Holy fuck!!
Not even in my wildest scenarios as an intimacy coordinator could I have dreamed up something this HOT.
The Phantom’s leather seat molded beneath me as I shifted, pressing into him, the swell of my breasts molding against his solid chest.
He took that arm away from the backseat and he went to town.
First of all, not every man could kiss.
Some treated it like a messy obligation—too wet, too fast, too careless, as if the goal were just to get through it rather than savor it.
Others were timid, hesitant, all nerves and uncertainty, as if they were waiting for direction instead of leading with intention.
But Fabien?
Good God!!
Fabien kissed like he had studied the art of seduction in some secret, elite academy.
Like he had memorized every detail of a woman’s pleasure and then refined it with meticulous precision.
He kissed like a man who didn’t just enjoy it—he worshipped it, pouring erotic heat into every slow, silky stroke of his tongue and every firm yet teasing press of his lips.
And God help me, I wanted to give him a Stellar star for that damn kiss because it was a five-course, fine-dining experience of a kiss.
The kind that lingered, that made you sit back afterward—dazed and reeling—already craving more before you’d even fully processed what had just happened.
He played with pressure, teasing one second, deepening the next, making my body arch toward him instinctively.
Mindlessly.
I felt weightless and fevered all at once, like I was dissolving into the heat of him.
Damn it.
I had gone years—years—without sex, and this was the man I decided to finally let touch me?
I was DOOMED!!!
Groaning, he moved his hands—one cupping my face, the other sliding down, grazing my throat, skimming lower. His fingertips traced the tops of my breasts, featherlight, a tease.
And finally, he lifted his mouth from mine, giving me a few seconds to catch my breath.
That sexy voice left his lips. “I want to ask you a very dirty question.”
My pulse skittered. “Please.”
“What cup size are these?” He gestured to my breasts. “DD. Right?”
A wicked laugh slipped from me. “Baby. . .these are well out of the D section.”
His eyes darkened, his grip on me tightening. “Mmmm.”
“These are H cups.”
A reverent curse left him. “Dear God. I have now realized that I love the letter H.”
“Oh really?” I teased, licking my lips.
