Baby Love by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Emmanuelle de Maupassant’s newly released ‘Baby Love’ is a glorious comedy romance, following in the footsteps of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones and the quirky humor of Marian Keyes.
Heavily pregnant Delphine’s rat-fink husband has packed his bags and abandoned her for the charms of their sexy neighbor, leaving Delphine struggling to cope.
Juliet and Suzanne, Delphine’s sisters, insist that the best remedy for a broken heart is a healthy dose of pampering: cue a spa break, where there’s more in store for Delphine than a hot stone massage and a spell in the jacuzzi.
What readers are saying
‘I sat up until the early hours, unwilling to put it down. It’s a joy to read. I can’t recommend it enough.’
‘A gem of a story – had me in stitches.’
‘I see that you’re not far off your due date,’ said Jack, reading from his clipboard.
Presumably, my form was attached to it. Hoped I hadn’t noted anything too embarrassing. Had probably ticked boxes admitting to excessive flatulence and piles.
Looked up at him, leaning over me. Could see muscles bulging; the sort that would toss a tree trunk like a matchstick. He smelt lovely also. Musk and light sweat with a hint of sawdust. As if had been doing DIY.
Just the thought of him laying his hands on me was sending me all aquiver. Which bit would he touch first? Which bits was he planning to get to next? Where would he end up?
Bar two small handtowels (hardly bigger than face cloths) I was nude.
‘Breathe slowly and deeply for me, Delphine,’ said Jack. His hands, large and warm, pressed down upon my shoulders.
Nearly had an orgasm there and then. Could hardly draw breath, was in such a state of excitement.
He began to knead, working his thumbs up towards my neck, then out again, to the edges of my shoulders. His palms stroked down over my collarbones, to the top of my breasts, in smooth, fluid motions. There was nothing inappropriate. His technique took him only to the upper half of my bosom, but how I wanted him to go lower. Just another six inches. It was tantalizing. He could have taken each breast in his hands and kneaded them like dough. Huge tits, yes, but his were huge hands.
Oh the bliss and torment of it. So near and yet so far.
I’d been traumatized. I was an emotional wreck. But I’d not had sex for nearly two months, and I was hot with desire. If Jack, he of the strong yet gentle hands, had flung aside that little towel, I’d have done nothing to stop him.
‘Oh Jack,’ I’d have cried, as he swept his oiled palms over my breasts, massaging and squeezing, raising my nipples to stiff peaks ready to pop into his waiting mouth.
Of course, that didn’t happen. It was all in my head. But! Revelation! I wanted it to!
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