Royally Seduced

by Marie Donovan

  The house had had the perfect setup for whatever sexual exploration he and Lily wanted—pool, hot tub, tiled terraces and a nice high wall around most of it to keep out prying eyes.

  He knew she wouldn’t be tanned all over thanks to her admitting she’d never sunbathed nude, but he was hoping he could convince her to try it with him.

  He shifted in his seat as his cock hardened. Spreading coconut oil to slick her nipples and ass, their hot flesh sliding together as the sun beat down on them. He groaned and adjusted himself, but to little avail. The only thing better would be to take her without any barrier between them, his bare cock dipping into her tight wet depths. She would squeeze him, milk him dry as their juices mingled.

  It was such a potent fantasy for him, the doctor who had never once in his disease-fearing life had unprotected sex. Dangerous, dirty and raunchy, but oh, so tempting.

  He groaned again and forced himself to concentrate on his driving.

  Lily opened her eyes sleepily and moved her seat upright. “You shouldn’t let me sleep when I want to see the sights,” she complained, rubbing her eyes. To his chagrin, her gaze fell on Jack’s lap. “My, that is a sight.” Her lips pulled back in a sly grin. “How long have you been driving around like that?”

  “Not very long,” he muttered. “Oh, look at that old barn.” He was trying to distract her with the ancient building. It had been abandoned for years, and the scrub bush was starting to overtake it.

  Lily glanced out the window. “Interesting. Can we see it up close?”

  “We’re almost to the lavender farm, and that is much more interesting.” He needed to get her naked in that big four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

  “No, no. This looks great. I want to take some pictures.”

  He’d distracted her too well. He sighed and pulled off the road, circling the bumpy road to the back of the barn. It was the typical creamy limestone found in almost every building. He cut the engine and undid his seat belt, but before he could get out, Lily’s hand was on his lap.

  He looked at her, startled. She smiled at him. “I think I found something more interesting than an old barn.” She slowly undid his belt and zipper, and he bulged through the new opening.

  She stroked the tight fabric over his erection as he stared dumbly at her. “What were you thinking as you were driving?”

  “What?” He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking as her fingers traced his shaft.

  “Driving. Erection. You. And me, I hope.”

  “Of course. You, naked and slick in the sun.”

  “Mmm,” she hummed approvingly. “What else?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to frighten her or make her distrust him with his fantasy of unprotected sex.

  “Must be something really naughty.” She shook her head. “You’ll tell me sooner or later. Lean your seat back.”

  “No, Lily,” he protested, but she pulled his briefs down and he jutted into the narrow space between his belly and steering wheel.

  She traced a finger over his tip. “Now, how am I supposed to suck on you when I can’t even reach you?”

  He groaned and reclined the seat, a flush of needy embarrassment climbing his face.

  She laughed softly. “Oh, Jack, so shy?”

  “No,” he choked out.

  “Good.” She gently kissed his tip. “I’ve wanted to do this since last night. I didn’t get a good look at you.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Very nice.” She cupped his shaft and played with the head. “You really want me, don’t you?”

  He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I’m a good guesser,” she teased him.

  “No guessing needed. You ask me and I’ll tell you the truth.” At least part of it.

  She smiled and gently blew on him.

  “Ah, Lily.” He threaded his fingers down to her scalp, pulling out the band holding her hair back. The golden brown mass fell over her rosy cheeks and brushed his groin.

  She enveloped him with her mouth and he clenched her hair. She was wet and warm around him, like last night. He thrust up between her lips.

  It was heavenly. Lily was heavenly. She sucked deeply on him, jolting his nerves from head to toe. He dug his heels into the floormat, her hair wrapping around his hand.

  She gave an utterly feminine hum of satisfaction, the vibration buzzing his shaft. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his shirt. She swirled her tongue around the head of his cock and then licked him from the base to the tip as if he were an ice-cream cone.

  His balls tightened and he gasped in pleasure. He’d never been so decadent, so intoxicated with lust, the southern sun burning him from the outside as Lily burned him from within. The cicadas buzzed and blood pounded in his ears. “Ah, Lily,” he moaned. “Stop, stop. I’m losing control.”

  She laughed and lifted her mouth for a second. “Good, that’s the idea.” She resumed her tender caresses and sucked him deep.

  He couldn’t hold back any longer and exploded, Lily draining him dry until he stopped bucking and jerking under her.

  She finally lifted her head and smiled at him. “Jack.”

  He stroked her silky hair down to the nape of her neck, amazed at her sexiness and sheer generosity. “Lily, you didn’t have to do that—I never expected you—”

  “I know.” She smiled mischievously at him. “I’m learning to expect the unexpected this whole trip. But it was all my idea and I really wanted to pleasure you like you did for me last night.”

  “Thank you, Lily.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

  She shook her head. “No thanking allowed. Unless you want me to start thanking you for everything you’ve done.”

  “No.” He didn’t want gratitude from her. “I want your warmth, your passion and the pleasure of your company. Gratitude is not on that list.”

  “That sounds lovely. You’re lovely.” She smiled at him and his heart flipped.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said gruffly, trying to cover up his unruly emotions. “Men aren’t lovely.”

  “You are.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Can you show me around the barn?”

  Jack laughed and fixed his clothes. “Back to work, eh?”

  “A freelancer is never off the job.” She started to blush. “Except for certain occasions.”

  “Exactly.” She charmed him with her mix of boldness and shyness. He hopped out of the car and helped her out of the other side, where she oohed and aahed over the typically Provençal building.

  Jack smiled to himself. If she liked this old wreck, she’d fall in love with the estate’s guesthouse. And he’d love seeing her there.

  FORTUNATELY FOR LILY, there was plenty on the drive to distract her from memories of her boldness. She’d never imagined she’d do that to a man in a parked car, but she couldn’t help herself. Seducing Jack was as intoxicating as the local wine, and much more fun.

  It was so flattering to know that watching her sleep aroused him to a fever pitch. And to feel him under her mouth—wow. It had been incredibly arousing and she couldn’t stop thinking about the next time they would make love.

  She knew it was just a vacation fling, but sex with Jack was more than scratching an itch—she was glad to be with him and get to know him in and out of bed.

  Did the house he had mentioned have a nice bed? Anything would be better than the tiny one they’d shared last night, but they had managed just fine.

  “Almost there.” Jack turned down a narrow unpaved lane saved only from tedium by a row of trees on each side. Their trunks were silvery-white and mottled, almost as if some avant-garde artist had sculpted them out of concrete and then sandblasted them to make them look old. The branches grew straight up with glossy green leaves.

  “What kind of trees are these?”

  He slowed the car to avoid kicking up dust. “Ah, plane trees—from what you call the sycamore family. These are very old
and have been trained over the years to grow upward, unlike the ones in the village that grow horizontally.”

  “Mmm.” Lily pointed her camera out the window and took several shots. It was like driving in a green, leafy tunnel, much nicer than the New York underground version. Then the tunnel opened up on a stunning view of a gigantic stone manor house with a fence surrounding it. Lavender fields grew in the distance, their purple rows stunning alongside the low-growing orange spelt crop. “Holy cow, Jack. Whose house is that?”

  He smiled at the building. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s been here several hundred years and the owners have enlarged it over the centuries.”

  “This is your friend’s house, then. What’s their name?”

  “The de Brissard family owns it.” He shifted in the seat. “The guesthouse is another couple kilometers down the road and past that are the lavender fields and the farm buildings. There is even an old lavender press dating from the early Middle Ages. The farm, however, now uses a more modern facility in a nearby town.”

  “Hygiene and regulations suck the romance out of everything.” She shook her head. “And I suppose you can’t have the peasants crush grapes with their feet anymore, either.”

  He laughed. “Not unless you want to make the bureaucrats faint from horror.”

  They passed the main house and Lily craned her neck. “Can I have a tour of the mansion sometime? I’d love to see the inside.”

  “The housekeeper would love to give you one. They are very busy this time of year with the beginning of the lavender harvest. Many migrant workers come and Marthe-Louise and her staff make sure they all have enough to eat and drink. We keep the best workers that way.”

  “Oh. But if they’re so busy, they might not want us borrowing the guesthouse.”

  “No, nobody is using it now and we are well out of the way of their work.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I am positive,” he said firmly. “Please do not worry that you are imposing because that is not the case. I would never put you into an awkward situation where you are not welcome.”

  “Thank you, Jack.” She couldn’t reach him to kiss his cheek, so she patted his knee.

  He smiled at her, his warm, relaxed smile that was appearing more and more frequently as they settled into Provence. “You are most welcome.” He covered her hand with his and steered around a corner with his left hand. “And here we are.”

  Lily gaped at the guesthouse. It was smaller than the main house but no less impressive. Jack parked the car in the circular gravel driveway next to a limestone fountain. She hopped out to admire the two-story stucco building. It was a lovely weathered peach blush color with pale blue shutters and white trimmed doors. The roof was Spanish-style red clay rounded tiles. She guessed it was too dry to grow a traditional American lawn since the grounds were landscaped in beds of carpet-type junipers, silvery hedges and tall evergreens pruned into perfect slim columns.

  “This is called la petite maison—the little house.”

  “Little? How many bedrooms?” Her shoes crunched on the pure white gravel as she approached the fountain.

  He hopped out of the driver’s seat and looked up at the house. “Four, five if you consider the den has a sofa with a pullout bed.”

  “Oh, only five bedrooms—a real hovel.” She twisted her camera strap. “Jack, this is too much. We can’t just show up, even if they are your good friends.”

  He caught her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Would it make you feel better if I called the farm manager and talked with him first?”

  “Yes.” She smiled in relief. She had no desire to do firsthand research on what the local French police did to trespassers. Not exactly good blog material.

  “Good.” He reached into the backseat and pulled out a water bottle. “Here, have a drink while I call Jean-Claude. I’m going to walk down toward the main house where the signal is better.”

  Lily nodded and unscrewed the bottle. Jack flipped open his phone and gave her a reassuring smile as he walked down the driveway.

  She turned to look up at the guesthouse—the “little house.” It would be wonderful to stay there, a luxurious hideaway of all the best of Provence.

  Undoubtedly there was a beautiful garden in the back and killer views. But the best part would be spending time with Jack, to explore its four bedrooms with him. Five, if they considered the den, but Lily didn’t expect a sleeper couch mattress would be all that comfortable.

  She sighed. Maybe she was getting in over her head. Anybody would be. A chance meeting two days ago with a sexy Frenchman, a trip to Provence, unexpected passion last night and the prospect of even more in idyllic settings would turn any red-blooded American woman’s head.

  Lily would have to be careful to keep a good head on her shoulders. She was a writer in search of interesting stories, not a sappy tourist who, disillusioned with American men, had come to Europe in search of “true love.”

  And was it possible to be disillusioned if you had few illusions in the first place?

  10

  JACK WAITED UNTIL he was out of Lily’s hearing and called Jean-Claude, his estate manager. Jean-Claude was not merely an employee, but more like an uncle. He had taken Jack under his wing after Jack’s father died. Jack’s mother was a sweet lady—too sweet-natured to deal with the precocious, obnoxious boy he’d been. Fortunately for Jack, Jean-Claude and Madame Finch were not sweet-natured in the least.

  “Allô?”

  Jack couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sound of his old friend’s heavy Provençal accent. “Jean-Claude, c’est moi—Jacques.”

  “Jacques? Where the hell are you?”

  “Shhh. Meet me in down by the old oak tree near the fence line.”

  “You’re here?” he bellowed.

  “Calme-toi, mon ami. I will tell you everything as soon as you get here.”

  Jean-Claude grunted and hung up. Ten minutes later the sturdy man was standing on his toes so he could shake his finger in Jack’s face. “And you are back in Provence after nearly dying in whatever jungle hellhole you ran off to, and you expect me to come running? We happen to be in the middle of the lavender harvest, in case you’ve forgotten. Lavender that I am harvesting for you, M’sieu le Comte.” He pursed his lips and then grabbed Jack for an emotional embrace. Jack got kissed on both cheeks and then once more for good measure.

  Jack patted Jean-Claude’s back, accepting the traditional French greeting. His estate manager had probably received a hysterical phone call from Jack’s mother describing his admittedly nasty case of dysentery as a cross between the bubonic plague and Ebola hemorrhagic fever. “Eh, mon vieux, as you can see, I am here and healthy.”

  “Bien oui, you are too skinny.” Jean-Claude released him, the corners of his sun-creased brown eyes crinkling as he gave him a hard stare.

  Jack shrugged. “A few kilos, that’s all.”

  “More like ten.” Jean-Claude sniffed. “And now that you are here, you will stay with us and Marthe-Louise will cook for you all your favorites.” Marthe-Louise was the family cook and also Jean-Claude’s wife.

  “Actually I’m not staying at the big house.” He braced himself for the explosion, which erupted right on schedule.

  “You come here sick and skinny and then you tell me you will go?” Jean-Claude gestured voluminously. “Go where? Go fall down in the lavender field and die? Eh, we could use goat shit for fertilizer—you do not need to volunteer!”

  “Jean-Claude, s’il te plaît,” Jack soothed. “I called you because I can trust you.” He lowered his voice and looked around the empty courtyard like a bad dinner-theatre actor. “It involves a woman. A special woman.”

  “Ah!” His old friend burst into laughter. All was forgiven if women and sex were involved. “Why didn’t you say so?” He dug his elbow in Jack’s side with less force than usual. “And this woman, where is she?”

  “Waiting at the little house.”

  “La petite maison?
Why?”

  Jack knew this next part would be the trickiest. “She doesn’t know I own all this. I don’t think she likes rich guys.”

  Now Jean-Claude was really laughing. “Pull the other leg, Jacques. What woman doesn’t like rich men? Or is she not very bright?”

  Jack made a chopping gesture with his hand. “Enough.” Jean-Claude raised his bushy eyebrows. Jack hardly ever used his aristocratic mien. He continued, “We will be staying at the petite maison and I do not want her to know the extent of my holdings. She is an independent American girl and very much believes our French concept of liberté, fraternité and egalité.”

  Jean-Claude gave a loud snort. He knew himself the equal of any man in France, but knew the class system had well survived the Revolution. “If you say so, milord.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to act the role of a peasant, at least give a little bow or avert your eyes as you talk to me. Now as you know, Princess Stefania will be setting her wedding date soon, and she needs lavender oil for a special perfume. She is planning to sell it for the benefit of her children’s charity. Do we have enough high-quality lavender to supply her needs?”

  Jean-Claude drew himself up in affront, as if explaining their business to a particularly dim-witted farmhand. “M’sieu le Comte, all our fields are, as always, Haute-Provence Lavender, designated by the government as AOC, Controlled Destination of Origin. We never have low-quality lavender.” His lips curled at the very thought, and he spit on the dry ground.

  “Very good.” He wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Where would I be without you, mon vieux?”

  Jean-Claude puffed out his lips. “Taking care of your own land and your own lavender.”

  “I know, I know.” Jack raised his hands in surrender. “But I am still grateful. And Princess Stefania will be, too.”

  “A wedding for her. I remember when she came for the summer when she was what, twelve? Thirteen?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Marthe-Louise taught her how to cook, how to garden, how to sew. My poor wife, she cried for weeks when Stefania left to go back to school.”