What woman wouldn’t crave an annual erotic, exotic rendezvous?
With a demanding lover who’s proven over and over again that he’s as scintillating and devoted in bed as out, Corin Campbell tears open her instructions for her yearly tryst with her insatiable Mr. Jones. Eager to experience what heart-pounding excitements Mr. Jones has created for them both this year in Paris, Corin knows that the Chinese love balls, her leather outfit, the masseur, the caviar and the five exhibitionists are only prelude to hours of intoxicating delight in Jones’s arms. What can he teach her this year about the enduring charm of his loving and the delights only he can summon from her?
And a nibble? (Copyright 2011, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.)
But when she told the desk clerk she was here to join Mister Jones, he nodded politely as if he understood the nature of her appearance here. He must, she assumed, because he did not ask for her passport or any other identification, as most hotels did for security. Mister Jones, Corin concluded once more, had done a marvelous job of preparing the receptionist staff for her arrival.
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plait, please follow this gentleman to your room.”
Grateful and eager as a cat now, she walked to the elevators and rode up in the gilded little cage to the designated floor. Would Mister Jones be here? Would she have to wait much longer to see him? Have him kiss her? Caress her? Tell her how he’d missed her?
“Mademoiselle?” the bellboy drew her attention as the doors swished open. Then, he led her down the corridor. At the end, he unlocked the door, deposited her luggage in a large closet to one side of the expansive foyer and led her to the sitting room. In the middle of the floor, he stopped short. She stood to one side of him, her nipples beading, her pussy swimming in fresh cream, her heart pounding.
“Is there anything else I may do for you, Monsieur?” he asked the man seated in the far corner in a large red velvet chair.
“No, thank you, you may leave,” said the rakish blond creature, yet his green gaze absorbed only her.
Long delicious moments passed as the bellboy left and the man in the chair took in her appearance from the tips of her black suede knee-high boots to the long black river of her hair, her pouting mouth and her eyes.
“You stun me,” he told her in that bass voice that rubbed her nipples raw with need each time he spoke so soft and low.
“As do you. Your instructions have been irritating, darling.”
One side of his mouth drifted up. “Is that all?”
“Tell me then.” He threaded his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. Self-satisfied bastard.
“Demanding.” She took a step forward. “Exciting. Inventive.”
“You were surprised?”
He nodded, his ash blond hair catching rays of the afternoon sun, his crisp white dress shirt brilliant in the lush décor of whites, black and regal red. “I am gratified.”
“Would you care to be more gratified?”
In assent, the other side of his mouth hitched up. Here was her Mister Jones with the grin that he wore only for her. The full appreciation of life that destroyed the stern-faced businessman and brought forth her lover. Corin’s Lover, he called himself on these rendezvous when he did not refer to himself as simply Jones.
She spun in a three-sixty to view their surroundings. The sitting room was sumptuous, even more so than the spa she’d left minutes before. The bedroom, she could see at one side, lay beyond. And the edge of a huge mattress beckoned. But she knew she could not, would not spoil their fun by running in and throwing herself on it. Mister Jones had worked so long to create this year’s rendezvous, she couldn’t simply tear her clothes off and beg him to fuck her. She would be a good girl, go along for the anticipation of fulfillment.
She strolled forward, a slow seductive roll of her hips, her pussy gushing in more cream at the sight of him. Her nipples hard with need at the mere hope he might soon lick her and suck her there. When she drew near him, she nudged his knees apart with one of her own and stood between his legs. Here she could inhale his citrusy cologne, the one he wore now always, the one she had had privately blended for him two summers ago when she went to Grasse in the south of France on a site research trip for a film that had failed to green light. The fragrance of the lime and cedar on his skin had her swallowing hard in need. Yet, she did not touch him. Not yet.
“What would you like first?” she asked him, her voice failing her because her desire for him was so palpable. This was his weekend, his commands ordered the events. “Shall I open the last envelope?”
“That is for much later, cherie.”
“What then?” She leaned over, drawing near to his wide slashing mouth and the temptation she always yearned to taste first and often. “Shall I kiss you?”
“Remove your street clothes,” he told her in a hush.