honeymoon reliving the worst day of our lives.” If Jack’s vow echoes my very thoughts, his actions speak louder than words. He kisses me: first, fiercely; but soon his actions become a drawn out achingly gentle game of touch and feel.
He’s in it to win it.
He gains big points as his lips slide down my neck and between my breasts. There, he pauses for a moment. His eyes shifting to my right breast, then to the left, like a kid who has landed on a Candy Land game board and doesn’t know which way to turn.
The left proves the luckier of the two.
His mouth seems to swallow it whole. Instinctively, I brace for the tingle due to come from the feel of his tongue on my nipple. Soon, I’m moaning from the pleasure of his touch. But in no time he has circled back down into the valley of my bosom and over to my right breast, licking my nipple until it too goes taut.
His lips meander. The stubble on his cheek tickles the slight swell of my belly. He takes my frenzied groan as the signal to quit teasing me.
He’s right. It’s time for the main event.
As Jack enters me, his body, cantilevered by his thick muscled arms, hovers over mine.
His eyes open wide in rapturous adoration. The late afternoon sun’s rays, streaming through the undulating curtains, fan out behind his head, crowning him with a halo.
Am I imagining it? No. He is my protector.
The one true love of my life.
My angel.
His thrusts, steady and deep, fill my heart with joy. As Jack’s ecstasy swells within me, all thoughts scatter from my mind, like crispy leaves whipped out of reach by a brisk autumn gale.
Finally, spent, he shudders as he collapses onto me.
We lay there for some time, chest to breast. His heart pulsates in tandem with mine.
As it should be.
Always.
If only.
A scream wakes us from our post-coital slumber.
The wailing doesn’t stop, but only gets louder, more agitated. A moment later, voices are raised in raucous accusations.
The chorus of shouts also gets louder as time goes by.
Jack groans. Still, he unfurls his arms and legs from me in order to ease himself from our bed. His small nod to modesty is to open the curtain only partially, in order to view the ruckus.
It is evening. Right now the only light is coming off the super yachts. The glow, mirrored in still waters, casts long shadows on the man who still thrills me. It darkens his soulful eyes, heightens his cheekbones, and etches the sinews of his muscular physique. If his curls were alabaster instead of naturally dark brown, I’d swear he was a sculpture by Michelangelo.
My newly piqued lust quickly dissipates under the singsong blare of police sirens. I leap out of bed, too, scooping up a fallen robe and wrapping it around me before joining Jack at the window.
From what I can tell, a crowd has gathered on the beach a mere hundred yards from our terrace. Police officers seem to have taken control, shooing away the gawkers.
“A drowning?” I wonder out loud.
I’ve barely had time to take note of the action when we hear a rap on our door. I tie my robe tight around my middle while Jack slips into loose sweat pants and a T-shirt. When I see he’s fully clothed, I open the door.
Two policemen face us. Jean-Pierre stands between them. He is wet and smeared with sand. Tears and fear brighten his red-rimmed eyes.
What the hell is going on?
“ Oui, les agents ?” Jack’s nonchalance doesn’t betray his own shock and awe.
As he asks, the nose of the older and bulkier of the two officers twitches. Perhaps he has noted our post-coital musk. “ Pardonnez-nous , Monsieur and Madame Craig. May we have a moment of your time?” Switching to English is a courtesy proffered by most public servants along the French coastline, which is heavily trafficked by British and American tourists.
“But of course.” Having lived in this country for many years, Jack’s French is excellent, but for my benefit, he responds likewise. He leans
He’s in it to win it.
He gains big points as his lips slide down my neck and between my breasts. There, he pauses for a moment. His eyes shifting to my right breast, then to the left, like a kid who has landed on a Candy Land game board and doesn’t know which way to turn.
The left proves the luckier of the two.
His mouth seems to swallow it whole. Instinctively, I brace for the tingle due to come from the feel of his tongue on my nipple. Soon, I’m moaning from the pleasure of his touch. But in no time he has circled back down into the valley of my bosom and over to my right breast, licking my nipple until it too goes taut.
His lips meander. The stubble on his cheek tickles the slight swell of my belly. He takes my frenzied groan as the signal to quit teasing me.
He’s right. It’s time for the main event.
As Jack enters me, his body, cantilevered by his thick muscled arms, hovers over mine.
His eyes open wide in rapturous adoration. The late afternoon sun’s rays, streaming through the undulating curtains, fan out behind his head, crowning him with a halo.
Am I imagining it? No. He is my protector.
The one true love of my life.
My angel.
His thrusts, steady and deep, fill my heart with joy. As Jack’s ecstasy swells within me, all thoughts scatter from my mind, like crispy leaves whipped out of reach by a brisk autumn gale.
Finally, spent, he shudders as he collapses onto me.
We lay there for some time, chest to breast. His heart pulsates in tandem with mine.
As it should be.
Always.
If only.
A scream wakes us from our post-coital slumber.
The wailing doesn’t stop, but only gets louder, more agitated. A moment later, voices are raised in raucous accusations.
The chorus of shouts also gets louder as time goes by.
Jack groans. Still, he unfurls his arms and legs from me in order to ease himself from our bed. His small nod to modesty is to open the curtain only partially, in order to view the ruckus.
It is evening. Right now the only light is coming off the super yachts. The glow, mirrored in still waters, casts long shadows on the man who still thrills me. It darkens his soulful eyes, heightens his cheekbones, and etches the sinews of his muscular physique. If his curls were alabaster instead of naturally dark brown, I’d swear he was a sculpture by Michelangelo.
My newly piqued lust quickly dissipates under the singsong blare of police sirens. I leap out of bed, too, scooping up a fallen robe and wrapping it around me before joining Jack at the window.
From what I can tell, a crowd has gathered on the beach a mere hundred yards from our terrace. Police officers seem to have taken control, shooing away the gawkers.
“A drowning?” I wonder out loud.
I’ve barely had time to take note of the action when we hear a rap on our door. I tie my robe tight around my middle while Jack slips into loose sweat pants and a T-shirt. When I see he’s fully clothed, I open the door.
Two policemen face us. Jean-Pierre stands between them. He is wet and smeared with sand. Tears and fear brighten his red-rimmed eyes.
What the hell is going on?
“ Oui, les agents ?” Jack’s nonchalance doesn’t betray his own shock and awe.
As he asks, the nose of the older and bulkier of the two officers twitches. Perhaps he has noted our post-coital musk. “ Pardonnez-nous , Monsieur and Madame Craig. May we have a moment of your time?” Switching to English is a courtesy proffered by most public servants along the French coastline, which is heavily trafficked by British and American tourists.
“But of course.” Having lived in this country for many years, Jack’s French is excellent, but for my benefit, he responds likewise. He leans
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