French Wanker : A Hero Cub Novel

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French Wanker : A Hero Cub Novel Page 7

by Victoria Pinder


  “You like more than that about me, and we both know that.” He handed his card over and signed.

  A moment later we were heading off. “In the future,” I said, “we both need to make ourselves happy and not settle for convenient. No one else is going to shake us out of our ruts.”

  “Smart.” He nodded.

  Yet I knew nothing about Quentin other than he made me feel better. I glanced at his profile and ached for more of him. “What about you?”

  He moved fast back onto the road. “What about me?”

  I needed to know more. Quentin rocked my body, but maybe we could talk and be friends during our week-long relationship, too. Anything was possible, right? I raised my eyebrow and said, “You said you broke up with Cecilia.”

  “That’s not quite right.”

  I blinked as my heart sped up. “What happened?”

  “She died.”

  My gut twisted. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Tell me about you and your ex.”

  I’d sound shallow, but he’d asked. “Marlon practically left me at the altar after I bought our honeymoon and my dress. It’s horrifying how I was going to say yes, but it was nothing tragic like Cecilia.”

  He glanced at me for one second before focusing on the road. “You want details?”

  “Oui,” I said in my impression of him.

  He stared at the signs that started to read Monte Carlo. “Cecilia’s family went through a lot when she died. If I stayed, I would only make their lives worse. Besides, I’m okay alone. I haven’t seen my own family in a while, and I’m needed on my family vineyard.”

  Cecilia sounded like a beautiful French woman. In my mind I saw Audrey Hepburn or whoever that actress was in the movie Amelie I’d watched on Netflix. Both had some childlike wonder of life and the world in how they interacted, which probably wasn’t true, but either way… I’d never be that dreamy and starry-eyed.

  I never had that child-like joy to living.

  And that vision didn’t need to be indulged anymore. Quentin was mine for the week, but my spine heated as I asked, “Any particular reason why?”

  He kissed my hand. “My father has no one else to leave the vineyard to. I suppose it was always my fate in a way, and my own desires to do something else were always secondary.”

  “That sounds like rich boy problems,” I said without thinking. Following passions wasn’t the luxury of the working class. He’d said he could have anything or anyone. Now I was sure of it.

  He laughed a little. “It does sound like that, doesn’t it.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “I liked that you enjoyed my company without knowing my bank account.”

  “Yeah, I’m right. You have people like me doing the books for you.”

  The sound of his chuckle relaxed me, like I’d discovered some secret about him, and I put my feet up.

  He stared at me, but I just put my chair back and relaxed.

  His silent stare at my feet made me put them down. I’d upset him, so I rubbed the side of my face to get out of my reverie. “I thought French men were…”

  I stopped. The last thing I needed was to be some rebellious girl when tonight, if I was lucky, we’d repeat what happened at the farm.

  “What?” he prodded.

  I tapped my finger on my chest and decided to run through the stereotypes. “This was before I met you and based on TV and movies, which is how I planned my trip.”

  Maybe this was a better way to break the ice.

  “What, Kara?”

  How he said my name made me cross my legs. I laughed and stared at his muscles. “I thought French men were more effeminate and temperamental, but you’re wise and a bit of an introvert.”

  Now he laughed fully, not that chuckle from earlier. “Have you ever been to Italy?”

  My eyes narrowed. “No, why?”

  He tugged on his plain button-down white shirt and smoothed his hand down his black pants. “Because the Italians are way more into fashion and dressing well than we are.”

  “I see.” And to his point Gucci, Armani, and Versace were all Italian names, at least I think so. I mean I could be wrong, as I’d never looked it up, but fashion clothes were more Italian now that I thought about it.

  I let my hand wave out the window to feel the wind against it. “Well, one stereotype I heard about your country proved to be true with you.”

  He pressed his hand on my shoulder, and I melted a little. “What’s that?”

  I turned toward him and stopped playing. Quentin had rocked my world. I held my breath for a second to force myself to relax and then lowered my lashes. “Americans believe the French are amazing lovers.”

  The miles—or probably kilometers—were low. We’d get to Monte Carlo soon. “So, are all Americans easy to please or just you?”

  On the whole, probably not. I was the one who had clearly been deprived of good sex in my life until now. “Why do you ask?”

  He rolled up my electric window and lowered his voice like we were sharing secrets now as he said, “The stereotype of Americans are they scream when happy, and we both know you scream in bed.”

  Five miles or kilometers were nothing, right? I swallowed and hoped so. “We’ll see if you earn that badge of honor a second time, or if it was a one-time deal.”

  “You’re on,” he said, and then we passed a sign that said we had arrived.

  He pulled up to a practical all-white palace hotel with black awnings around the bottom of the windows like they made little balconies with three towers I could see. The sign above the glass door read Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo.

  This was clearly five stars and way above what I’d booked for myself in Italy or any of my stays. He parked the rental car and stepped out.

  We were staying here? Seriously? No wonder he didn’t let me pay for anything, despite how I insisted. Excitement to live out some rich girl fantasy grew.

  I’d google vineyards in Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer and Quentin La Trimouille later today. For now, his handsome profile captured my attention more than the palace when he opened my door, and I joined him.

  We were in this hotel together now, and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter 10

  Quentin

  The gold and white ornate former noble home that was now a five-star hotel for the rich and famous shocked Kara.

  This wasn’t the small vineyard we’d stayed at the night before. I’d stayed here for years, and I’d taken the private beach and award-winning restaurants for granted.

  Today, I saw her eyes were almost out of their sockets as we crossed the lobby. I left our bags, spoke to the staff, and then told her in English, “Our rooms aren’t ready yet. Want to go see something with me?”

  She hugged her waist until I glanced at her, and then she dropped her arms like I caught her off guard. She bounced on her feet. “Like what?”

  I motioned toward the street. It was nice to be in a place to walk. We’d been in the car for too long. I opened the door and let the warm, clean air rush against us. “The royal palace, the casino where three Bond movies were filmed.”

  On the white cement sidewalk, her natural colors returned to her face as she said with more of a smile, “I do love movies, but I’d like to see where Grace Kelly married her prince.”

  I pointed in the direction and held her hand as we walked. “The Prince’s Palace it is.”

  Soon I’d have to tell Kara about me. Simon was sure to spill the beans, so it was better she understood my point of view and how I was incapable of protecting those I loved.

  I don’t know why I’d gone quiet on the way here, but clearly, that needed to end.

  As we walked onto the castle grounds, she stopped at a bronze sign. “What does the sign say?”

  I read the French and then told her the gist, “It says unlike other royal families, the Grimaldi family have lived in this palace for over seven hundred years, not building another palace, which helped keep their royal mona
rchy intact.”

  We passed the black gates and followed the path to a clean, whiter version of Buckingham as she stared at the palace like she’d never seen anything like it. “That’s so cool. My parents used to love the classic movies, and it’s so interesting that an American ended up living her happily ever after here.”

  Yet, in the United States some houses were more luxurious. We crossed the white gate for the tour entrance for the state apartments, and I said, “She helped usher this tiny country from unknown to a member of the UN, and her husband credited her for ensuring the country’s financial security wasn’t just based on gambling.”

  We went straight through, poking our heads in rooms, and ended outside in the inner courtyard. Kara glanced all around to the intricate statute of a monk from the royal family back a few centuries ago. “She sounds cherished. That must be nice.”

  The sweetest woman in the world held my hand. “You should be cherished, Kara,” I told her with a squeeze.

  A blush covered her face. “You’re right. Next time that’s going as a requirement, but you’re going to be hard for any other man to live up to.”

  I stopped her near the car turned museum piece outside and asked quietly, “What do you mean?”

  I wasn’t the marrying kind. I ruined lives.

  She went on her tiptoes and held me closer. She spoke in a low voice. “It means now that I’ve been with the best possible man there is, it’s impossible to imagine some man I’d never meet. I keep picturing your face.”

  This was impossible. I’d had many girlfriends, but never had words tugged at my heartstrings. “You’re the best woman I could ever imagine in my life, if I’m being honest.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  I tugged her closer. I needed to kiss her again. “I wish we were different. I’ve never had a good woman, and it would be fun to have you.”

  At least I was safe; I was her rebound. I didn’t need to bare my soul on how I was bad news. Her entire face brightened like we were both in some sweet dream. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  Impossible dreams. I wasn’t worthy of a real relationship with a woman like Kara. I narrowed my gaze, and my heart raced more. “I’m not a marrying man, Kara.”

  Her eyebrow went higher, and she tilted her head. “Luckily, we can only last a week anyhow.”

  A life with Kara flew in my mind as something that would be in full color and vibrant instead of the dreary secluded life I had planned. “Sometimes, I don’t know if you’re joking or serious, Kara. You keep me on my toes.”

  She lifted a shoulder playfully. “Well, I’ll keep doing that.”

  I tugged on the waistband of her jeans. “Come here.”

  She curled her arms around me. “No kissing. We’re in a royal palace.”

  Why she’d turned prudish was almost charming. I pressed my forehead to hers. “I’m sure these royals did their sharing of kissing in their day.”

  She didn’t move, and goosebumps grew on my arms from the need to have her again. “I don’t know,” she said. “America was a British colony, and those royals seem super reserved.”

  I let her go, a bit disappointed we didn’t kiss, but I tucked my hands in my back pockets to straighten my spine and follow her as I admitted the truth about me to her. “That’s true. In the village I was born in, kissing in public was looked at more like some mainland European invasion to our British sensibilities.”

  She bumped into me. “So, you’re British and French?”

  “Both.” I took her hand in mine. “My father is French. My mother is British. As a child we lived in England, but then we moved to France and never left.”

  “Interesting.”

  My brother’s death was still hard to put into words. I’d avoided it just now but shook that off as I said, “And my friends you’ll meet later, all come from England, so you’ll understand every word said.”

  “I thought your accent was British. Why did you hold back that tidbit about you?”

  Because Blake was the next conversation, and I wasn’t ready for that. “Do I know everything about you already, Kara?”

  Her eyes had a gleam in them I didn’t understand. “I’ve outlined the basics. I guess I trust you, so I’ve been honest.”

  The truth usually came out in time, but it was nice to have a clue up front. “Then I’m honored, ma chérie, and I should be honest, too.”

  She stilled, and her face lost color. “About what?”

  Opening up about me was hard. I said fast, “I was a doctor in Paris. I’m leaving my practice to move home.”

  She directed us to the old-fashioned cannon that was cemented to the grounds. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just surprised.”

  “Because I don’t strike you as a doctor?”

  She massaged my cheek. “Because that job is noble, and you have a bigger heart than I imagined. I’m proud of you.”

  Helping people was a good thing to do. I’d thought that was my motivation, once, but I’d failed. I couldn’t explain the rest, not now. Instead, I said, “Don’t be. I’ll be living on a vineyard soon.”

  “Let’s walk back,” she said. “I’d rather be alone with you.”

  Good. I wanted her body. Disappointing Kara would be worse than anything else I’d survived already, and that twisted up my gut. I’d give her everything I have for the week. Meeting her was almost like destiny existed.

  Chapter 11

  Kara

  The white walls were pure and fresh and beautiful, more like a rich silk than some drab walls with a fresh coat of paint to cover for my lifestyle and that of most of the middle class.

  I walked beside Quentin whose relaxed shoulders were absolutely at home in a palace that had views of the sea and a beach outside the glass windows we passed.

  He seemed pensive about the whole doctor bit, so I decided to let him bring that topic back up in his own time.

  He ran his card through a door and opened up a room that was far bigger than I’d expected. I’d read European hotels were smaller than American ones, but this was made for a queen.

  Crystal chandeliers didn’t come in the three-star package I’d paid for, and neither did that view with clear blue waters. This room was like a dream more than reality.

  Quentin took off his shoes and tossed his phone on the bed. “This is the room. Do you want to shower first?”

  Right. We were sharing now. No more separate rooms. He was my week-long boyfriend. Truthfully, that was all I could handle anyhow. Marlon had been a mistake in a long list of mistakes in my life. I hugged my waist to get the nerves in my stomach under control and joked, “I thought Frenchmen didn’t shower.”

  “That’s disgusting.” He gawked at me. “Cleanliness is healthy.”

  I sat beside him on the bed and smiled to ensure he knew I was joking. “Glad it’s not true.”

  He massaged my back but then stood. “I want to clean up before we meet old friends. Ladies first, though.”

  Now that was a good idea. I took out my ponytail and stared at my muscular man. Honestly, I had no idea what he did when he wasn’t with me, but I hugged the bathroom door as I asked, “Can I ask you one more stereotype before hopping in the shower?”

  He tightened his shoulders. “Yes, of course.”

  I curled my lips. “Do you smoke?”

  “I’m trying to quit,” he said fast.

  At least that was better than nothing. I unbuttoned my pants and started to close the door. “Well that’s good. Be right back.”

  I stripped and tossed my clothes to the side but then decided to open the door a little. I stepped into the shower and heard Quentin on the phone.

  “Simon, we’re here.”

  I shouldn’t listen. I’d meet his friends in a minute, but still, I wasn’t sure I knew everything about Quentin.

  I trusted him for our short time together, almost more than my ex
-fiancé. I’d seriously made bad choices, but Quentin was upset about something, and my instinct was to give him time. With the sound of the water running in one ear I stilled and heard Quentin when he said, “Yes, my new girlfriend is here. Her English is… American.” At least he wasn’t hiding me. “I hope your wife enjoys her company. We’ll meet you both for dinner.”

  I’d hated when my sisters stood there and listened to me, so I jumped into the water and doused my hair as the water.

  My nipples were perky from the heat that met the cold air of the open door.

  A minute later, I heard the floorboards squeaked, so I heard Quentin’s steps and from the crack in the door, I saw him strip off his shirt and pants, revealing his hard, muscular body.

  My heart raced, and I hoped he joined me.

  Then it was like I won the lottery when he slipped inside and closed the shower door. I didn’t protest.

  “Who were you talking to?” I asked.

  He picked up the soap and then used it on my back as he said, “My brother’s old friends we’re meeting. After we shower, let’s tour the beach and the resort.”

  “Okay.” Brother? I meant to ask, but then his lips met the crook of my neck, and I moaned.

  The steam in the shower grew and so did my libido. He fondled my boobs, and I arched to give him whatever he wanted. He sucked them into that mouth of his, and I sighed.

  A moment later, he turned off the water, and my hunger for him grew as I backed into the still damp wall. He lifted my leg, and I wrapped it around him as he slipped a condom on that he must have dropped on the floor earlier and entered me.

  My tension grew deeper and deeper until I hit a crescendo. Nothing else mattered but this moment. I heard him cry out for me, but I was too far gone.

  Wow.

  No one had ever done this to me. He kissed my cheeks as I gathered my senses, and then put the water back on.

  The instant the cold water hit, it doused me back into my body. I helped scrub his back as he’d done mine. Fair play and all.

  Lastly, I washed his wanker with a little extra play because he’d been so good to me.

 

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