Excerpt from HER FRENCH COUNT, one of the 14 novels in
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin’ Anthology 2015, presently on pre-order for 99 cents.
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The smart, feisty and savvy Cheryl seemed to have lost her vivacity, the look in her eyes gone from distant to faraway. He wanted to reassure her, kiss her and tangle with her in passion.
“Cheryl,” he whispered as he drew her closer. “I can make you feel better.”
“Better? How?” she asked, her voice and her breath so soft, a fraction away from his lips.
“Let me show you.” He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip.
“Nice.” Without pulling back, she closed her eyes. As if she evaluated the benefits of his ministrations, she licked both her lips and his thumb in an erotic dance of her tongue.
“Even nicer.” His mouth replaced his thumb and his lips gently rubbed hers. Her head tilted backward welcoming the soft caress and her moan sent every cell in his body into overdrive. His blood rushed downward, his groin hardened and his brain reeled, all because of one feather-like touch and her hardly audible response. He could give her more. His mouth closed on hers and his tongue slid between her parted lips.
François’ kiss steadily eroded Cheryl’s ability to think. She hooked her hands around his neck and he responded by wrapping his arms around her waist.
She was softness molded to his hardness, her breasts sensitized by his pecs, the hardest hard-on she had ever felt pressing against her belly, while his tongue whirled a crazy dance in her mouth, licking her palate, tasting her tongue. She could hardly breathe. Couldn’t think or even moan but she reveled in his magnificent body and clung to him.
No need to think now. Just feel him, feel his raw masculinity. You’ll think tomorrow. She inhaled his clean musky scent, ran her fingers through the wavy hair at his nape and clasped her legs together, aware of her arousal and the warm wetness burning between her thighs.
When his hand crawled under her shirt and covered her breast, she snatched her mouth away and arched back. His fingers massaged, kneaded and fondled her pebbled nipples. Her hand wrapped over his, urging for more of his suave French seduction, a reproduction of her wild fantasies. But her knees buckled and he scooped her up.
“Let’s go to my room.” His eyes darkened with desire, he gave her a wicked smile. “We will continue there.”
“Continue? In your room?” she repeated, her fuzzy mind having trouble to grasp the simple words.
“Chérie, I want to make love to you in a comfortable bed.”
She swallowed. “In your room?”
Your room is on his right and Mademoiselle Edith’s is on his left. The little maid’s words chimed in Cheryl’s ears and doused the heat of the moment. How could she have forgotten about that convenient arrangement?
One on the right and one on the left. Not on your life, Count de Valroux. “Put me down,” she ordered, her voice chilly.
HER FRENCH COUNT is also a part of the box set, Foreign Heroes