It didn’t matter if it was shyness or resistance on her part. He couldn’t allow her to put that kind of distance between them. Small spans soon became canyons, in his experience; best to close that gap now. “Listen to me,” he ordered, but Sylvie went wild… kicking, biting, crying.
Because she kept struggling, he pressed her up against the wall, his fingers interlaced with hers, and held her hands above her head so they both clasped the showerhead. His already waterlogged body crushed against her nudity, chest to groin, till she was unable to move, trapped between him and the ceramic wall.
“Ah, chère, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” she cried.
“Why did you leave without me?” he asked accusingly.
She blinked wetly at him. “Because you told me you didn’t want me anymore…” Then she added as an afterthought, “You louse.”
He inhaled sharply. “I never said that. But I’m a louse, if you say I am.”
“Yes, you did, Luc. You louse.”
“I suggested we not see each other… for a while. There’s a difference.” He shook his head from side to side, as if she were a thickheaded child. “Can’t you tell how much I want you?” he asked, even as his head was descending toward hers. Her lips were full and red and swollen from crying, and he couldn’t resist the temptation. He just couldn’t.
He saw from her expression the moment she became aware that he was pressing his erection into her lower belly. Instead of being embarrassed, as she usually was, or angry, she looked sad. “You just want sex, Luc. Any willing body would do.”
“Oh, chère, that’s not true.” Sylvie thought she was the one with the lack of confidence, but he could match her in the self-doubt department, insecurity for insecurity. All his life, he’d had drummed into him the idea that he was bad. How could someone like Sylvie love him, for himself? He had to prove himself worthy. What if he made love to her? That was something he could do for her. Maybe she would love him for how he made her feel.
Having made that decision—and it wasn’t all that difficult, considering his constant half-arousals when around Sylvie—he decided to kiss her senseless. Then he would do all those other things he’d become proficient at over the years. He might not be a good person, but he was a good lover.
Unfortunately, Sylvie had other ideas. “No,” she said firmly, and tried to turn her head away.
But his mouth just followed after hers. “Do you need the words, chère?”
“No… yes… oh, God!” He assumed the “oh, God!” was an involuntary admission that she wanted him, too. At least, he hoped that was the case.
His lips were already slanting across hers. “I want you,” he whispered huskily against her mouth.
She sighed a wispy surrender, and parted her lips for him.
“I want you,” he repeated.
His tongue plunged deep inside her mouth, then withdrew.
When he came up for air, she asked, “Is the love potion kicking in again?” For some reason, she didn’t appear happy at that prospect.
“Hell if I know.” He was pulling his shirt over his head even as he continued kissing her.
“Is that the reason for this… uh, reversal of affection?”
“Huh?” he said against her mouth, which he was devouring with delicious expertise.
“I said, are you feeling the effects of the love potion again?”
“Why? Are you taking notes?”
“Mmm.”
He bit her bottom lip lightly in punishment.
“I’m too excited to give you logical answers now, Sylv. All I know is I want you. I want you, I want you, I want you,” he groaned out… a painfully sweet sexual litany.
His fingers were no longer interlaced with hers, but still she held onto the showerhead for support. Otherwise, her legs would probably give way with the scandalous things his mouth and hands were doing to her.
But he had an even bigger problem now. He was having a helluva time undoing the wet zipper on his jeans. The damned metal tab just wouldn’t move. Where was Houdini when he needed him? With a howl of frustration, he grabbed for a cake of soap and rubbed it over the zipper, up and down. Voila! He was free. Well, almost free. He had the same problem with the laces on his sneakers. By the time he rolled out of his jeans, like a banana out of a tight peel, he was feeling more like a… well, cucumber. Whatever. He now stood naked before Sylvie.