I come staring at our reflection, begging for him to stop, and silently wishing for more. More of him, more time, and more nights like this.
When Levi stands, he’s smug. I want to smack the smile right off his face. Instead, I sit up with a huff, but it’s apparent he hasn’t had his fill of me. He greedily sucks on my breast, and I let him, because he’s so very talented with his mouth. Shoving his sleep pants down his hips, he takes hold of his cock. It’s thick, a gorgeous dusky pink with just the right amount of veins. The slit is leaking pre-cum. I wet my lips, wanting to lick it away, longing to take him in my mouth and feel him succumb to me, but I watch—enchanted—as he strokes himself. I commit to memory how the hard, corded muscles of his chest and biceps bunch as he works his long shaft. And I slide my own hand between my legs and rub my swollen flesh with hands as greedy as my eyes.
“ Fuck me, Levi. S'il te plaît.” I moan, the promise of euphoria so close. A few more strokes and I will come undone again, but I want him. Non. I need him inside me. “Please?”
“Jesus Christ, begging looks good on you, Brie.” His own voice is strained. He dips his thumb into my mouth, and I suck, hard, the way I would his cock.
Why won’t he fuck me? I need him to fuck me. This is probably the last chance we will get because my flight leaves early in the morning, but he won’t.
“Please?” I cry again.
“No. Not until you say you’ll stay with me.”
I frown and shake my head. I don’t understand why he’s doing this now. “I cannot. You know I cannot.”
With a low, throaty groan, he comes. Hot jets of semen hit my stomach and pool in my belly button. He pants and slumps over as his hand strokes his cock and he draws out the last of his orgasm. He closes his eyes, and just when I’m about to sit up, he presses his hand to the centre of my chest and holds me in place.
“Stay,” he whispers, as he pushes into me, hard. I am soaked from his mouth, and my fingers, but I’m still unprepared for his punishing thrusts. He can’t be in very far, and yet it’s too much. I can’t take it. The pressure, the pain, it’s too much. He pulls out and slides his hand over the flesh of my stomach, scooping up his cum and using it to coat his length. Then he positions himself at my entrance and slowly eases back in. “Stay with me. Not because I’m paying you, because you want to.”
“I can’t.”
“Bullshit,” he hisses.
I tense up. I don’t want to have this conversation now, not when he’s drunk on pain and pleasure, and thoughtless with his words, with me.
“Give me the month, Brie. Just one month, and you never have to see me again.”
Never see him again?
The Brielle of one week ago would have laughed at this man so desperate and needy for my company, my body. She would have told him to go to hell and gladly never laid eyes on him again. But I am no longer that Brielle.
Levi pinches my clit. I arch my back with the sensation, as it coils like a snake in my belly, ready to strike. He rakes his hand across my breasts and down my abdomen, his blunt nails leaving long red lines, marking me, and rests his hand over my pubic bone, massaging gently. I feel myself open even more to him, taking him deeper, my heels digging into his back to hasten his thrusts. They aren’t gentle, but they are perfectly timed with the pressure of his hands, and as my orgasm rushes over me, I find myself saying yes over and over, though I’m not sure I know what I’m agreeing to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE BLACK PEARL
ONE WEEK LATER
LEVI
The sounds of Le Vie En Rose filter down the stairs to my room. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Mon Dieu! Make it stop,” Brie groans from behind her eye mask.
“Every goddam morning.” I throw back the sheet and I’m met with Brie’s body wrapped in black silk. I slide my palm over her hip, kneading her flesh with hungry hands. “Hey, since we’re awake. Why don’t you—”
“Non.” She pulls her eye mask away from her face so I can see she means business with her “fuck no” glare. She slams the silk back in place and rolls over.
“Okay, guess that’s the end of that.”
Brie sighs. “Make her stop with the music, and I will have sex with you. I cannot promise I will be awake.”
“Oh, you’ll be awake. I’ll make sure of it.” I jump out of bed. My dick is hard, and almost impossible to ignore, especially when she looks like that, but I am a man on a mission—to get my crazy housekeeper to quit waking me up every day with the same fucking annoying song. I head into the bathroom, piss, and throw on yesterday’s clothes. Climbing upstairs, I walk through the hall, and across to the other wing where Margaux is in full swing. Dog is jumping around her as she mops, messing up her floor with his paw prints, but the woman clearly doesn’t give a damn. She’s lost to the romance in her head.
I squint at the light streaming in through the open windows. “Margaux, what the fuck?”
“Morning, monsieur. Why are you not in bed making love to that beautiful girl?”
I don’t know, cock blocker, you tell me.
“Because that beautiful girl threatened to castrate me if she gets woken up one more time with this song.”
She shakes her head and makes a tutting sound. “You two should be up and seizing the moment while you have time.”
“The only thing Brie is seizing before 10:00 a.m. is my balls. And not in a good way. You gotta stop with this song, Margaux.”
“But this song is France. It is passion and undying love, monsieur. You could learn a thing or two from this music, non?” She sets the mop back in her bucket and disappears into the service room, discarding the dirty water. “But now that monsieur is up, and mademoiselle is still sleeping the day away, why not accompany me into the village? I could use some big, strong shoulders like yours.”
“For what?”
“For a piece of furniture that is my own.”
I scrub a hand over my face because it is way too early for this shit. “What?”
“I have spotted a chair for sale, a chair I want. A chair I cannot possibly carry myself.”
“You want me to lift a chair?”
“Oui, monsieur, you catch on quick,” she deadpans.
“Don’t they have people at the store who can do that for you?”
“It is a flea market, not a store.”
“Whatever. Fine. If it will get you to turn off this goddam music, and Brie to fuck me again, I’ll do it. Let’s go.”
“But monsieur, will you not be recognised?”
“Ah, shit.”
“You will need a costume. Wait here,” she says, and scampers off.
I stare at Dog, whose big goofy face stares back at me. “Wait, Margaux, a costume? I’m not wearing a fucking costume into the village.”
“I’M NOT WEARING THIS.” I stare at my reflection again for the eighth time in a nearby shop window as I smoke my pipe.
“You look very handsome, monsieur.”
I study the dark seventies shades and paperboy hat pulled down over my unruly hair. “I look like a paedophile.”
“A handsome paedophile.”
“Christ, Margaux.” I shake my head. “That’s not something to strive for.”
“They belonged to Monsieur Durand,” she says, matter of fact. “And he always looked very handsome in them.”
“When, the eighteen hundreds?”
“Pfft.” She shakes her head and hurries off. “You men these days. You throw on yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and stained from the floor, and you expect women to fall all over you.”
“Hey, I take pride in my appearance.”
She stops, looks me up and down, and pretty much gives me the kind of look that says, Really? “No wonder you’re here instead of home in your bed having sex with Brielle right now, a woman like that needs passion, and ... effort. She needs to know she’s appreciated.”
“Appreciated, huh?” I laugh. “I showed her my appreciation last n
ight, and I would have again this morning, but someone is a cock-blocker.”
“Appreciated with your mind, monsieur, appreciated with your heart. Not your penis.”
She walks away, and I’m left staring at the shop window of a tiny jewellery store and a long string of pearls as black as my heart. I tried showing a woman how much I appreciated her with my heart, and she stomped on it before handing it back to me, and then she married my bandmate.
No.
I’m not falling for that shit again. Brie might be just the kind of distraction I need—beautiful, perfect in nearly every way, even despite her angry French side. She may even push me mentally, more than any woman ever has, but I have no intention of falling in love with her. I shake my head and follow after Margaux.
We come across a little stall in the marketplace, and Margaux wastes no time in marching up to the man sat on a wooden bench at the back of the tent. He looks up from his book and grins.
“Bonjour, madame,” he says in a deep growl that makes me roll my eyes, but for the first time since I met Margaux, she blushes. She’s completely fucking lost for words. Because of this arsehole?
They chat—in French, obviously—and I don’t understand a goddam word because I still don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure it amounts to, “You would like to buy my chair? Wonderful, because I would like to fuck you.”
I puff on my pipe and watch their exchange with my arms folded. She can’t really be falling for this shit ... can she? Apparently so, because she giggles like a fucking schoolgirl and hands over her hard-earned money for the chair.
The chair in question is a piece of crap, but it’s her new piece of crap, and I guess I understand something about that. They both glance at me, and Margaux says something that no doubt amounts to, “I bought this strapping young Australian rock star to help me carry your piece-of-crap chair.”
The man appraises me. I glare from behind my sunnies, which I guess is why he can’t read the daggers I’m shooting at him. I hear the word boy? One of the few French words I do know, and they both chuckle at my expense.
I frown and step closer.
“Hey, I’m stronger than I look.” I bend at the knees and lift the damn chair. It’s also heavier than it looks. And now I understand why the arsehole had his doubts. “I’m a fucking rock god.”
Shit. And the winner of the dickhead award goes to ...
Thankfully, it doesn’t appear that the man is paying any attention to me. He’s too focused on my housekeeper. I head back to the truck, but it’s slow going and Margaux catches up with ease—after she’s finished flirting with the lumberjack. “So, he was a douche.”
“Monsieur, he was not a ... douche, as you say.” She raises her chin defiantly. “He was a true gentleman.”
“If he was a gentleman he’d be carrying this crappy chair to your car himself.”
“And risk your masculinity? No, monsieur, he would never dream of it.”
“Okay, I get it, Margaux, geez, you’re as fucking subtle as a sledgehammer. I have to learn to be a gentleman.”
“Oui,” she says with a resolute face as I set the chair down beside the truck. I wait for her to lower the tailgate, and then I hoist it up on my shoulder and into the truck bed as carefully as I can.
“Did you really want this piece-of-crap chair, or did you just do it to talk to Monsieur Lumberjack back there?”
“This chair is not a piece of crap. It is a restored antique, restored by that gentleman’s lovely strong hands.”
“Hands you want him to be not so gentlemanly with.”
“Mon Dieu!”
I laugh. “Come on, Margaux, you’re a hot-blooded woman. Are you telling me you don’t want Mr Fix-it’s hands on your body?”
“What I want is irrelevant.”
I make a face. “Who told you that?”
“Je ne suis qu'une employée de maison. I am a servant, monsieur.” Margaux shakes her head. “I do not have time for love affairs.”
“Surely you’ve got time for a quickie?”
“Not if you are the one who is asking.” She chuckles, her rotund belly jiggling with the effort. “Now get in. I have le déjeuner to prepare back at the house.”
I glance at the store across from us. “Just a minute. There’s something I have to do.”
“What?”
“Be a gentleman,” I say with a wink.
BACK AT THE HOUSE, Dog nips at my legs as I unload the chair from the truck and haul it inside. That mutt is fucking crazy, but I pet him and tell him he’s a “good boy,” because I happen to like crazy a whole lot, while Margaux flurries around me as if I’m going to drop her precious chair. I set it down in the lounge room.
“Will you not take it to my room, monsieur?”
“It’s a lounge chair. It’s meant for lounging in. It won’t even fit in your room, Margaux. Which, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you about. Why the hell are you still sleeping in that tiny servant’s quarters when we have a house full of empty bedrooms to choose from.”
“Because, monsieur, je fais partie du personnel de maison. That is where I sleep.”
I shrug. Her old employer must have been a complete fucking dickwad to make her live in that tiny room, when she wasn’t running around doting on him. “Well, you can choose another room if you want, but either way, the chair’s staying here.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “Monsieur, that is not necessary. This is your house.”
“Margaux, how long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years, monsieur.”
“Then it’s more your home than it is mine.” I glance around the run-down living room, at the ancient TV she watches her French soap operas on, the worn couch, and the few other pieces of dilapidated furniture. “You’re the only one who uses this room, be comfortable in it.”
She shrieks and lunges forward, throwing her arms around me and enveloping me in a huge hug. I squeeze her back, lifting her off her feet. I owe this woman a lot. Who else would put up with a drunk, half-crazed Australian walking into their chateau and setting up camp? Though I’m pretty sure she saw the flashing “sucker” sign over my head and hustled me into buying this house and giving her a job. The woman speaks way more English than she first let on, but if it weren’t for Margaux making sure I ate in those first fucking horrible days after the wedding, I’d probably be dead already.
“You better let me go before Brie brings her fine arse down here and accuses you of stealing her man,” I say. Margaux laughs, and my ego, and my mood both deflate considerably. I get Brie for two more weeks, that’s all. I need to remember that. I need to keep my fucking head and my heart in check.
I carry my little bag up the stairs. I’m surprised to find Brie isn’t practising in the ballroom, so I take the stairs to the west wing and enter my room. She emerges from the bathroom looking hot as fuck in a skimpy sundress, her hair falling over her shoulders in an inky, wet mess. I toss the cap and sunnies on the nearby dresser, and set her down too before crossing the room.
“You’re back.”
“I am.” I wrap her in my arms and devour her neck and collarbone with kisses.
She pouts. “I did not know where you were.”
“I had to help Margaux secure a hook-up in the village.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pull away. “I bought you a present.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw them and thought of you.”
“Oh.” She smiles coyly. “Well, what is it?”
I turn and take the bag from the dresser, pulling out the long black velvet box. Brie’s eyes widen. The panic on her face makes me think I shouldn’t have gone back for this gift. It’s too much, and she clearly thinks I’m a maniac.
“You bought me jewellery?” She sounds incredulous. I flip open the box. Her eyes grow wider. “Pearls?”
“Black pearls.”
“They’re lovely, but I have nowhere to wear them.”
&nb
sp; I pull the long strand from the box and toss it on the floor. She’s freaking out. This is what I get for being a goddamn gentleman. I give her a salacious grin and raise the long strand through my hands.
“That’s okay. Where they’re going no one will see them but me.” She frowns as if she doesn’t comprehend my meaning. “Take off your dress and lie down.”
I told Margaux I was going to be a gentleman. I didn’t say what kind.
Brielle makes a face. She hates it when I tell her what to do, but there’s a part of me that knows she gets off on it too. She does as I ask, pulling her sundress over her head and tossing it on the floor. Her hair falls in a glossy curtain around her face and breasts, and I push it back over her shoulder and tug it, yanking her head back and exposing her neck to me. I run my tongue along the line of her milky flesh and let the pearls unravel in my hands. They clang together, breaking the silence of the room. “Lie down.”
“You’re always so bossy.” God, I love her motherfucking accent. I’ll never be able to hear a French woman speak again without my dick getting hard.
“I have a feeling you love it when I’m bossy, Brielle.”
“I love when you say my name,” she whispers, and then her eyes widen as if she hadn’t meant for that to slip out. I grin. “Do not smirk at me, Levi Quinn.”
I lean in and whisper in a command. “Lie. The fuck. Down.”
She glares, and with an angry pout, she lays back on the bed. I climb over her, spreading her legs apart, finding her already wet. “Stop smirking.”
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