Illicit ✔

twenty 🔥

"RyRy," she said at last, beaming, her fingertips trembling as she grazed his cheek.

He handed her the roses and kissed her forehead, taking hold of her suitcase handle. "I hope you had a safe trip," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders once she'd fetched her bag from the ground. "I've got an entire evening planned for us, so hopefully you slept on the plane?"

"Um... a little?" She grinned from ear to ear—how could she have slept, even if she'd tried? All she did was think of him and of sniffing below his jawline for a whiff of his delicious cologne. Or of what he'd be wearing when he picked her up. And she had to say, now that her vision had cleared up, and she was no longer shaking in anticipation, she took in his attire—and smiled. The tight jeans and the form-fitting burgundy dress shirt he'd put on almost matched her imagination to a T.

Arm in arm, they meandered through the airport until they reached one of the exits. They whooshed outside to a slightly chilly, cloudy late winter afternoon. Taxis and shuttles cruised by, but Ryan motioned at a sexy black four-door Audi parked off to the side.

Coralie's eyebrows shot up. "That... is yours?" Not that she was a big car fan, but she could recognize a nice vehicle when she saw one.

"Well," he chuckled, opening the back door for her, "it's one of the company's, but being a director I'm allowed to use it at my leisure." He stuffed her luggage in the trunk, then shuffled in with her and glanced at the driver. "Nous sommes prêts."

Coralie's spine tingled from his French voice. It was deeper, hauntingly more seductive than his already delectable British accent.

"Fuck," she whispered under her breath, eyeing the silver bucket on the console—with a bottle of bubbly on hand. "Is that for us?"

"If you're up for it." Ryan seized the bottle—already opened—and the two flutes wedged next to it. As the car took off, he poured them each a glass. "To toast your arrival in the city of love. Santé."

As their cups clinked, Coralie bit her lip, eager to arrive in the French capital.

For the first few minutes, they sipped on their drinks, close but barely touching, tension building every time they stole a glance at one another. But once their flutes were drained, they no longer had any excuse to pretend to not want to devour each other.

With a flip of a switch, Ryan activated a tinted glass between the driver and the backseat. He then turned to Coralie with his mouth parted, his tongue dancing in excitement.

"Come here, you," he said, pulling her into his lap.

"RyRy! This is dangerous," she said, feigning offense yet not resisting him as she set her thighs on either side of his and lowered onto him.

"I got you." His palms wrapped around her legs as he yanked her closer. His breath—a hint of mint and a swish of champagne—blew over her cheeks and nose, and she shuddered.

The thinly layered leggings she wore offered little separation between their bodies. Within seconds, she felt him growing hard against her as her abdomen filled with bubbles—and not from the champagne.

It didn't take long for the windows to fog up and for Coralie's spine to coat in sweat as they exchanged languorous kisses charged with hunger. The outside world no longer mattered as their hands wandered under shirts and past waistbands, as they rocked back and forth, rubbing against one another with a fervent desire to caress, undress, forget.

But as she unzipped Ryan's jeans, desperate for another glimpse, another feel of that giant member between his legs, he moaned, and begged her to wait.