Gaspard eyed me cautiously. “I really can’t say,” he responded in his formal nineteenth-century style. Can’t, or won’t? I thought.
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Shh, kitten,” he whispered in English once more, nuzzling her temple, mouth open and hot against her ear. “Trust me.” His palms curved beneath her breasts, lifting them as his blunt fingertips tweaked her nipples expertly enough to have slickness gathering between her clenched thighs. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever touched. Une ange, bébé.” He
groaned quietly as he caught her earlobe between his teeth. “Je t’adore,” he muttered, thrusting against her backside.
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