Without protest, he settled himself atop her on the hard table and kissed her greedily. She tasted herself on Luc’s tongue, and should have been repulsed, but was not. This was sex at its rawest best. She’d never experienced it before, but she damn well intended to now.
Luc was out of control, as he’d never been in his entire life. He couldn’t believe he was making love with Sylvie Fontaine. Talk about getting lucky!
She was lying on the table, arms and legs outspread, hair wild, eyes luminous with passion, lips swollen and moist from his kisses. And she was staring at him as if he was the sexiest stud to come down the bayou since Dennis Quaid. A heady aphrodisiac, that. Not that he needed any more aphrodisiacs in his life.
With a low masculine growl, he took her hand and guided it to his erection, which pressed against her pubic hair like a steel rod. “God, I want you so much,” he said huskily.
She put her free hand to his face, cupped his cheek gently, then ran the fingertips over his parted lips. “I want you, too,” she confessed.
Sweeter words were never spoken.
With the other hand, Sylvie circled him and ran the circle up and down his shaft gently, which caused tiny explosions of red stars to burst behind his eyeballs. Then, without any prompting, she raised her knees so her feet were braced flat on the table, spread her legs wide, and guided him inside her.
He gritted his teeth, his neck reared back, and he groaned loud and long, “Oh… my… God!”
“Oh, my God!” she echoed. “You… you fill me.”
That about said it all. “Ah, chère, you are so hot… and tight… and wet.”
Her inner folds were welcoming him with little spasms that caused him to grow even more. This was heaven on earth, being inside Sylvie.
Her eyes kept going wider and wider, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening down below. He chose to take that as a good sign.
Sylvie’s body held him in such a snug sheath that he wasn’t sure he would be able to move. But he needed to move with an urge that was primordial and overwhelming. Bracing himself on straightened arms… with the greatest, most infinite care, he began to pull himself out, almost all the way… an excruciatingly pleasurable exercise, considering the way her muscles dragged on him to stay.
She moaned.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, stopping and gazing down at her.
She shook her head. “Am I hurting you?”
He laughed joyfully at the naïveté of her question. “Yes, but only in the nicest way.”
There was no more talking after that as he began the serious business of making love with Sylvie. Lord, that had a good sound to it. Making love with Sylvie.
At first, his thrusts were long and deliberately slow. Sylvie caught his rhythm and met him stroke for stroke. Luther Vandross was still belting out his gooey love lyrics, but Luc much preferred the wet sounds of their lovemaking as they slid and smacked against each other. They could not keep this slow pace for long, though, and soon he was pounding against her, hard and fast. Sylvie held tightly to the sides of the table; otherwise, he might ride her right off the surface and onto the floor. At the very least, if they were not careful, there were going to be scrapes on his kneecaps and splinters in Sylvie’s butt from the hard table. But who the hell cared now!
Sylvie was moaning almost continuously now, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh…” When he felt her entire body go stiff, and her hips arch up off the table, he threw his head back, let loose with a guttural, masculine growl of supreme satisfaction, and thrust into her one last time. Sylvie convulsed around him, violently at first as he shot his very essence into her, then with progressively smaller spasms till he felt as if he’d been milked dry.
Luc let his weight come down on top of Sylvie, who looked like a rag doll spread-eagled on the table. A very satisfied doll with a Cheshire cat grin on her face. He kissed her tenderly.