Page 49 of Pleasure Games

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ITWAS WEDNESDAYMORNING. Luca rose early and the first thing he did was drive to the nearby village of La Charité-sur-Loire to pick up a few things that Monsieur Gauthier had missed. Namely, toiletries and condoms.

Merde.

It had taken him a while to fall asleep last night, knowing Jasmine lay sleeping just down the hall. Her responsive body primed and ready for him.

She was probably still soaking wet.

Now, ten hours later, the thought of her wet pussy made Luca’s dick instantly hard. Yet he still wanted to take things slow. It was so rare to find a woman his age who was both ready and willing to engage in exploratory sex but was still relatively innocent—for whatever reason.

It was a mystery. Jasmine was a gorgeous, sophisticated woman who obviously enjoyed sex. So why was she so fucking innocent?

Do you really care?

He shouldn’t care, but strangely, Luca did.

He parked his bike at the pharmacy, debating about whether to leave his helmet on or not. He didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing him. It had been many years since he’d been here, and with his beard and grown-out hair, he didn’t look like the Luca Legrand in all the promotional pictures and from the tabloids. Still, he couldn’t take the chance. He simply raised his visor, went inside and picked up the items he needed.

There was an elderly man behind the counter, and when he glanced at Luca there was no sign of recognition. Thank God.

A few more stops and Luca was on his way back to the villa. When he got back, he smelled freshly brewed coffee and something being fried in butter.

“Morning,” Jasmine said over her shoulder. “Where have you been?”

In different circumstances, he might have felt annoyed by the question. Who was she to question his whereabouts? But he didn’t feel annoyed. He only felt one thing.

Aroused.

He came right up behind her, wrapped his arm around her waist—she was wearing a skirt and tank top—lifted her mane of hair and kissed her neck. “I was buying some necessities.” He plopped the paper sack on the counter in front of her.

Jasmine reached inside, squealing with thanks over the shampoo, conditioner, hairbrush and soap.

“Oh...” she said, dragging out the vowel. “What’s this?” She held up a box of condoms. “Twenty-four?”

Luca didn’t make any excuses; he just smiled, pulled her close and slid his hand up the inside of her thigh. That was all it took for her to melt against him, her body molded to his, her hands on his forearms. “Luca?”

“Mmm.” He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder.

“I need to tell you something.”

Her voice was flat and serious. He released her and backed up a step to regard her but she avoided eye contact.

“What is it?”

“Can we talk while we eat?”

“Of course.”

She poured him the coffee—nice and strong, which was a pleasant surprise—then slid eggs onto a plate with a slab of toasted bread and sliced tomatoes.

Sitting across from him at the kitchen table, she fiddled with her utensils. Shit. She was about to confess something.

What?

“I’m not who you think I am.”

Okay, that wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. He took a bite of egg, pretending not to be surprised, and then washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “You mean, you’re not American?”

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