The Palace (Chateau Book 4)
Page 6
She dragged my bottoms to my ankles then gripped the outsides of my thighs as she brought her mouth to my head. Her slightly parted lips pressed a kiss to the tip, a little tongue swiping over the drool.
I sucked in another breath because…fuck.
If I could have any woman in the world on her knees, it would be her.
Always.
Her mouth moved to my base, and she stuck her tongue against the bulging vein that rivaled the ones in my arms and neck, and slowly, she dragged it up, closer to the tip, taking her time.
I stopped breathing.
She made it back to my tip and gave it another swipe of her tongue. With her eyes on mine, she whispered, “Je t’aime…” Her mouth opened wide, her tongue flattened, and she slowly pushed her throat over my dick, taking her time, eyes on me.
I shut my eyes and let out an unstoppable moan. My dick slid across that wet tongue and deeper into her throat, saliva immediately spilling from the corners of her mouth and dripping to the rug below. My hand slipped into her hair, and I started to move with her, eyes on her, her eyes on me.
Nine
The Most Beautiful Woman
Melanie
When I went downstairs, his office doors were open.
I stepped inside and saw him sitting behind the large desk, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in French. “Magnus a essayé de lui parler?” He listened to the voice on the other line before he said, “Bien,” and hung up.
My French was a little better, so I translated that to, Magnus talk to her? It took me a few seconds to figure out the subject of their conversations. Her was definitely Raven, and Magnus was clearly staying away from her.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to save her.
When Fender realized I’d joined him, he stared at me from his seat behind his desk, his gaze always hostile.
Things were getting better, but at a snail’s pace.
I held up my book then moved to the couch, hoping he would allow me to sit there quietly and read.
His eyes followed me, but he never issued a protest.
I sat down in my old spot near the fire and flipped through the pages until I found my spot.
He walked over a moment later. His large body lowered to the couch across from me, his stomach chiseled even in a seated position. Winter, spring, or summer, he was dressed exactly the same, choosing to wear as little clothing as possible.
I looked up, expecting him to say something.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes.” He leaned back into the couch with his fingers interlocked behind his head. Knees apart. His chiseled thighs stretching the cotton of his sweats. His enormous size dwarfing the couch that supported him. He was like a Clydesdale.
“Oh…” My hands moved to shut my book.
“Wait.” He leaned forward and ripped off a pink rose petal from a flower in the vase on the coffee table then extended his outstretched hand to me.
I hesitated before I gave him the book.
He inserted the rose petal between the pages, the pink color sticking out at the top, then closed it. He left it on the table then leaned back into the couch once again, one arm resting over the top of the couch, the other on his thigh.
“Thanks.”
His shoulders were relaxed, but his gaze was sharp like the tip of a drill. He constantly dug into my surface, burrowing deep down below.
“Where are you going?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Sorry…just trying to make conversation.”
Dark. Observant. Powerful. He looked at me exactly the way he used to. We could sit together in silence for hours and not speak a word, and he seemed perfectly content with that. As long as his eyes were on my face, that was all he needed.
My eyes dropped down from his face to his body, over the two slabs of concrete forming his chest, the bricks of his abs, the flesh that had remained untouched despite his violent affairs. Even if I’d never seen him before, he would be exactly what I described as a perfect man. If we’d met in some other way, the second I looked at him, I would never look away. He stared at me like I was the work of art—but he was.
If he had somewhere to be, he was clearly in no rush. Unblinking. Potent. Deep. That stare was endless.
I left the couch and came around the coffee table toward him.
His eyes followed.
I stopped in front of him and reached for the zipper at the back of my dress. Slowly, I pulled it down, letting the delicate fabric release its hug from my body, and felt it slide down around my heels on the floor.
His eyes dropped to my free tits. He never seemed to think they were anything less than perfect.
My thumbs hooked into my panties and pushed them over my ass and down my thighs until I was in nothing but pumps.
He inhaled a slow breath, his eyes darkening even more.
I lowered myself to my knees in front of him and gripped his bottoms with both hands.
With his eyes on me, he lifted his hips and allowed me to pull down the sweatpants, reveal his cock that was ready to go. It lay against his stomach, the thick veins matching the ones in his neck.
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his balls, which were groomed at all times like he could get head at the drop of a hat.
After a few seconds, he released the breath he held.
My tongue dragged up his length to his tip then I positioned him upward, giving his head wet kisses, just the way I kissed his mouth. Slow. Wet. Deep.
He watched me, his eyes heavy and lidded with pleasure.
I released his heavy dick and watched it plop back against his stomach like a heavy rod before I crawled up in his lap and got on top of him, my thighs over his, my hands planting against his chest for balance.
He’d only taken me with my face down lately, but he didn’t try to stop me. His arms remained restrained in his refusal to touch me. He wanted me, but he only wanted to take, not give.
I grabbed his base and slowly slid down, getting his thickness past my entrance in a gentle glide. When I had a good hold, I slowly sank farther and farther, getting every inch of that thickness inside of me.
He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath accompanied by a moan, and then his hands were on me. They gripped my ass, his large fingertips kneading my cheeks. When he looked at me again, he was there with me.
In this moment.
Together.
My hand cupped his face, and I started to ride him slowly, rolling my hips just the way he liked, pressing my face close to his. “Tu m’as manqué.” I missed you. “Tu es le seul homme pour moi.” You’re the only man for me. “Je t’aime…”
Things got better.
Change was slow with Fender, but it did happen. It was like the blossoming of a rose. It started with a green bud that blended with the vine, but slowly, it finally started to open. Then it opened wider and wider until it was in full bloom.
He ate his meals with me. Carried on a little conversation. Let me get on my knees and blow him when I wanted to please him. Let me get on top of him whenever I wanted to ride him. But he never initiated anything on his own. He never spoke to me in French. He never told me he loved me.
He never called me Chérie.
I had to continue to be patient.
At the end of the day, he entered my bedroom. There was no knock or any kind of announcement. He just let himself inside.
I was on the couch working on my French. I closed my notebook and looked at him, seeing him in a suit.
I was taken aback, because I’d never seen him dressed that way.
Handsome. Elegant. Powerful. He could pull off any look, even one as refined as that. The jacket made his shoulders broader, the slacks fit his muscular thighs perfectly, and he stood with a posture that evoked his fortune and status.
“Are you leaving?”
He adjusted the sleeves of his collared shirt underneath the jacket, shifting his watch in the process. “Get dressed.”
“I’m
…I’m coming with you?”
“I said get dressed.” He stepped away like the conversation was over.
I went after him. “If I’d known, I would have prepared myself better.” It was clearly a fancy event, and while I had gowns in the closet, my hair and makeup weren’t fresh. He must have debated whether to invite me or not, and at the last minute, he did.
He turned back to me, his eyes scanning my face. “You’ll still be the most beautiful woman in that room—whether you’re prepared or not.”
Fender drove us into Paris.
He was a large man in a small car, but he must have preferred speed and luxury over comfort.
I was in a gold gown and decorated with diamonds and jewelry, my hair down and in soft curls, my makeup sultry in the way he liked. “Where are we going?”
When he arrived in Paris, the traffic slowed him down, so there was a lot of stopping and going, but he gradually approached a historic building that was attracting a lot of cars. Men in suits and women in gowns stepped out of their vehicles and ascended the steps to the grand entrance. Despite the traffic and the confusion, he oozed calmness. “Art show.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. New artists present their work?”
He always took his time answering me, giving a long pause to determine if he should respond at all. “Yes and no. These private events showcase historic collections, paintings that are hundreds or thousands of years old. Sometimes museums sell their inventory to raise money for something else. Sometimes sellers have had a painting for so long that they want something different. And yes, there are some relatively new artists, but they’re the finest artists in Europe.” He pulled up to the front, and the valet immediately stepped forward to collect the keys.
We exited the car, and Fender buttoned the front of his suit as he came to my side, like he was a gentleman with a respectable business. When he came close, he regarded my appearance as if he needed a moment to take me in before he placed his arm around my waist. He looked into my face, came close like he might kiss me, but he pulled away instead.
He always teetered on the edge, reacting to his instincts but never giving in. He looked at me the way he used to, but there was also a glaze of resentment and anger that had slowly faded over the past month. It was still there. Just distant. Faded.
With a glass of champagne in hand, Fender mingled with people he knew. He introduced me as Melanie, but the rest of the time, he spoke in quick French. He seemed to be charming, and he made people laugh pretty often.
I wished I could understand what he said.
His arm was always around my waist, always holding me close, and we moved to each painting to admire it in silence. They were placed on the walls, an art light flooding the art with illumination to make it stand out.
It was obvious which paintings were old, really old, and super-duper old.
With his hand on my back, Fender would admire each one in great detail, standing there for twenty minutes sometimes. Without looking at the man standing to the side, he spoke. “Je vais le prendre.” I’ll take it.
The man nodded then took it off the wall so it could be wrapped and ready for transport.
Fender guided me to the next painting.
“There are no prices anywhere…”
“Doesn’t matter.” He examined the next one with the same interest, his eyes focused the way they often focused on me.
I turned to study his visage, to see the way he appreciated everything on display as if he were an artist himself. “I didn’t realize how much you loved art.” It was a beautiful and unexpected quality he possessed, another sign of softness that contradicted his hardness.
“You’ve seen my home.”
“I thought maybe Gilbert picked everything out.”
“No.” He finished his glass of champagne and held it out in midair, like he would drop it and let it shatter on the floor if a staff member didn’t get there with a tray in time.
But they swooped in and took the empty glass before providing another—like royalty.
Fender moved me to the next painting.
I was more interested in him at this point. The art was beautiful, but after a while, it was hard to remain focused when the pieces started to blur together. “Why do you love it so much?”
He took a drink then licked his lips. “Because it’s history. Because it’s one of a kind. Because it’s evocative like fire. Because it’s priceless.” He turned to look at me, his dark eyes absorbing my face the same way he’d just absorbed the painting. “Because it’s beautiful.”
We walked into a different alcove that showed one of the biggest paintings I’d ever seen. It would take up an entire wall in a museum. Those paintings usually depicted large battles that required a lot of detail, but this was just a portrait of a woman. She stood in a white dress with the sleeve falling down one shoulder, her brown hair thick and beautiful, her eyes downcast.
A man stood beside the painting, but he wasn’t in a tuxedo, so he must be the artist.
The title was on display in front of us, along with the artist’s name.
The Most Beautiful Woman -Alexander Pedrotti-
Fender didn’t look at this painting with the same luster as the previous ones. It was immense in size and quite impressive, but Fender’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, like he wasn’t impressed in the least. The energy around him was different, hostile. His hand left my waist, and he stepped forward. “Je vais acheter votre toile.” I will buy your painting.
The artist stepped forward. “Elle vous plaît, monsieur?” You like it, sir?
Fender didn’t respond. “Je veux que vous me peigniez un portrait.” Paint for me.
“Désolé monsieur, mais je ne fais pas ça.” Sorry, sir. I don’t do that.
“Vous le ferez. Donnez-moi votre prix.” You will. Name your price. Fender stared him down, daring him to defy him.
He gave a sigh in defeat. “Qui est le sujet?” Who?
“La plus belle femme du monde.” The most beautiful woman in the world.
He was in a foul mood for the rest of the night.
Our pleasant conversation was over.
The drive was spent in silence.
I’d assumed we had dinner plans afterward because we didn’t eat, but he blew them off.
I didn’t understand why a single painting could make him so angry.
We returned to the palace and entered the foyer.
Gilbert immediately came to greet us. “How was your evening, sir?”
“Deliver dinner to my bedroom in an hour.” He took my hand in his and pulled me to the stairs.
Gilbert was flabbergasted. “I…I didn’t realize you were expecting dinner this evening. I’ll get right on that.”
Fender took me up the stairs, to the top level, and into his bedroom. There was an urgency to his movements, like the way he sped through the streets even though he had nowhere to go. He gripped my hand tightly as if I might slip away and fall down the stairs. He’d been angry before, many times, but he’d never been quite like this.
His clothes dropped, and he tugged everything off like he couldn’t get rid of it quickly enough.
Unsure what to do, I just stood there and watched him.
He got down to his bare skin, his dick hard despite his anger, then flashed me his aggressive stare.
I froze.
He stared at me as his chest rose and fell with his deep breaths, giving me a searing look that was aflame with molten fire. He sprang into action and cupped my cheeks, giving me a passionate kiss full of those deep breaths, full of unbridled need.
My mouth immediately responded, and my hands were on him, feeling him devour me, holding on to him for balance as he backed me up to the bed, his big fingers yanking down my zipper and getting the dress free.
He pushed it down my body, yanked off my underwear, and then carried me to the bed. My back hit the sheets as his arms hooked behind my knees, and he quickly positioned his thighs so he could push inside me.
The next day, he was still in a bad mood.
A night of sleep hadn’t dulled the offense from the night before. He’d taken that painting personally, even though he didn’t know the artist or the woman in the portrait, even though it didn’t matter who was more beautiful.
But it mattered to him.
I sat in the office with my book open on my lap, the dried-out petal on my knee so I could insert it once I was finished.
He didn’t acknowledge me as he worked, talking on the phone to people in French, typing on his laptop, eating his lunch in silence. Based on the way he’d made love to me all night long, he wasn’t angry at me.
He was just angry.
I watched him from my position on the couch, noting the black fire in his eyes as he stared at his computer screen, the hardness in his jawline, the deep level of masculinity that I’d never seen displayed in another man. He thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world—but he was the most beautiful man.
Gilbert stepped inside. “Sir, the crew has delivered your paintings. They’re approaching in the roundabout.”
Fender was immediately on his feet and across the study.
“I’m very excited to see the pieces you’ve picked out.” Gilbert followed him out of the office and into the foyer. “Once we’ve decided where to hang them, I’ll get them up right away.”
I inserted the petal into the book and stepped into the foyer. Maybe I knew Fender better than Gilbert did, because I could tell Fender was not himself right now. When I looked toward the rest of the house, I saw Fender return, carrying a gas can.