Beautiful Bastard
Page 57
His laugh was low and playful. “Like hell you will.”
“What time is it?” I asked, trying to see behind him to the clock.
“Don’t give a shit.” His fingertips found my breast, and slipped back and forth over the soft underside.
But in the process of leaning away from him, I’d exposed the skin just above his hip. What the hell?
Was that a tattoo?
“What is—?” I could barely form the words. Pushing him away slightly, I looked up to meet his eyes before returning them to the mark. Right below his hipbone was a string of black ink, words written in what I guessed was French. How the hell had I missed that? I thought back briefly to all the times we’d been together. We’d always been rushed, or in the dark, or in only a state of semiundress.
“It’s a tattoo,” he said, bemused, pulling back a bit and trailing his fingers over my navel.
“I know it’s a tattoo, but . . . what does it say?” Mr. Serious Business had a f**king tattoo. Another piece of the man I thought I knew fell away.
“It says, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’”
My eyes flew to his, my blood heating at the sound of his voice dissolving into a perfect French accent. “What did you say?”
He definitely smirked. “Je ne regrette rien.” He spoke each word slowly, emphasizing every syllable. It had to be the sexiest f**king thing I’d ever heard. Between that and the tattoo and the fact that he was completely naked under me, I was going to spontaneously combust.
“Isn’t that a song?”
He nodded. “It’s a song, yes.” Laughing quietly he said, “You might think I’d regret that one drunken night in Paris, thousands of miles from home, without a single friend in the city, I decide to go get a tattoo. But no, I don’t even regret that.”
“Say it again,” I whispered.
He moved closer, hips rolling against mine, his breath hot in my ear, and whispered it again. “Je ne regrette rien. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Say something else.” My br**sts were heaving with each labored breath, my sensitive ni**les grazing against the cotton of his shirt.
Bending slightly, he kissed my ear, saying, “Je suis à toi.” His voice was strained and gravelly as he held himself up for me and I put us both out of our misery, sinking down over him with a groan, and loving the depth of this position again. He whispered a single, profane syllable over and over, staring up at me. Instead of clutching my hips, his hands fisted the shirt at my sides.
It was so easy, so natural between us, that it somehow just added to the space of uneasiness that I couldn’t seem to shake. Instead of focusing on that, I focused on his quiet grunts into my mouth. I focused on the way he sat us up abruptly and sucked on my br**sts through his shirt, exposing the pink beneath. I got lost in his urgent fingers on my hips and thighs, his forehead pressed to my collarbone as he got closer. I got lost in the feel of his thighs under me, his hips moving faster and harder to meet every one of my movements.
Flipping me over, he spread his hand flat on my chest, hips stilling. “Your heart is pounding. Tell me how f**king good this feels.”
Instinctively, I relaxed when I looked up at his cocky grin. Did he know I needed some reminder of who we’d been less than a day ago? “You’re doing that talking thing again. Stop.”
His smile widened. “You love my talking. You especially love it when it coincides with my dick being in you.”
I rolled my eyes. “What gave that away? The orgasms? The way I ask you for it? Good sleuthing.”
He winked, pulling my foot up to his shoulder and kissing the inside of my ankle.
“Have you always been this way?” I asked, tugging uselessly on his hips. I hated to admit it, but I wanted him moving. When he was still, it teased, it was sore, it felt incomplete. When he moved I just wanted time to freeze. “I pity the females whose discarded egos litter the path.”
Bennett shook his head, leaning over me and propping himself up on his hands. Mercifully, he started moving, hips shifting forward and up, pushing deep into me. My eyes rolled closed. He hit the perfect spot again and again and again.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I looked up, watched the sweat bead on his brow, his lips part as he stared at my mouth. Shoulder muscles bunched as he moved, his torso shone with a thin layer of sweat, and I watched where he moved in and out of me. I’m not sure what I said when he pulled almost all the way out and then pushed hard back into me, but it was quiet and filthy and instantly forgotten as he pounded into me. “You make me feel cocky. It’s the way you react to me that makes me feel like a f**king god. How can you not see that?”
“What time is it?” I asked, trying to see behind him to the clock.
“Don’t give a shit.” His fingertips found my breast, and slipped back and forth over the soft underside.
But in the process of leaning away from him, I’d exposed the skin just above his hip. What the hell?
Was that a tattoo?
“What is—?” I could barely form the words. Pushing him away slightly, I looked up to meet his eyes before returning them to the mark. Right below his hipbone was a string of black ink, words written in what I guessed was French. How the hell had I missed that? I thought back briefly to all the times we’d been together. We’d always been rushed, or in the dark, or in only a state of semiundress.
“It’s a tattoo,” he said, bemused, pulling back a bit and trailing his fingers over my navel.
“I know it’s a tattoo, but . . . what does it say?” Mr. Serious Business had a f**king tattoo. Another piece of the man I thought I knew fell away.
“It says, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’”
My eyes flew to his, my blood heating at the sound of his voice dissolving into a perfect French accent. “What did you say?”
He definitely smirked. “Je ne regrette rien.” He spoke each word slowly, emphasizing every syllable. It had to be the sexiest f**king thing I’d ever heard. Between that and the tattoo and the fact that he was completely naked under me, I was going to spontaneously combust.
“Isn’t that a song?”
He nodded. “It’s a song, yes.” Laughing quietly he said, “You might think I’d regret that one drunken night in Paris, thousands of miles from home, without a single friend in the city, I decide to go get a tattoo. But no, I don’t even regret that.”
“Say it again,” I whispered.
He moved closer, hips rolling against mine, his breath hot in my ear, and whispered it again. “Je ne regrette rien. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Say something else.” My br**sts were heaving with each labored breath, my sensitive ni**les grazing against the cotton of his shirt.
Bending slightly, he kissed my ear, saying, “Je suis à toi.” His voice was strained and gravelly as he held himself up for me and I put us both out of our misery, sinking down over him with a groan, and loving the depth of this position again. He whispered a single, profane syllable over and over, staring up at me. Instead of clutching my hips, his hands fisted the shirt at my sides.
It was so easy, so natural between us, that it somehow just added to the space of uneasiness that I couldn’t seem to shake. Instead of focusing on that, I focused on his quiet grunts into my mouth. I focused on the way he sat us up abruptly and sucked on my br**sts through his shirt, exposing the pink beneath. I got lost in his urgent fingers on my hips and thighs, his forehead pressed to my collarbone as he got closer. I got lost in the feel of his thighs under me, his hips moving faster and harder to meet every one of my movements.
Flipping me over, he spread his hand flat on my chest, hips stilling. “Your heart is pounding. Tell me how f**king good this feels.”
Instinctively, I relaxed when I looked up at his cocky grin. Did he know I needed some reminder of who we’d been less than a day ago? “You’re doing that talking thing again. Stop.”
His smile widened. “You love my talking. You especially love it when it coincides with my dick being in you.”
I rolled my eyes. “What gave that away? The orgasms? The way I ask you for it? Good sleuthing.”
He winked, pulling my foot up to his shoulder and kissing the inside of my ankle.
“Have you always been this way?” I asked, tugging uselessly on his hips. I hated to admit it, but I wanted him moving. When he was still, it teased, it was sore, it felt incomplete. When he moved I just wanted time to freeze. “I pity the females whose discarded egos litter the path.”
Bennett shook his head, leaning over me and propping himself up on his hands. Mercifully, he started moving, hips shifting forward and up, pushing deep into me. My eyes rolled closed. He hit the perfect spot again and again and again.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
I looked up, watched the sweat bead on his brow, his lips part as he stared at my mouth. Shoulder muscles bunched as he moved, his torso shone with a thin layer of sweat, and I watched where he moved in and out of me. I’m not sure what I said when he pulled almost all the way out and then pushed hard back into me, but it was quiet and filthy and instantly forgotten as he pounded into me. “You make me feel cocky. It’s the way you react to me that makes me feel like a f**king god. How can you not see that?”
