It was as if every pore of her skin became highly sensitised to his touch, and an exigent sexual chemistry was apparent-vital, electric, lethal-for it melted her mental resistance, leaving only the craving for physical release.
Now, she urged, unaware whether the word left her lips or not. She was burning up inside, on fire with a primal heat so intense she lost sight of who and where she was in the need to have him deep inside her, matching each primeval movement until that deep, rhythmic possession transported them both simultaneously to exquisite sensual sensation.
Sandrine almost cried out loud when his mouth left hers and began a slow, tortuous descent, pausing to savour delicate hollows at the base of her throat before trailing a path to her breast, suckling first one acutely sensitised peak before delivering a similar assault on its twin.
Her stomach tensed as he explored the delicate indentation of her navel, and she gasped as he moved low to caress the most sensitive pleasure spot of all.
Her body arched as she became consumed by a wicked ecstasy so acute she began to plead, muted guttural sounds she didn't recognise as being her own voice.
She reached for his head, seeking purchase on his hair, and she pulled it mercilessly in a bid to have him desist. Only to have him catch hold of her wrists and effortlessly clamp them to her sides.
'Michel.' His name emerged endless minutes later, accompanied by a mindless, tortured sob. 'Please.'
Seconds later he slowly raised his head and gave her a long, impassioned look. His eyes were so incredibly dark they were almost black.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her pulse seemed to beat so fast it was almost out of control. Her eyes felt too big for her face, their expression wild, dilated with an emotion she didn't care to define.
When his head lowered, she gave an anguished cry and felt her flesh quiver uncontrollably as he began bestowing an agonisingly slow trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses to her navel, the soft slope of her breasts, their tender aureoles, the slender column of her neck, before taking possession of her mouth.
Timeless minutes later he freed her hands, and the breath stilled in her throat as he entered her with one powerful thrust.
She could feel herself stretching to accommodate his length, the tightness as she enclosed and held him, followed by the primitive rhythm that he kept erotically slow at first, so measured and deep she was aware of every muscle contraction.
She was almost falling apart when he quickened the pace to a heavy, pulsating action that took her so high she became wild with the force and strength of it.
Her body felt as if it were a finely tuned instrument played by a virtuoso until it was wooed to such a fine crescendo that the only possible climax was to fracture and splinter into a thousand pieces in the accompanying electric silence.
He remained buried deep inside her as he cradled her face and kissed the teardrops trickling slowly down each cheek, trailing their path to the edge of her lips.
How was it possible to weep with such a combination of acute pleasure and sadness? Sadness, she rationalised, for an awareness that the pleasure had been all hers.
Michel supported his weight, then bestowed a series of butterfly kisses to the contours of her mouth before lifting his head to gaze down at her.
'Okay?' he queried gently.
What could she say? There wasn't one adequate word that came readily to mind. 'Speechless,' she managed at last.
'I meant you,' he qualified slowly.
'Fine.' You lie, the tiny voice chastised. Your body still vibrates from the feel of him, and you ache with a hurt that has little to do with physical pain.
Michel saw the faint clouding evident in those beautifully luminous brown eyes and glimpsed the rapid pulse beat at the base of her throat.
He leant forward and placed his lips to that frenetically beating hollow, felt her tremor and gently tucked a stray swath of hair from her cheek.
Sandrine wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight of him, but that wasn't an option. Instead, she wrinkled her nose at him in silent, mocking remonstrance.
'Lunch,' she declared. 'I'm hungry.' In one easy movement she slid off the bed and crossed the room to the en suite.
Michel followed and merely arched an eyebrow when she lifted a hand in mute denial that he share her shower.
'Modesty is inappropriate,' he drawled as he stepped in beside her, caught up the soap and began lathering it over her body.
'Give it to me,' she said in a strangled voice as she attempted to take the soap from his hand.
'No.'
She didn't want to fight. Dammit, she didn't possess the energy or the inclination right at this moment to do more than submit to his ministrations.
When he finished, she let the fine needle spray rinse the soap from her body, then she slid open the glass door and reached for a towel. By the time Michel emerged she was dressed, her hair was swept into a knot on top of her head, and she was applying colour to her lips.
He pulled on his clothes, ran his fingers through his dampened hair, then he inclined his head in bemused mockery and swept an arm towards the door. 'After you.'
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY selected a small intimate restaurant with an appealing blackboard menu, chose an outdoor table shaded by a large umbrella, ordered seafood pasta, focaccia and white wine, and were impressed by the quality of the food and the service.
Sandrine declined anything to follow and settled for strong black coffee.
'You enjoyed the food?'
She looked at the man seated opposite and fought against an enveloping wave of sensation.
How was it that he had this cataclysmic effect on her? He exuded an unfair share of sensuality, an inherent quality that was both mesmeric and magical.
'Yes, thank you.'
His mouth curved into a faint smile. 'So polite. More coffee?'
She shook her head, then watched as he gestured to the waiter to bring the bill.
'Shall we leave?' Michel queried minutes later, and Sandrine rose to her feet in acquiescence.
Together they strolled along the main street, pausing every now and then to examine a shop window display. Sandrine purchased a few postcards, added moisturiser and sun-screen cream, insisting on paying for them herself. Use of her credit card took care of a bikini and sarong wrap in glorious turquoise.
'The resort pool or the ocean?' Michel asked as they deposited an assortment of carry bags in their hotel suite.
She didn't hesitate for a second. 'Ocean.'
It took only minutes to change, collect a towel and cross the street to the beach.
A number of people inhabited the clean white sand; children laughed and squealed as they played while adults were bent on improving their tans or relaxing beneath large beach umbrellas.
The sea looked peaceful, with the gentle waves of an incoming tide encroaching on the foreshore. The curved bay was picturesque with its outcrop of rocks, a steep, bush-clad hill that led to a Natural Reserve.
There were many such beaches, coves and bays along the eastern coast, but Noosa held a reputation all its own.
Bliss, Sandrine silently reflected as she spread her towel beneath the beach umbrella Michel had erected. First, she'd sunbathe, then she'd swim.
Applying sun-screen cream was a sensible precaution, given the strength of the summer sun, and it took only minutes to cover her legs, arms and midriff.
'What do you think you're doing?' she demanded as Michel extracted the plastic bottle and squeezed a generous portion onto his cupped fingers.
'Applying cream to your back.' Her mouth pursed at the amusement apparent as he began smoothing the protective cream onto her shoulders.
He was thorough. A little too thorough, she decided as he ensured every centimetre of exposed skin was covered. He even went to the extent of loosening the clip of her bikini top, then refastening it. And his fingers caused havoc with her nervous system as they conducted a firm, circling massage across her back, over her waist and down to the line of her bikini briefs. Controlling her breathing became an effort, and she was grateful her expression was hidden behind dark glasses.
'Thanks.' Her voice was husky, almost indistinct.
'You can return the favour,' Michel instructed her indolently, handing her the bottle.
His request was deliberate, she was sure of it. Part of a strategy to test the effect such an action would have on her. Well, she'd show him just how easy it was to touch him. It wouldn't trouble her at all.
Ten seconds in and she knew she lied. He could have done the macho thing and flexed every muscle. Instead, he simply sat with his knees raised, his back to her, and his breathing didn't alter a fraction as she completed the application in record time.
Sandrine didn't want to think about the way her pulse raced into overdrive or how every nerve end uncurled in sensitive anticipation. An ache began deep inside, radiating from her central core until it encompassed her whole body.