“I don’t know. But I can’t say goodbye to Jake either, unless he’s the one to break it off. I must seem like a real gluttonous bastard, Mona. Greedy and self-serving, but it’s not like that. I wish I could explain. Jake completes me. He’s the only guy I’ve ever wanted or needed, the only one I’ve ever wanted to fuck. But he isn’t enough. And then you came along. I didn’t realize that there was something missing until I met you and you just filled that space as though it was fated.” A sorrowful chuckle scurries along the line. “I sound like such a dick, but it’s the truth.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Zane. At least, if things don’t work out, I’ll have that.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What else can I say? You made a promise, a vow to be with Jake. And Jake doesn’t have to accept me, you’re going to have to make a choice one day and I’ll lose out. It was wrong of me to ask if you were going to say goodbye to me soon. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
“You’re apologizing to me?” His incredulity is almost comical. “If anyone needs to say sorry then I’m the one. I’ve dragged you into this, made you notorious in the gossip rags. I’ve completely upended your life. It’s a wonder you’re even talking to me.”
“What you feel for me, I feel for you, Zane. I have to talk to you, otherwise I’d be punishing myself.” I blow out a breath and murmur, “I have to go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Have you moved out of the apartment, Mona?” His voice is chilly with the severity of his tone. Obviously, my questions have made him doubt me and the real reason behind my not being at the penthouse.
“I’ll speak to you later, Zane.”
“Mona.” he barks. “Are you at Marina’s because you’ve moved out?”
“Take care,” I whisper and disconnect the call.
Staring into space for a minute, I swallow back the tears and force myself to climb under the sheets.
I have a decision to make.
In that one conversation, I realize what I have and what I can never have.
The bittersweet knowledge of having found a man who shares the intensity of my feelings for him, only for him to belong to someone else…
But is it as cut and dry as that?
Are there more options open to us?
And if that’s the case, what lengths am I willing to sink to? What am I willing to do, how far am I willing to go to keep Zane in my life?
The questions plague me all night.
Chapter Twelve
“You’re not ill, are you, Mona?” Jake asks me, for what has to be the tenth time today.
It’s taking every ounce of my patience to reply in a civil manner. He’s being kind and courteous, if a little conniving. After all, we’re on our way to the house of Jake’s main suspect, and all in the guise of a charitable occasion. It would put a dent in his plans if I wasn’t there.
As soon as the cynical thought crashes through my brain with the elegance of a bull in a china shop, I instantly feel guilty. I curl my fingers into a fist and press down so that my nails bite into the soft flesh of my palms. The stinging pain soothes my agitation somewhat.
I can’t keep doing this.
Can’t hold a grudge against Jake, because Zane loves him.
It has to stop.
Nor can I keep blaming Jake for my attraction to him.
This entirely inappropriate attraction. As well as awkward, mistimed and discomforting, alongside every other negative word in existence for the feelings gathering in my belly for this man, who isn’t my man and whose man is mine.
Phew.
What a mouthful.
Grunting under my breath, I shake my head. “I’m fine, Jake. How many times?”
“Sorry, but I’ve never been so close to Rousset before and I need you to be on track. If you’re not feeling well, then I’d prefer to reschedule.”
In a way, it’s a relief to hear such pragmatism coming from Jake’s lips. Someone has to have their feet on the ground. Because if it was up to me, they’d be far apart and Jake’s lips wouldn’t be talking. They’d be sucking on my clit. His tongue flickering and licking, his teeth nibbling until every part of his mouth was turning me into mush.
A part of me wonders where these thoughts keep coming from and how they can keep on popping up when I’m agonizing over the future of my relationship with Zane. But pop up, they do and I grit out, “I know how important this is to you and I’m fine. I would have told you if I needed to cancel.”
Christ, I’m not averse to using the old PMS excuse to get myself out of a tight spot. But in my current mood, I’m up for kicking some thieving scum’s butt.
And scum is exactly what Rousset is.
In the time that we’ve associated with the crook, he hasn’t risen very high in my estimations. In fact, I can see why Jake, at some point, has painted a rather large target on the guy’s forehead.
Not only is he a schmuck, he’s a xenophobic, misogynistic, chauvinistic, racist homophobe. I think he’s in possession of every single –ist in existence.
Nothing pleases him and nothing is good enough for him. He complains and bitches about everything, he’s such a pain in the ass. And the longer he courts us, obviously biding his time to reveal that he has the bi we’re looking for, the more evident his flaws become.
Especially where his wife is concerned.
As much as I dislike Renée—whose obsession with her plastic surgery-enhanced looks is her sole point of conversation and armed with a personality that makes milk look exotic—Rousset treats her like a dog and nobody deserves that. He tells her to go fetch, mostly to roll over and sometimes, to beg.
The latter instance occurred one night at a new hot spot in the center of the city, a restaurant by the name of Chi-Chen. The menu a fusion of Asian dishes and traditional French classics. All in a restaurant that merged the modern minimalistic style of places I’ve only gawked at through the window back home with the more comfortable aspects of interior design.
So, while the tables were simply formed with stark, austere lines, they were rustic too, created as they were out of rejuvenated driftwood. The chairs were high-backed, almost Puritan in style and yet, they were thickly padded with comfortable cushions. The lights overhead might have been shaded by great bowls of bright transparent, orange Perspex, but the bulbs were dim and they encompassed everyone underneath the shade in a warming, amber glow.
I hadn't felt uncomfortable in the ultra-modern atmosphere, I'd been at ease. As I often am in Jake's company, even with Renée and Pierre Rousset for dinner companions.
She and I rarely speak, as I prefer to join in the conversation with Rousset and Jake while the woman sulks into her wineglass. And on this particular occasion, she’d supped a bottle of Chablis to herself and had beckoned the waiter over to order another bottle.
In quick-fire French that I’d only just understood, Rousset had called his wife an alcoholic in front of the flushed waiter. Hell, Jake and I hadn’t been all that comfortable, when Renée had had to plead for another glass.
Her manicured hands, the talons gleaming even in the golden overhead light, had suddenly disappeared under the table.
I don’t even want to know what she’d had to do—or where those hands had to go—to get that second bottle of wine.
I shudder to think.
Rousset’s mistress, Geraldine, the one who instigated a tidbit of cordiality between us, is the only one in his circle to whom he has a kind word to speak. And that’s only because she bites back. Renée sulks or stomps off. Geraldine smiles and says something to defuse the situation. Although he’s just as rude to her, her reactions dampen his insults down to an acceptable level.
Why Geraldine puts up with him, is beyond me. She’s a true French beauty. Black hair as deep and dark as onyx, pure white skin that gleams with good health and an expensive beauty regime, navy blue eyes that see far too much and a figure that makes any gown look good.
&nb
sp; So what the hell she’s doing with Rousset is anyone’s guess.
Renée has the wedding ring, I suppose that and Rousset’s wallet keeps her warm and cozy at night. As well as the fact, she has lovers of her own. But Geraldine? It has to be love. As impossible as it seems for a man like Rousset to be loved, I can see no other reason why she would be with him, when she could have any guy she wanted.
But then, I’m in the perfect position to empathize. The power of love is just like the song. Sent from above, created to confound us and to bend our minds with its strength. Hell, at least my heart sent me in an exciting direction.
And not to a bastard like Rousset.
In truth, he’s kindest to me. But then, if he truly is in possession of the bi, I’m a potential buyer. Whatever he is, Rousset’s clever. Insulting me would hardly be the savviest act in the world.
For the last ten days, as he’s courted us, I’ve seen and done things I’d never even dreamed of. He’s taken us to lunch, we’ve dined at an honest-to-God gentleman’s club under his patronage, attended the theatre, the opera, and the ballet. Jake hadn’t been lying when he said I’d see more of Paris if I chose to help him. I’ve seen it, and through the shimmering haze of wealth. Not for me the budget tourist traps. Not for me a shoestring vacation.
God forbid.
The complete contrast of my present to my recent past is astounding.
From barely being able to afford my bills, to spending the cost of my yearly electricity consumption on a pair of shoes.
I’m kind of sickened by it but, greedy bitch that I am, I’m having too much damned fun.
It’s the only thing keeping me from wallowing in the concerns I have about Zane as well as this weird thing I have going on with Jake.
The latter’s only consolation is that he’s completely unaware of my pathetic feelings for him.
I must be a whore.
That’s the only explanation. Or the only explanation my daddy would accept.
How can I love Zane and yet want Jake too?
No doubt if I told Marina about this weird emotional tangle I’ve got myself in, she’d have some psychotic and disturbing answer. I know her well enough to know she’d probably encourage me to get it on with both guys as that would neatly solve the issue I have with Zane.
To Marina, life is an exploration. Mostly of cocks. Once upon a time, I was the opposite of that. I was a strictly one-guy-gal. But now… times are a-changing. The Mona of today is not the Mona Marina knew. And if I could be in a relationship with both men, well, it would resolve the entire situation.
Clearing my throat at the thought, I drag myself back to the topic on Jake’s mind. To emphasize my perfect state of health, I tell him, “I’ve never been better. Hell, I haven’t lifted a finger in all the time we’ve been here.”
He nods. “That’s okay, then.” It’s his turn to clear his throat. “You look beautiful.”
This time, my blush is purely out of the eighth grade. Coyness isn’t a sexy characteristic, but I’m channeling it one-hundred percent.
“Thanks, Jake.”
He shrugs, turning his eyes from me and toward the window. I watch his Adam’s apple bob and wonder what he’s thinking. He simply says, “It’s the truth.”
Strange how that bob of his throat has my mood lifting, and I join him in staring at the sights that Paris seems to breed on a daily basis. This place has more things to see per square inch than even Manhattan. I love it here.
Even now, in the dark, the atmosphere is brimming with vivacity. The weather is grim and my dress is too light for it really, but I know this party is important. Next week, Rousset is heading down to St. Tropez for the hunting party that Jake wants to attend. Rousset has mentioned it a few times to Jake, apparently, so it’s likely we’ll be invited soon. Especially as we’ve been invited to some event day after day, night after night.
In fact, I’d rather appreciate an evening in my hotel room.
Maybe that’s just me being boring, but hey, a girl can only stand so much excitement after twenty-eight years of dullness.
Even at this time of night, Paris glitters like a diamond. Lights twinkle in the distance and in the foreground. Ahead, I can see the Eiffel Tower, looking even more majestic to my eyes. I guess, to the locals, it’s a tourist trap but for me, it’s the symbol of this completely new chapter in my life.
A chapter where Mona isn’t a cleaner. She isn’t a doormat, walked on by boss or husband. She’s strong. Capable of being sexy and beautiful. Capable of anything if she wants.
Even sleeping with another guy, when she purports to love the man who swept her off her feet?
Okay, not capable of anything.
Not yet, at any rate.
Somehow, that slight amendment disturbs me more than anything else. In the last two or so months, I’ve turned into a different woman. For the most part, I think that’s all for the good. But at times like these, when thoughts of this nature pop into my head, I’m not sure.
What will the next two months bring?
Will two men not be enough for my ravenous appetite?
Will Jake and Zane retreat to each other’s arms, leaving me alone, abandoning me as I resort to fucking strangers just to feel something?
Thoroughly frightened at the idea of a world without either man, I huddle deeper into the thin shawl around my shoulders. Without meaning to, I attract Jake’s attention and he frowns at me. “Are you cold?”
I shake my head, but he rolls his eyes, noticing the shiver racking my shoulders and lifts an arm, wrapping it about my neck and bringing me closer to him.
Talk about heaven and hell.
As if it wasn’t hard enough having a guy who looked like a fuck on a stick in a suit holding me close, he has to smell good too.
It’s almost a wail. An internal wail. But my body is too busy enjoying the close proximity to pay heed to my troubled mind.
I seem to settle perfectly into the notch of his arms. Surrounded by his scent, by the clean essence of man and a slight tang of an expensive aftershave that has me sniffing appreciatively, I wonder if the Fates are working against me.
Do the three bitches want me to fuck this guy?
They send me Zane, then I find out he’s gay. He sets me up as his mistress, I accept the role after my goddamn home is burnt down. Then, our secret relationship is revealed to the entire world, and I meet Zane’s husband.
I didn’t think this could be any more complicated.
I want to laugh at that thought, because I was so wrong. So, goddamn wrong. The only reason I don’t laugh is because it would be tinged with hysteria, and just bursting out laughing in the silence of the limo would be awkward.
Biting my tongue, I settle into Jake’s half-embrace and let him warm me up. When we arrive at the venue, Rousset’s home, my body is disappointed to have the molten furnace of the man at my side disappear. He jumps out, tells the driver to await our call and then helps me alight.
Tonight’s number is a rather sleek outfit. A dark navy blue pencil skirt that showcases my overly-curvaceous ass in a flattering way, and a halter-neckline that shows a lot of my cleavage. I have a heavy silver velvet throw over my shoulders with detailed flowers in glittering beads.
I’m part flustered and part flattered to note that Jake’s eyes are glued to my legs as I stand beside him. But then, they do look pretty good. Mostly because of all the walking I’ve been doing of late, plus the too-high high heels on my feet. After a lifetime of sneakers, yeah, I’ve had a few accidents. But if I clutch on to Jake, I’m pretty safe.
And my treacherous body is quite willing to use him as a support system.
Shameful hussy that I’m becoming, I only bought the damned shoes because I thought about wearing them if Zane ever returned to my bed. I can just imagine the scene. Me, naked except for my shoes. Him, fully clothed. Preferably in one of Jake’s suits. Yum.
And if Jake just happened to be there… well, if it gets me hot and bothered, then it�
�s nobody’s business but my own, right?
Cautiously sidestepping that thought, Jake and I walk up eight steps that lead to the front door, which opens as if by magic. A man, in a plain suit and with a bored look on his face, ticks our names off a list after requesting them and lets us in.
When Jake told me where Rousset lived, in the sixteenth arrondissement, I had to search it online and when I did, I realized two things. One, cleaning is not the sort of career I should have undertaken and fencing should have been high on my choices back in school. Secondly, crime really does pay. In this area, a property like this one, is worth around ten or so million dollars.
And Jake can afford what he does, because he’s on the opposite end of high-end crimes.
I think I’d prefer Jake’s role, but how on earth do you get into that kind of job?
Must just be good fortune.
Five minutes after our arrival, we’re tucked into a long expansive room, filled with… nothing. There’s modern art on the wall. The kind of stuff that is a blank canvas in a black frame and called SPACE. It probably cost a small fortune. Or bits of scrap metal soldered together all in the name of ‘sculpture’. Whatever floats your boat, it certainly does nothing for me.
In fact, I’m shocked that a guy like Rousset is into this kind of stuff. Renée, on the other hand, I can easily imagine her being a fan of flies around shit if the in crowd deemed it as being all the rage.
She’s the sort of woman who dedicates herself to worthy causes, not because she gives a damn, but because she’s bored and wants to look good. Tonight’s event is for charity and even from our corner, where we’re standing with cocktails in hand, I can see her flittering about like the social butterfly she is. Her eyes are bright. Artificially so. Her energy is unnatural but she’s effervescent, and all the guests are laughing with her, not at her so she’s on the right side of drunk.
For once.
Rousset is acting the role of host. Cigar in hand, smoke fluttering upwards into his taller guests’ faces, he’s unaware of their discomfort. As self-obsessed as his wife, the pair make a good couple in that trait alone.
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 19