I meant it. I didn’t want him to think he had to seduce me. I just wanted to want him, for us to want each other. I couldn’t have cared less if he was a sport celebrity or from a super-rich, philanthropic family.
“I have never brought a woman here before,” he revealed, laying back down, staring up at the night sky, stony.
Oh.
The truth hit me. He had been sincere.
Regret burned in my gut. In silvery glow of the moonlight, I could see him grit his teeth.
“I guess that came out wrong,” I said quietly. “I just assumed you were using a line. I mean, can you really blame me?” I slid over close and twisted my knees under me.
God help me. He was the most stunning man I had ever seen, even if he wore a stubborn mask.
My hand reached out of its own volition to trace his bone structure. The water lapped up on the sides of the boat as I drew my finger over his cheekbones, the bridge over his eyes, his lips. He didn’t move or respond as I marveled how warm, alive, how real he was. Even with the canopy above us open it was hard to breathe. And the hazy euphoria I experienced in that moment of our tug-of-war was one of the best moments of my life.
I, Fleur LaSalle Smithers, had some control over this man who was so vital, so deeply complex, so utterly magnetic.
I had hurt his feelings.
I didn’t relish that part.
I wanted to make up for it.
I leaned over slowly, letting my hair fall around him. As I drew closer, he still wouldn’t make eye contact but I didn’t care. I kissed those lips gently, softly, as if we were in Sleeping Beauty, only the princess would rescue the prince from whatever tragedy he was lost in. I kissed him again, softly, jabbing the tip of my tongue in his mouth—
I was on my back!—all two hundred and fifty-five pounds (courtesy of Wikipedia) of muscle pressed around me.
“You think this is a game,” he growled—me, trying to regain my lost stomach. “It is not a game.”
“No, it is not a game,” I uttered. I shook my head, staring up into his violent eyes, my own wide-open. “I want you more than anything in this entire universe.” He gasped while the starry backdrop sparkled around his face. “And if you want to compliment me again, I will believe you this time,” I vowed, bringing my hands to his shoulders, rock hard, holding up his body weight.
I lay utterly still beneath him, my heart bared.
“I trust you.”
“Do you?” he whispered, strained. My breath hitched as he ground his hard cock into my thigh. “You should not,” he warned, tormented, staring down at me. A large vein throbbed in his forehead.
“Why do you say that?” I whispered.
“Fleur, I . . . I am not a good man.” My heart dropped. “I want you in ways . . .” he quickly added, and shook his head.
Oh. He meant that kind of bad man. That’s the good kind of bad man.
Wait, was that a question? Was he asking permission?
“Okay. I mean, sure, go ahead, please.”
He searched my face, clenching his jaw, and then closed his eyes tight, like he was in pain.
I longed to put his mind at ease. Why was he hesitating? I gasped when he lowered himself down on me harder still, pressing his thick, long rod into my thigh, inhaling deeply.
I arched up and gripped his shoulders as best as I could, wishing there was no material between me and the measure of his desire.
When he lowered the rest of his body down on me, placing his arms above my head, I was absolutely trapped by warm flesh all around me. It was a welcome claustrophobia.
Why was he delaying? I tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, to help him along.
I gasped as he grabbed both my hands tight with one of his.
Our eyes locked.
“Fleur,” he declared, and I could hear my heart thudding, “there is no turning back for us.”
Chapter 11
I stared up at him. His voice was so tender, yet violent with emotion at the same time.
No turning back? What did he mean? Sounds awfully dramatic. Was he worried I would change my mind mid-way through?
“I know,” I said, to reassure him, gently pulling his shirt out of his pants. Change my mind? Are you kidding me? I was going to lose my virginity with a guy I thought was the world’s miracle man, on a fancy yacht under a starry sky. Change my mind. That was just crazy talk. My days of cock teasing were officially over. Besides, I should be the one worried about him changing his mind again.
Worried he might just, I leaned up and grabbed his mouth with mine, running my hands along his flat wide pectorals.
He let me show him, finally, how badly I wanted to taste his mouth, but after a moment he yanked away. I took a quick breath, uncertain what he would do next.
Kneeling between my legs, he slipped off his shirt (yes—mission green light) and for a moment we both stared. His lusty gaze was focused between my legs. My dress had shifted up, my thigh-highs were on full display and maybe even a hint of thong. I just gazed up at his David-like torso. Long muscles sloped down from his neck, and the expanse of shoulder, his biceps, those abs, it was too much.
I leaned up, a surge of need making me impatient, and reached out to rub his cock through his pants. My God, it was a beast of thing, trapped and stifled right up under his belt. He stopped me, grabbing my hand.
“Fleur,” he said gruffly.
“Mhm.”
“Are you on birth control?” Oh. Right.
“Yes.” I use it for managing my period.
He lay me back down.
“Do you still trust me?” He ground himself into me, perhaps to make me compliant. He needn’t have bothered.
“Yes,” I vowed.
“I don’t want anything between us.”
What does he mean—
Oh. Oh. This was a concern. I mean all the women he had been with?
“I am tested all the time by team doctors. I use safe practice, and I am clean. I promise,” he tried to reassure me.
“Well ...” I swallowed.
“I will use a condom if you want, but it is not necessary. Please,” he added, curling over me to kiss my neck, his hand sliding up my body, gently squeezing my tit. I moaned, breathy, my heavy breasts aching for a proper kneading. My clit throbbed at the idea.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He’d just said jump, and I swan-dived.
He kissed me greedily but briefly, always teasing me, never giving me my fill of his mouth.
Together we removed my dress, a lot more gently than I would have liked. He was torturing me and my impatience. Where was the bad stuff he’d hinted at?
He pressed me back down, and unsure of what he was doing, I let him place my hands above my head. Kneeling between my legs, I lay there before him in my black underwear, spread wide, completely vulnerable.
I wondered what he saw, because his face was the most covetous I have ever seen it. Still, he waited.
I whimpered and writhed with need. A smile flickered on those sensual lips of his.
He shoved my hand, which had reached out involuntarily again, back up behind my head, rough. “Lie still. Trust me,” he ordered. My heart stopped. I searched his stern stare. He was serious. Very serious.
Doing what I am told is one thing. But I sensed he wanted more than compliance. What else, I couldn’t fathom.
After a minute, or two, his hand brushed my throat and ran down my neck, my décolleté, around my waist and lower over my thong. His fingertip dusting made me shiver with longing. A gentle sweet ache for something harder rose up violently in me. I writhed under his touch.
“You’re teasing me,” I choked out.
“Oui.” He bent over quickly and bit my bottom lip just hard enough, giving me a sharp sensation that I needed, releasing it quickly. “Because you are so fucking beautiful when you are angry.”
My eyes popped open and so did my bra, which he pulled up and off. My nipples were already tight buds and I was surpr
ised they didn’t give off steam in the cool air, my body was so hotly wound-up with need.
Please touch them.
Oh my God. I wanted to beg. I was going to beg him if he didn’t touch me.
I closed my eyes and tried to wait, but—
“Do as I say. Lie still,” he grit out, and I opened my eyes because he shifted back over me, licking my nipple. I moaned openly.
He stopped.
“More,” I demanded.
“You want more? C’est moi qui décide,” he bit my nipple and then squeezed both my breasts hard in his hands, nearly painful hard, and the sharpness was a kind of release.
I tried to position my lower half so I could rub my throbbing clit against his thigh.
“Lie still! You are so greedy, Fleur. I know what you want. But I am only going to give you what you can handle. Tomorrow night is part two.”
He dove his tongue deep in my mouth, kissing me passionately. Wait, he’d just said something. Tomorrow? I thought vaguely . . . part two . . .?
He leaned up and undid his belt, removing his pants and boxers sideways on the edge of the bed. “Lie still,” he ordered yet again. I forced myself to remain so, straining to see his cock. He knelt back up and—
Oh. My. God.
It bobbed out in the moonlight like a sword. Desire was quickly replaced with fear. Holy cow. My imagination had not done it justice.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered.
All that came out was “Uhhh.” I shifted up on my elbows, frightened, and he used his hand to move my face away from gazing at his cock—it was pointing at me like it was alive—so I had to look in his eyes.
“Answer me.”
I nodded.
“Bien, ma petite fleur.”
He clasped both of my hands in his, and put them back above my head as he positioned himself on top of me.
“Open your eyes, Fleur. Bien. Look in mine,” he said, gruffly. I lifted my hips obediently at his gentle nudge as he slipped off my panties, the last barrier between us, and I kept my hands above my head as he’d ordered, my eyes lost in his. My heart threatened to burst out of my chest. God help me, this wasn’t about losing my virginity at all. This was about him. Having me. Me. Giving myself to him.
He hovered back over me, dominating my eyes with his. I gasped and flinched with intense pleasure as his finger brushed my engorged clit. “You are so wet,” he said. “My greedy Fleur.” He forgot his own command to hold my stare, because he shifted down quickly.
“I must taste you again,” he murmured, and his mouth sated itself on my wet core. I was moaning loudly, as thrumming pangs of desire burned my insides.
He flicked his tongue in just the right whir of pattern, and yet more waves of powerful desire and exquisite elixir rushed through me. “Yes,” I gasped.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he hummed against my clit, sucking it hard. I nearly screamed with desire. I forgot his command and my hands reached down to grip his head.
He slipped a finger in me at the same time he tugged on my clit with his mouth, and I expressed how much more pleasure I felt from the inside, loudly. I was moaning in chorus with the waves of heated pressure, as he pushed his finger in and out.
He switched, fucking me with his tongue. I gasped at the erotic intrusion. Back to the finger and his mouth, he worked my pussy with magical design. I was climbing . . . higher . . . a ladder to sensual relief . . . so close so close so close, I moaned yes yes yes over and over. . .
“Oui, ma petite fleur, viens,” he murmured, and—
The universe exploded as my body heaved with orgasm, the night sky a blur of gold and black. Everything was beauty and perfection in the one singular moment. I rode ripples of pleasure that cascaded through me, rocking my head side to side. When my body finally released its tense grip on that high, he lapped at me still. “Too much,” I choked.
He pulled away and rose back up, staring down at my delirious face. A prideful smile.
I smiled back shyly, then flinched as the head of his cock rub itself on my front door. He was moving it around my wet pussy, back and forth in his fist, gently kissing my lips, my body flinching from the overwhelming sensation on my wracked clit.
Oh. Oh my God, this was it.
He curled down over me, poised to enter me, one arm beside my head, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
He searched my face, maybe with a look of tenderness, and my stomach dropped. Because he was going to hurt me. There was no escaping that, even in my post-orgasm hangover.
“Remember, I said this was part one,” he murmured, kissing me softly as if I might break. “The pain you feel is nothing compared to the pleasure that awaits tomorrow. Remember this, my Fleur.”
The head of his length pressed at me, and harder, pressing still. The vein in his forehead was pulsing and his jaw was clenched tight, and fear pulsed through me—he was struggling to restrain himself.
And . . . and maybe I should change my mind.
I was certain the door simply was not going to open—
“Oh,” I gushed, as the tip of him stretched me, pleasure competing with pain. “Look at me, Fleur,” he garbled through his own guttural moan. Using both arms, he forced my head into one locked position, facing his, showing me just how clearly everything about me was his.
My eyes, my pussy, my heart. They were his. And I could trust him with them. He wanted me to know that.
He pressed deeper into me and his mouth opened as pleasure ripped across face. “I knew you would feel this way,” he whispered, staring into my eyes.
I was trying to let him take me, but what had started out as utterly erotic, had quickly turned very unpleasant. My whole body tensed up, completely unprepared for the degree of suffering he seemed committed to inflict on me. My friends had said the first time hurt. They hadn’t said your hymen is slaughtered.
“Look at me, Fleur. S’il te plaît,” he murmured, breathing labored. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Louis, but I think,” I whimpered, “maybe you are too big.”
He laughed out of his nose. “It will fit. But you have to trust me to let me hurt you. Do you trust me to hurt you? Look in my eyes and see the pleasure”—I moaned sharply as he drove his full length into me with bone-snapping force—“your pain gives to me.” He pulled out, I took a big breath, and, holding my frightened stare, he forced himself back in all the way, moaning oui, and my body seized from the pain, and yet . . . willing. Totally willing.
Wonder dawned. This was what he wanted from me. My body was his completely. It was his prize. He owned me in that moment, and I wanted him to, and the realization shone like one of the brightest stars behind him: this was the way it was meant to be.
His breathing was raspy. “I would like to do this for hours—” he pulled out slowly and drove himself back in deep, my eyes opened even wider and I moaned out a protest “—but I would go quickly to ease your suffering, since you give it to me freely. Oui, I see that in your eyes.”
He pumped me then, several times with merciless force, holding my stare, unblinking, groaning with pleasure. “Oui,” he murmured over and over, altering his rhythm, slower, more gentle, and I could tell it took some major self-control. My walls throbbed from the pressure of his girth . . . the pain, it had lost its unfamiliar edge and become tolerable, maybe even gratifying in some way.
I whimpered, moaned in adored agony, and his eyes willed me to trust him longer.
And I would endure for him.
He stroked himself slow and fast, harder and harder. Taking my mouth. Releasing it.
I would give him anything in that moment.
His eyes searched deep into my soul and I tried to tell him silently to take what he wanted.
More and deeper and harder he battered me until the cumulative pain was just too much. I had reached a breaking point.
I couldn’t—I had to make him stop! But . . .
I watched his face clench up
with mortal bliss, his eyes barely able to hold my stare, his entire body shaking above me as he released his seed into me, moaning gruff pleasure.
His enormous body shuddered twice more, his face twisted in a passionate grimace. The walls of my pussy clenched, despite the pain, all on their own, as if to milk him of every drop. When he was finally empty, his body eased down.
He kissed me, sensual, tasting, through heavy breaths.
I closed my eyes, and felt a tear slip out, and opened them again. He held himself above me still, just inches from my face, regulating his breathing (me, too), smiling slightly, gazing in my eyes.
For too long he remained there staring at me, cock snug inside.
“What?” I whispered shyly, recognizing the change in me.
It was over. I was a woman now.
“I thought you were most beautiful when angry,” he said quietly. “But I prefer you like this.”
“How’s that?” I asked, my heart flipping, my pussy throbbing.
“Mine.”
Chapter 12
I was his. There was no denying that. The next day at work, I was still lost in memories of him, his musky smell, his rough sweat-slicked skin, his hardness, the sound of his voice in lust, his own urgent, violent need as he hammered into me—reliving moment by moment. He’d ruined me for other men. I knew it in my heart. No one could ever own me like he had on his yacht under the stars. And I didn’t want anyone else to, ever. The idea was sacrilege.
I was in deep.
Sweet mercy. I glanced at the clock, nearly falling asleep at my office desk. Sylvie had asked, no actually, she’d pleaded with me to stay late, to meet a delivery that was supposed to have arrived yesterday. She had to get ready upstairs for some extremely important dinner with a fashion editor. Of course, I agreed enthusiastically, silently protesting inside. I had hoped to catch a quick cat nap before “Louis Fucks Fleur—The Sequel.”
I checked my phone again. No text from Louis.
After, when we lay under the stars, me tucked under his arm, I’d actually fallen asleep to the thump of his strong heart. I’d jolted awake, thinking I’d only been out for a few minutes. When I’d realized it was two a.m. I told Louis I had to get home in case Marie came back. I confessed to him that I’d lied to her about where I was. He seemed to appreciate this, and thanked me for my discretion after we were dressed, asking me to continue to keep our goings-on private, for now. I agreed, frowning. I wasn’t ready to explain any of this to Marie, partly because I wasn’t sure what any of this was, but I also hated lying.
The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Page 12