His hand slipped inside, sliding across her soft breast. His thumb grazed the tip of her nipple, hardening under his touch.
“You’re bad,” she whispered, the smile on her lips encouraging him.
He leaned down and she took his kiss eagerly. Antony picked her up and placed her on the counter. Their hands roamed over each other; pulling, smoothing, tugging. Her mouth crushed against his.
Antony’s erection was rock hard now. The desire to have her right then and there in the kitchen burned hotly through his veins. He could almost feel the anticipation of that first thrust.
“I want you.” She breathed into his neck.
“Mon Dieu.” His knees almost buckled. “Condom…bedroom.” He managed to utter.
Maxine reached into the shirt pocket and pulled out a square wrapper, smiling triumphantly.
There was a frenzy of opening the package and sliding the rubber on, and then finally Antony was inside, molding to her body.
Her heels pushed against his lower back as he grasped her hips, pulling her close with each penetration. The urgency subsiding as they fell into a sensual rhythm. She hugged his neck, and started to kiss his face, whispering his name.
Antony never expected to have someone this close in his life—someone who didn’t depend on him being a super star on the ice. For the first time in his life, Antony Laurent succeeded in something other than hockey, he’d fallen in love, and in turn had become someone worth loving.
Maybe, he thought as she sighed his name, that he’d paid back his debt and the universe was giving him carte blanche, a second chance of sorts.
A surge of energy exploded from Antony’s very core. The rocking of their bodies on the edge of the counter began to hasten. Her fingers gripped his shoulders like she was holding on to the edge of a cliff. She pressed her face into his chest. “Don’t let me go,” she said
“Jamais,” he promised. “Never.”
****
He drew her a bath the next morning, then waited at the side of the tub with a warmed towel, thick and pure white. Then he wrapped her up and carried her to his bed, where they rolled and tumbled in each other’s arms over the duvet as the sun streamed into the room. He ravished her breasts with his mouth while his fingers linked with hers above her head, making love to her as if the whole world outside had stopped and they were their own little orb of life.
Later, he made Provençal chicken stew while she sipped wine he kept topping up for her. They talked as he cooked; crushing the garlic cloves, dipping each piece of chicken in the flour before adding it to the hot, sizzling oil. Maxine nibbled on olives and small bites of cheese and candied nuts. “What was it like growing up in Rimouski?” she asked.
“Hockey is way of life”—he said, shaking his head—“even more than here. Marc and I were natural on ice.”
Earlier she’d seen that one of the framed pictures in his room had been of Marc and Antony in their hockey uniforms, both playing for a major junior league. “Do you miss hockey, too?” she asked.
“Non,” he simply said.
Maxine asked again about Marc. “My sister Rose works for the crime division of the Globe and Mail. Well, she’s working for an editor who makes her pick up his dry cleaning sometimes, but the main thing is she has connections.” Then she smiled. “You said Marc knows all the stats for Toronto’s hockey team, maybe he might consider going into sports journalism?”
Antony stopped stirring the stew. “You’re really something,” he said. Then he drew her into a hug and kissed her so long and so hard, they ended up stumbling into the living room where they started to have sex on the couch—until the sound of the stew boiling over sent Antony scrambling back to the kitchen.