He grabbed the cushions from his sofa to form a makeshift mattress on the floor. When she was near enough, he reached for her waist with both hands and dragged her down so that she straddled him with her knees. “Put this on me.”
She raised an eyebrow at his command but took the foil packet and dealt with the condom efficiently. And then, with equal efficiency, she raised herself on her knees and slid down onto him.
“Merde.”
She didn’t reply, but lifted up and repeated the action.
“Putain de merde.”
“Feel free to join in any time,” she grunted, through panted breaths.
Emile twisted his lips into a smile. Feisty, even with his cock deep inside her. He sat up and gripped her hips, preventing her from moving. She didn’t look too pleased about that, so he kissed her until the tension in her body eased away. “I think I promised to make you beg, no?”
“No.” She gave a funny little gasp when he nibbled at one of her deliciously pert nipples. “You promised I’d regret teasing you. You didn’t say anything about begging.”
“Ah.” He switched his attention to her other breast and waited until she was panting for breath. “And are you regretting it yet?”
“We made a deal,” she said. She’d managed to slip one of her hands between them and her fingers were walking down his stomach. “You could look all you like, but only if you make me come.”
“So we did.”
“You’re looking,” she said. Short dark hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes were bright and her mouth so kissable that it was impossible not to look.
He shrugged. “Sue me.”
“No need.” Her fingers found their target. “Just fuck me.”
He rolled her onto her back and pinned her down. Still inside her, Emile gave the tiniest shift of his hips. “Like that?”
“More.”
Her whole body was flushed hot with desire and her fingernails dug into his arms. So he did it again. She writhed against him, as if her pelvis could provoke his into action. She was hungry and needy and loving every second of it, if the gleam in her eyes was any indication.
“Two minutes, I believe you said?”
“Damn it, just do it already!”
“Since you ask so nicely.” He stroked a strand of hair away from her face, dropped a kiss on her forehead, and slammed back into her.
Chapter Two
It was true what they said about Frenchmen, after all. This Frenchman, anyway. He made love like he was born to it. He knew instinctively, just as he’d known on the dance floor, how her body moved, what it could do, what it liked to do. He knew where her limits were and how to push her beyond them.
Theresa turned on her side and looked at him. They’d finally reached the bed on their third attempt, and now he was sleeping with a white sheet pulled up around his waist. His skin was darkly tanned and accented with tattoos on his shoulder and across his lower back. The five o’clock shadow she’d noticed earlier had developed into designer stubble that rasped against her skin. There was another thing she’d never known she liked before tonight. Before she’d gone to bed with...
She sat up in sudden shock. She didn’t even know his name.
She’d picked up a guy in a club, come to his apartment, and spent the night with him, and she didn’t have a clue who he was. It was one thing to prefer her flings without strings, but she did not do nameless shags.
All she knew about him was that he was French. Sexy. Wealthy, obviously, if he lived in a place like this. She scanned the room for any more clues. Nothing. Tasteful but bland artwork on the walls. One photo on the bedside table of an older woman who might be his mother.
He didn’t know any more about her than she did about him. He hadn’t asked, either. Maybe he did this sort of thing with a different woman every night and never bothered to find out their names. Theresa smiled to herself. Her mother would be appalled. The sort of men whom Melanie considered suitable husbands for her daughter definitely didn’t have one-night stands with strangers. But then, Melanie didn’t think her daughter had one-night stands with strangers. And to be fair, Theresa didn’t usually. She had brief, pleasant dalliances with men she’d got to know first and who were clear about the ground rules. Drinks first, dinner at least twice, and if they made it that far, they got the chance to stay the night. A few weeks of fun, maybe a couple of months, and then a mutual decision to move on. No harm, no foul. No tears. And, sure as hell, no wedding bells to make her mother happy.
Not that marriage necessarily meant the rest of her life. Theresa had almost as many friends who were divorced as still married. And if it wasn’t forever—if it was only for twelve months—it didn’t much matter who she married. Any husband would do, just to get her mother off her back for a bit.
She grinned, imagining what Melanie would say to the disheveled Frenchman as a potential son-in-law. The long hair and the unshaven jaw would be more than enough to move him into the ‘unsuitable’ category, even if her mother never saw the tattoos. It would be glorious, but it was never going to happen. You couldn’t get married to someone just to wind your mother up.
“Are you always this happy when you wake up?” His head shifted to the side and his eyes opened a fraction to watch her.
“What’s your name?”
He sat up and frowned at her. “You don’t know?”
She shrugged. “You didn’t tell me. I’m Theresa, by the way.”
“Thérèse.” It sounded infinitely sexier in his French accent. “I like it.”
“Thanks. And you are?”
He gave her another look, as if checking something. Then he sighed. “Emile Renaud.”
It was vaguely familiar. “Okay.”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” His eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Not really, sorry. Should I?”
“No.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I play football.”
That would explain the muscles. “Are you any good?”
His lips curved. “I’m okay.”
“Who do you play for?”
“Woolwich.”
“Oh. I’ve heard of them.”
He laughed. “Well done.”
A footballer? Her mother would really hate that, especially if there was scandal. “Are you the kind of footballer who gets on the gossip pages?”
He pulled away. “Kiss and tell? God, I hate this country sometimes.”
She sat up. “No. I mean, I know people do that, but no. I wouldn’t.”
“Then why ask?” The suspicion was still deeply embedded in his voice.
“It’s a bit complicated to explain.” And utterly ridiculous. It was absurd to think she could persuade a French, footballing sex god to even joke about marrying her. But perhaps that was what made it so brilliant.
In the other room, a phone rang. “Damn, I have to get that. Don’t run away. We’re not done yet.”
She watched him go, all naked muscles and tattooed skin, with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. He could be just the unsuitable guy to scare the wits out of her mother, if she could find a way to convince him to do it.
…
“Your girlfriend?”
Emile flipped his phone shut and looked up. Theresa was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his shirt. Merde, she hadn’t even bothered to button it up. As he watched, she ran a hand through her hair, straightening it with an efficient gesture. The shirt lifted, showing off those delectable breasts and the curve of her stomach. He walked towards her, needing to get her back into bed already.