Page 115 of Sinful Escape

It was fast. It was explosive. It blew my mind.

I released my grip on Pierre’s hair, and when he pulled back and looked up at me, his giddy smile showed he’d enjoyed that as much as me.

He stood and kissed my cheek. “That’s just a taste of what’s to come.”

“Oh.” There was another oh to add to my collection. He must think I’m birdbrained.

Pierre stepped over the edge of the bath with his mighty erection leading the way. He grabbed a towel and disappeared from the restroom.

Holy hell.

My insides pulsed in glorious beats as his parting comment rolled around my brain. Pierre was a regular Romeo. Fuck yeah.

It seemed an eternity before my brain kicked into gear enough for me to wash myself properly. The hair conditioner on the shelf caught my eye, and I poured a small amount of the coconut-scented liquid into my palm. After massaging it into my hair, I persisted with my knots until I could actually drive my fingers through my mop.

Satisfied, I turned off the taps and stepped from the shower.

I dried off with a fresh towel, wrapped it around myself, and went in search of my gigolo. The room was empty, but the flickering candles on the balcony drew my attention. A smile curled across my lips as I stepped between the curtains.

Pierre had a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two elegant flutes on a tiny table. He’d also made an antipasto platter with cheeses, olives, cured meats, and bread.

I was living in some kind of dream. A delightful, sensual dream.

He stood and tugged the seat out for me, just like he did every time I visited his café. After I sat, he poured the bubbles and held his glass up for a toast. “To new beginnings.”

I smiled. “To new beginnings.”

The next couple of hours were special. We chatted about everything from his four ex-wives and three daughters to my life as a tour guide. The conversation was natural and pleasant, and it was like catching up with a long-lost friend. At least, that was what I imagined.

As the evening rolled on, it became evident that I’d be staying the night. The only other man I’d ever spent the night with was William. My only hope was that neither Pierre nor I would feel uncomfortable come morning.

When Pierre finally led me to bed, he showed me another side to his passion. Our lovemaking was tender and slow. He took his time, drawing out my arousal and making my body sing like a master musician. We climaxed together, and when he rolled off me, I curled onto my side. He nestled up behind me and draped his arm over my waist. Our naked bodies slotted perfectly together. I was officially in heaven.

His breathing deepened and I closed my eyes, inhaled long and deep, and let the lovely throbs coursing through my body coax me to sleep.

I awoke to the delicious aromas of melted butter and cinnamon. Squinting against the blazing sunshine, I glanced down and gasped. I was completely naked and exposed like a beached whale. Yanking a sheet across my body, I searched the room for Pierre. He was in the kitchen, his back to me, and other than wearing a white cloth apron, he, too, was naked.

I was torn between pretending to be asleep, so I could watch him for as long as possible and saying good morning. My decision was made when Pierre glanced over and caught me admiring his ass.

The plain white apron had Château de Vin et d'antiquités embroidered in the center of his chest in gold thread. “Bon matin tête endormie.”

Did he just call me sleepyhead? I searched for a clock but couldn’t see one. “What time is it?”

“It’s nearly eight.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“You must’ve been exhausted.” He wriggled his eyebrows.

Hmmm, I knew exactly why. In addition to the multiple orgasms I’d enjoyed before I fell asleep, I had hazy memories of Pierre arousing me sometime during the night. Silhouetted with the lights of Paris as his backdrop, he’d ridden me for a third time. Despite being eighteen years older than me, the man sure had stamina.

Wrapping the sheet around me, I opened my suitcase, tugged out some clothing, then made my way to the bathroom. After a cursory glance in the mirror and resisting a scowl at my reflection, I relieved myself. When I wiped, I flinched. Ouchy mamma. Bit tender down there.

That was another first for me, but I wasn’t complaining. I’d be happy to be sore like that for days if it meant I was treated to another sexual marathon with Pierre.

I dressed in khaki shorts and a retro patterned blouse and left the bathroom. Pierre was placing two white plates on the kitchen counter as I padded toward him.

I tugged out a barstool and settled at the counter to watch him cook.

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