by Roxy Harte
He speaks as if we are sitting in a board room, discussing deadlines and quotas; not relationships that involve people and emotions. I look at Pierre-Louis, but his eyes too are on Frankie. There is no panic or worry in his gaze; there is just absolute trust. I take a deep breath, remembering when I used to gaze upon Frankie with such reverence. I’m not sure I can ever place him … any man … back on such a high pedestal … ever again.
I hate that I’ve lost my trust, become so jaded … trust and surrender was once so much easier than anything I have ever done since.
“You want all of us to go to France?”
“Oui,” he answers, lifting his steaming cup of coffee to his lips.
“To St. Emilion?”
“Of course.”
Yes, of course. I suppose if you are the owner of a chateau in the Burgundy wine country, it would only make sense to stay there when in the country. I bite down on my lip, making certain a single sound doesn’t come out of my mouth because I cannot trust what the sound would be: frustration? Elation? Exasperation?
He is taking over my life where we left off. Quit your job. Pfft. Seriously? We are going to France! Where we once planned to grow old together. My heart still aches over that lost dream…
How in the hell do we do this? How do I do this?
Chapter Eight
Passports in order all around definitely make leaving the country in a moment’s notice easier, as far as logistics go, anyway; however, a piece of myself is still back at my house in Glenview. Frankie drove me there to pack. Unreal isn’t the right word; neither is surreal; although both words could be used to explain what it felt like to have Frankie in my house. In. My. House.
I wore a trench coat and four-inch heels home, not so exceptional given it was raining cats and dogs. What was bizarre was the fact I was completely naked beneath the long coat except for my leather collar, and as soon as we crossed the threshold Frankie helped me out of the coat, leaving me standing in my foyer naked. My heart was pacing so fast I thought I might stroke out, which left me shattered, shaking. I thought if this is a dream, I need to wake up now! Now!
I didn’t wake up.
He said, “Thirty minutes, Cassiopeia. Pack everything you need for an extended stay in France.”
“Extended?” I asked, panicked.
“You did say the girls are staying away the entire summer, yes?”
I nodded, still dazed, having no idea what to pack.
He seemed to understand my conundrum because he suggested, “Several dresses, some slacks and blouses. Any toiletries beyond a few days time can be purchased there. Do you have a favorite photograph of the girls, perhaps? Hairdryer? Curling iron? Hair straightener? Make-up?”
I awakened inside the insanity of the moment. “Okay, okay. I get it!”
I walked through my house wearing only my stilettos and collar, feeling like a complete stranger. The house seemed all wrong, even though I remembered the best and worst moments each room had to offer, the ghosts of happiness and sadness, dreams both accomplished and forgotten. I reached the bedroom once shared by John and me, wishing I had known more joy in the room and less desolation. I caught my reflection in the long dressing mirror and turned to look at the bruises, striping my ass and thighs from the caning. It seemed strange to see bruises on my ass in that mirror.
Was the caning only last night? Really?
It felt as if I’d been away from home for weeks, maybe months, my disorientation was so complete.
I closed my eyes, remembering how many nights I’d wished I could admit my needs to John that he wasn’t able to meet. It wasn’t that he was a horrible fuck; I just needed more than the casual, emotionless sex he was able to provide. It wasn’t hard to start packing after seeing my past through Cassiopeia’s eyes.
I am mentally ill because I am disassociating? I shouldn’t feel like two distinct people … two distinct lives … and I wonder again how my two selves, my two lives, will ever merge.
And now I sit between two men twenty thousand feet above the ground.
One I fucked last night.
One I will fuck tonight.
Of that I have no doubt as I begin this new journey, this new era of my life. I think Frankie is a genius. I could have never started a relationship with Pierre-Louis at the manor where I originally fell in love with Master; I could have never recreated with Frankie what we once shared if I was coming and going between the home I raised my children in, the manor, and my job. In France we have the chance of doing both, and I am left feeling optimistic.
We are flying in Frankie’s private jet. I’d forgotten the perks of being with him: no commercial flights, meaning no crying children, no prying eyes. We can do as we wish…
I chance a shy look at Pierre-Louis and he catches me looking. He smiles and winks, making me blush, and beside me Frankie chuckles. My mind fills with thoughts and images better saved for when we are on the ground, but honestly I want to know what it will feel like to have both men touching me at the same time and I don’t know if I can wait until the plane touches down to find out.
I cast my eyes down to my lap. Safe territory. Relatively safe at least. Not looking at either man. Interestingly, I am wearing clothes: dark indigo jeans with rhinestone details I fell in love with at the department store but never had an occasion to wear; a last-minute flight to France seemed a good enough excuse. Likewise, the black sleeveless shell is a clearance find by Eileen Fisher and even at its discounted price seemed too extravagant for a mere work day, but paired with a pair of five-inch-heeled, black leather, lace front sling-backs imported from Italy, another clearance find, also never worn, is perfect for this trip. Besides, the leather collar almost looks like a fashion accessory. Almost.
Even though I am clothed, making it a safer trip through airport security, I feel naughty, giddily so…
I could feel heads turning as I walked through the terminal, eyes looking, both men and women. I didn’t feel any condemnation, no pointing and laughing, just appreciation for a beautiful woman. Damn. I’d forgotten how that felt. To remember I was once beautiful and to feel beautiful again.
There is no way to describe the feeling other than gratitude. I am so glad for this moment in time, so thankful.
Frankie reaches over his hand, expecting me to take hold of it. I do, glad when I feel him squeeze my fingers. I look up at him and smile. I wonder if he can guess my thoughts? He leans over and whispers, “Poor Pierre-Louis is drooling over you, kiss him.”
My lips part to refuse, but then I remember the rule: one doesn’t refuse anything Master asks. I lift my eyebrows, hoping I heard him correctly, worried I didn’t, but then he encourages, “Go ahead, do it now.”
I feel my eyes go wide. I have no idea what I’m doing as I turn to face Pierre-Louis. He looks at me expectantly, making me wonder if he overheard. He lifts his eyebrow questioningly, making me feel that he didn’t overhear. Frankie releases his hold on my hand, and I giggle self-consciously. I fidget in my seat so that I am facing more toward Pierre-Louis, with my back slightly toward Frankie. I think I should tell him what I plan. I have been commanded to kiss him, but then his light blue eyes brighten and as my mouth moves, trying to say something but not succeeding, he tilts his head and I know if I only lean in our lips will collide. Then surely one or both of us will figure it out from there, right?
I lean in and with a nudge in the center of my back from Frankie, our lips do touch, but it isn’t exactly a kiss. He is looking at me, I am looking at him, our gazes catching, his breath warm and sweet on my face, and I realize I have to do this. I reach my hand up to stroke his cheek, the same hand that was just moments ago was holding Frankie’s, but I try not to think about it.
It’s impossible not to think about.
I stroke Pierre-Louis’s cheek, pressing my lips closer until they are flat against his and I am feeling awkward. Oh hell. His lips move beneath mine and mine move with his until we are really kissing and the uneasiness vanishes w
ithin the workings of his expertise.
His tongue slides along my bottom lip, begging access to my mouth and I grant him entrance, allowing our tongues to play. The entire time my brain is on overload. I’m still thinking.
Thinking too much.
Worrying. About everything.
Frankie wants a ménage, but Pierre-Louis is so young, or maybe I am just too old, and what would happen if my daughters discovered our secret and holy fuck. I’ve already decided to have sex with him, because if he grinds as well as he kisses … Holy. Mother. Of. God.
“Yes,” he answers.
“Yes?” I ask into his mouth, confused.
“You wanted to know if I fuck as well as I kiss,” he charges, his French accent as much a turn-on as the rest of him, just as Frankie’s brogue ever did it for me. Dear God, how will I ever stand two French men whispering sweet nothings into my ear in their pleasantly exotic voices.
“I did?” I ask, mesmerized by his gaze. I wonder if he shouts in French when he orgasms.
He chuckles. “You just asked me.”
I sit back, horrified. “I didn’t!”
He winks, laughing. “You didn’t but you did wonder, oui?”
I cover my mouth with my hand, hiding my own laughter. Embarrassed. He doesn’t need to know the answer to that.
The pilot announces, “We have just left U.S. airspace.”
God, this is going to be a long flight.
He holds out his hand to me. “Come here?”
“Here?” I ask, suddenly panicked.
He pats his knee. “Oui, here.”
My heart flutters wildly in my chest. I have no idea what is expected or by whom. Frankie tops me, no one else ever has, and Pierre-Louis bottoms to Frankie, but will he be allowed to top me? Master’s lack of interference in the situation seems to denote yes, he might actually allow Pierre-Louis to top me. God, how do I feel about that?
Do I actually see myself topping him? Well, maybe. It might be fun. God, oh God. I don’t know what to do. He sits, waiting patiently, watching me.
I can only assume I look as panicked as I feel.
He shrugs and challenges with his gaze, looking so masculine, so predatory … and laughing. His gaze absolutely holds laughter. At me? With me?
I’m not laughing.
Frankie leans into my back, resting his chin on my shoulder. He whispers, “Are you afraid? Are you awaiting my permission?”
I turn my head and see the same challenging smirk on his face.
“I want you to enjoy him,” he says. “There is time for roles later. No topping, no bottoming, just you and him, exploring each other. Get to know him.”
Get to know him? Intimately, right? Not just chatting? I swallow hard, trapped between the laughter of two men, feeling completely out of my league. What am I doing here? On this plane? I should be at work. I should be … bored out of my mind right now.
No. I’ve spent long enough being good. Is that what I’ve been doing as part of the normal, vanilla world? Being good? While my philandering husband screwed co-eds? I push down my anger, not helpful on this trip, but still feel guilt. I have responsibilities to others. Like, my children. Am I seriously considering what they don’t know about mommy won’t hurt them?
I push back against Frankie. “This isn’t as easy for me as it was when I was twenty-something.”
He kisses the side of my face and a thrill of pleasure speeds through my veins.
“I never expected it to be easy. I do assume you still desire to please me above all else though.”
Damn. Do I?
Fuck.
I. Am. Not. The. Same. Person.
“Sit in his lap. What can it hurt? You have your clothes on, he has his clothing on. Get to know him better. It is easier this way than forced nude together in the back seat as we drive through the country to the estate, am I wrong?”
Oh God. Easier. Yes.
I stand, pivot, and sit my ass on Pierre-Louis’s knee. I feel awkward. I let out a deep breath, not looking at either man as I try to pull up a reserve of fortitude. This is every woman’s dream, right? I should be doing cartwheels over the opportunity. I glance up, not at Frankie, looking at Frankie this second would be too much; I lock on to Pierre-Louis’s gaze and don’t find laughter or teasing. I find patience. Perhaps even empathy. His hands run up my back in a gentle caress, his fingers easing into my tense shoulder muscles when he finds them strung tight. He rubs softly, not sensually, and that is good. He is sexy enough and it is difficult already, sitting in his lap, without his trying to seduce.
Massaging deeper, he elicits deep appreciation, though I don’t say it. I think he realizes. I lose track of time when he turns me so both of his hands can knead and rub. When I realize he is pulling me back against his chest, my eyes are closed and I am content. I stiffen a little, feeling our bodies mold together. “Shshsh, relax,” he says, his arms going around me to hold him close to him. “Just getting to know one another, oui?”
I don’t open my eyes, and do the best I can to let the tension run out of my limbs. His hands roam over my stomach and ribs, making me self-conscious of the extra twenty pounds, but then he wouldn’t know that, only Frankie would know.
I move my hands over his, catching his wrists and pulling so his arms and mine are crossed over my stomach. His fingers play over my ribs and I’m okay with that. Not one hundred percent comfortable, but better.
He kisses the side of my face and I think he seems more mature than twenty-eight, his patience earning him bonus points. I think we should have gotten all of this getting to know each other stuff out of the way when I was drunk on Bordeaux, but then I wouldn’t remember and I would still be just as awkward.
His hand slides under the edge of my shirt to find bare skin, his hand is so warm. Hot against my skin. No way to escape the sensation of so much heat, traveling over my flesh, rubbing my stomach, teasing my ribs. His other hand joins the first, both of his hands roaming, and I am at a loss what to do with mine even though my hands are resting on my thighs. It seems they should be doing something, touching him. Stopping him. I don’t move to do anything with my hands. I just leave them where they are as I relax into the sensation of him touching me, his caress exquisite. And Sensual.
I don’t think about the what next. I just stay wrapped in the delight his fingers are causing my flesh. He doesn’t stray to breasts or twat, and I appreciate the fact he is consciously giving me time to get used to him, but then after awhile, I want him to explore my womanly places. I pray he won’t make me ask, or worse, beg. I arch my back, moving my hips, and he pushes me forward, staying molded around me, readjusting us. My neck bends, exposing the long line of my neck to him as my hair falls forward, I feel limp as a dishrag but oh so horny. He doesn’t disappoint me, dropping a line of kisses over the back of my neck which leaves me trembling. I realize only after a moment of lost—in-space utter pleasure that he is unbuttoning and unzipping my slacks. He adjusts my body backward, taking my shirt by the tail and tugging it over my head in a smooth move. I gasp but he doesn’t stop. He holds me tight around the waist and I see Frankie has already knelt and is unbuckling sandals. Once my shoes are off, he pulls down my Capris.
The cabin of the jet suddenly seems chill as I recline against Pierre-Louis’s warmth in my lace bra and panties.
Without a word Frankie returns to his seat. To. Watch. Oh shit.
Pierre-Louis kisses my shoulder, my neck. I watch Frankie, watching, and it makes me feel strange. He’s never shared me before. It seems strange he is doing so now. I wonder if I will watch the two of them do more than kiss. I wonder, even though I know Frankie tops and Pierre-Louis bottoms in their relationship, who actually does whom in the bedroom. I feel myself blushing. These are not thoughts I should be having right now.
Pierre-Louis slides his hand beneath the waistband of my lace panties and suddenly my attention is diverted back to the man whose lap I sit in. I turn my head to look at the man touching me instead
of the man watching us. His blue eyes flash at me, making me feel he is glad he has my undivided attention again. He teasingly nips my shoulder, a slight distraction to take my mind off his fingers traveling deeper inside my panties. Does he really think he can take my mind off realizing he is finding me slippery and ready? His fingers tease through my folds and my hips respond with small rocks against his thigh.
I never dreamed anything like this would ever happen. Even after the gift from Frankie, even after my mind adjusted to the thought I might entertain the notion of going to see Frankie. My thoughts had entertained returning to Frankie’s arms, perhaps as a part time lover, as if I believed he would actually allow so little from me. My brain would not have been able to wrap around this … but my body isn’t having the same difficulty. I want him.
As much as I ever wanted Frankie.
I want Pierre-Louis.
I want him to fuck me, but I also want to find out what naughtiness we can get ourselves into. My mind runs amok with images and ideas. What we could do together…
I see him topping me.
I see me equally topping him and honestly the second run of fantasies—him on his knees before me, licking my stilettos, me grabbing his short crop of hair and jerking his head back to make him look at me—is preferable.
His fingers find my clit, rolling over, teasing, drawing moans from my mouth. God, oh god.
Frankie said no role, no topping, no bottoming, but in my mind I am topping him. I am asking him to please Mistress. Where in the hell did that come from?
I smack his face and tell him he will have to try harder to please me…
“Ohgodohgodohgod!”
Chapter Nine
In Chicago I am well used to driving past an array of varying sized McMansions, and indeed Frankie’s manor is a fine specimen of what a Chicago mansion looked like pre-cookie cutter architecture. An obvious show of wealth doesn’t astound me. Or at least it never did before riding through the French countryside where the homes of even the moderately well-off resemble castles. I gape … at the openness of the fields, at the sheer architectural beauty of the villages and chateaux, at the vineyards. Frankie’s childhood home, Château de Hart, is no exception. I gape. Openly. The three story brick manor is timeless and ancient; it is everything I expected and a hundred times more. The brick is a softly faded red, the shutters covering the windows freshly painted crisp white. It is both foreboding and inviting. Holy shit, he grew up here?