Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

  My chest rose and fell, jerking with intensity.

  Laila took the cloth, hanging loose in my hands, and pressed it across my body. She wiped my skin, applying pressure to my muscles. Her lips fell to my skin as she wiped and then kissed my tingling flesh. She slathered the cloth against me, tears leaking from her eyes.

  “Sweetheart, why are you crying?”

  “I need to do better,” she wept.

  I wiped tears and water from her face, then I dropped my head and took her with a hungry kiss and thrust myself into her tightness.

  Her head flew back, and she whimpered at the ceiling, but still pressed the cloth against me.

  My manhood stroked the inside of her, long, deep strokes, and she moaned, still trying her best to wash me. I grunted as the sensation of her velvety silk heat comforted me, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d no longer be able to multitask.

  I pumped against her, short, firm blows, knowing that if I drove into her the way I wanted to, I’d climax before I’d started.

  And I wanted to savor this moment with her. I didn’t want it to ever end.

  I could feel the target of her desire and her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her hands slackened, and the cloth dropped to the ground. Her hands lifted, and she ran her fingers through my drenched hair, sending electric shocks through my entire body.

  That’s what I was waiting for...

  I delivered one forceful drive deep into her core.

  She called my name, the way I liked to hear it called, and then her femininity clenched around my manhood and she erupted. Her nails raked across my flesh and I cursed before pressing my face into her neck, succumbing to my own euphoria.

  The water rained down on us, and we shivered together, not daring to move too quickly.

  “We’ll both do better,” I asserted, responding to her comment.

  I bent down and picked up the cloth. Then, I started to wash her body. I moved my hand in small, circular motions over her shoulder and the peak of her breasts, before letting it fall to her flat stomach and belly button. I nuzzled her skin, and kissed her neck, still desirous of the sweet taste of her body. My hand dropped to her center, and I massaged her peak, causing an overflow of want to rise to our surfaces.

  “Let me cater to you, Dylan,” she begged in a whisper.

  “You are catering to me, ma belle fille. You allowing me to love you is the greatest service you can deliver.”

  I was ready for her again.

  The head of my pulsating manhood attached to her, like a magnet, and I slipped inside of her slick treasure.

  “Mi amor...” she moaned.

  “Dis mon nom, ma belle fille...”

  “...Mi amor...”

  I shook my head. “I will always be that, but I want to hear you say my name. Dis mon nom...”

  I didn’t have to give the instruction again. Her voice lifted to the sky and she moaned my name into the mist.

  I claimed her body, as if I’d never had it before. As if there was a chance someone else might have the opportunity to do it. If Michael had been successful in anything, it had been in making me realize I should take nothing for granted. I would never take her for granted, for as long as I lived.

  I pushed her against the wall and pinned her arms over her head. I held her wrists together with one hand and slid the other down the length of her throat.

  I took my fill of her, inserting the entirety of my length inside of her, over and over, until I thought I’d lose my sanity. Laila’s neck craned, and her body writhed with fulfillment, as I occupied every inch of her body. And then we climaxed again, together, the way I liked.

  We ended our shower.

  I dried her, and she dried me.

  Then in between butterfly kisses, we dressed each other in silence. The music played in the background.

  I took Laila by the hand and led her to the kitchen.

  She lifted her nose and her brows drew in. “What is this?”

  I shushed her and pulled a chair out from the table.

  Ignacio appeared on cue, setting a dish in front of her.

  She glared at me. “Who told you to make this?”

  I frowned and set a napkin in my lap. “You don’t like Moroccan couscous? Your uncle told me that you did...”

  Her mouth snapped shut. Then it opened. “My uncle?” Her eyes quivered. “You spoke to my oncle?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “How?”

  “I went back to Roussillon,” I admitted in an abashed whisper. Blood rushing to my cheeks made them burn. I tasted the food, which Ignacio had prepared on my behalf and smiled as a rush of nostalgia coursed through me. It certainly wasn’t the same, but it was good enough.

  Laila’s neck shifted forward. “You went back?” She paused. “When? Why?”

  I rested the fork down. “To understand,” I whispered. “To learn about your culture and your roots.” I paused. “To learn how to love you.”

  Laila shook her head and her eyes fluttered. “You didn’t have to do that, Dylan.” She smiled. “You already know how to love me. You didn’t have to go all the way to Roussillon to my family.”

  I chuckled. My eyes dropped to my plate. “Maybe I didn’t,” I agreed, “but now there are no gray areas. Michael Sawyer had an inroad. He had something that I didn’t. He shared a part of you that I couldn’t access immediately, but now I know more. I’m learning,” I added, “and as long as you know that I’ll always do whatever it takes to be the only thing you need, I’ll be happy.”

  A sheen formed over her eyes, and she turned her face away from mine. “So my uncle gave you a cooking class, did he?” She looked at me and smiled.

  “That wasn’t the only class I took either.” I retrieved my cell phone and opened a particular song. I linked the playlist to the surround sound, and as the drums began to thump, I walked towards Laila, with my arm extended.

  She doubled over in laughter and covered her face with her hands. “Oh. My. God...”

  I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the chair, but she was laughing so hard, the only movement coming from her was the shaking of her shoulders as she bellowed.

  “I know you’re not going to leave me on this dance floor looking like an idiot!” I started the choreography Papa had taught me, and her eyes widened in shock.

  “You really went to Roussillon...”

  I stepped forward.

  Laila put her hands on her hips and her head tipped to the side. “You really met my uncle.”

  I stepped backwards.

  She howled with laughter. “You actually look like you know what you’re doing!”

  “Papa would kill me if I didn’t,” I replied. I took her hand and pulled her into the choreography. The drums thumped, replacing the sound of our beating hearts. I took her into my arms and twirled her around, so her feet left the ground, then I ran my fingers through her damp curls. I pulled one, and it sprung back into position. My features slackened, and Laila looked into my eyes. I dropped my mouth against hers and kissed her with all the passion that was within me.

  “I love you,” I whispered. I traced her jawline with my thumb. “Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”

  Laila’s head fell. “I love you more,” she said. “And I’d do anything for you. Never doubt that.”

  My heart burned within me.

  HOURS LATER, WE CRAWLED into bed next to each other, and Laila spooned against me, like she always did. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her closer with a gentle tug. We laid in silence for a while, until I almost thought she had fallen asleep.

  “I don’t have a job,” she whispered.

  “You do if you want one.”

  Silence.

  I paused before I spoke again. “Do you still want to be my wife?”

  “I do if you want me to be.”

  “Of course, I want you to be,” I confirmed with a frown. “There’s no other woman I want than you.” I reached over into the drawer of
the nightstand and pulled out her ruby ring. Together, we sat up in the bed, and I took her hand into mine. I guided the gem towards her slender finger, but she stopped me.

  I stared at her, grimacing in the hazy darkness.

  “Uh-uh,” she said. “I’m the one who took it off, so it’s only right that I be the one to put it back where it belongs.” She plucked the ring from my fingers and put it on her own hand.

  My heart swelled, and I took her with a tender kiss.

  “Go to sleep, baby,” she urged, resuming her sleeping position. “We have work in the morning, and you have a new employee to welcome.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Me.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to work at Hamilton Associates,” I reminded her.

  She shrugged a small shrug. “After everything we’ve been through, I think it’s about time I trusted you. And listened to you... After all, you are Dylan Hamilton, the most successful businessman in all of Miami. But more than that, you’re my man.”

  My eyes fluttered. I pulled her closer and squeezed her, reminded of what she had done for me, though I would never forget. “Let’s promise to trust and listen to each other,” I adjusted her statement slightly, though I knew what she was saying to me.

  She smiled. “Forever.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “So...” I squinted in the darkness, trying not to reveal the full extent of my delight. “If you’re my new employee, it means you’ll be working under me?”

  She laughed. “I suppose,” she admitted. “But of course, I’ve been working under you for quite some time now.”

  I chortled and rolled on top of her, careful not to crush her with my mass. “Indeed, you have, ma belle fille. And I’m thinking we should probably practice the position, so your learning curve won’t be too steep.”

  She moaned in anticipation of what I would do to her and raked her hands through my hair. “Tu es très méchant...”

  “You like it when I’m naughty,” I grunted, and we kissed in the darkness, melting into one another, sealing our forever.

  Trois

  Brooklyn Knight

  ~ A Preview ~

  One

  Stefan

  ‘Bad Company’

  The members of the string quartet lifted their bows and placed them on the strings of their instruments. The cellist played first and then the violinist joined. The mellow sound the Bridal Chorus wafted into the crisp April air, as the intimate congregation rose to their feet. We were in Le Nôtre's garden, seated between the water basins and canals of the luxurious gardens of Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte. I’d only heard about the private French mansion. Tons of celebrities had seen fit to pay the pretty penny to make it their wedding venue. But when Dylan announced that he’d secured the location for his and Laila’s destination wedding, my mouth had dropped in awe.

  A crisp, cloudless April sky stretched overhead, and a fresh light breeze brushed across my curly afro. I turned my eyes to my best friend of over fifteen years and bit back a juvenile grin.

  Dylan Hamilton looked clean. Like, cleaner than a window on a Manhattan skyrise; and that was saying something because my boy knew how to arrange his threads. He was Miami’s biggest and baddest businessman, and he practically lived in an Armani suit. But today... The fabric of his custom tux reeked of Benjamins, and his patent leather shoes were so shiny, I’d been able to coif my afro in it before we walked through the vast rooms of the 17th-century masterpiece of a mansion. Surely, the cufflinks blinging at his wrists would steal from the simple band he’d be wearing in an hour or so, but I knew they were no match for the blood-red ruby set he’d be fitting on Laila Renaud’s hand.

  I leaned over and cleared my throat. “She’s coming,” I warned him.

  He stiffened like a board. His jaw jerked, and so did the corner of his eyes. “Is she really?”

  “Hell yes,” I confirmed, then paused. “You didn’t see her dress, did you?” “I haven’t seen her for two days,” he said through his teeth. He glanced at me, his head not moving an inch, as the quartet crescendoed. “Have you seen her?”

  “Sure did,” I muttered. I looked over my shoulder and then back at him. “Goddamn, Dyl ...” I breathed, teasing him, riling him up. “If you haven’t seen her in two days, I know what’s gonna happen at that reception. The two of you are gonna go MIA, but everyone will know exactly where you are.”

  “Which then technically means, we won’t be MIA,” he contested. He grunted deep in his throat. “How does she look?” he whispered.

  “She looks like the minute you see her you’re gonna tear that gown off her.”

  We laughed softly, and the priest glared at us.

  We cleared our throats simultaneously.

  On the other side of Dylan, Laila’s maid of honor, her cousin, Yasmine, scolded us in French. I had no idea what she’d said, but Dylan smiled, and scrubbed the back of his neck. His face flushed red.

  In a moment, Laila’s presence descended upon us. Her uncle, the one who’d walked her down the aisle of the garden, took a few easy steps up the makeshift altar. The African garb he had donned was regal. Black and gold threads encased his broad frame, and a matching hat sat on his greying head.

  Laila’s dress spilled in front and behind her, and I took a moment to steal a glance at Dylan’s face. I’m a man, and I’ve never really been in love before, but if I had to take a stab at what love looked like, I knew it looked like Dylan Hamilton.

  His mouth trembled as he received his queen – the woman I knew he’d move mountains for. His eyes brimmed with unfiltered desire, and my prediction that he’d take her before the vows were complete, threatened to come to pass. His eyes fluttered. His mouth parted. His gaze was locked on her, and hers on him. Her hair, long and curly, and been pinned high on her crown and I watched, awe-struck, as Dylan ran a trembling hand over her cheek.

  “Ma belle fille.” He whispered her nickname.

  Laila’s eyes flew shut before opening quickly. Moisture brimmed on their edges.

  This is what love looks like.

  There was no doubt in my mind.

  Her uncle eased backwards until he receded into the audience, sprinkled with select Dylan’s business colleagues and prominent members of society. Laila’s small selection of family and friends occupied the seats in the front row. I glanced over at a particular woman sitting next to them.

  Sasha.

  Our eyes connected, and a quick breath caught in her lungs as I drank her and her shimmering red gown in. My eyes burned through her, and she looked into her lap, a timid smile toying with her luscious lips; lips I had yet to taste, despite having made her acquaintance six months ago.

  Now that all the drama is over, that will have to change.

  I started to return my focus to the ceremony but froze when I noticed three men slinking their way through the rows of seats, before finally finding some near the back. They were tall and stocky, but the guy in the front was the scariest of them all.

  He was the boss.

  His midnight black suit that looked almost expensive as Dylan’s, but it reeked of horrors untold. Aviator shades concealed his eyes, but I would bet my bottom dollar they looked as sinister as the aura he was projecting, even from the back of the garden.

  I shuddered and eased around, trying to ignore what looked like bad company. This was Dylan’s special day, but I had a nagging feeling that something was about to go down and after everything he had been through, there was no time for that.

  Other Books by Brooklyn Knight

  Oui: A BWWM Romance – The French Connection Series, Book 1

  The Maid’s Daughter

  Coming Soon

  Trois: A BWWM Romance – The French Connection Series, Book 3

  The Maid

  Black Boy

  Freedom Place

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  About the Author

  'Brooklyn Knight' is a romance enthusiast who lives in the island of Bermuda and has been writing stories since grade school. Over the years, her gift for designing and bringing characters to life has evolved, and she enjoys creating vivid, memorable characters and unforgettable situations.

  She is the mother of three, the wife of one, AND a Ph.D. student, which means she is extremely busy; however, she tries to carve out time to write every day.

  Read more at Brooklyn Knight’s site.