Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

his neck and wound a leg around his thigh. Her hips moved against his in a sinuous demand.

      “Stay,” he said when he broke their kiss.

      “For how long?” she asked, a frown forming.

      “A week, two weeks. A month. Does it matter?”

      He wanted to say a lot more, but he wasn’t a fool. Well, not a complete fool, anyway.

      She searched his face. He slid a hand down her belly and between her thighs. It was cheating, and he knew it, but—

      She quivered in his arms as his fingers slid into her slick heat.

      “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

      It wasn’t a promise. It certainly wasn’t a commitment but it would do. For the time being, anyway.

       Chapter Eight

      THREE WEEKS LATER, Maddy frowned at the front page of Le Monde as she stood at the kitchen table, trying to translate the main story.

      “What does méchant mean again?” she asked.

      Max was at his workbench, adding some shading to his latest sketch.

      “A big cigar. Or, depending on the context, a cruel man.”

      “So helpful. Not,” she muttered under her breath.

      “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said confidently.

      Maddy was not so sure. She’d learned all the ballet technique phrases in French because she’d been passionate about her craft, and she’d picked up enough menu and incidental French to get by over the years. But actually remembering and understanding the grammar and syntax of another language seemed like a Herculean task, especially when she had no idea how to conjugate a verb in her own language, let alone a new one.

      “I learned English when I was a kid,” Max reminded her as he crossed to the kitchen table. “A new language is not so hard.”

      Warmth washed through her as he stood behind her, sliding his arms around her. For a delicious moment she savored the heat of his strong body, letting her weight rest back against him.

      Three weeks of him, of this, and she still couldn’t get enough. Three weeks, and she couldn’t remember what it was like to not want Max, to not crave his touch. How had she ever looked at him as only a friend?

      “That’s different. Your mind was young and nimble. Mine is nearly thirty and stiff and arthritic,” she said, only half joking.

      Max laughed, the sound vibrating through her body. She felt the brush of his fingers as he pushed her hair out of the way to bare her neck. Then he kissed her, his tongue moving in lazy circles against the tender skin behind her ear.

      “Mmmm.” She’d been modeling for him and was wearing one of his old T-shirts and nothing else. She felt his erection pressing against her backside through the thin fabric.

      “It’s a wonder you ever get any work done,” she said, rubbing herself against him shamelessly.

      “I know. I consider it a miracle. Maybe I should give Yvette a call again.”

      He’d chosen to use Maddy instead of Yvette for the rest of his sketch studies. Every day Maddy modeled, and every day their sessions inevitably turned into lovemaking. Sometimes Max took her when she first disrobed, his eyes hard with desire as he walked toward her. Other days, like today, he waited until he’d captured the poses he wanted before giving in to the need they both felt.

      She smiled with anticipation as one of his hands slid inside the baggy neckline of the T-shirt seeking her breasts. The other moved down her body to cup her backside.

      His hands massaged her and she closed her eyes.

      He knew exactly what to do to make her wild.

      She moaned as he dipped his fingers between her thighs, widening her stance to invite him in. Delicate, teasing, he delved into her intimate folds.

      She held her breath as he slid a finger inside her, then another.

      Instantly she was on fire, her heart racing, her body clamoring for him.

      “Max.” She reached behind her, finding the stud on his jeans and popping it open.

      In seconds he was free of his underwear, his erection rubbing against the lower curve of her backside. She leaned forward, hands stretched before her on the table, back arched, butt high, offering herself to him. He didn’t need to be asked twice. He slid home in one smooth thrust.

      “Maddy,” he groaned.

      She tilted her hips, encouraging him to move. He obliged and within seconds they were both gasping, their bodies tense with approaching orgasm.

      He curled his hands into her hips and pumped into her hard and fast. She quivered, her head dropping forward bonelessly as she came, her inner muscles trembling around him. His own orgasm followed hard on the heels of hers and she felt him shudder as it gripped him.

      She collapsed flat onto the table, the smell of fresh newsprint strong in her nostrils. Opening an eye, she saw she was sprawled across Le Monde.

      “What’s so funny?” Max asked.

      “Maybe I’ve been going about learning French the wrong way,” she said.

      He laughed. “I can think of worse ways to learn a language. Maybe I will whisper it to you while we make love. Perhaps that will help your recall.”

      The thought of Max speaking soft French words in her ear while he rode her sent a shiver up her spine.

      “You like that idea, do you?” he asked.

      She could feel him growing hard inside her again.

      She’d never had a lover like him. Insatiable. Knowing. Tender and passionate. Earthy and imaginative. It was possible he’d ruined her for any other man.

      The thought made her stomach dip. One day—probably soon if her track record was anything to go by—this fling with Max would be over and she would be forced to stop basking in the here and now and think about the future. About a life without dancing, and a life without Max.

      “J’aime te faire l’amour, Maddy,” Max murmured as he flexed his hips.

      She felt the slow, delicious slide as he stroked into her. She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely on how good it was, how good they were. As always, everything else slipped away. The future could wait another day.

       “Tu te sentez si serrée at chaude.”

      She grasped the edge of the table as one of Max’s hands slid around her rib cage to find her breasts.

       “Quand je suis a l’interieur de toi—”

      They both tensed as a knock sounded at the door.

      Max swore. “Perfect timing,” he said with heavy irony.

      “It’s Charlotte,” she said, suddenly remembering. “She mentioned she was going to drop by this morning.”

      “Of course it’s Charlotte. It’s been a whole day since we saw her last,” he said.

      She laughed, then gave a little gasp of loss as he withdrew from her.

      “Blame my sister. I plan to,” he said.

      His obvious frustration was flattering and funny.

      Charlotte knocked again, longer and louder this time.

      “For Pete’s sake, stop jumping each other and answer the door,” she called.

      Maddy reached out to tag Max’s arm. “You’re it,” she said, taking