“Charlotte…”
They were the first words he’d spoken, and her name on his lips as his body moved against hers was erotic and emotional at the same time. Tenderness flowed toward him even as she knew it was a mistake. Knew it was dangerous to feel anything — let alone something like tenderness — for a man like Christophe Marchand.
But it was too late. It was already there.
“I need you inside me,” she said. It was the truth, and an easier one to bear than the possibility of having feelings for him.
He reached into one of the drawers next to the bed, removed a condom. She felt the restraint in his body. Felt the strength it took for him not to flip her under him, drive into her like he had the night before, make her his before she could try to possess him instead.
Christophe was not a man who wanted to be possessed. Wasn’t a man who would normally allow it.
But he remained under her, handing her the condom even as she felt his body twitch against the constraint of her body over his. He was doing it for her. Letting her take control. Letting her be in charge as a way to banish the helplessness she’d felt when the men had threatened her in Paris, when they’d given chase through Vienna.
She took the condom from his hand and opened it, positioned herself between his legs as she stroked his magnificent cock. He was gripping the blankets on the bed, forcing himself to submit to her ministrations when what he really wanted was to fuck her.
She lowered her mouth to him, flicking her tongue against his swollen tip before closing her mouth around it. He groaned, and his hands came down to tuck her hair behind her ears. She sucked the head while she stroked his shaft with her hands, reveling in her power over him as he lengthened and hardened in her hand.
She couldn’t control her heart. She couldn’t make him feel anything for her in return. But right now, in this moment, he was hers.
She slid her mouth down his length, taking every inch of him in her mouth as she massaged his balls.
His hips came up off the bed. “Fuck, Charlotte…”
She willed her throat to open, took him in another inch until her mouth was all the way at the base of him, his head nestled at the back of her throat. She held the position, feeling him throb in her mouth, then moved back up to the tip, closing her hand around him as she took him in and out of her mouth, sucking at the tip, pushing him all the way into her throat on the downstroke.
It was what she needed. The desire to make him come, to focus on his pleasure, blotted out everything else. There was nothing outside of the tiny room, the faint hum of the plane, the moonlight over Christophe’s body. Nothing except his pulsing flesh in her mouth, the wet heat soaking her center as her body readied itself for him.
“You can either fuck me or I can fuck you,” he said, pulling at her arms. “But one way or another I’m going to be inside that sweet pussy, Charlotte.”
The words sent a tidal wave of urgency roaring through her body. She took her mouth off him, rolled the condom onto his steely rod, then straddled his hips and positioned herself over him. She took him in her hand, centered his thick crown at her entrance.
She leaned down, touched her lips to his. “If you want this sweet pussy, you’re going to have to come and get it.”
He grabbed her hips and drove up into her with a ferocious thrust. She screamed as he impaled her. He was so big — almost too big — and she held still, his cock stretching her open as she sank deeper onto him, willing her body to part for him.
After a few seconds she started to move, rotating her hips, grinding on him to get the friction she wanted on her clit. He chuckled, and the rumble of it through his body while he was inside her brought a smile to her lips.
“That’s right,” he said. “Take it, Charlotte. Take every inch of it. Use it.”
It was all the permission she needed, and she braced her palms against his chest, using the leverage to press him deeper into her, to give her more control over the position of his body against the pulsing seed at her center.
He moved with her, meeting her rhythm as he reached between them, touching his thumb to her clit.
“Oh, god…” she moaned. “Please…”
“Please?” he murmured.
“Please don’t stop,” she gasped.
“I’m not stopping until you come, Charlotte. You should know that.”
And she did. She didn’t know everything about him, but she knew enough. She knew that he would let her wring him out, that he would worship at the altar of her body until she came, until she’d let go of everything ugly that had happened in Vienna.
Everything ugly that had ever happened to her.
She closed her eyes, let her body take over, her hips rocking against his, his cock filling her as his fingers circled her clit. The other side was there. She could feel it blossoming at her core, spreading outward like a blush, the heat seeping through her body as she came closer to release.
He moved faster, his hands firm on her hips as he thrust upward, taking control as she lost herself in the sensation of his body joining with hers: the painful separation when he slid almost out of her, the exquisite relief when he plunged into her again. She let go of everything.
The threats from the men in Paris.
Her doubts about Christophe Marchand.
The mystery of the cross and the unknown future chasing it would bring.
She let it all go and focused on the burgeoning climb at her center, Christophe’s body moving under her, his hands warm on her hips, the perfect rub of him against her clit.
“Look,” he said. “Watch me fuck you.”
She opened her eyes, looked down, watching him disappear inside her, emerge wet and glistening before he thrust into her again.
It sent her over the edge, pushing her back underwater until she was both sinking and floating. Until she was swimming through the fireworks at the center of her body, her pussy clenching hard and fast around him as he moved inside her.
His groan erupted into the room around them as he shuddered inside her, spilling his come as he drove into her, letting her milk him of every drop. His orgasm seemed endless, his thrusts vicious as he sought to empty himself into her until she collapsed on top of him.
He closed his arms around her, and rather than the distance she expected as he came back to himself, she felt that he was still right there. Still swimming with her through the mysterious waters of their passion.
32
Christophe sat at the back of the bar, sipping his beer while he kept an eye on the doors. The place was small, dark, and lacking refinement, which is exactly why he’d chosen it. An old counter stretched along one side of the room, and three pool tables with stained green felt sat in the center. He occupied one of the few dingy booths on the opposite wall. There was no sign to announce the name of the place. Just the dilapidated cedar siding that had probably fronted the place in Charlestown for the past fifty years. But he wasn’t worried.
The other men would know where to find it.
He took another drink of the beer and thought about Charlotte, back at the hotel. They’d been in Boston for five days, researching Peter Montoya, the assistant at the Gardner whose name they’d gotten from Anna Muller, and everything they could find on the theft of Tucker’s Cross, all thanks to his cyber lab in Paris.
It had been a strange kind of dream, being in Boston with Charlotte. They hadn’t talked about their relationship. They had simply fallen into it, working side by side to learn more about Peter Montoya and gossip about the cross that had arisen in certain circles of the art community over the years. Their nights were spent walking the streets of Boston, fragrant with spring, and making love until they were both limp and satiated. They fell asleep tangled in each other’s limbs and woke up the same way. He was grateful she didn’t insist on quantifying what was happening between them, but it wouldn’t have changed anything.
He’d known since the night on the plane that she was meant to be his.
&nb
sp; Had known it almost since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, if he was honest with himself.
Maybe it had been the chase in Vienna, knowing she was under threat. Seeing that threat with his own eyes. Knowing he was the only thing standing between her and harm.
He’d understood then that he would do whatever was necessary to protect her, and while he’d felt the urge to protect before, the object of that protection had always been inanimate. Something precious, but ultimately replaceable.
He’d known in Vienna that Charlotte was not replaceable. Had known in his soul that if she were lost, he would spend his life looking around every corner for her. Listening for her voice. Dreaming about her touch.
So he’d gotten her out, and he’d made love to her as they soared across the sky, daring to let her in during the magical hours when they’d been between countries, between time zones, between worlds.
By the time they’d stepped off the plane in Boston, he was irrevocably hers. He didn’t know how she felt about him, but he knew there was something. Some kind of wordless language that moved between them when their bodies were connected, and more and more, when they were simply holding hands, when she smiled at him over coffee in the morning, when she stepped from the shower, her body glistening like a jewel.
He hadn't told her about seeing Felix in Vienna, but he’d been doing some digging since they arrived in Boston, and he’d learned some interesting things about his brother’s operation, if that’s what one wanted to call it.
First, his brother had not picked up the shipment in Lille as they’d agreed. That meant he’d been otherwise occupied right about the time Christophe and Charlotte made their way to Vienna.
Bruno also had a minor run in with Farrell Black in London, had stepped on the London mob boss’s toes by commandeering a drug shipment without permission. Christophe hadn’t been surprised by the fact that Bruno had been defiant when caught. That he’d been cavalier with Leo, Farrell’s second-in-command, when he’d been threatened. But he had been surprised to heat that he’d told Leo it would be a mistake to interfere in his activities because Leo “didn’t know who he was messing with”.
It had left Christophe with a deep sense of disquiet. His brother was up to something. He simply couldn’t figure out how his increasingly careless — and dangerous — actions were connected to Tucker’s Cross, an antique that wouldn’t have held any interest at all for his brother a year ago.
But that’s why Christophe was here.
The door swung open, and he watched as a big man with dark hair took the measure of the place before ambling to the back of the room. He slid into the booth, and Christophe pushed one of the two extra beers toward him.
“Got Julien on guard duty out front?” Luca Cassano said.
Christophe shrugged. “It’s his job.”
Luca nodded, took a drink of the beer. “It was my job once, too.”
“I know,” Christophe said. “How’s the new life treating you?”
“Can’t complain,” he said. “Isabel’s going to the art institute while Sophia is in school during the day.”
“Both are healthy and well?” Christophe asked. He didn’t usually care to know about the families of the men who worked for other crime families, but now he found that he was curious. Like him, Luca had seemed content in his loneliness. Then he met Isabel Fuentes and her little sister, and suddenly he was as domesticated as any happy house cat.
“They are.” The contentment was clear on his face.
Christophe nodded, watched as Luca turned in the booth when the door opened. The threshold was darkened by the shadow of a man bigger than both of them. For a split second, his face was hidden by the flash of sun behind him. He looked around the room, made eye contact with Christophe, then stalked toward them. When he got there, he folded himself into the booth, no easy task given the man’s size.
Christophe looked at him for a long moment, remembering the time nearly a year before when Farrell Black had sought asylum with Jenna Carver in Paris. Christophe hadn’t been happy to see him. And he’d been even less happy to help him.
Now he was glad he had done so.
Farrell sat, rested a hand on Luca’s shoulder before turning his eyes to Christophe. He handed one of the beers to Farrell.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Sounded ominous,” Farrell said, tipping the beer to his mouth.
There was something savage about him, something that had more to do with the steel in his eyes than the scar that ran down one side of his face from temple to cheek. He understood why London ran so smoothly. Why there were rarely uprisings in that territory, even after the Syndicate was out of the picture. Farrell liked hurting people. He even liked to do it himself, and while most of the people in their business had weapons of choice, Farrell preferred to use his bare hands.
No one wanted to fuck with Farrell Black.
Which was why his brother’s brazenness made him even more concerned.
“It might be,” Christophe said.
“Tell us,” Farrell said.
Christophe started with Paris, filling the two men in on Bruno’s history, his tendency to work the edges of a game instead of playing properly. Then he continued with the ring and Charlotte Duval, the trip to Vienna and Tucker’s Cross, his sighting of Felix during the car chase.
Farrell studied him across the table for a long moment when he was done.
“I take it the girl is more than an antique dealer?” he asked.
“That is none of your business,” Christophe said.
To his surprise, Farrell started to laugh.
“Care to fill me in on the joke?” Christophe asked, ice in his veins.
Farrell rubbed a hand over his face before returning his eyes to Christophe. “The girl. It sounds a little… familiar.”
Luca barked out a short laugh next to him, then took a long swig of his beer.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Farrell leaned forward. “We’ve all been there, mate. Woman comes into the picture — a particular woman — and suddenly you’re balls deep in a shit storm like you’ve never seen.”
“Balls deep in a shit storm without a compass,” Luca clarified.
Farrell and Luca clinked their bottles together as if in solidarity.
“Let’s keep my personal life out of it,” Christophe said.
Farrell grinned. “If you say so.”
“You think your brother is the same man who threatened Charlotte,” Luca said.
“The man who threatened Charlotte had a knife. My brother likes knives. And his man was in Vienna.”
“But that’s not all that’s bothering you,” Farrell said.
“No.” Christophe hesitated, looking for the right way to tie the pieces together. “Have you experienced other problems in London lately? Shipments gone awry? Sources disappearing? More attrition among your men than is normal?”
A wall came down over Farrell’s features. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I have,” Christophe said. “I hadn’t quantified it until recently, but we’ve had more problems than usual. More glitches. More turnover. Not enough to make it obvious, but…”
Farrell set down his beer. “But?”
“Kind of feels like someone might be making a play.”
“You think your brother is making a play for your territory?” Luca asked. “For Farrell’s territory?”
“I don’t know,” Christophe said. “I have Julien looking into it. What’s the word in New York?”
“New York’s a shit show,” Luca said. “I’m not involved. Not formally anyway. The Vitales were old school. It was a real family business. Nico’s absence has left a vacuum no one seems capable of filling. It’s anyone’s guess who’s in charge there now.”
“So you don’t know if they’re having more problems than usual?” Farrell asked him.
“No, but I can find out.”
“You might want to do that,” Christophe said. “B
ecause if I’m right, someone else is behind this. Someone besides Bruno.”
Farrell looked at him. “What makes you say that?”
“My brother isn’t ambitious enough for a takeover. Not on is own. If I’m right, someone else his pulling the strings.”
“I just don't understand what this has to do with the cross,” Farrell said.
“Neither do I,” Christophe said. “Not yet.”
“What do you need from us?” Farrell asked.
“Nothing right now,” Christophe said. “Just keep your ear to the ground, see if you can get a handle on anything that might be going on behind the scenes, anyone who might be looking to take advantage of the disorganization left in the wake of the fall of Raneiro Donati and the Syndicate.”
“I can do that,” Farrell said. “You need help with this cross thing?”
“Not yet.” Christophe wanted to see what came of the meeting with Peter Montoya before he said any more about the cross. “But I’ll let you know.”
Farrell nodded. “I owe you. I’m here if you need me.”
“Me, too,” Luca said. “Haven’t been in the game in awhile, but family is family.”
Christophe nodded. They’d been rivals once, but somehow the dissolution of the Syndicate had thrown them together. Now it was all of them against whoever else was out there that might take advantage of the void left by the organization that had once kept everyone in check.
“Thank you,” Christophe said.
Farrell drained his beer, then stood. “I have to go.”
Luca followed suit. “Me, too. I have to be back in the city tonight. I don’t like to leave Isabel and Sophia alone.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” Christophe said. Farrell nodded and turned to go. “Farrell?”
The other man turned around. “Yes?”
“How is Jenna? And your daughter?”
His face broke into a smile, and for a moment, he was transformed. He looked nothing like the man who struck terror in the hearts of London’s underground crime network. “They’re beautiful. Fucking beautiful.”
Christophe nodded, wondering if the tightening in his chest was envy or fear.
Covenant (Paris Mob Book 1) Page 13