“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…