I taste her salty tears and our mouths collide, and she kisses me like I’m a pain reliever. That small ease of tension begins. Her body relaxes beneath me, her hands no longer gripping me for dear life.

“Okay,” she whispers against my lips, and I can feel her smile.

Tentatively, I roll my hips, and the sensation makes her arch off the bed.

My ego can’t handle how receptive she is. Every little movement elicits a delicious sound from her lips. She’s as passionate as I knew she would be, fiery and aggressive enough that I don’t feel as though I need to hold back once we find our rhythm. She grips my hips and my hand traces its way down, past the slight dip of her navel, the sharp edge of her hipbone, that tantalizing warmth back between her legs. She squeezes around me when I stroke her. I don’t register that I’m saying anything until a string of French curses have already slipped free from my mouth, forbidden French I can’t contain, and Lainey responds to every single word, her head tipping back, her mouth falling open. Her moan is guttural and oh so sweet as she comes. Her body wraps around me, tightening with every wave of pleasure. There’s no possible way I could hold back. I try, I try, I try, and then I see black stars dancing behind my closed eyelids as I squeeze them shut. The pleasure is almost too intense. It’s all baser senses. Her heated skin. Her salty taste. Her sweet scent. That tight squeeze. Her hand holds my neck as my head falls to that safe groove between her chin and chest. I come undone and my body racks against her, and I’m weighing her down, asking for too much, taking even more than I should.

When I feel like I can breathe again, I blink my eyes open to find Lainey staring up at me, wonderment evident in her eyes.

Then a teasing smile unfurls across her lips.

“That was quite a lot of French…”

“Should I translate some for you?”

Her eyes widen with alarm. “No!”

Embarrassment looks too cute on her.

“Okay, how about this?” I ask, toying with her. “Je suis amoureux de toi.”

She looks so serious as she listens then asks, “What does that mean?”

My touch is whisper soft as I press a finger to her furrowed brow, then I continue gliding it down along the bridge of her nose. I can’t resist the urge to touch her red lips. I’m staring at them as I tell her.

“I’m in love with you.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lainey

The next evening, I’m sitting on my bed in my grandmother’s house, reading. Logs crackle in the fireplace, and a candle burns on my bedside table. Dinner will be served soon, and then the rest of the day will probably unfold as it usually does. My grandmother and Margaret will go into the sitting room to play cards. I might go for a walk, or I might continue reading.