An Affair Before Christmas (Desperate Duchesses #2)

“Take them off!” she barked, pushing him back. She couldn’t be this close to him, not when he smelled so good. She was losing her focus. Losing her Frenchness. He wouldn’t desire her if she turned back into her docile little self and just let him do things. She had to stay in control.

He stepped back, looking a little surprised, but then pleased too. “Immédiatement!” she added, just to get the message across.

He grinned at that and started playing with his waistband. Pulling it down a little. That was something she loved about him, the way his hips were so lean and there was a little hollow there. She wanted to lick it too. She didn’t know how she knew about that hollow, because she never consciously looked at him, but she did. Fletch pulled his breeches down, and farther down.

Poppy felt a little faint. She’d seen him a hundred times at least. Especially after he started insisting that they make love with all the candles lit, and she had to lie on top of the covers. She’d seen him. She never thought he was grotesque and hairy, the way her mother had described.

But she’d never looked at him and felt her whole body start to tremble either. He was large. And smooth. And he had his hands on his hips, so it looked like his whole body was just—

That. There.

“And now?” he said, his voice all deep and teasing, as if they were talking about bits of sugar.

Her mind reeled, trying to think what to say next. How could she stay French, be French, so he wasn’t bored? What would a Frenchwoman do next?

She couldn’t take her eyes off him and really the only thing she wanted was for him to—

That couldn’t be said. It was horribly vexing. She couldn’t think of anything.

“Sweetheart?”

He started to say something and his eyes were so sweet and kind that she knew she’d already failed. He was looking at her and seeing stupid old Poppy, not a sensual Frenchwoman with kohl all around her eyes.

“No!” she snapped.

He stopped, but he didn’t look quite so happy. Poppy took a breath. She had to find herself again, find the pleasure in it. She was failing, she knew she was failing—she pushed the thought away. It was probably time to go to the bed. That was what she should do.

“I would like you to lie down,” she said. Thankfully, she didn’t have to modulate her voice: it came out all provocative and husky on its own.

“Wouldn’t you like me to undress you first?”

She froze for a moment. Would a Frenchwoman let a man undress her? She couldn’t remember whether Jemma had said anything about it. At some point they had all been laughing so hard that she could hardly hear the advice.

“A Frenchwoman always undresses herself,” she stated.

He grinned so that must have been the right thing to do. Then he flung himself onto the bed, as cool as a cucumber. He propped his head on his arms and crossed his legs. But Poppy had trouble looking anywhere other than his…his waistline. She wet her lips and his hips rose just a little bit as she watched.

She did it again and he made a curious sound.

So she let her tongue play with her bottom lip. He was watching her with the sleepiest, most delicious expression she’d ever seen. She was doing it right. She knew she was doing it right. A little rush of exhilaration swept through her.

“It’s so hot in here,” she said, low and sultry. That was one of the lines Jemma told her and it sounded just right, even though Isidore screamed with laughter from the bed and said Jemma sounded like a three-penny whore.

Then she just pulled her neckline wide and eased it down over her shoulders. Fletch was sitting up now. He looked like a dying man seeing a drink of water.

Poppy licked her lips again and then slipped the dress down a little further. And a little further…

“Oh darling, you’re killing me.” He said it with a half groan, and Poppy felt heat flash from the tips of her ears to her toes.

“Mmmmm,” she said, pulling her sleeves a bit lower.

Her breasts were free now. He was looking, so she looked down too. They looked very nice, plump and warm. She knew what they felt like in her hands. But what she wanted was to feel his hands on her breasts.

She met his eyes and saw her own desire reflected there.

“Poppy,” he said, “could you please come to the bed now?” He sounded hoarse. It sounded to her as if the Frenchwoman had conquered him, and she could probably let him take over now. Which was good because—

That was the moment when she discovered that the neckline had gone down just as far as it was going to go—to her elbows. She tried to pull out an arm and couldn’t.

“You’re trapped,” her husband said, sounding delighted. He swung his legs off the bed.

It wasn’t French to get trapped in one’s clothing.

And yet—

Fletch didn’t even try to get her free. He just stood in front of her without touching her—couldn’t he tell what she wanted?—and kissed her. His mouth was sweet, like sin and honey and everything she’d ever wanted in life.

He didn’t open his lips though, and that’s what she wanted. By a moment later Poppy was feeling half-crazed. She couldn’t raise her arms. But he wasn’t touching her. He was just kissing her without—just rubbing his lips against hers.

So she finally had to do it herself. Like the daring Frenchwoman she was, she ran her tongue along the line of his lips. He tasted sweet, like a man. A little spicy.

Kiss me, she thought. Kiss me.

His lips softened but they didn’t open. There was just a gleam of humor in his eyes, and something else, something possessive and dark that made her shiver.

“Kiss me,” she finally whispered. “Fletch—”

And he did it. Just like that, one hand came to the middle of her back and pulled her towards him. Her breasts came to his chest, and his mouth opened, sweeping inside hers.

“Do you like that?” he said.

She was breathing too hard to answer, pressing against him, feeling the aching tips of her breasts.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“What do you like?”

He wouldn’t kiss her again until she said it, so she did. “Kiss me again, Fletch.” Her voice sounded as if she was begging, and a pulse of humiliation went through her, but then he started kissing her and it didn’t matter, none of it mattered…

He put his hand on her cheek and let it drift down, down to her neck and she was shrieking inside. Why didn’t he touch her?

She would say it: touch me, but it was too bold. And he was kissing her. Then she realized she wanted to touch him and she couldn’t because of the stupid dress, so she started struggling with it, wiggling while still kissing him.

He pulled back and stared down at her. There was something different in his eyes: slumberous and intent. He was looking at the Frenchwoman, Poppy thought with a little throb of anxiety. What would she do next?

But he took the decision out of her hands. “La liberté,” he whispered. Put his hands on her neck, drew his hands down, down over her breasts. She shivered, and he cast a trail of fire down to her waist. Then with one quick wrench he ripped the delicate fabric in half and it fell to her feet.

“Very nice,” he drawled.

Poppy nearly covered her breasts with one hand and her private parts with the other—just in time she remembered that she wasn’t herself. She was French. Instead, she stretched, all the way above her head. Her whole body was tingling, feeling pink and ready for—