The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (19 page)

I brooded in my chair. Louis squeezed my shoulder. “Fleur, tell him.”

Henri returned, a half-finished beer in his hand.

What did I have to lose? Either they could do something or they couldn’t. They sure seemed to think they could.

“You won’t involve the police?”

“Never. I give you my word,” Georges said, smiling at me.

Glancing at him one last time, I described the man who assaulted me and his partner. The other men in the apartment, the watch dogs, had gathered closer and were listening as both Henri and Philippe translated my English into their unusual dialect.

I couldn’t give them much to go on. Dark-haired. Droopy-eyed. Skinny. Tall. Smelly. Ugly. I couldn’t remember what the other one even looked like. It was like I had blanked.

There was a flurry of chatter.

“Is that all? Is there anything else?” asked Philippe. I shivered. Like Georges, without the smile, there was something dark in his eyes.

“Well, I know the license plate of their van.”

“
Très bien!
” said Henri, smacking his hands together, smiling at me proudly. This pleased everyone greatly. They all pulled out their phones, waiting.

“Well . . .” I hedged. “What are you going to do to them?” I asked quietly.

Henri and Philippe turned to Georges.

“Be-because there might be reprisals for Sylvie, and I wouldn’t want them to assault anyone else,” I whispered the last part (sincerely concerned for other unsuspecting, stupid American shop girls). The tension in the room crackled.

“No, no, do not worry. No reprisals. And he will never be allowed to do such a terrible thing again! There is an honor code among the docks,” said Georges, waiting for the license plate number. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked eager.

I wasn’t
that
naive. I knew something unpleasant might happen, and that money could buy almost anything. Deep down I am ashamed to admit, I just didn’t care. I wanted that man to pay for how he had treated me. And if I couldn’t involve my mother . . .

Louis leaned over, and I closed my eyes as he whispered in my ear, “Trust me.”

I gave them the license plate number.

They rose to leave almost immediately, and said goodbye to me properly with three quick kisses on alternating cheeks. Numb, I trailed after Louis, who walked his three brothers and their men to the door.

Standing next to the kitchen, I heard much whispering from the door. Forgetting Louis’s bodyguards were present, I stepped near the partial wall to listen. I heard Georges say, “
Ne t’inquiète pas, Louis, et rappelle-toi: semper fidelis!
” The first part was, “Don’t worry, Louis, and don’t forget, semper fidelis.” The last words sounded Latin. One of the bodyguards cleared his throat in an obvious way, and then there was silence. I repeated the Latin word to myself so I could Google-translate it later.

When Louis appeared around the corner, he ordered his pair of guards to leave.

We were alone.

He stood in the hall, his hands in his jeans, barefoot, eyeing me with uncertainty. Someone had blown out the candles. The smoky scent of extinguished wick combined with cloying cigarette smoke.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked. Somehow he’d managed to look up from under his brow at me, even given the height difference. Oh boy, could he turn on the charm when he wanted to. “You see, I knew my family could handle this, and now,
voilà
,” he snapped his fingers, “problem is solved.”

He seemed light and airy.

I wasn’t so sure.

Louis was waiting. Watching and waiting.

“What dialect were you all speaking?”

“It is not a dialect. It is Corsican.” His brows were slightly elevated. “My family is originally from the French island.”

“Oh.”

How little we knew of each other. It’s weird how familiar a stranger can feel. I shook my head, glancing around. How had I gotten to this place with him? Everything had shifted, moved, ripped up, tilted in such unearthly ways since I met him. I was shipwrecked here—

No, I thought, glancing at him,
we
were shipwrecked in these circumstances. I glanced down. I was wearing his necklace, his family’s necklace.

“I am so glad you wore that today,” he whispered. I was surprised how quickly he’d crept closer. Standing a few feet away, his hands out of his pockets, he watched me like he had the first night we met—a panther hoping to corner its prey.

My stomach flipped. And here I’d forgotten about part two. I uncrossed my arms, not realizing they had been wrapped around me.

His
necklace had protected me.

“Me, too,” I answered, touching the pendant.

I smiled shyly up at him. His eyes lit up.

“
Eh bien maintenant
, we must tend to your injuries,” he murmured, moving in more relaxed. His hands ever so gently grasped my waist and he bent over and kissed the top of my head. “And you must have lots and lots of bed rest,” he added playfully, swooping me up in his arms. I yelped and smiled, relishing the small bit of joy in a day full of hurt and fear. I was happy to push it all aside.

As he carried me down the hall, a wicked gleam in his eye, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, giddy from the roller coaster I’d just been on, and the promise of another, different, kind of ride.

Louis placed me down on my feet in his bedroom with great care. Standing in his loose embrace, his hands petted my head and ran down my back. I met his hungry gaze, heard his shallow breath. He grasped my sweater with his fingers, and ever so softly, he lifted it up. I dutifully raised my arms over my head.

“My necklace,” I murmured, worried the thin chain would be caught up in the removal. He fiddled with it, and the hard metal landed in my cleavage at the same time cool air hit the rest of my torso. He dropped my sweater to the floor and caught my arms as I lowered them. I tugged away, because even the slightest contact hurt. But he held on and, watching me, brought the inside of my hand to his lips. He slid the tip of his tongue out and licked the middle. Pain and pleasure mingled. I sucked in air. He did this with my other palm, eyelids heavy. Already my chest was heaving. I closed my eyes and felt my breasts rise and fall, my nipples taut. My mouth watered and I melted, no longer resisting his hold or his tender-painful kisses.

When he let go of my wrists, I could breathe again. Hesitantly, I ran my hands down his sides, tugging his shirt out of his pants—gently. No ripping of clothes this time.

“Are you not greedy for me,
ma petite fleur
?” he taunted me.

Blood crept into my cheeks. He curled down and gently kissed my swollen cheek, several times, and I winced. “
Oh, ma pauvre
Fleur,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine.

I didn’t think he had pity for my injuries. And my heart raced at the thought of his wickedness.

But when he kissed my lips, it was the perfect balance of sensual, taking his time tasting me, and yielding, letting me taste him.

He pulled away and lifted his own shirt off. As he stood before me, I hesitated, and, since he didn’t warn me off, I moved forward, reaching for the button on his jeans. His hard cock was pressing at the top edge.

I swallowed and, stepping in shyly, undid his top button, kissing his broad flat chest, rubbing the pain-free side of my face into the space between his pectorals where there was a dusting of dark hair. I loved his scent. A mix of spices and woods, musky like a dark forest. I unzipped his jeans and intended to slide them down. But he stopped me before I could kneel.

He smiled at my frustrated—angry—glare, and removed them himself.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured, kicking them away. In the light I could see every incredible inch of him, and wondered if he needed a tripod to help hold it up.

He used me instead, stepping behind, pressing into me. I had to close my eyes from the anticipation, and the raw sudden ache in my pelvis. He undid my bra and grasped my freed breasts fully with his hands. I moaned loudly and leaned back into his warm, hard body as he played with my nipples, tugging and pulling on the tips, jiggling and squeezing my boobs full-handed, releasing and repeating all the while he bit at my neck and sucked and licked and ground his cock into my back. I placed my hands over his, needing something to hold onto. My pussy clenched and released liquid desire. Oh my God, I could feel how wet I was for him.

“Are you greedy now,
ma petite fleur
?” he murmured into my neck.

“O
ui, s’il te plaît
,” I begged. He breathed out a laugh. Together, we slid down my leggings, underwear included. I gasped and clutched his arm under my breasts as he lifted me up off the ground and slid the two of us onto the bed so we were laying sideways, him behind me. I was on top of one of his arms, which wrapped under, around me, snug. That hand grabbed both my boobs squished together. I shifted and realized, frustrated, my arms were no longer free. Why did he always seem to find ways to immobilize me in bed? I strained over my shoulder, and tried to twist into him to complain. Before I could protest, he clamped his lips down on my mouth and didn’t let go again as his free hand roamed down my navel to my clit. It was he who was impatient tonight, and I wanted to say so, to tease him, but he’d claimed my voice. I lost all sense of direction as my legs opened automatically, responding as his touch demanded. I moaned into his mouth as he gently rubbed my clit. “Oh you are greedy,
ma belle Fleur
,” he murmured, barely coming up for air. He lifted my leg up open wider, and my core squeezed as he positioned his cock at my entrance.

“I can’t wait to fuck you to orgasm.”

Trapped in a tangle of arms, mauled by his mouth, the thing I wanted the most in the world in that moment, my pussy ached for it, nudged into my wet, tight folds, searching for a way—

I let out a deep throaty moan into his mouth as his hard flesh filled my entrance, stretching my pulsating walls. His tongue dove deeper as he pushed himself farther in, and I clenched, expecting pain, experiencing only a deliciously erotic friction. It was obscenely pleasurable, a waterfall of rapturous sensations erupting in my body’s heat, and I could barely kiss him, so lost was I in lust. He’d managed to ease his entire cock inside of me, and . . . hadn’t moved since.

“More,” I ordered in his mouth and wiggled my hips as best as I could, with a wave of need.

He laughed, kissed me, pulled out and slowly slid back in, the same erotic nervy sensation happening all over again, and I moaned and lulled in his arms as he groaned into my mouth. “So good,
n’est-ce pas
? I knew you would like it. I knew you would be like this.” He pulled out and pushed in again, this time halfway, before driving it all in.

I lost track of the pattern he was applying, the movement, the pacing, because each wave of pleasure hit me harder and harder and quicker and quicker. He’d been rubbing my clit and my nipples at the same time, relentlessly.

I was melting from the heat he was creating in all the pleasure points on my body, so full with him, slipping in his sweat, held tight, sucking in his air, moaning in his mouth, clenching around his hardness, and on and on and on . . . He built on every blissful rush with his cock until I reached that plateau, so close and—

My body seized with an explosive, blinding come, even as he hammered on. I wanted to tell him to stop even as I wanted more, helplessly wracked with velvety-lush pleasure.

“Oh what is this, you come already,” he mocked me as I shook in his arms, my lips unable to even hold his kiss.

“So you can come again, my greedy Fleur.” He sat up, still inside of me, and brought me with him, pushing the leg that had been open so that I straddled him. He leaned back, and, awakening from the most luxurious divine moment of my life, I discovered I was sitting in his lap, impaled on his cock.

He leaned back on his hands to get leverage to push in and out—
hmh, hmh, hmh
—I couldn’t believe the new raw pleasure his shaft created post-orgasm.

I gripped his shoulders to press myself down harder.

A gratified sound came out of his mouth as he flipped his head back, pushing himself into me like a piston. “
Oui, comme ça
,” he said bringing his head back down. I barely looked at him, but what I saw as I bobbed on top of him brought me up quick.

The lust, the adoration, on his face—his pleasure was coming from watching me—and I ground harder, licking my lips, wanting him to know how sexy he was making me feel. My boobs were shaking up and down, swollen and slick with sweat. Hair clung to my face, my lips were raw from being nibbled on and sucked. And my pussy was clenching tighter and tighter as a deeper pressure mounted and grew inside of me.

I moaned and whimpered quietly. It was almost painful, this new wallop of charged rapture that appeared up ahead. It would barely show itself and then slip away. Determined, I worked harder to get to it, grinding and shifting forward, gasping and mewling with wild abandon in this new intimacy. The second I opened my eyes, I slammed into the elusive prize, the deepest full-body passion I had ever felt. His eyes met mine, and as I whimpered, his face grimaced and he let out a long growl. Our bodies rocked into one another with unrelenting, blinding indulgence. It was divinely short, this other plain of mind-altering pleasure. He moaned again, almost as if he was in pain, and reaching forward, pulled me to him. He hugged me tight, rocking us together, gently eking out every last second of pleasure, long after he’d released his load into me. I was limp in his arms.

He shifted, and we both groaned with fatigue as we came to rest beside one another. He grabbed my hand and held it loosely. For a while we said nothing, just listened to our ragged breaths grow steady.

I was having a revelation. An incredible, life-altering revelation. Here I’d always assumed sex was about gratification. Nuh-uh. That’s just the aftermath. Sex, or rather mind-blowing sex, is a whole emotional language.

“Wow,” I said, finally touching my toes back down in reality. I rolled over to look up at him. “I finally get it.”