“Yes, both,” she panted.
He stood and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. Somewhere in the back of her mind a part of her hoped they left a mark. She wanted a reminder of how she felt at this moment, how his total possession had ratcheted her desire to an almost debilitating level.
“Please, I want you. All of you.”
He growled and plunged inside her in one long, powerful thrust. Allie gasped, feeling every exquisite inch of him stretching her, filling her. The sensation alone was almost enough to make her come. Wound as tight as she was, she knew she wouldn’t last long once he started to stroke his hard length in and out of her swollen flesh. But he didn’t. Instead he held still, buried deep inside her, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She tried to move her hips, but his grip tightened.
“Don’t move,” he ground out. The strain of his barely leashed control was evident not only in his voice but in the way his fingers flexed against her skin. “I just want to feel you around me.”
Her breath came in short pants as she waited, her body pulsing around him. It was too much; she needed more. She squeezed her inner muscles in a desperate attempt to spur him on. He groaned, a low guttural sound, and then he started to move, thrusting fast and hard and deep.
The bed rocked beneath her as his thighs hit the end of the mattress with each punishing drive. She tried to steady herself, her hands reaching out blindly, clawing at the sheet and twisting it in her grasp. When her arms and legs began to tremble, she dropped to her elbows, her face pressed to the duvet as he continued to fuck her. Because that’s what this was. It wasn’t the slow, sweet lovemaking of the night before. It was raw, carnal fucking, and she loved every minute of it.
“Fuck, Allie, I can’t get enough of you. You feel so good sliding around my cock.”
She garbled incoherent pleas into the duvet. Words like more, harder, deeper. Hudson changed his angle, hitting a spot inside her that brought her to the edge. His breath grew choppy, his rhythm faster and sharper. Then one hand left her hips, sliding around her stomach to the top of her sex. The dual assault was too much. A low, keening cry escaped her lips as his fingers circled and pressed.
“That’s it. Fucking come for me,” he grunted. “Now, Allie. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
She came with a muffled scream, her body clenching around him in waves as one orgasm rolled into another. Hudson stayed with her, his perfectly measured thrusts suspending her in a white-hot bliss while she writhed and bucked beneath him, lost to the mindless pleasure. This was what he did to her, what only he could do.
Behind her Hudson made a rough sound of agonizing ecstasy. His body jerked and shuddered as he emptied himself inside her. “I love you,” he whispered as he collapsed against her. The weight of him, pressing her into the mattress as his chest heaved for breath, soothed and calmed her trembling body.
“I love you, too,” she murmured. And she did. She loved him more than she ever thought possible.
Hudson rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. She nuzzled against his chest, her limbs loose and her eyelids heavy. As the plane dipped and banked to the left, Allie drifted into an exhausted sleep, secure in the fact that the man holding her would always be in her life.
Chapter Twenty-four
The knock that woke Julian was a real pounder, loud as a ball being shot out of a cannon. He had no idea who it was, or how long they’d been beating on the doors to his master suite, but he was a hair’s-breadth away from shredding them a new asshole.
“Pour l’amour de merde.” He coughed to get his vocal chords working. “Arrêter cette incessante frapper. Je viens.” When he finally opened his eyes, it felt as though the morning light streaming through the windows singed his corneas. He squinted down at the slender arm draped possessively over his chest and shoved it off. The woman—for the love of God he couldn’t remember her name—rolled over with a soft moan as the appendage flopped to the mattress.
Julian swung his feet over the side of the bed, then rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. When he opened them he got his first full look at the room. Clothes were draped on every surface—the twin set of wingback chairs, the lampshade, the dresser—there was even a bra hanging from the chandelier above the bed. Empty bottles of champagne littered the floor and ashtrays overflowed on the bedside tables.
More fucking knocking.
“Une minute.” Palming a pack of Gitanes, he withdrew a cigarette, slid it between his lips, and lit it with a quick rasp of a gold lighter engraved with the letters JL. The first drag was always the best, and once againit seemed to do the trick. He tossed the lighter on the nightstand and shifted to his feet. He stood there for a second to let the sudden case of vertigo pass before grabbing the silk paisley robe that hung over the footboard of the intricately carved canopy bed.
As he headed toward the knocking, he slipped the robe over his shoulders and tied the sash. When he yanked the door open, he exhaled, blowing a rocket of smoke out of his nose. “What?” he barked in his accented English.
“Monsieur Lau—”
Julian interrupted the man with the arch of a brow.
“Marquis Laurent,” he said, quickly correcting his mistake. If there was one thing Julian had learned about his hired gun, it was that despite his slip-up, the guy was all about protocol. A soldier broken and reprogrammed by some military regime from which he was undoubtedly AWOL.
“Oui, Philippe?”
“I have an update.”
Julian swung the door open the rest of the way. “Entrer,” he said around the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He gestured for the man to follow as he sauntered toward the wingbacks in front of the fireplace and took a seat.
Philippe’s shrewd gaze scanned the room, stopping abruptly at the ornate turn-of-the-century bed where two women were still passed out from the night before. The statuesque brunette with the olive skin was on her back, one arm over her eyes as if to block out the sunlight and one leg bent at the knee, exposing herself. The other, a blonde, was on her stomach with her arm now draped across the other woman.
Julian smirked. The women were as significant as the brocade curtains that framed the windows. Just as useful, too, but a hell of a lot more fun.
Philippe circled the wingback, unbuttoned his dark suit coat, and took a seat opposite Julian. “I have information on the whereabouts of Alessandra Sinclair and Hudson Chase.”
Julian took deep drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange. “I don’t give a fuck about that prick.” His thick accent curled around the words and smoke wafted out of his mouth with the syllables.
Philippe pulled a small notebook out of the breast pocket of his jacket and flipped it open. “Miss Sinclair will be boarding the Venice-Simplon Orient Express in a few hours, final destination London, with a brief stopover at 48.8567 degrees latitude and—”
Julian cut him off. “Enfer putain. In English, as the Americans say.”
“Yes, sir. Paris, France.”
His eyes grew wide. “When?”
Philippe consulted his notebook again. “Tomorrow morning, zero-eight-hundred.”
“Perfect.” Julian’s lips drew back in a sneer. Things couldn’t have worked out better, even if he’d been the hands of God pulling the strings. He leaned back in the chair and stubbed his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray.