Emmeline reaches back and grabs his hand, bringing it up to her loose hair. Desmond takes the hint and wraps his hand around the strands, holding on like it’s the harness of a horse. He tugs sharply, watching as she throws her head back and gasps. Her throat is long and pale, on perfect display for him. He leans forward, sucking a mark into her pulse point.

“Oh, Desmond, I’m close,” she moans out and he knows she is on the brink of her orgasm. It’s the first time she’s spoken English all night.

“Me too, baby,” he huffs out, snapping his hips faster than before.

A fire starts in his belly, flames licking away at his insides until he turns to ashes. His whole body shakes when he cums, shoving himself into her and staying there. Emmeline moans with the motion, staying still as a statue in the Louvre. Beautiful and stony, skin made of marble.

He knows her and she absolutely hasn’t cum yet, so he pulls out and replaces his dick with his fingers, pumping quickly with three fingers while his thumb rubs circles into his clit.

“Desmond,” she chokes out his name, knuckles turning white where they’re gripping onto the couch.

It takes two things to make her cum. The first is a slip of words, a whispered admission sent into the air. The second is a slap to her ass, hard and sharp, leaving a red mark when he pulls his hand away and sees the shape of his palm marked into her skin. He thinks he’s hurt her, but when her legs begin to shake he knows it’s the complete opposite.