Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades) (4 page)

Chapter 10

Julia

My body warms up all over and I feel my nipples begin to tighten. “Fuck,” I pant quietly.

Lucien picks up on my excitement. He moves closer on the couch and his palm cups my chin. His lips skate over mine, consuming them in a heated kiss. I lean into him, wanting more and more.

Our tongues slide against each other. Our mouths suck and pull at each other. My hands steal past the hem of his shirt and his skin is hot and tight over his steely muscles. His frame moves over mine, willing me down against the couch’s soft, velvet cushions.

His lips travel to my neck, kissing me in a way that makes me pulse between the legs. He sucks hard. Hard enough to mark his territory. Hard enough that, tomorrow when I walk down the street, any man who looks my way will know that Lucien Beauvier was there.

Together, we yank my shirt over my head and work to rid me of my bra. “
Tu est parfaite, ma poupée
,” he groans, his lips warm against my flesh. I throw my head back against the pillow, arching my spine slightly and biting back a smile. His beard bruises my collarbone, my chest, my stomach in his frantic quest to deliver pleasure to me.

My palms drag down the path of soft hair adorning his sculpted torso before unbuttoning the waistband of his pants. His long, sharp hiss filters through the air when I greedily push his denim jeans over his tight ass and the cup his erection through his boxers.

Arousal surges in me, thundering through my veins, when I feel how hard and long and heavy he is for me. When he had fucked me from behind on the plane, I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of his cock. In the hurried minutes that we’d spent in the lavatory, he had been buried inside of me, rutting hard and fast, chasing the orgasm. But I remember how he had filled me up so completely. I remember the exquisite ache of him occupying every square millimeter of my pussy.

And now, that fate or luck or destiny has brought us together for one more passionate encounter, I plan to feast on his cock with my hands, my mouth, my core.

And, it seems that Lucien is equally intent on feasting on my pussy. He tugs my jeans and panties off of my body and sits on the coffee table in front of the couch. He carefully pulls my legs over his shoulders, angling my pussy up to his face and he breaths in the musk of my wet, slippery core. “Fuck…The scent of your sex is beautiful,” he mumbles in his broken English.

I whimper, so excited, so ready for his mouth and his hands on me.

He brings one hand, opened flat, to my core and he begins rubbing his entire palm against me. It’s such a simple act, but it’s wanton and unreserved and drives me wild. I fumble to string coherent sentences together. “Fuck, Lucien…Yes. Like that... It’s so good.”

His gaze is so focused, so intense in the dim lighting of the living room as he pleasures me. “Take it,
beauté
. Tell me that you like it.”

“God, Lucien…I like it…So good...”

A wicked look glints in his eyes as he leans back and snatches his wine glass off of the table. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, he lowers his face to my core and puts his mouth on me. The warm liquid whirls around my clit and his beard grates against my skin.

“Lucien,” I pant.

He groans and the wine dribbles over my flesh. And – oh god – there’s something electrifying about that.

He laps it up, his tongue hitting my core in velvet strokes. I writhe and moan and reach for his hair as the orgasm builds in my belly. My muscles wind tight, tensing in preparation for an earth-shifting climax.

And then, Lucien takes his mouth away from me. He strokes his thumb over my bud as two other fingers dip in and out of my throbbing pussy. “I want to watch you come,” he whispers. His stare is too intense, too demanding. I can’t look at him as his hands fuck me like this. I’ll explode all over his fingers.

But his free hand comes up to my cheek and angles my face back towards him. I close my eyes. It’s all too intense. “
Ouvre tes oeils
. Open your eyes. Please, Julia.”

And I do.

And his penetrating copper eyes are there waiting for me, gold flecks reflecting the lights filtering into the now-dark loft.

And I come.

My whole body convulses with the most forceful orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

Chapter 11

Lucien

The bedcovers shuffle lightly in the darkness. I turn over on the couch to see Julia slowly easing her feet over the side of the bed and onto the floor, careful not to make a sound. Her long, golden hair cascades down her bare, sculpted back in soft waves. The curve of her nude ass is partially obscured by the white cotton sheets. I watch in silence as she slides her fingers across the face of her smartphone, the soft light glowing in the blackness of the room.

Last night, after I’d brought her to a powerful orgasm under my tongue and fingers, she’d quickly fallen asleep on the couch. I had picked her up and laid her out on my bed, wrapping her in the soft sheets. I had been so tempted to wake her up and kiss her and touch her and fuck her until she peaked again and again just so I could watch her beautiful face contort with pleasure.

But I decided to let her rest. That was the right thing to do.

And besides, I expected that we would pick up right where we left off first thing in the morning, but now, I see her trying to sneak away.

She hesitates for a long moment before she picks up the pen on my dressing table and jots quickly onto the notepad on the table.

Then, she tiptoes across the room, and retrieves her clothes from the chair where I’d put them after I neatly folded them as she slept. I watch as she gets dressed then leans into the mirror above the mantle and uses her fingers to brush her hair into place. She creeps towards the door and slides her black canvas sneakers onto her feet. She throws one final glance towards the couch where I’m lying, pretending to sleep, before she eases the front door open and steals away into the night.

After a beat, I swing my feet to the floor and pad over to the dressing table to read her note.

Thank you, Lucien. For everything
. – J., it says simply.

I walk to the window overlooking the street. I watch as she stands on the curb and punches at the screen of her phone before bringing it to her face. She glances both ways before ambling across the narrow street below my window. I watch her disappear into the night.

She will be come
, I try to convince myself.
After a night like last night, she will definitely come back.

Chapter 12

Lucien

“
Putain de
motherfucking
merde, Beauvier!
” Coach Anderson growls in his mangled version of the French language, his voice carrying all the way across the football field. “
Tu as l’intention de jouer du football aujourd’hui
, or what?”

This asshole has the nerve to ask if I intend on playing football today.

I have every intention of playing football today, Coach. I just have to get my goddamned knee on board.

When Anderson took the position as lead coach of our team last year, the fans were up in arms about having a British transplant coaching our national Olympic team, but the higher-ups were convinced that passing up on Anderson was out of the question. He has three major international championship victories under his belt, after all. I have to admit that I think he’s been doing a decent job so far even though he’s a fucking ball-buster.

But to be fair, I’m playing like shit today.

My knee is killing me and it doesn’t help that Julia is on my mind. Was I a fucking idiot for letting her sneak out of my apartment this morning? She hasn’t called all day and I don’t want to get all worked up about it, but we have unfinished business…in my bed.

I’ve missed the last six balls that were kicked my way and if I thought that the coach would be lenient on me just because I’m playing injured, I was fucking wrong.

I get no sympathy. No compassion.

This is professional soccer; if I can’t handle the game, I might as well get off the field. No one’s going to slow down for me.

Least of all, Pierre Saint-Jean, the team’s second-string striker.

The future of Saint-Jean’s career depends entirely on me fucking up and being unable to get back on my feet in time for the Games. As soon as Coach Anderson writes me off for good, Saint-Jean becomes the starting forward for Team France and shoots right to glory.

Before I tore my damn ACL, Saint-Jean was no competition for me and I would easily out-manoeuver him in our team practices, but today, my knee is stiffer than usual and a sharp pain rears its ugly head at the most inopportune moments. And Saint-Jean is playing hard today, trying his best to prove to the coach that he’s the better choice to be first-string striker at the Olympics.

I’m in control of the ball for a fraction of a second before Saint-Jean swoops in, quick and aggressive, his feet battling mine to steal it back. I feel a pinch in my knee and hesitate for half a beat. That’s all Saint-Jean needs to seize the ball and charge towards the goal line.

“Goal!” I hear his victorious roar as the ball soars through the air, flying into the net.

“What the fuck, Beauvier? Are you on your fucking period?” the coach’s voice booms across the field. “
Va t’en!
Go change your tampon! Get the fuck off the field! Give me some lunges on the sidelines. C’mon!” he screams at me. “Perrier, you’re in,” he yells at the third-string striker.

By the time practice is over forty-five minutes later, I’m focused solely on hiding my limp as I amble to the locker room behind the rest of the team. All I want to do is shower and check my phone to see if Julia called.

“
Salut, Beauvier
.” I glance back and see Grégoire Pelletier, my sports agent, jogging to catch up with me. “
Ça va, mec?
” he asks as he claps me on the shoulder before bending to brace his knees and catch his breath. Grégoire is seriously out of shape and by the looks of him – 5’5”, overweight, receding hairline with a potbelly – you’d never guess how good he is at his job. In addition to getting me into la Ligue 1 at only 23, he’s helped me secure countless endorsement deals that will keep the checks rolling in for quite some time even if my soccer career never rebounds.

“What’s up, Grégoire?” I say looking over at him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me to the corner. “People are talking, Beauvier. They say that Team France is seriously considering dropping you and playing Saint-Jean in the Olympics instead.”

“Oh, really,” I mutter sarcastically. I already feel my stomach knotting and my palms growing clammy.

“Lucien,” Grégoire says. “In all honesty, you are in no shape to play professionally right now. Let us be realistic. You will not be ready for the Olympic Games,
mon gars
. It starts in a month and you’re still limping around. There is no way. The team is going to drop you. It’s time for you to just accept it.”

Just accept it?

My whole life has been devoted to playing soccer and now, I’m just supposed to accept the fact that it’s over? Hell no.

“You know what, Grégoire?” I growl. “You either find a way to help me or just stay out of my face, okay?” I push past him, slamming the locker room door in his face.

Chapter 13

Julia

“
Du vin rouge?
” Geneviève offers, glancing over at me and tipping the bottle of red wine in my direction.

I suddenly flush all over.

After last night, I will
never
look at red wine the same again.

“
Ça va, Julia?
” Alba asks, eyeing my reddened cheeks suspiciously. “You fever?” Her English could use some practice.

“No, I don’t have a fever. I’m fine,” I say shaking my head as I fan my face with my hand.

“Here, have some more quiche Lorraine,” Geneviève insists. A wide smile stretches her face as she slides a small piece of the savory tart off of the spatula and unto my plate. “It’s good, no?
La recette de ma grande-mère
,” she says proudly.

Well, then – I guess I’m having more quiche Lorraine.
I try not to roll my eyes.

Then, she turns back to her conversation with girls at the table. A handful of dancers from the
Opéra
are having dinner here tonight. They’re bitching and moaning about the newest production that they’re rehearsing for. They’re complaining about the lead dancer. They’re complaining about the long hours rehearsing. They’re complaining about the fucking costumes they have to wear.

And I just want to yell at them. Scream at them. Tell those ungrateful bitches that I would do anything to be on stage dancing. In any damn costume I can get my hands on.

But, I can’t even stand en pointe without being grounded by the fiery throbbing in my knee.

I can’t just sit here. Listening to them talk about the happenings at the
Opéra
is only depressing me further. Reminding me of the fact that I can’t be there. I can’t dance because my stupid, stupid kneecap won’t stay in place.

“
Je m’excuse
,” I say quietly as I push my chair away from the table. The girls barely notice when I slip out and slink back to my room. I lie in my bed and stare out my open window at the perfect Parisian sky. A million stars twinkle down. And for some reason, that makes me think of Lucien and the golden glitters in his eyes.

I guess it was an asshole move, me slipping out of his apartment the way I did in the early hours of the morning. He’d brought me indescribable pleasure with his mouth and I repaid him by running off without saying goodbye.

But that man makes my heart do complicated things. And I don’t like complicated.

I do wild and carefree and no strings attached.

So, when woke up at 4:30 in the morning and saw the text from Geneviève telling me that she was at home, I took the opportunity to sneak out of Lucien’s bed. He’d been an absolute gentleman, carrying me to his bed and tucking me in when I’d fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted from the intense orgasm he’d gifted me with. He’d then gone to sleep on the couch instead of taking the opportunity to curl up next to me. And I ran away from him the minute I realized what had happened.

Still, my body is begging me to make my way back to his apartment and finish what we started.

I lie restless in my bed, staring at the sky, listening to the periodic surges of laughter coming from the kitchen. Those girls are complaining about every little aspect of the production. But at least they can still dance. They can slip into their pointe shoes and pirouette across the stage in front of a crowd of hundreds of people.

Me? I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I get the surgery – if I get a metal rod implanted into my leg – my dance career is over. If I don’t, then my kneecap will eventually slip out of place again and I’ll be forced to quit dancing anyway.

I lie back against my pillows and let out a puff of air.
Life is so fucking unfair.

I slide my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and see that it’s only 8:23 p.m.

I can’t just lie here for the next twelve hours staring at the ceiling. I roll out of bed and snatch my messenger bag out of the tiny bedroom closet. I grab a few t-shirts, a sweater, two sundresses, some sandals and a handful of underwear and shove them into the bag. I retrieve my sketchpad from my desk and my toiletries from the bathroom counter before I pad quietly to the door, hoping not to draw any attention. No one seems to notice as I slide into my sneakers, sling my bag over my shoulder and slip out the door.