IntheArmsofaLover Page 3

  She had a while to wait. He’d promised a flogging and he always delivered on his promises but she needed his cock, yearned for it, longed for it deep in her cunt, but for now, her lips would have to satisfy her.

  She would be patient and wait for the coming fuck.

  He must have sensed her need.

  Gently he withdrew his cock, stroking her face as she whimpered with disappointment. “Hold your horses, Helen. You will get it back and exactly where you need it, but first, you know what you must endure, don’t you?”

  She looked up at him. “Will it be a long one?”

  “It will be just what you need,” he replied. “However, as a reward for your so stalwart adoration of my cock, would you like me to remove that plug?”

  “Please.”

  “Very well.” He eased it out slowly, nice of him. She wasn’t sure her tender arse could have taken another shove or yank, and the heat eased right away. “Feel better?”

  “Yes, but it was easing off.”

  “I thought it might. Keep still, my dear, I want to try it somewhere else.” Before she had a chance to ask where, or refuse, his finger rubbed her clit and the same heat warmed the soft skin around her pussy.

  She gasped without thinking.

  “Oh hush,” he said. “You’ll survive it and remember your climax, if I let you have one, will be quite incredible.”

  Maybe. “It’s no joke, Luc. It’s hot!”

  “Stop fussing, Helen. Here’s something you can complain about!” The flogger came down hard and sharp across her shoulders, the tresses thudding and stinging. He was right, as he laid it back and forth she cried out. Between her still sore arse, her heating clit and the sting in her shoulders, she was afire with sensation and need.

  He flogged hard, giving little respite between strokes. After her shoulders felt as if they were burning too, he moved to her arse, firing that up and landing an occasional strike to the exposed backs of her thighs.

  Helen was lost, almost beyond thought, as sensation filled her body and close to fuddled her mind. She was in dire need, her arousal crying out for satisfaction and her body yearning for a good, hard fucking.

  Luc paused and she let out a breath aware, only too clearly, of the sting across her skin and the burning need in her cunt.

  “How does that feel?” he asked.

  She wouldn’t waste breath replying to his question. “For pity’s sake, Luc, fuck me!”

  “Fuck your lovely arse?”

  Hell no! “My cunt, I need you to fuck me. Please, oh please fuck me! Or I—”

  She never finished but gasped with pleasure as his cock drove into her. She was helpless, tied down, unable to move, and he was deep in her exposed cunt, his hands grasping her hips as he fucked her well and hard.

  Was it the potion, as he’d claimed, or just her need that had her screaming as he plowed her? Her entire body was aroused, every nerve ending echoing her pleasure, every fiber of her being alive with need as he pumped her hard and deep, driving her to climax with his male power and strength.

  Her cries became one constant echo of pleasure and sexual joy. She heard his grunts of satisfaction as he came and her own shout echoed in her ears as she climaxed. Pleasure coursing through her in great waves, as she collapsed within the bondage and lay on the leather, a panting, sweaty and satisfied women.

  Luc released her quickly and helped her to her feet. She wobbled and clung to him for support.

  “You are quite wonderful, Helen.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied. Not so bad? He was fucking fantastic but she’d not tell him. He was big-headed enough as it was.

  Luc swept her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom. “Sleep well,” he told her as he set her on her feet and pulled back the bedclothes for her. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll have Poulain do that search for you, Helen,” he said, as he turned to leave, “but no promises until I hear something back.”

  Fair enough, but somehow Helen sensed that Poppy would pass scrutiny. At least she hoped so.

  Chapter Three

  Idleness and relaxation were all very well up to a point but, pretty soon, Poppy found lack of focus and inactivity beginning to pall. True there were endless possibilities of travel up and down the coast and inland on the local buses at a euro and a half a go, but even that was losing its attraction. Her French was coming back. Every day she made a point of stopping to talk to her landlady and she prolonged conversation in the shops as much as politeness allowed. And, as time passed, she became more and more convinced that here was where she wanted to stay.

  That decision spurred her into looking for employment. The fleeting hope of actually running another farm faded fast. She’d heard nothing from the woman, Helen Crewe, and Poppy had resisted the temptation to ring her and ask. It had been idle chat, nothing more. But with the season just starting up, there were several temporary opportunities in shops and cafés gearing up.

  She took a job working four days a week in a gift shop in the flower market and calculated, if she were very frugal, she could add another month to her stay. And who knew? If the manager was pleased enough with her work, she might pick up more days and settle here.

  Okay, that last was wishful thinking unless she acquired a rich lover, and there she was verging into the realms of fantasy. Far better to concentrate on tagging prices on packets of Herbs de Provence, and folding table cloths.

  Or answering her mobile during her lunch break. “Where R U?” It was Audrey, her sister. Again. Still in France. She texted back, wondering why she was so reluctant to be more specific. Because she didn’t one-hundred percent trust her? Unfair! Audrey was her sister. Albeit her younger sister and was no doubt still worried about her. She texted a second message. Am fine. Just got a job. There that should keep her at bay a bit. And yes, sooner or later she’d be more specific about her whereabouts now she was enjoying being out of touch and unreachable. She’d have to face Tommy’s offspring eventually but right now “disinclined to” was putting it mildly.

  “Madame, excuse, but you are the lady of the purple hands, are you not?”

  It was the younger half of the odd pair from a week or so back. Didier something or other if she remembered rightly from his business card. “Yes,” Poppy replied. “Only now…” she held up her hands. “They are pink.”

  He smiled, really a rather attractive smile. “You look so serious.”

  She bet she did. “I was just replying to my sister. My younger sister.”

  “And you are worried about her?”

  No point to saying it was the total reverse. It was none of his business anyway. “Just catching up with her during lunch.” If you could call a croque monsieur and a bottle of San Pellegrino lunch.

  “Would you permit me to join you?”

  Would she? Why the hell not? “By all means but I have to be back a work in fifteen minutes.”

  “You have a job?”

  At least he didn’t sound surprised. More curious really. “Yes, in one of the shops. I decided I wanted to stay here.”

  “That is good.” Really? “Next week there is a show of my grandfather’s photographs. Just a small exhibition you understand but perhaps you would like to come? You have my card.”

  She did, somewhere in the depths of her handbag. “Better give me another, just in case.”

  It appeared as if he’d produced it from up his sleeve, along with a small flyer. “About the exhibition. Please take it.”

  * * * * *

  A week later, Poppy rode the tram out to a small church in the suburbs and walked into the meeting room to stop short at the incredible array of photographs. Monsieur Mainard, the old man from the Promenade des Anglais, wasn’t just an eccentric with a camera. He was an incredible artist. Thirty or forty photos hung from the walls and a divider that spanned the middle of the room. She found hers and marveled that the shading on her book cover reflected the purple of her nail varnish. She’d never noticed
that, but he had. Other photos caught her eye, one of a small child’s hand trustingly enfolded in a wrinkled, elderly one and she had to smile at a large, obviously male, hand holding close, and almost covering, a tiny baby.

  “Madame Gordon, you came!”

  Nice to be greeted with a smile and open arms. She wasn’t quite as sure about the triple bisous on her cheeks. “Of course I did. And I’m so glad I came. Your grandfather’s photos are wonderful.”

  “Please come and tell him so.”

  Seemed churlish to refuse, especially after that smile. So she let him take her elbow and steer over to the side of the room where she met an assortment of Didier’s family, starting with his father, who greeted her warmly and called her his “muse”. Then a sister, a brother-in-law and some sort of cousin, all of whom were perfectly polite, obviously bored and decidedly disinclined to make friendly conversation with a stray Englishwoman speaking rusty French. Fair enough. Poppy complimented Monsieur Mainard on the exhibition and then headed for the exit.

  Didier forestalled her. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the exhibit, met your family and now…”

  “Please don’t go.” He took her hands and held them in his. She let him, knowing she could easily pull away. “Let me take you for an aperitif. Please.”

  Why not? He was attractive, presentable and an hour or so in his company appealed far more than going home to ignore her sister’s texts and calls.

  “Shouldn’t you have stayed with your grandfather?” Poppy asked, after they settled themselves in a café a few meters down the road.

  ‘‘My sister will take him back with her. I must tell you,” he went on, “how delighted I was you came. I had hoped to see you again.”

  She smiled. Couldn’t help it. “Really?”

  “But of course. You are beautiful and that afternoon we met you had such an air of sadness about you. I thought, ‘This woman should be happy’ but you were not.”

  And he was going to be the one to cheer her up. How clichéd. “I wasn’t unhappy. I was tired that afternoon and relaxing.”

  “Let us relax together.”

  She’d been out of the loop for a long time but not that long. Drinks appeared just then, so she lifted her glass. “Santé.”

  He clinked his against hers. “To happiness.”

  Better get this straight. “Happiness and contentment.” He was good-looking—the French sortable was the perfect word to describe him—pleasant company, and she was in the mood for a little flirtation. “Have you always lived in Nice?”

  “I was born here, went to University in Marseille and then came back. It is the perfect city.” She wouldn’t argue with that. “Why did you come?” he asked. “To become happy?”

  Oh dear, he was going harp on about that and no doubt offer to cheer her up. “I came for a holiday as I was at a loose end and out of a job. I’d been here before and always liked the area. “

  “Of course. The English all like Nice.” His hand covered hers. “I am so pleased you came.”

  “So am I.” That was pretty well agreed upon.

  He smiled. “What can I do for you, Poppy?”

  She put her free hand over his. “Buy me another drink.”

  “With pleasure, if you would like one, but my flat is close and we could have a drink there.”

  Rather obvious but why not? “We could indeed.” Oh God, was that being too eager?

  Maybe it was, but he was mightily chuffed. “Come.” He stood and held out his hand. She took it as he threw a note and coins on the table and together they walked out into the street.

  His flat wasn’t that close, but his car was and in minutes they were weaving though narrow streets until he pulled up in a side street. Pausing only to give her a rather luscious and very skilled kiss that promised ever better to come, he took her hand, led her around the corner and across the street then into a building and up four flights of stairs.

  She definitely needed that drink but turned down any more alcohol. “How about coffee?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? A burst of energy never hurts. Does it?” Oh dear, maybe that made her sound decrepit. Well, he’d asked her hadn’t he?

  “But of course. Let me take your coat.”

  She’d never had a jacket taken off quite so carefully, his hands stroking her shoulders and her arms as he removed it. Nice touch. Very nice touch actually. “Have a seat.”

  There weren’t many options, and since she wanted to drink a good, strong coffee first, she passed the bed and perched on a stool by the ledge—only word for it—in the tiny kitchen.

  His jacket ended up next to hers on the hooks by the door and he produced an Italian espresso maker, set it on the tiny hob and took two tiny cups from a cabinet. There was something oddly intimate about watching a man in his kitchen. But she didn’t want that. She wanted… What did she want? Sex? Passion? Assurance she still had what it took to attract a man? How long had it been since she’d had sex? Not since Tommy got ill, over a year ago.

  Could she pass muster? This was a Frenchman after all, and no doubt an experienced one who picked up tourists all the time, and… Damn it! Sex was like riding a bicycle, she’d heard. You never forgot how to do it.

  “Something the matter?” he asked. “You look worried.”

  “No, I’m not worried. I…” She reached across the ledge and took his hand. “Just anticipating a very nice cup of coffee.”

  “It will,” he replied, his hand stroking hers, “be a superb cup of coffee.”

  She smiled, meeting his dark eyes. “I feel sure it will be.” Damn, she was enjoying this, his smile, his touch, the anticipation. Pity she hadn’t indulged in some new, sexy undies.

  Poppy gulped, as he raised her hand and kissed the inside of the wrist. “Do you like sugar in your coffee?” The way he looked at her, to say nothing of his soft, but definitely sexy voice, left her frankly none too certain if she knew, or cared one way or the other. And I really didn’t matter. Not right now. “Just coffee.”

  “It won’t be ‘just coffee’.”

  She so hoped not.

  But it was darn good coffee, strong, dark and aromatic. Poppy inhaled the aroma as she lifted the tiny cup to her mouth and sipped. It wasn’t too hot so she downed it in two swallows. That should help. In fact she’d swear she could already feel the caffeine seeping into her bones. “That was very good.”

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he drained his cup. “What happens next will be far, far better,” he said, putting his cup back in the saucer and holding out his hand.

  She grabbed it, standing and moving with him so they stood facing each other.

  He smiled and lowered his head. Poppy stood on tiptoe, tilting her face up until their lips met. His kiss was smooth, soft and gentle, but she sensed right away the passion and power behind his touch. This was a man who knew exactly how to kiss, and with a wild rush of need, she parted her lips and opened her mouth to his.

  His entire body seemed to quiver as the tips of their tongues met. She was not here to hesitate. At his touch, her tongue curled around his and, with a soft groan, he deepened the kiss, taking her with him, pushing her for more as she met his mouth with a wild and almost frantic need.

  How she’d missed the sensation of strong male arms about her and the sense of male need and desire—for her. She shut her eyes to block out everything but the taste of coffee on his tongue and the press on his lips in hers. His hands stroked up and down her back, feeling for her bra perhaps? Then they were inside her waistband and against her skin, cupping her arse cheeks as he pulled her closer, pressing his erection into her belly. As if she needed proof that he wanted her.

  She smiled against his lips, eased herself away from him just a little, and ran her hands over his chest and inside his shirt. Skin on skin was good. No, wonderful! As he whispered, “You have too many clothes.”

  “So do you.”

  Poppy had his shirt unbuttoned and yanked out
of his trousers as he snapped open her bra and one hand cupped her breast as the other continued to fondle her arse. She opened her legs until she rode his thigh and he obliged by bringing up his knee between her legs.

  They could have done this all night, except they both wanted more and he was gently but surely half carrying her until the backs of her legs brushed the end of his bed and he toppled her backward. She smiled up at him. “Shouldn’t we be naked?”

  “But of course,” he replied, taking off his shirt. Not exactly hard work, as she’d undone it for him but the view from where she lay was pretty nice. He kicked off his shoes before sitting on the edge of the bed to take off his socks. Good move. Socks should always come off before trousers. “Sit up,” he said. And as she shifted, he removed her blouse and bra.

  “Magnificent!” he whispered, appearing pretty much mesmerized at the sight of her breasts. “Wonderful,” he went on, as he stroked them both and cupped her left one as he bent to kiss her nipple. It wasn’t just a kiss, he suckled, as if drawing sustenance from her, worshiping her breast and teasing the nipple with his tongue before moving to her other side. Not wanting to interrupt him in any way, Poppy lay back and let him do his very best.

  Damn! His “best” was darn marvelous, but she wanted more than having her breasts adored. She reached up to him and whispered, “You’re now the one wearing too many clothes.”

  He laughed, pausing in his kiss to grin down at her. “You are a demanding woman.”

  “I don’t think so,” she replied. “Besides I’d like to see you naked.”

  “Only if you are too.”

  She wasn’t about to argue that one. Everything above her waist was gone anyway. Slipping off her skirt was the work of seconds—hooray for elastic waists—and her slip and panties came with it.

  “Mon Dieu,” he whispered, pausing as he unzipped. “You are truly and utterly beautiful.”

  It was a nice lie. She knew she no longer had a flat tummy and if he started rhapsodizing about the beauties of cellulite or flabby thighs she’d lose it. Tactful chap did neither, just gazed down at her as if he’d never seen a naked woman before. Something she sincerely doubted, not with that smile curling his rather tasty-looking mouth.