by Leigh Lennon
I have to give it to the man. He’s let me share it all with him without interrupting me at all. He’s let me get it out. And I owe him the same.
“Wow, chéri, you got out a lot in a few words.” The lighthearted chuckle I’ve come to covet from him isn’t present. “I wish you would have told me this last night, yet you’re right. This is the only thing I know. It’s very impersonal, but everyone I’m with is a trained submissive. And I treated you the same way.”
There’s a pause on his end, and all I concentrate on while I’m waiting on him is the loud tick of my clock.
“I’m sorry, chéri, I wish we could have more time together, but I’ll respect your wishes.”
This has gone better than I’d expected, and as we say our goodbyes, the sadness continues to overwhelm me, I’m afraid we’ll never get a chance to replicate our night together.
My mom places a plate of corned beef and cabbage in front of me. I’m not hungry, and it’s been a little bit more than a day since saying goodbye to Marcel.
“Molly, baby, are you okay? I mean, if something happened on your trip, like you got hurt, you’d tell me, right?”
My mother has always been more of a mother hen to me than Kier. At six feet, four inches, Kier has always been able to fend for himself. And because I’m not much taller than five feet, two inches tall, my mother has to fear me being maimed and abused and left for dead. I’m small but scrappy as hell. Plus, one summer, Kier sent me to self-defense classes, so I’m not as weak and frail as my mother believes.
I don’t answer her, and I think she understands in my quietness it is my answer. “Oh, Molly, did you talk to Kier today?”
I shove a piece of boiled potatoes with too much butter for one’s health into my mouth. “Um, not today,” I answer after I swallow hard. I grab for milk to help wash it down, waiting on what my mother is talking about.
“Oh, we’re going up next weekend again for the game. Are you coming?” My father takes the opportunity to sit down, and my mother begins to serve him. Something she’s always done. Adding a generous portion to his plate, she returns her focus back on me. “He told me he’d call you.”
Do I want to go to Seattle for the third weekend in a row? It’s funny. My first thought is fuck no. My heart still hurts, and I can’t figure it out. I couldn’t have given him more than a couple of weekends, and a clean break is best for us.
Over three million people live in the city and surrounding metropolitan area. What are the chances I’ll run into Marcel Lafitte? One in a zillion.
I haven’t decided and probably won’t go but I pick up the phone to shoot off a text to my brother.
Me: Hey, I’m not sure if I’ll come, but if I do, I’d be willing to meet this friend of yours.
It’s a minute before my return text pings and I know it’s my brother.
Kier: Absolutely. And you won’t be sorry.
Maybe one fun night will push the asshole Frenchman from my thoughts. Yep, a fun fling will cure whatever the hell Marcel has done to my heart.
Chapter 10
Marcel
The perfume is different than the stench that’s been filling my office this week with every suggestion by Connie Weston. I slide my gaze to Leela, my protégé, imparting a broad smile her way.
“You’ve been pretty scarce lately, Ms. Cesarea?”
“Oh, I’ve been keeping my head down, and I’ve covered for Erica on the five o’clock news, as you know.”
This I had known because as soon as I assigned Leela to replace Erica on the five o’clock news during her maternity leave, Connie Weston barged into my office with many complaints falling from her resting bitch face.
“And I’ve heard you’ve gotten hell for it.”
I give her a little shrug, staring at my phone, wishing one certain person would call me, regretting her decision, but with another glance at my cell, I realize it’s not coming.
“Listen, Old Man,” she teases. “Wanna come to the game next week? It’s Kier’s thank you for allowing his feature piece.”
I want to handle this right. Because this can’t come as a way to garner my fantasy of seeing Molly again, I can’t push her, and showing up out of nowhere isn’t fair. Nor will it work to my advantage.
“Let me look at my schedule.” I attempt to hide my enthusiasm because living in the States, football has become my favorite sport, though the football I grew up on, the kind you actually kick with your foot, is now a very close second. Yeah, they’ll have to take away my French citizenship.
I flip through my calendar, trying to be all suave over this question. “Will I be sitting next to you?”
“Oh, no. He has us in a box seat this weekend. We’ll be with a couple of other players' families, but it’ll also be us and Kier’s parents.”
“Yes, nice people. I enjoyed meeting them.”
“Yeah, he’s allowed to have five people. But it’ll be just us four. It’ll be fun.” I’d already told myself I wouldn’t attend if Molly was going to be there. I love a good game, and being invited by Kier means a lot to me. But why am I bummed I won’t see Molly?
It’s not like I can’t afford my own ticket or even a box seat. But being invited by a member of the team is even better.
My mother had always teased me from an early age that I’d been born in a three-piece suit. My biological father, Maurice, had been born into money. It was something that I loved, always dressing for success. At the age of ten, when my papa died, we were left with nothing. It was some sort of clause in his will, giving his brother control of the company. But an old friend of my papa’s in the States always had a soft heart for my mom. Ma mère (French for my mother) loved me and because he loved her so much, he too loved me as if I were his biological son. When ma mère wouldn’t have any more kids, he adopted me, but I kept my biological name, hyphened with my American father’s. In my profession, I’ve dropped my adoptive father’s last name, because too many questions would be asked.
But on game day, when my dad used to take me to all of Chicago’s games, it was the one time I dressed down. Even on off days, my attire could be categorized as dress casual.
My ticket allows me access to an elite part of the stadium, and as I’m directed to the room, I’m anticipating an afternoon of pleasurable entertainment. A stadium employee opens up the door, Leela speaking with the team's publicist. Everyone in the past two weeks in Seattle has finally connected and forgiven Kier for his transgressions when he played in New York.
Leela waves me over her way, a glass of wine in her hand. It’s a benefit to these box seats. A waitress takes my order. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I answer before she’s able to ask me.
We’re in a conversation, the three of us, about the television station and the life of a broadcast journalist. I’m enjoying my red wine and laughter between Leela and the team’s publicist. Life revolves around the upcoming game until the familiar red hair that caught my attention weeks ago waltzes into the room.
Our eyes clash, and I don’t think I’m wrong. The heat in her eyes matches my own, and something tells me we aren’t done like I thought we were. And am I willing to change my approach in order to claim her for another night? And do I want more than just one night with her?
The game doesn’t contain my attention. And as much as she’s turned her back to me, her head twists my way many times. There are ten minutes left in the first half, and I take my chance to get her alone, anywhere.
I excuse myself, sitting next to Leela, but I leave the box, not using its private bathroom. But I’ve been in the luxury boxes before, and I understand there’s an outdoor supply closet. I wonder how long, or if Molly will follow me. This hadn’t been the plan, and I would not have come if I knew she would be here today. But I’m not complaining. I’ve hoped all week she would have called me.
It’s less than three minutes that the blazing red hair fans out from the stairwell leading to the hallway where I wait. Twisting at the knob, I push b
ack into the room as her heels click on the concrete. When she gets closer, I reach out, yanking her into the room, flipping on the light at the same time.
“If you don’t want this, chéri, then walk away. You want passion; you want to be controlled and to be impulsive. Here it is.”
Her eyes are wild, and her breathing hitches. “I’m not saying no, not like this.” It’s when I crash my lip to hers, pushing her arms over her head. I pull back before I lose control.
“I can’t do to you what I want to do right now, chéri. Please tell me you’re staying another night.”
“Uh, yeah, staying another day.” Her eyes stay focused on my mouth.
“What do you want from me, chéri?” I ask.
“This, and you. I’ve not been able to stop thinking of you. But…”
What is it about this woman that I’m able to give up some of my rules? “I still hold the control, right?” I ask. This is not negotiable.
“Yes, you control me in the bedroom, but…”
I don’t answer her, not in words, but when my lips reach her neck, the moans falling from her lips have me so lost. The light perfume on her collarbones, the soft ivory skin set against the mocha color of her tight V-neck sweater, and the freckles that sit on her rosy cheeks, making her look even younger than she is gives me a reason to budge a little. I pull back, just enough to verbally answer her.
“I won’t treat you like a business contract, chéri,” I admit.
“Then tonight, I’ll be yours.”
I’m adjusting myself as every part of my body has woken, only to have to send her back.
“As much as I want to fuck you and fuck you well, I don’t think we can be away long enough to make it happen.”
“Tonight?” It’s a plea, her begging for me. And something inside blooms with pride. I’ve never experienced a claim of sorts on one person. Again, I don’t normally do this, but I’ve already made concessions for this beautiful woman in my arms.
“Yes, I’ll text you the details. Chéri?”
She does something I’m not expecting, almost way too intimate for two individuals who swear we don’t want a commitment. She places her forehead on mine. “Yes, Marcel, I’d love that.”
I release her, placing a peck against the ivory skin of her cheek. “Until later, chéri.” She’s the first one to leave, heading back to the luxury box. And it will be pure hell with her so near me but off-limits at the same time.
Thank fuck, she left first. It takes me a couple of minutes to control myself, and even my designer jeans don’t hold back the raging erection.
I return to the box, just minutes before the half ends, but with my return comes the wandering eye of Leela that moves from Molly to myself. I don’t know why I thought I could fool one of the best investigative reporters I’ve ever known.
Once I get comfortable back in my chair next to her, the waitress appears with another red wine for me, along with Leela.
“Please tell me, Gramps, that I’m not onto a new story, one consisting of you and my boyfriend’s little sister.”
Pursing my lips together, I shrug my shoulders. “What?”
Her eyes stay laser-focused on me. “Seriously, Leela, she’s young enough to be my daughter.” Though it’s the truth, my words don’t stop me from wanting more from her, for one more night. It’s not like I’ll marry the girl.
“Okay, but I’m watching you.”
I ignore her statement and will myself not to look in the direction of my redheaded chéri.
Chapter 11
Molly
The second I walked into the luxury box and saw Marcel’s crystal blue eyes and his more relaxed look in a football sweatshirt, I knew I wouldn’t walk away from him again if given a second chance. And with his body pushed up against mine in the supply closet, I can’t believe I was able to stand firm with the past—treating me like a business transaction.
If he had not been holding me up with his own body, I might have fallen. Yet he did.
My parents hadn’t questioned where I’d been, but Leela keeps her eyes peeled on both Marcel and me throughout the entire game. I’m here to support my brother. Now that all of Seattle seems to have accepted he has a past and has changed it. And as he runs the game-winning touchdown through the end zone, the entire box explodes in cheers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marcel watching me. I can’t get caught, not by Leela, because I can’t explain this to Kier, not now. Probably not ever. Not when Marcel isn’t much younger than my parents.
Though not one of the many sexy players my brother plays with keeps my attention, the game ends. I run through tonight, not thinking this would end with me in the arms of Marcel. And because of that, I have nothing to wear.
“Molly, honey, are you listening to me?” My mother’s whisper is right at my ear, and it’s not quite a whisper.
“Oh, sorry, Mom, what’s up?” My phone is purposely in my purse because if I had it on my person, I’d be tempted to text Marcel.
“We’re doing dinner after the game, around seven?”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Sorry, I can’t make it. I’m meeting…” I stop what I’m about to say, more of an excuse, when I remember I’ve committed to something. “I have a coffee date with Kier’s friend, then I’m meeting up with a friend of mine from college.” The last part is a lie, the first part is real. I forgot about Zane Mitchel and now that I’ve seen Marcel again, I want to forget about Kier’s friend forever.
Her scrutiny on me is real. “Just meet her after dinner. Your brother flew us up here, the least we can do…”
“Mom, we’ve been together for lots of family time in the past three weeks. Kier will understand, and I can’t just bail on Janine. Anyway, I’ll see him in the morning.” The subject is over in my mind. My mother drops it, which I’m thankful for.
I can’t hold back and pull out my phone, pushing from my seat. No way anyone needs to see what possibly might be on my phone.
Standing in the corner near the small kitchen the staff works from, I open the texts. Only two messages wait for me from Marcel, who I still have programmed in as Silver.
Silver: Get ready, chéri. I’ve missed your flavor, your cherry, and I’m certainly not talking about the color of your hair.
Silver: I’m going to wear you out, my demands, my commands, and may I add, all the orgasms I’ll reward you.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until Leela sidles up next to me. “Look at that smile. Only one thing can make you break out with a smirk like that.”
I give her a shrug, and that’s it. “Okay, so I guess I won’t get a confirmation. Just be careful. Your brother is worried about you.”
With a nod of my head, she leaves me to myself as I re-read my texts.
Coffee with Zane had been in vain. He was cute and funny, but all that has been on my mind since the supply closet is Marcel.
I’m rummaging through my suitcase because I’d planned a night out with Janine. But when I canceled with her, she understood. It’s the only reason I have anything remotely sexy.
In my black Jimmy Choos and black two-piece dress, with a corset top and skirt sitting at my natural waistline, I attempt to sneak out of the hotel room without getting the attention of my parents. Though this was packed with the idea of going to clubs, even on a Sunday night, I don’t have it in me to come up with a long-drawn-out story that I for sure will forget after the night with Marcel.
I poke my head out into the hallway with a jacket to cover the girls on display when I take a long walk to the elevator. I’m the only one on the ride down to the lobby, and I pull out my phone.
Silver: Your car is waiting for you outside. I’ll see you very soon, my sweet chéri.
This had been the very last thing I’d thought would happen when I agreed to this trip, yet I won’t complain. I’m looking forward to more time with Marcel.
The driver pulls up to a nondescript building. He comes to a complete stop, and the door opens immedia
tely.
From my vantage point, the man I’ve teased as Gramps for the past couple of weeks is certainly anything but the dapper and gorgeous man I’ve become fond of. “Good evening, chéri.” His large hand grabs mine.
As I slide gracefully out of the car, he runs his eyes over me. With the midriff top and my flowing skirt to complete the outfit, his eyes run back up, only to become fixated on my breasts.
“I want you to understand true submission tonight, so I need to make sure before we go in there that you’re mine, and what I say goes.”
He’s so business when it comes to sex. But I know he’s trying, a little, at least with letting me dress myself tonight.
“Yes, Sir,” I return as genuine as I can.
He lifts my chin to his gaze. “I’ve yet to tell you how stunning you are.”
He doesn’t look half bad, but I don’t say a word. I let him take me by his arm into his club. Stopping right before the entrance, he retrieves a small box from his jacket holding a choker necklace. “I’d like you to wear this tonight. Everyone will know you’re off-limits and with me.”
I give him a little nod but answer him, “Yes, I’d like this.” And there’s a zing of excitement that runs through my body at the idea of being his. Not his property. That’s not me, but to be his, the woman he calls his own. But I remind myself, this is simply sex. Only sex. We have no claims on one another—nor do I want this. But then why is it I feel I could get used to this?