A Wish Upon Jasmine (30 page)

She made his insides shake.

He reached through the window, grabbed three tangled vines of jasmine, and yanked them free of the mass. Then started back across the room.

***

Jess’s breath shortened as two long strides brought Damien back to her. That beautiful, hard body, the way he cut through a room, as if his movements were a sword’s, but with a suppleness and muscle to them like a panther’s. She wanted to be able to sink her hands into that tight butt of his and feel the way his muscles worked as he prowled.

She’d tousled that perfect haircut, his black hair all hers now. She’d brought that hungry glitter to his eyes. She’d gotten that shirt off his body, so that the ridged abs made her fingers itch to touch, so that her eyes could follow all those lean, hard muscles that forced the world to his will. All hers. She reached for him.

He caught her hands, the jasmine vine pressing against one wrist as he held it. His thumbs rubbed in the center of her palms. Then he pushed her back on the bed, gently, covering her body with his, kissing her.

God, she loved the power in his body and how much effort it took him to hold it in check. She dragged her hands down his arms, savoring his texture and trying to crack his control.

He let her hands get all the way to his wrists, then twisted his hands and caught hers again, pulling them above her head. He tickled her arms with the jasmine blossoms, trailing the vines up the inside of her wrists. Then he twined them around her wrists. In and out, wrapping around.

He was taking over again. He was good at that—reaching his hand down into her dark space, hauling her out of it, saving her. But this time…she wanted to be the one who stretched out her hand. She wanted to
reach.

“Look at that.” His deep voice purred dark the length of her body. “You’re caught by yourself.
Jasmin.
”

“Aren’t we all? Damien.”

He shook his head, the hypocrite, and kissed down her forearms, his five o’clock shadow brushing against that sensitive skin. She shivered. His tongue teased at the inner bend of her elbow, and her arms stretched, jasmine-bound, to let him reach still more of her skin. He kissed and teased with tongue and teeth, brought his callused thumbs down her arms and drew patterns with his thumbnails.

“Damien.” He dissolved her.

“Jasmin.” He kissed over the curve of her biceps, so much subtler than the curve of his.

“Damien
Rosier
,” she said. That name she hadn’t known the first time. But now she thought,
What an incredible whole his past and his loyalty to his family make out of him.

“Jasmin Bianchi.” He kissed her lips, his curved. “Unspoiled. Not a brat.”

She shook her head in reproach at the reference, but the movement brushed their lips together, and he slipped between hers, tongue and taking. She lifted her bound hands—carefully, so as not to lose the vine twining green and white around her wrists—to his chest. “Be careful what you wish for,” she whispered.

“From me?” He held her eyes with beautiful gray-green. “Wish for anything you want.”

You.
“This. I wish for this.”

A flicker of temper in his eyes.

She rubbed the jasmine flowers around her wrists against his chest. “I know you want me to wish for the moon and the stars, Damien. But it’s the same to me. You always were like wishing for a star.”

His body jerked. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. “Jess.” He kissed her, fierce and tender.

Damn, she wanted to touch him. Just touch him all over, not be shy, not give him the lead, just
take.
Take everything she wanted from him and trust that she could get it. She was a perfumer, damn it. At the very least, she knew how to capture the essence of something ephemeral and fragile and treasure it in a bottle.

She pushed at his shoulders, her jasmine manacles unraveling. The force in her hands startled him. That mobile black eyebrow went up a little as he rolled slowly back, searching her face. “You know what?” She sat astride him, lifting up her hands. “I don’t think I
like
being caught by my own self.”

She shook the jasmine free, and it fell on his chest. She caught it and drew it across his skin, tickling him with the small glossy leaves and silky flowers. “Maybe
you
can get caught by me instead.” She grabbed his wrists.

Both his eyebrows were up now, but he let her take those strong wrists she couldn’t possibly move without his yielding. He let her bring them together on his chest and twine the vines around them, weaving in and out, tucking in the ends to try to get the vine to hold.

Propped up a little on her headboard, he gazed down at his wrists, held captive by a garland of white flowers. He didn’t resist the slightest bit. His lashes stayed lowered, eyes impossible to read, but his mouth definitely curved. “
Volontiers
,” he murmured.

Willingly
. But in French, it sounded so sexy that her thighs tightened on him.

That curve of his mouth deepened. He nestled his body lower on the bed, so that the headboard no longer propped him up, and tucked his jasmine-bound hands above his head. And lifted his hips against hers, deliberately, pressing her up off the bed.

Damn, she wanted to get his pants off and feel his unabashed arousal more unabashedly still.

Well, she was on top, wasn’t she?
He
was bound by
her.
So she reached for the button of his jeans, and his breath sucked in.

Ooh, nice little space there under his waistband when his stomach went concave. She bypassed the button and teased her fingers down into it, grazing as far as she could. The muscles on his arms corded, his fingers finding the edge of her pillow and gripping it hard.

“Oh, look,” she murmured gleefully. “I can be mean to you, too.”

“If I let you.” Deep warning, even as his hips pressed up again.

She met his eyes limpidly. “I wish you would.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Jasmin.”

“Well…you wanted something
hard
to do, didn’t you, Damien?” She walked her fingers up his chest and then back down, toying around his navel. “Since just wishing for your hugs and kisses didn’t seem like enough?”

“I’m not seven anymore,” he said between his teeth.

She laughed and twisted her hips against his, enjoying the view of that very adult male body straining under hers. “Now how did I figure that out?”

“Can I take back what I said about you not being a brat?”

“It depends.” She stroked her fingers down again, teasing that fine trail of dark hair down under the waist of his jeans. “Are you going to spoil me?”

“How about I spoil you for any other man?” He thrust his hips again. “How about that?”

“Too easy.” She made a face. “You’ve already done that. I thought you wanted a
challenge.
”

His body stilled, his gaze locking with hers, and she realized what she had just said.

Damn honesty and daring. Her cheeks flushed under that gaze. He brought his bound hands to her hair and caught a handful of locks, pulling her head down with them until he could kiss her. He held her by her hair for his kiss, tightening his hold, kissing her and kissing her, hard, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as if
he
was on top and taking over
her.

“Cheater,” she managed when she could finally get herself to break free. She didn’t break far, her head collapsing on his chest as she breathed shakily.

He brought his bound hands behind her head, capturing her. “Show me your weaknesses, and I’ll exploit every one.” He made it sound like the most delicious promise, all wrapped up in a warning.

“Yeah?” She braced herself up again, kneading her fingers into his shoulders. “Are you going to take me over?” A rub of her hips against his. “Buy me up?”

“Yes.” He said it as matter-of-factly as he’d once taken over her company in fact. Done deal.
Mine.

“This is
my
space,” she said defiantly, just because there was something erotic about arguing, while they held each other captive.

He gave a purring, villain’s laugh. “Go ahead, Jasmin. Make this little space for yourself here. I like that. Because remember, the whole town that wraps around it is
all mine.
”

Should it have made her feel helpless in his power? Because it didn’t. It made her imagine the great, thick medieval walls and him as their builder and defender. With her safe behind them.

He’d always done that, this man. No matter what emotional upheaval he brought, he had always offered her safety at the same time.

I love you.
She ducked her head into his chest before she could say it, this emotion that swelled up so great that it hurt not to say, as she kissed her way down his belly, the jasmine vine around his wrist tangling with locks of her hair.
God, you’re so special.
He could not possibly, possibly be true, be meant for her.

He caught a fistful of it again as her lips brushed just above his waistband, his hold so tight her roots stung faintly. “No,” he said. “Come back up here and kiss my mouth, Jasmin.”

She loosened the button on his jeans and stroked her palm down over his briefs. “Oh, so you don’t like this?”

“I think I’ve created a monster.” But though he tried to make his voice sound put out, it was too thick with monster-creation pride.

She never had this kind of glorious self-confidence about sex. But there was something about that afternoon by the river. If he could let
himself
go, if he could take and use until all the sex was wrung out of them and they were limp on a riverbank, then…she could, too. “You make me feel a little giddy,” she confessed.

His eyes lit, hot and aroused and delighted. “You make me feel one hell of a lot more than giddy. Come up here and play with me where I can reach you.”

She eased his zip open, curling her hand over his cotton-veiled erection. “My arms are kind of short. I wouldn’t want to not be able to reach
you.
”

“You’re going to be in trouble if I get in reach of your butt at this rate,” he threatened, that gorgeous tangle of laughter and frustration and arousal in his own voice.

Her butt tickled in curiosity at the idea that he might lay a spank across it. Might be fun to try once, to see if they actually liked it.

“You know, every time I have sex with you, it’s completely different.” She tucked her face against his belly so she could blow a breath across his skin.

“If you’re still saying that when we’re eighty,
then
I’ll take it as a compliment,” he said wryly, his erection leaping in her hand in fierce counterpoint to the light tone.

She stilled, her lashes brushing against his skin as she blinked. No, best not make too much out of a careless comment. Focus instead on the moment.

She’d learned to be very good at that, focusing on the moment.

“Come here,” Damien murmured. “Jess. I’m the mean one. You’re the sweet one. Come be sweet to me.”

His voice was so coaxing. She couldn’t resist it, kissing her way up his chest. She pressed his jasmine-tied wrists above his head again, re-tucking the ends that were loosening. “You’re not very good at being mean. So I don’t see why I have to be good at being sweet.”

He made a kissing motion with his lips, lifting his face to her. And what else could she do with such a gorgeous man, tied up in jasmine for her, in this old bed, his golden body on her white sheets? She had to give him what he wanted. She kissed him, her hair spilling over her own shoulders and sliding down onto his.

“More,” he whispered as soon as she stopped. “Kiss me more.” His arms came over her head again, a circle of strength.

She brushed her lips over the prickle of his jaw.

“I should have shaved again when I took a shower.”

She shook her head, her lips brushing prickles with each stroke. “You’re perfect.”

His chest vibrated under her hand with his pleasure at that.

“Absolutely perfect,” she whispered, kissing down over his throat. Strong throat. And yet it was just as vulnerable as hers was.

He made another sound, hungry and intense. “Sweetheart.” He rolled them over suddenly, his forearms above her head, the jasmine falling free over one arm, his body holding hers to the mattress in the most perfect shelter of heat and strength. “You can tie me up in you any time you want. But right now—could I just make love to you? Just like this?”

Her hands stroked down the muscles of his back, that smooth skin. His biceps framed her body, so that his weight held her captive but didn’t crush. Wrapping her up in sex and strength and sweetness. So that she could wrap her arms around him and hold on tight, too. “Yes,” she whispered. “Just like this.”

So he did, while the jasmine vines curled over one strong forearm and tangled in her hair. While the scents of lavender and jasmine and sex and him blended all around her. He made love like that was something you could make, Love. It just took the right materials, the right blend, the right treatment, and you could make love that would last forever.

“How are the migraines?” Tristan asked, grinning. Damn, Damien looked happy. How long had it been since Damien had looked
really
happy, happy like when they were kids? That shift into more and more tension had happened so gradually but inexorably over the past two decades that it had been easy to miss how great the change had been. Although these past six months had been particularly bad.

“Will you guys shut up?” Damien retorted, but he picked up a handful of jasmine and let the white flowers drift through his fingers back into the great wicker basket.

Merde
, the man had lost his mind. And it didn’t make Tristan want to kick things
at all
that he had never found his own woman to lose his mind over. Well, one, but that had been a different kind of losing his mind—pure outrage. Not the same thing at all.

“Are you whistling?” Tristan said. “Did you just whistle? Raoul, did you hear that?”

“Sounded more like a mouse squeaking to me,” Raoul said, as he helped Matt wrestle with the vat.

“Hey.” Damien turned on his oldest cousin.