t feel like a path to take, but rather like a glen, a place to simply exist. And that left her puzzled and unsure of herself.
“I’m happy,” she finally said. It was the truth. Facing one’s fears was sometimes the only way to fight for what mattered. Being happy mattered and if she had to get scared every now and then, she’d do it.
“What about you?” she asked him.
His fathomless eyes were tinged with sorrow. “I’ve never pursued happiness, but being with you…happiness comes so easily.” His admission was full of confusion, as though he couldn’t understand how that was possible.
“Everyone deserves to be happy,” she noted.
Wes frowned. “Perhaps, but many don’t look in the right places.”
“Like your parents?” she prodded carefully. “You never talk about them, and from what Hayden says, they’re not exactly easy to be around.”
The bitter laugh that escaped him startled her. “Easy to be around? Callie, darling, you have no idea. Never were two people born who are so absorbed with themselves and their money and power. No one else matters to them. They manipulate everyone and demand everyone to fit within their rules. Hayden and I have been disowned to some degree for our failure to conform to their expectations.”
“What did they expect of you?” She folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them.
His hands slid beneath the sheets to hold her hips, possessively gripping her. His cock still inside her made her body tingle with new awareness.
“Father wanted a Wall Street man. Mother wanted me to marry one of her friend’s daughters to open social doors. Neither of those even remotely appealed to me.”
Callie could sense that it made him feel trapped. His body tensed and his mouth formed a firm line.
“I’m sorry.” She kissed his chest right above his heart. They made a strange pair. The man who had everything was trapped. She who had nothing and no way to really live was also in a way trapped. Yet they’d made Paris an escape for both of them. The only question was, how long could they both run?
Chapter 17
She’s one of the most talented I’ve ever seen,” Antoine Pichot said as he joined Wes in the observation room. They were in the bottom basement of the Louvre, in a private viewing room that had a window with a one-way mirror. For the last week Wes had brought Callie here and let her spend half the morning learning a new medium or style, with a new artist every day. Then he’d take her out to see the city in the afternoon and then home to bed, which happened to be his favorite part of the day.
The routine had been pleasant and oddly fulfilling. He couldn’t imagine wanting anything more from his life in the past week than to be with Callie. While she took her lessons, he’d spent his time on commissions and at lunch he’d come to pick her up and take a few minutes to admire her work without her knowing.
“She’s mastered watercolor, oil, acrylic, graphite, charcoal.” Antoine ticked off the mediums on one hand. Antoine was one of the few painters who practiced old-style portraits with oil. Wes had made only one call and sent pictures of Callie’s sketches before Antoine had agreed to coach her.
His beautiful Callie stole his complete focus. Perched on a stool before a large easel, she had her golden hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. An over-large white button-up shirt, one of his old ones, covered in splatters and smears of paint, hung around her full, luscious figure. She looked adorable and fuckable.
“I knew she would be brilliant.” Wes smiled.
Antoine, a few years older than Wes, had expressed an interest in Callie—damned French men and their insatiable appetites. Then again he couldn’t judge when it came to sexual hunger, but seeing Antoine’s appreciative gaze sweep over Callie’s body made him forcibly control his jealousy and his natural possessiveness when it came to his woman.
“Who is she? Where is she from?” Antoine braced his hands on the windowsill.
“Just a girl from a small town in Colorado. A true innocent.” Wes checked his watch and then he and Antoine left the hidden room to join Callie.
“Wes!” She beamed at him. “I’ve almost got this imitation work down.” She pointed proudly at a Degas ballerina she’d painted. It was perfect. He peered closely at the original piece next to hers, then back at hers. Brushstroke for brushstroke it was perfect. He couldn’t tell them apart.
Antoine grinned. “She’s a master. You want to know why?”
Wes nodded. He couldn’t believe she’d come so far so fast.
“Most artists have egos. They refuse to mimic someone else’s style. They always leave some little stylistic trait that gives them away under close scrutiny. Ms. Taylor doesn’t do that.”
A little chuckle escaped Callie as she set her brushes and palette down. “I think I’m supposed to take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Antoine said, flashing her a winning smile that set Wes’s teeth on edge.
“Hungry?” Wes said, forcing himself to swallow the rising tide of jealousy.
“Yeah.” Callie kissed Antoine on the cheek before she left to see to the artwork and clean up her work station.
After she and Wes had said their good-byes to Antoine, they exited the Louvre’s private artwork rooms. They were halfway out of the Louvre when his cell phone buzzed. Callie stopped walking when he did as he answered.
“Thorne here.”
“Mr. Thorne, this is Agent Kostova from the FBI. The Mortons called to let me know the Goya had turned up on their doorstep via a private courier service this morning. They said it had a note from you explaining that you’d come across it in Paris. We’re glad to see it returned.”
“Good.” Relief swept through Wes. He had trusted the courier service, but it was good to hear the Goya was officially back in its owners’ protective hands. He hadn’t wanted to let the painting out of his sight, but he’d had to in order to return it.
“Mr. Thorne, the reason I’m calling is that there has been another theft.”
Wes’s fingers tightened around his phone. “Another one?”
“Yes, during a party as well. We’re keeping our men scarce on the ground to keep the thief feeling comfortable. The Mortons say you’re still in Paris. We’d like for you to return to the Weston to give us a hand.”
Another theft? He clenched his phone hard enough that the case creaked in his hand. He knew without a doubt who was behind this. The Illusionist.
“And what would you like me to do?” Wes asked Agent Kostova.
Callie moved closer as if sensing his tension, and she curled her fingers around his arm, leaning into him.
“I want you to help us arrange a sting. The last theft occurred at the private residence of Mr. Jaxon Barrington. He says you’re friends.”
“Jax?”
Jaxon Barrington was the owner of the exclusive BDSM club the Gilded Cuff, in Weston. Emery, Royce, and Wes were among the charter members.
Kostova laughed. “He said you’d be surprised. He was having an exclusive party and one of his smaller pieces went missing. He thought you might want to help him get the thief by using his club as a place to lure the thief. I can relay more details as soon as you return and we can meet in person.”
Wes contemplated this. He wanted to stay in Paris with Callie, but this man had to be stopped. Art theft was the one thing he couldn’t tolerate, especially when his friends were victims. This was exactly why he had a black room and kept it secret and undetectable. None of his valuable pieces could be found. To risk one of them so openly…it made every muscle in his body tense like coiled springs. But if it meant finding out who this thieving bastard was, he’d do it.
“I’ll arrange a flight back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thorne. We’ll be in touch then.” Kostova hung up.
“We’re leaving Paris?” Callie’s voice was soft but it echoed in the quiet, closed Renaissance gallery.
He glanced around, taking in the gazes of more than one Madonna clutching her infant Jesus to her bosom. Fuck, he didn’t want to leave this place. Taking Callie back to Long Island meant she’d see Fenn again, and the very idea of that knotted Wes’s stomach. She was finally surrendering to him. He could lose her if he brought her back too soon. One look at that damn cowboy and she’d be broken up inside again. It was the last thing he wanted.
“There’s been another burglary of art. The FBI wants me to return and help them with a sting.”
“Another one?” Her eyes widened as they started walking again.
“Yes. I’ll get the details when we return to the island. I’m sorry, Callie.” There was so much more he’d wanted to show her, but he wouldn’t have the chance to do so.
She pulled on his arm, stopping him. Then she stood on tiptoe in front of the silent watchers, those Renaissance faces on cracked oil canvases, and she kissed him. Her little mouth was sweet and open, her tongue soft but exploring against his own. There was nothing in that moment he wanted except her. Only her. He’d give everything not to end this. A kiss had never felt so good before, so all-consuming that he didn’t care to live a breath beyond that kiss.
He was a little foggy-headed when she broke the kiss and gazed up at him with those soulful, ancient eyes.
“You’ve given me something wonderful, Wes, something I can’t ever repay. You’ve opened my eyes.” Her long lashes fanned up as she blinked rapidly, eyes shining.
“Callie—”
She shook her head. “I was dying inside and you’ve rescued me. Thank you.” When she kissed him again, he tasted a hint of salt and felt the wetness of tears upon her cheeks, and it crushed him. He never wanted to be the source of another tear for her, or let anything else make her cry for that matter.
“Name anything and I’ll do it for you,” he promised. Even if she demanded the moon, he’d get it for her. The need to make her happy filled him with a quiet desperation that he couldn’t shake until he could make her smile again.
“We leave tomorrow?”
He nodded.
“Then dinner at home tonight.” She grinned and that single smile hit him hard behind the knees. “Dessert in bed, too.”
“Absolutely,” he vowed. He would make this a night to remember. One he would never forget himself.
* * *
Callie finished her glass of merlot and followed Wes into the living room. The night was a little chilly, so he’d collected the softest blankets and put them on the couch by the TV. A night in with movies. Perfect. When she came fully into the room, she smiled in delighted surprise. Half a dozen candles littered the tables around them, their flames dancing in the breeze from the half-cracked window. Candlelight shimmered off the bottle of expensive cognac that sat on the coffee table along with a small dainty crimson box about the size of her hand. Wes stood by the couch, two glasses of cognac already poured.
“Take a seat.” He inclined his head toward the sofa.
“What is all this?”
“The first part of dessert.” His playful, devilish grin made her laugh. The sofa looked so cozy, all those blankets and the warmth of the nearby candles. How could a girl resist? Once she was settled on the couch, he joined her, sitting close enough that his body heat enveloped her in a delicious way. He pressed one of the glasses into her hand.
“Have you ever had a ‘tasting’ experience?”
“Tasting?” She’d never heard of that.
Wes lifted his glass in demonstration. “Tasting is when you sample drinks and food in a particular order and manner to show a contrast or an enhancement of flavors.” He leaned forward and drew a fingertip down her nose. The touch made her tingle in secret places. “Our olfactory senses sometimes adjust too quickly to tastes and smells so we miss subtle, yet rich flavors. Tasting brings these flavors out.” He stroked her lips. “It’s about the aroma and the taste.”
Callie watched him, transfixed, her body tingling with every little touch and scorching look he shot her way.
“So how does it work?” she asked.
“Raise your glass, take one sip, let the cognac coat your tongue, and then swallow it.”
He waited until the rim of her glass touched her lips, and then they took a sip at the same time. The powerful taste of the cognac hit her a second later. The thick sweet taste was heavy on her tongue. Wes’s throat worked as he swallowed and she couldn’t help her fascination with the sight of him. Everything he did fascinated her, drew her in, made her hungry to be in bed with him and never leave. How could he have such a potent power over her like that?
“Your eyes are the same color as the cognac,” he mused, as though hypnotized by her. “Makes a man realize how thirsty he is.” He leaned down, his mouth inches from hers. His focus on her sent her stomach in dizzying spirals. It was impossible to ignore the feminine awareness of him. Her body came to life whenever he looked at her like that. She almost screamed in frustration when he pulled away without kissing her.
“Don’t worry, darling. There will be hours of that tonight.” His words wrapped a smoky haze of hunger around her for dark, delicious things. Her womb clenched in anticipation, but not being kissed woke her up enough from the daze to scowl.
“How many times does a girl have to ask to be kissed?” she demanded huskily, hoping he’d give in and kiss the hell out of her. It was what she wanted, what she needed.
Wes’s wolfish grin created a little shiver inside her. “Patience, little tiger.”
“Tiger?” She laughed, almost giddy, and took a hasty gulp of the cognac.
“Don’t rush it.” He tsked and lifted the small box from the table.
“What’s that?” She reached for it, but he caught her wrist, holding it captive for a long second before he let it go with a kiss on her inner wrist.
“You are so impatient tonight.”
Her smile faded. How could she explain the urgency to be with him? She couldn’t confess her fear that tomorrow all of this wonderful passion would end. Her nose tingled as tears pricked her eyes.
His eyes narrowed and he cupped the nape of her neck. “What’s wrong? Your eyes darkened,” he noted.
She blinked away the sting of barely there tears. “What’s in the box?” she asked, trying to be patient. The last week with him had been so incredible and wonderful that she was afraid to leave, to go back. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was the center of someone’s universe and that someone was the center of hers, an unbroken circle rather than a one-way street. A feeling like that was hard to give up. Wes was hard to give up.
“I had these specially made.” He lifted the lid and revealed a trio of chocolates. “There’s a specialty chocolatier in Tulsa, Oklahoma, one of the best in the nation. They make unique flavors.” He used a small fork to cut one of the chocolates in half and then to scrape out the insides. “The best way to taste chocolate is to sample the filling, let it linger on your tongue.” He lifted the fork and she parted her lips, letting him feed her the delicious confection. It was rich, with a hint of orange, something that tasted like citrus, and warm milk chocolate. She moaned softly.
He cut into the next chocolate. “That is how you taste to me. Fresh like spring with a hint of citrus.” Scooting an inch closer, he held out his fork with the next chocolate’s filling ready for her mouth. “Try this next.”
She opened her mouth for the next bite. It was rich and dark, a hint of salt. “What’s in that one?”
“Sea salt and the purest dark chocolate you can find on earth.” One corner of his mouth tipped up in a devil-may-care grin.
Callie licked her lips. It tasted like him. A chocolate that tasted like her lover. Her lover. The word created a coiling of dark heat inside her.
When he cut into the third chocolate, her mouth was already watering. Wes’s focus was intense. “This is what they call an oatmeal cookie.” He fed her the last bit. Her eyes widened.
It actually tasted like an oatmeal cookie. “Now, drink your cognac, and when you’re done swallowing, close your mouth and breathe slowly out through your nose.”
She sipped the cognac, then shut her mouth and breathed out. New tastes exploded on her tongue. It was a thing of magic, the rush of maple syrup, brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, each taste clear and distinct.
“Close your eyes and tell me what you see,” he said. His hands were on her hips, their knees touching.
She did as he instructed. “I see…” She let the flavors speak to her. “A cabin at the base of a mountain. The leaves are red and gold. A warm fire in a stone fireplace, vermillion flames.” She sighed, sinking into the heavenly vision. He was there with her in this fantasy cabin, his body and hers merging again and again, fingers entwined, whispers of pleasure and little gasps of ecstasy. No distance, only togetherness.
His lips touched hers, a real kiss, not part of her fantasy. She opened her mouth, seeking his tongue. He growled against her lips and suddenly she was being lifted up, her legs curling around his hips as he carried her to the floor and placed her on the thick carpet.
“Sorry, can’t wait…” He gripped her shirt at the neck and ripped it clear down the middle. Buttons popped off, vanishing into the thick carpet as he bared her skin. She wore a sensible white cotton bra and he groaned, his hands shaking.
“Like a goddamn fantasy every time I see you.” He slid between her thighs and feathered kisses on the swells of her breasts. Then he bit on the top of her bra with his teeth, tugging it down to allow her breasts to spill free. He licked and sucked on one nipple until it was erect and she whimpered. Then he turned to her other breast. Callie gripped his head, tugging the strands of his hair, urging him on. The cognac created a delicious buzz and she wanted nothing more than to make love to Wes all night and clear through tomorrow.
“Please, Wes. I need you,” she begged. The ache between her thighs was sharp and demanding. Only he could erase the wild need in her to be taken, possessed. Fully and completely.
Wes sat back on his heels, tore his trousers open, and unzipped her jeans, tugging them down to her knees. After that, he removed her boots and socks. Then he laid her back on the carpet and covered her with his body, caging her in. He rolled his hips against hers, teasing her as he kissed her. Using one hand, he guided his shaft to her entrance. The sudden quick thrust up made her throw her head back and cry out. Wes nuzzled her neck and nipped the sensitive space between her neck and shoulder as he rode her.
Thrusting deep and hard, then slow and soft, he tortured her, teased her, until she was coming apart at the seams. She was dimly aware that she was begging him for more, harder. Her nails raked his back and her nipples rubbed his smooth chest, the sensation too much for her.
“Who do you belong to?” he demanded in a guttural growl against her ear.
She panted, unable to speak.
“Who?” He squeezed her bottom, lifting her up off the carpet a few inches to slap it. She yelped and groaned a moment later at the wave of wet heat inside her. Another slap to her ass, the slight bite making her frantic for more.
“Answer me.”
“You!” She gasped. “God, only you, Wes. Please, fuck me,” she pleaded.
That was all it took. He pounded into her, rolling his hips in different, unpredictable angles. When he bit down on her neck, gently but firmly, she blew apart. Blood roared in her ears and she struggled to remember who she was, where she was. Precious air filled her lungs and she sucked it in greedily, resting her head on the floor. The beautiful ceiling moldings spun above her as she welcomed the dizziness that accompanied the aftershocks of her pleasure. Wes’s body weight was welcome over hers, his hot skin feeling good against her own.
Everywhere they touched burned in all the right ways. He lowered his head, kissing her, then rested his forehead against hers. She had never felt so close to anyone as she did in that moment. She didn’t need words, nor did he. When he pulled away, she had only a few seconds to miss him before he was lifting her up and carrying her completely naked through the hall and toward the stairs. A lazy smile curled her lips. She liked it when he went all caveman and carried her about. It was nice to feel small and delicate in his arms. He didn’t go to his room, but hers.
“Why here?” she asked as he set her down on her back on the bed.
He stood there, fully bare and suddenly erect again. “I want to have you on every flat surface, starting with this one.” He crawled on the bed to lean over her limp, sated body.
“Okay, I won’t argue with that.” She arched beneath him, letting her breasts brush his chest.
“Did you know”—he chuckled between his kisses—“that this bed belonged to a French princess?”
Callie arched a brow. “Really? Which one?”
His hand slid down her body, parting her legs wider before he positioned himself and thrust home. They moved together.
“Does it matter?” he gritted out as she clenched her inner walls around him. “Fuck, that feels good.”
“You’re making that up,” she said, laughing, and she then groaned as he twisted his hips and hit a new spot inside her that made her see stars. “Oh, right there,” she begged, digging her nails into his shoulders.
He growled low in triumph and started driving into her again, hitting that spot over and over. She tugged his head to hers, hungry for his kiss, needing them to be connected in as many ways as possible. He pinned her hands down, lacing his fingers through hers. One more connection, one more way that they fused their bodies into one being. The thought, the sheer swell of joy at thinking about that was all it took to send Callie over the edge. The way he shuddered above her showed her that he was coming apart at exactly the same time. Chests pressed together, his heartbeat fast and wild against hers, beating at the same pace, as though one heart, not two. Wes continued to kiss her, even though they were both starved for air and shaking like newborn foals.
