Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo Page A

chin jutted up, and she looked him in the eyes and answered,
    “I, too, am hungry.”
    His testicles engorged, every miniscule pubic hair tingled, but he didn"t dare surrender to St. Pete"s sycophantic begging. Harry"s buttocks clenched hard enough to shoot bursts of the most painful daggers over every inch of his groin, he forced his hands from the ridge of her behind, gestured to the table and bench curved into one corner of the deck, and croaked, “Shall we?”
    The Glory’s bosun appeared the minute they sat.
    “Martine, you remember Austen Tanner from the hotel? He"s also the Glory’s bosun and a decided PITA.” Harry"d ensured he and Martine sat side by side facing the twinkling hazy streetlights doing a dot-to-dot zigzag along the steep gradient of the hills rising from the coast. He felt more than saw Martine"s automatic shrinking into the padded bench. She frowned at the acronym.
    “PITA is pain in the ass,” he explained.
    “The chef wanted me to ask if you have any allergies or if there are any foods you aren"t fond of.” Austen transferred a dome-covered dish from the tray to the table and then set down a carafe.

    Mediterranean Mambo: Carnal in Cannes

    31

    “No,” she replied.
    Harry barely caught her low murmur above the slapping of the Mediterranean on the yacht"s hull.
    “In that case, may I present your amuse-bouche?” With an exaggerated flourish, he whipped the silver lid off the white platter on the table, and immediately the aroma of charred shrimp and rosemary leaves enveloped the deck.
    “I"ll leave you two to enjoy. Harry, buzz me when you"re ready for the next course.”
    Martine stared at the platter, examining each of the ten different bites displayed on the white porcelain. She didn"t seem to notice Austen"s quiet departure, her attention fixated on the food. Her pert breasts rose and fell as she inhaled, and she closed her eyes as if on the brink of gastronomic orgasm.
    St. Pete tap-danced against his linen trousers; they"d changed so hastily in the hotel that he hadn"t bothered with boxers.
    “You do like shrimp, then?” he asked while filling her wineglass with the sangria. A burst of orange-lemon perfume hit his nostrils.
    Shifting a tad on the plush leatherette, she dipped her chin. “Oui—yes. I like them very much.”
    Lifting his glass he said, “Shall we toast the success of our venture?”
    Her lips tugged upward and flattened. She searched his gaze, then answered,
    “Success.”
    Their glasses clinked.
    The tinder of lust simmering in his groin sparked and ignited. Harry gulped a third of the goblet in one go.
    Martine surreptitiously sniffed the wine before she sipped, and when she swallowed, her eyelids fluttered half-closed.
    Harry slipped his arm along the back of the bench. He picked his favorite canapé from the platter. “Here, try this. It"s one of my favorites. Shrimp and goat cheese with basil in puff pastry. Open,” he coaxed, brushing the warm, crisp dough in the center of her mouth.
    “I—”
    He slid the amuse-bouche between her parted lips, and their glances bolted together. Harry couldn"t remember ever being so aware of another human being.
    As she chewed, her eyelids did a little half shutter, St. Pete jumped, and Harry fell under her spell. Three flakes of golden brown pastry dusted her bottom lip.
    Her eyes flew open when he lapped the buttery speckles off her lip. One fleck resisted his tongue, so he captured her lip between his and sucked gently.
    Sweet almighty, she tasted like heaven and hell and spun sugar. Harry leaned in, and his tongue and St. Pete did a Fred-and-Ginger tango, the little head grabbing command of his frying brain. His palm curled around the side of her neck; her smooth, supple skin rippled under his touch. He traced her lips, learning their shape. The tang of the sea blended with her honeysuckle bouquet, she filled his 32
    Jianne Carlo

    senses to overflowing, and he tickled the center of her mouth. Her nails bit into