The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) Page 3

  But . . . I stared up into his unfamiliar eyes and my stomach dropped. I hardly knew this man. I mean I didn’t know if he could take a good teasing, or laugh at my jokes, or what his favorite diner food was at the end of a long night of dancing and flirting. He had skipped right over all of my very specific tests for measuring up potential cherry-pickers.

  All I knew was he was in the driver’s seat. I was just a passenger along for the ride.

  My hands were tingly.

  “Non?” he asked with a half-smile, my chest clenching at how heart-droppingly handsome he was.

  “Ah, well, I—”

  Holy crap. I was all talk this past year. I’d been a big tease, leading all of those men on, deliberately finding ways to get rid of them, or counting on Jess or Tammy to do so.

  Well this man wasn’t going to allow that, or wait for my answer.

  The way he’d moved in I expected, no, I anticipated, a soft first kiss.

  But he took my mouth suddenly, hard, demanding, like a starved animal. He eased open my lips quickly, slipping in his tongue, his erotic taste and a scent of his cologne mingling, enveloping me, and . . . I froze.

  It was no kiss.

  It was a sensual pillaging.

  I responded, standing on my tiptoes, focusing on his bottom lip, but . . . he wouldn’t let me contribute. He was completely and utterly in control and only interested in tasting me, deeply, God help me, expertly.

  I sighed, okay more like moaned, and gave over. This resulted in a firmer grip on my face. His free arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into his hard, warm body, scooping under my butt, lifting me right off the ground. I wrapped my legs around him, our mouths still attached.

  He carried me down the hall this way—trapped and tongued. One arm held my head attached to his, probably so I couldn’t change my mind and shout for help, and the other held me effortlessly. One arm. While I’m slender, I’m also tall, which means I’m not light.

  It was freakin’ exhilarating.

  I thought about squirming or protesting in this man’s mouth, but deep, deep inside, I wanted this, which was probably why I helped direct him to Marie’s bedroom. This was what I’d been chasing in Austin. I’d just never come close. He made me feel utterly female, desirous and desirable, and so ready. I was wet. He’d made me wet with one kiss and carry. Now I just needed the courage to follow through.

  Louis slammed the bedroom door behind us. He put me down, released my mouth, and stared down at me. My stomach flipped. I took two steps back. He was one big—I swallowed—bad-looking wolf. I didn’t want to use Marie’s bed, but before I could think of a way to solve the dilemma, Louis came at me.

  I forgot what I was worried about, caught up in a tornado of desire. I’d never been so wanted before. I’d never wanted so badly before.

  My hands gripped his biceps (holy guns!) and my breasts pressed into his chest. In that moment I would have leaped off a cliff for more. More of the naughty excitement. More. More. More. So what if we’d barely spoken. So what if this was clearly just about sex. It was now or never. Do or die. Yes, I was going to have a one-night stand, I’d finally decided in that moment. No one could say Fleur wasn’t an all-in girl (once she’d made up her mind).

  I was going to match him move for move. I was going to best him. In a move of frenzied lust—I still can’t believe I did it—I tugged his shirt up and out of his pants, and tore it open like a starved co-ed who’d found the last bag of microwavable popcorn in the dorm kitchen. Buttons scattered across the room with surprising velocity, including one that clinked off my front tooth.

  He gasped. I didn’t care. I was too awestruck, or rather, ab-struck. His stomach . . . his chest . . . My eyes roamed. He was perfect. Score! I flashed on every angle, like paparazzi on a porn set. I wanted to remember it for later.

  As I reached out to touch the god before me, I could barely regulate my breathing. Didn’t help that he grabbed my hand sharply just before it made contact.

  “C’est pas toi qui dirige, l’Américaine,” he snarled.

  His tone . . . something was wrong. My horny brain went on alert. Glancing up, a darkness had blanketed his face. What had he said? I scrambled to sort it out, staring at him. He’d said, “You are”—um—“not . . . in charge, American girl.”

  When he stepped forward, hands outstretched, I should have stepped back. But I didn’t. He grabbed the shoulders of my dress and in one thread-ripping tug, yanked it, bra included, down.

  Oh my God. I was bare. He’d exposed my breasts entirely and, to my shock, as I tried to move, the straps of my dress, tugged down, had locked my arms in place.

  I watched his lips turn up, satisfied like he had taught me a lesson, and then—

  My stomach dropped with nauseating speed.

  His eyes were focused on my naked girls. My boobs, medium-sized, tear shaped, swooped up and out into obscenely swollen areoles. He stared at them, mouth open ever so slightly, eyebrows raised. I began to squirm, wanting desperately to move my pinned arms. But that only made matters worse because my boobs jiggled side to side. His eyes followed them.

  “Mon Dieu,” he murmured, bending down.

  My breath caught.

  He pulled my body to him and took the entire tip of my left breast into his mouth. He sucked it until it tingled.

  A sharp moan came out of my mouth. My back arched in pleasure. I gasped for air before looking back down.

  Okay, so he likes.

  He turned his head sideways, bit the nipple slightly, staring heavy-lidded at the other one. Using his tongue, he licked the tip as he groped my right breast with his other calloused hand, squeezed it gently, jiggled it and played with the nipple.

  Breasts connected to pussy. Quivering, aching pussy.

  That was all my brain was capable of processing. And breathe. Yes, remember to breathe. He switched over, rabidly suckling my right nipple. Was that a growl?

  I struggled to move my arms, wanting to run my hands through his short hair, roam over his shoulders. You know, get involved. Control a few things.

  “Can you help me undo my zipper?” I garbled.

  He didn’t acknowledge my question. Instead he sucked loudly before releasing my nipple and dropping to his knees. His hands moved down my dress, squeezing my ass cheeks fully in each hand, hurting them so good with the strength of his grip.

  His face was just inches from my mound, his hands still gripping my butt.

  Was this really happening? Oh my God—

  In a heart-stopping second, he pushed my dress right up with one hand, and kissed the outside of my white lacy thong.

  While my mouth popped open, my clit clenched tight with need. All the nerve endings were begging for touch. I needed my arms freed.

  “Please, can you—”

  “S’il te plaît, tu veux quoi?” He stared up at me with half-lidded eyes, mocking me.

  He trailed his finger beside the edge of my thong, feather-light on the tender skin, running it over the top of my thong ever so softly. If he weren’t kneeling before me, reverent, I might have felt more than a little vulnerable mummified in my dress. But apparently I was born a dirty slut queen because I wanted him to worship there forever.

  No. Actually, I wanted to slide my hands under his shirt and feel his shoulder muscles, and then move south. I was impatient to get to the point. Yes, I needed to grip it, know it, worship it.

  “Please, can you let my arms free?”

  He smiled to himself, smug, shook his head, and licked the outside of my thong.

  Oh my God.

  He pulled it aside and—

  There I was, naked on display. My first viewing. Thank God I had shaved that morning.

  “Une si jolie petite fleur,” he murmured.

  Pretty. Tiny. Flower.

  His compliment made my knees weak, or was it anticipation?

  Hoping, praying, uncertain, he finally leaned in, yes, no, yes—

  He went straight for the bud with h
is lips, sucking on it. A strangled gasp came out of me.

  I’d always wondered what it would feel like, to have someone do something so intimate, so dirty, so erotic. It was better, better than any imagining.

  I gave in. His arm wrapped around me, and held up my entire body weight for a moment. He used his other to spread my legs farther apart and pressed his face right into my wet core. He licked again, sucking my nub long and hard before releasing it. Pleasure burst in my insides and snaked up, choking the air out of me.

  When it passed, cool air hit where his mouth had been.

  “Please,” I gasped.

  “S’il te plaît, quoi? Tell me, Fleur,” he taunted. “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” he added, huskily, blowing on my engorged clit.

  What did I want?

  Him. In me.

  Is that what he meant?

  “Tell me,” he said, shifting all my weight to lean against his one arm and using the other to tease me mercilessly, “what you want.”

  Without waiting for answer, he slid a finger into me, and I moaned loudly with partial appeasement. An orgasm was building in me. So soon. So readily.

  I had no idea it could be like this.

  “You are so fucking tight,” he hissed. He slipped in another finger and I buckled right over his head from the invasive pleasure, unable to stop myself because my arms were still trapped by my sides. He stood me upright again, with his hand across my stomach, renewing his ministrations with his tongue, teasing me. I whimpered again, gasping, “Louis.”

  “Tell me what you want, Fleur,” he insisted.

  Oh God. Did he mean now, or later? Harder or faster? Frontways, or standing, or me on top? All of it.

  I was moaning, wild with abandon. Desperate, I tried to impale myself on his finger but he wouldn’t give it to me. I whimpered again, like a dog who’d been denied a bone.

  “Tell me,” he demanded harshly, stroking my clit, a tremor racking through me. What does he mean? What does he mean? I was drunk on lust, desperate with need.

  “Fleur!”

  “Je ne sais pas!” I finally shouted so close to the edge of release, teetering on the brink of mind-shattering bliss. If he would just give it to me—all of it.

  I was so lost, a second passed before I noticed someone had flicked the switch to off.

  I glanced down.

  He’d stopped. And something was wrong. His face, all the hunger, it was gone. It had been replaced by some kind of intense emotion. When his eyes found mine, they were filled with a horrible accusation. My stomach dropped, even though my who-ha still hummed on high, oblivious, vibrating with need.

  What? What had I done?

  He leaned forward, resting his forehead just above my mound, and hissed something in French under his breath. He groaned and in one decisive move leaned away from me, loosening his grip. He flashed his gaze on my face briefly, with eyes full of regret, before standing up.

  “Did— Did I say the wrong thing?” I asked. “Be-because I can say anything you want—”

  “Tu es vierge.” He said the word virgin like it was dirty.

  Blood flooded my face. “Well, I . . .” I bit my lip as his eyes narrowed. I couldn’t very well deny it now could I?

  His brows flattened. Disappointment darkening his face, and that was quickly replaced by something else I couldn’t identify.

  Resolve? Maybe.

  Whatever had been going to happen, clearly wasn’t going to anymore.

  Okay, now I really wanted my arms free. It was like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. I searched for words, any words. He’d asked me to two-step, spun me around, and, deciding he’d had enough, flung me aside. I was so dizzy I couldn’t have walked a straight line.

  He attempted, awkwardly, to pull up my thong and tug my dress sleeves back up. As soon as my arms were freed, I pushed his hands away and covered myself back up hastily. A telltale burn tingled in the back of my nose.

  One moment he’d made me feel sexier than I’d ever known possible. The next, more ashamed than I’d ever felt. How could he be that turned off by a virgin? Sure, sex might not be great the first time around, but we could make it fun.

  Damned if I’d beg for it, though.

  Finally, our darting eyes crossed paths, and my heart folded in on itself.

  His head tilted sideways, taking me in, I swear, like it was the last time we would ever see each other. He took a step back, once, shook his head, and turned, leaving the room without saying one word.

  The last look on his face before he left seared my vision: dislike.

  Chapter 3

  Or was it contempt? (It was hard to read frowns on the French.) It was as though he disapproved of me for not being slutty enough. But . . . that didn’t make sense.

  When I filled Jess in on events the next morning, she asked me to describe his face, but she was too hungover, rambling around in her own morning-after moment to properly sort out mine. She’d said the pair of rugby players were more than a handful last night. “Right, because it was two handfuls!” I’d said. She rolled her eyes, and I knew she wasn’t regretting her actions so much as surprised by them. I was beyond impressed that she’d finally fulfilled one of her fantasies.

  To say I adored Jess was an understatement. In my eyes, she could do no wrong.

  Except leave me. I would be on my own after she left. Making friends with a lovely but foreign mother. And avoiding a bunch of asshole Frenchmen. Okay, that was inappropriate. I had met only one asshole Frenchman.

  I wanted to spend a leisurely farewell breakfast with Jess, ask her a million questions about what it’s like being with two guys, and about why a man would be so disappointed upon encountering a pop tart. But we’d woken up late, with only twenty-five minutes before her cab arrived. “Look at it this way, Fleur,” she’d proffered on her way out the door, noticing my dejected face, I suppose. “Maybe he couldn’t have finished the job.”

  Hm, my mouth twisted to one side. I liked that ending, but, thinking back on his actions, I was pretty sure it would have been a fait accompli if I’d been the busy runway he’d initially thought I was. He’d made me question my actions, like I should have shared my v-card along with a list of STD pass tests.

  “Don’t cry!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m not crying because of him. I’m going to miss you!”

  “Me, too,” she added, frowning, giving me one last squeeze and dashing down the hall, shouting over her shoulder, “Forget wind-up willy!”

  I laughed between tears, waving as she got into the elevator. I shut the apartment door and rushed to the front window. Watching her get in the taxi, I allowed myself only one full sob.

  Her car disappeared down the busy, narrow street.

  I wiped my face of the few tears I’d shed and tried to ignore the barrenness I sensed around me.

  A cyclist in a suit sped by. A tiny car maneuvered into an even tinier parking spot. Tucked up underneath a row of three-story modern buildings opposite ours, in the shadows, was the entrance to the bistro. I sighed, deciding to put last night out of my mind.

  Today was a new day. A fresh start. No need to dwell on the scintillatingly disappointing past.

  You know the worst part wasn’t that Louis had changed his mind. I mean, sure, that didn’t make me feel great. No, it was that he’d given me a taste of a world of wild abandon and naughty pleasure I’d only ever read about. No one I’d ever fooled around with even came close to making me that crazed with need (I mean, I’d nearly slept with a stranger!), and then he’d taken it all away.

  The look on his face . . . he’d been so hungry for me. What happened?

  I shook my head. I needed to let it go. I couldn’t start pining after some let-down, even if my body clearly had other ideas.

  I had lots of other things to be focusing on, positive things.

  The sun poked out from a cloud right on cue. The port sparkled like diamonds. I opened up the patio door window and took in a gust of foreig
n odors. Diesel and salty sea mist, coffee beans and promise.

  Goosebumps spread over my arms. I was in Toulon. I had a whole year of adventure ahead, including getting to know my new mother’s country. My country. I loved the idea of having two nations to call home.

  This was the energy I tried to channel, even as I surfed the net for a local seamstress. Remorse didn’t begin to describe my feelings over the discarded bit of silk balled up in my closet. Now that I’d finally figured out the exchange rate (math is not a strength), I realized I’d spent more on that dress than any other thing in my wardrobe. And Louis had all but shredded the shoulder straps.

  I eventually found a tailor, conveniently located on the way home from my job interview scheduled this afternoon. My dress would fit in my bag, and I could slip in with Marie on our walk back.

  We’d sorted out our plans by text: Marie was set to pick me up at the designer’s store, Sylvie’s, around seven p.m. She also let me know she was bringing a dinner companion home from work. I was pleased about that. So far I had met none of Marie’s family (they all lived in other regions of France), friends, or colleagues.

  Her apartment hadn’t revealed much either, I thought, glancing around, except for the fact that she must come from money. She lived in a luxurious building, in a busy, trendy downtown area, full of well-dressed occupants, from what I’d seen. Her suite was furnished minimally but oozed opulence. There wasn’t one framed photograph, but she seemed to collect antique glass vases. A stunning, mural-sized painting was perched over the sofa. And since I’d arrived, she’d been bringing home hi-tech, expensive kitchen tools for me. Yup, Marie had good taste, the kind I was fairly certain you couldn’t afford on a policewoman’s salary.

  I’d noticed it in her clothes when she visited me in Austin, bespoke silk blouses, skirts, and loose blazers, but tried not to leap to any conclusions. Marie’s financial situation was none of my business. She could be in debt right now for all I cared. Or, the LaSalles could be billionaires. Whatever. I was here to be with her, not live off of her.