by Geneva Lee
Contents
Also by Geneva Lee
1. Smith
2. Belle
3. Smith
4. Belle
5. Smith
6. Belle
7. Smith
8. Belle
9. Smith
10. Belle
11. Smith
12. Belle
13. Smith
14. Smith
15. Belle
16. Smith
17. Belle
18. Smith
19. Belle
20. Smith
21. Smith
22. Belle
23. Smith
24. Belle
25. Smith
26. Belle
27. Smith
About the Author
Also by Geneva Lee
THE RIVALS SAGA
Blacklist
Backlash
Bombshell
THE ROYALS SAGA
Command Me
Conquer Me
Crown Me
Crave Me
Covet Me
Capture Me
Complete Me
Cross Me
Claim Me
Consume Me
Breathe Me
Break Me
THE SINNERS SAGA
Beautiful Criminal
Beautiful Sinner
Beautiful Forever
BREATHE ME
Copyright © 2020 by Geneva Lee.
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ivy Estate Publishing + Media
www.GenevaLee.com
First published, 2020.
Cover design © Date Book Designs.
Image © Andrey Kiselev/Adobe Stock.
To those who are fighting,
for themselves,
for others,
for love:
never give up.
1
Smith
The path to hell was paved with remodeling dust. I stepped over a precariously abandoned wood saw and made my way past two men arguing over grout for the backsplash. If I wasn’t careful I would be drawn into the sodding debate. I’d had enough arguing in my ten years as a lawyer to know that some battles aren't worth fighting, particularly when it came to tiles. I only had one thing on my mind—one person, actually—and I didn’t care to speak to anyone before I saw her. It never sat well to leave my wife, Belle, alone with an entire construction crew for the day. First, she had a tendency to add more work to the project, which was already well-past due, but, mostly, because I coveted her. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. It was that I wanted her all to myself. The last few days I’d had to share her with ten crew members, a foreman, and the rest of the household staff. Gone were the honeymoon days of fucking her two steps into the entryway of our London townhouse. I knew that when I pushed to move to the country. I just hadn’t expected that finding her in all the chaos would be as daunting as finding a moment alone.
For five months, we’d sought the perfect estate to call home, butting heads at every turn. Our wishlist had turned out to be a collection of opposite needs and wants. She wanted a homey feel. I wanted a modern kitchen. She insisted on a swimming pool. I hated them. She wanted to be within an hour’s drive of London or less. I wanted to take her as far from that city as possible. I’d never voiced that particular desire out of a well-honed sense of self-preservation. I had no doubt Belle suspected that I wanted her away from not only the city’s chaos but also her circle of friends. I loved them like an extended family almost as much as she did, but being best friends with the monarchy meant having a target on our backs. It was time for a new chapter. We’d agreed on that much if we argued about everything else.
The only option, in the end, had been to buy something that checked as many boxes as possible and rip apart what didn’t work. Thornham Park had been built in the late sixteenth century, updated every few decades to include the latest conveniences like plumbing and electricity as well as the passing whims of its various owners. Its location in Sussex might not have been far enough from London for my liking, but it had everything else she wanted, meaning it would fulfill the only item I saw as non-negotiable: moving out of London.
As it turned out, five months of fighting with a hormonal, pregnant woman paled in comparison to dealing with contractors. I began to suspect this was part of her plan the whole time. As long as half the house was in ruins, we kept finding ourselves back at our home in Holland Park.
A quick search of the grounds yielded no results. I wouldn’t have blamed Belle for trying to get away from the house, given the persistent cacophony of drills, hammers, and saws billowing from the kitchen. The remodel was nearly complete, but it would be months before we’d finished updating the entire estate. Our focus had been on the most important elements of our home: our bedroom and bath, the kitchen and living areas, and, of course, the nursery. We’d been coming back and forth the last few weeks. Belle had been taking her goddaughter, Elizabeth, a couple days a week to help her best friend out, and I’d been wrapping up the last of our affairs in London. With the baby due any day, I’d finally convinced her to move the bulk of her belongings here. Now, I just had to convince her to stay put more than an evening at a time.
Twenty minutes later, I had no choice but to check my least favorite amenity of our new home: the pool. It has felt like a cosmic joke to finally find the perfect country house within a short drive to London—Belle’s demand—but with the security features I’d insisted upon, only to discover it came with a sodding pool in its basement. The coincidence left a bad taste in my mouth. My family’s home in Kensington, the house I’d grown up in after leaving Scotland when my father took a job in England, had also had a pool in its basement. My memories of that pool were colored by the memory of finding his body in it. I’d been pleased to get rid of the old albatross and move to Holland Park with her after we married. I’d never expected that I’d finally find the ideal estate and it would have the same feature. Even without the grim memories of my childhood home, I didn’t particularly love the idea, especially with a baby on the way, but I couldn’t deny the estate was otherwise a perfect match.
Stepping into the muggy lower level, I spotted her. She was doing a lap. The water rippled around her, her shapely ass cresting over its surface to put on a private show for me. And it was a show, because Belle wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. I had a house full of contractors and their crews, and she was down here skinny-dipping. I felt a familiar swell of blood in my groin. No matter how many times I saw her, how many times I fucked her, how many times I made love to her, it was always the same. I only wanted more.
She reached the tiled wall at the far side of the pool and grabbed its edge. Beads of water snaked down her back as she shook her wet hair.
“Are you just going to keep watching me, pervert?” She called in a lofty voice, not bothering to turn around.
“I’m appreciating my prize possession.” I wouldn’t apologize for appreciating my wife. Not to her or anyone else. She was every fantasy I’d ever had, come to life.
Belle finally threw a simpering grin over her shoulder, as though she knew exactly what I was thinking, before turning to give
me a full frontal view of all of her assets. Her breasts, once small and pert had rounded into globes with dark nipples that begged to be in my mouth. I reached down to adjust my dick, allowing my gaze to wander below the water’s surface to the curve of her stomach where our child grew. She’d always been as lovely as her name implied, but now she was the most fucking beautiful woman on the planet.
“If looks could knock a girl up,” she teased, before adding, “Oh wait.”
Her hand reached to stroke her bump, and she winked at me.
“Come here.” I curled my index finger, beckoning her closer. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“I think I can see it from here,” she said dryly, but her teeth sank into her lower lip.
I glanced down at my trousers with a grin. “What a dirty mind you have, Mrs. Price.”
“What a giant cock you have, Mr. Price,” she purred.
“How can you tell from over there?” I reached for the towel she’d left on the chaise lounge and held it up. “Don’t make me ask twice, beautiful.”
Even from a distance I saw the tremble of anticipation roll through her. A familiar plan played across her face. I’d asked her to join me. She’d resisted. I’d warned her. We both knew what came next.
Belle didn’t budge.
“Beautiful,” I growled.
She enjoyed pressing my buttons almost as much as she enjoyed being reprimanded. It was our own brand of foreplay.
“I really should get out,” she said with a sigh. “I think we have more interviews this afternoon.”
I frowned at the reminder. I remained unconvinced that a nanny would be necessary. We’d gone back and forth on the issue. Trusting someone that close to our child didn’t sit well with me. But neither of us could commit to being full-time caregivers. Belle planned to expand Bless, her couture wardrobe rental start-up, into a separate clothing subscription for babies. Her business partner had recently flaked on her to babysit our most recent headache, the bastard brother of King Alexander. I planned to set up a law office in the village, which would look perfectly respectable and give me an excuse to avoid future investigations on behalf of the crown. It was time for us to focus on ourselves and our family, and we were going to have our hands full. But I’d seen too much in the past few years—in a lifetime really—to believe it could be that simple.
I didn’t trust easily, and I had a good reason. I couldn’t imagine finding someone who would assuage my doubt.
“You’re worrying,” Belle interrupted my thoughts, finally gliding across the water to the entrance steps. She climbed them slowly, her long fingers clinging to the railing carefully. Each stair brought more of her sumptuous body into view and pushed my concerns farther from my mind.
“Not anymore,” I promised, flicking my tongue across my lower lip. “Now, I’m just deciding what to do to you first.”
“I didn’t do as you told me,” she pointed out with a wicked glint in her blue eyes that told me I’d been right that she wanted to be punished.
I wrapped the towel around her shoulders and brought it to cover her.
“What am I going to do with you, beautiful?” I asked, tugging the terrycloth that trapped her until she was as close as her pregnant body would allow.
Belle’s head tipped back, her hair dripping across her shoulders, and smiled. “Anything you want.”
In that case, we wouldn’t be needing the towel. I rubbed it across her bare skin until she was dry. Pausing to study her for a moment. “Are you cold?”
“No.” But she shivered.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted.
I slid my hand down between her thighs, coaxing her stance a little wider in the process, so I could massage my palm against her slick skin. “I can warm you up.”
“But I disobeyed you,” she murmured, wriggling in an attempt to achieve more contact.
My palm twitched at the invitation. Leaning down, I drew my lips across hers, moving to trail them across her jawline until I reached her ear. “I never said I wasn’t going to punish you. You’ll find parts of you very warm soon.”
A hesitant cough broke the spell between us, and I whipped around, placing myself between my wife and the intruder.
“Begging your pardon.” Humphrey, our new butler, studiously looked away from us. His face, slightly crimson, was as sharp and angular as the tails he wore, their jet black fabric faded with age. “You have a guest. I saw her to the east drawing room. I assumed with the construction in the kitchen—”
“Thank you,” I cut him off. "We’ll be right up."
“I will have some tea delivered,” he suggested mildly, his eyes still glued to the floor.
After this, I was going to need whiskey. Humphrey bowed before turning to wind his way up the creaky stairs to the main floor of the house.
“We’re never going to have any bloody privacy,” I grumbled.
“Whose idea was it to leave London for the country?” Belle reminded me, stepping away while adjusting her towel to cover herself completely.
“I want a fresh start,” I said, reminding myself the same. Away from London. Away from the busy city. But, mostly, I wanted to leave our ghosts behind. After everything that had happened to us, Belle had agreed. She was more reluctant, but, fortunately, I had many methods of persuasion at my disposal—if only we could get a moment alone.
“Shall we go meet Mary Poppins?” Belle held out her hand, drawing me back to what this was really about: our future. Hers, mine, and our daughter’s.
I’d get used to the household staff, and they’d get used to finding us like this.
“Lead the way, beautiful.” I took her hand and guided her toward the lift. We stepped inside it, and I pressed the button for the second floor. “I’ll go down and say hello. Join us when you’re dressed.”
When we reached the second floor, Belle stepped into the hall before turning to place a hand to stop the lift doors from sliding closed. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? Coming here?”
I only heard the question she was really asking: Can we leave the past behind?
I smiled, and then I did something I rarely felt the need to do with my wife, I lied. “Yes. Everything is going to be simpler here. You’ll see.”
She nodded as I leaned across the threshold to kiss her, but her body remained rigid. That’s when I realized two things: she knew it was a lie, but she’d been hoping she could believe it.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she promised.
She disappeared from sight as the doors slid closed. I’d promised to protect her, and I’d nearly given my life to do so. Nothing would change that, but soon I would have two of them to guard. It would be easier to do that here, away from the chaos that surrounded our Royal circle of friends.
I’d prove it to her. Or I’d make it my mission to keep her so distracted that she didn’t care. I was going to make this work. One way or the other.
2
Belle
The antique lift delivered me to the first floor of the house, or as I liked to think of it: sanctuary. As soon as I stepped from the confined compartment into the corridor, the sounds of construction greeted me. Hammering, sawing—and god knows what else—rose through the landing of the stairs from the work being down on the ground level. I padded down the hall, into the east wing and slammed the bedroom door closed behind me. For a moment, I sank against the wood, clutching the towel tightly around my body. It wasn’t as though living in a beautiful house on a large estate was a hardship. I’d grown up on one, save for the times I was away at boarding school. I knew what it took to run the grounds. I knew my husband’s insistence on hiring a butler, a cook, a groundskeeper, and a housekeeper were all wise decisions. He’d seen to everything—almost everything.
At the moment, it was hard to imagine how quiet this house would soon be. But once the foreman and his crews finished their work, it would just be the two of us and a bunch of stran
gers. The nearest neighbor was several kilometers away and the village was over a fifteen minute drive. I should have expected as much when Smith said he wanted somewhere peaceful to raise our daughter. I should have been ecstatic at the prospect of living here and raising a family. I’d wanted that: to have children with Smith. I still wanted it, but I couldn't help worrying about how much I was giving up in the process. I’d nearly suggested looking for a house closer to my mother, just to know I would be near someone I knew. Thankfully, the ongoing drama surrounding my own family estate had shown me enough to know that was a bad idea.
“Chin up, soldier,” I muttered to myself. Tossing the towel on the bed on my way to the master bath, I started the shower, reminding myself that it was one of the many reasons this house was going to be worth the sacrifice. The entire bathroom had been gutted, plumbing and fixtures updated, into a loo worthy of a five star resort. Smith insisted it be exactly to my standards, so that I would have a place to escape during the rest of the remodel as well as a quiet spot to relax after the baby was born. I’d opted for Carrara marble, knowing its simple sophistication would never go out of style. A two-person soaking tub overlooked the sweeping hills behind the house. His and her vessel sinks sat opposite one another on a long vanity, lit overhead by a matching set of chandeliers. The marble flooring extended to cover one wall entirely in the delicate white tile to make a massive, walk-in shower. A single pane of clear glass rose from the floor and other than two large, rainfall-style showerheads and a central drain, there was little else to the shower. It had been a trick to figure out where to put the soap so as not to spoil the effect. In the end, a small shelf had been built into the wall, allowing a place for us to stash our necessities. I’d designed the space so Smith and I could shower at the same time. Although, considering how regularly he joined me on my side of the shower, it could have been half the size.