“Oh, Gloria, you feel so fucking good. Work with me and trust me.” He slowly slid his length down my center, and when he pushed it back up, I met his thrust, enhancing the pleasure for both of us. He let out a sultry sigh.
He was different with me this time. The strokes were smooth and measured, and his soft lips pressed all over the nape of my neck and upper back. The only restraints were his hands, which gripped my hips. Actually, they were more like anchors than restraints, holding me up and helping me ride him as his glorious cock worked me up and down.
He whispered into my ear. “Play with yourself. It’ll make it even better for you.” It was a sweet command, not a barking order.
Still gripping a hip and not missing a stroke, he used his spare hand to place my right hand to the soft folds between my inner thighs. His hand stayed on top of mine as he guided it up and down along the sensitive tissue. No stranger to masturbation, I quickly found my clit and circled my fingers around it. His hand returned to my hip and he intensified the grinding between my legs. He was right. Right as usual. I arched my head as the intense pleasure I was giving myself mingled with the extreme pleasure he was giving me. Oh, God! I wanted to come!
“Don’t come yet,” instructed Jaime, a hint of his controlling behavior seeping into his sultry voice. “I want to enjoy this for as long as I can.”
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. The waves of ecstasy had begun to roll through my core, the inevitable not far away. My breathing grew ragged with his. Craving my moment of release, I dug the fingernails of my free hand into his thigh as I tried to restrain myself.
“Now, angel,” he finally said. “Fall apart for me.”
On cue, my whole body shook as my core splintered around his pulsating member. His own orgasm came seconds later with a roar of my name. My head fell back against his taut chest. I could feel it rise and fall, the movements slowing as his breathing stilled. His heartbeat sang in my ear like a love song. He wrapped a brawny arm around my shoulder, coiling my damp braid around his hand, and nuzzled the side of my sensitive neck. His other hand caressed my quivering clit. Bliss. Pure bliss. I don’t know how long we stayed in that position when I heard him say, “Gloria, turn around. Face me. We need to talk.”
So relaxed, all I wanted to do was stay curled up in his arms and close my eyes. But he was right. We needed to talk, and he had traveled far to have a serious conversation. There were so many burning questions that needed answers. I shifted my body so that my longs legs were spread over his, and we were facing each other. His expression was intense, his lush lips pressed tight, and his blue eyes piercing. He looked anxious. I’d never seen this side of him. My heart pounded with anticipation. Maybe I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself and began.
“How did you know I was here in Paris?”
“Gloria, you should know this about me by now. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I had to see you.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I fired back at him.
“I found out from your PR guy. Are you here on business?”
“Personal business.” I wasn’t ready to tell him about Madame Paulette. It was all too complicated. And I didn’t want to get all choked up. Steeling myself, I instead asked the question that most needed an answer.
“Are you fucking Vivien?” I could have said “involved with Vivien,” but it just came out that way. I held my breath waiting for his response.
He sucked in a gulp of air between his teeth.
My heart skipped a beat. He was!
He blew out the air. “Vivien is my stepsister.”
Dead silence. Shockwaves coursed through my body. I struggled to process the information. Victor’s earlier words, “you were always a problem child,” echoed in my head. “Victor Holden is your father?”
“No, my stepfather. My mother was his second wife.”
With that, Jaime launched into his life story, unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the raised scar that marred my chest.
Jaime’s mother, a raven-haired beauty named Delilah, I learned, married his real father, Payton Anthony Zander, a struggling artist, when she found out that she was pregnant with his child. A painter’s model, they had met when the young beauty had posed for him. For Payton, it was love at first sight. Eighteen-year-old Delilah was the muse and lover he’d always dreamt about. The child only added to his infatuation.