Ménage Material [La Belle sans la Bete Ménages] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (7 page)

Oh, she knew that she shouldn’t be doing anything of the sort with the person who was the other man in her marriage. The very fact she’d said yes still perplexed her. Why hadn’t she stormed out? Dropped more ultimatums like nuclear bombs?

Why had she sat down to dinner and dined with the other man and her husband?

That wasn’t normal, was it?

Christ, it was anything but. So why hadn’t she broken down in tears at Bastien’s revelation? Why hadn’t she felt scorned and abused and manipulated?

The only answer she could find was the fact that the man in question was Alexei Ivanov. Despite the vows she’d made to her husband, Alexei was probably the only creature who could make her break those promises.

Groaning with self-disgust, because she was acting like a science groupie, she slunk down in the back seat of the car taking her to Alexei’s apartment. She couldn’t drive and Bastien didn’t particularly want her to. For some reason, he preferred her to have a chauffeur, and Devvy wasn’t about to complain considering motorized vehicles and she had never been the best of pals.

On the brink of scrubbing a hand over her face, she froze, remembering the light dab of foundation, and the lip-gloss she’d applied before leaving the house this morning. That act alone spoke of Devvy’s complete and utter discombobulation.

She never wore makeup.

Never.

After years of her mother forcing her to wear the horrible stuff, the minute she’d left for college at fourteen and had gone to live with her aunt in Boston, her rebellion had started. Being a genius had its advantages at times. It meant that she could leave home, live with an aunt that didn’t mind if Devvy kept to herself, and she could start slouching around the house. Like her mother had never allowed.

Considering she’d hated wearing makeup herself, the cosmetics industry was a weird one for her to have chosen. But then, she was contrary at times. At least, that was what her dad had always said. Well, that, and difficult. Something to which her mother agreed. Although that was mostly because Devvy had been a breech birth, as well as the direct cause of Miranda Nelson’s inability to drop down to a size four again.

Devvy didn’t like to think her character was built upon something that had happened on her journey down the birth canal, but this decision did display a certain contrariness. Because to meet up with Alex Ivanov, for what was essentially a chat over coffee, she’d not only put on some of her own homemade mascara, kohl and lipstick but she’d dressed up too. Gone were her jeans, shirt, and sneakers. In their place was a skirt, an honest to God skirt, and a camisole. Both in black, because that seemed to strip away the dirty-blondeness of her hair and make it seem a bit more tawny. It also highlighted the delicacy of her pale skin, and slimmed down the too-large curve of her behind—or so her mother had always informed her.

She’d made an effort to go and drink coffee with Alexei. Her actions, in this instance, were speaking louder than her words.

She’d said no. She’d rejected their demands. Refused to sleep with Alexei. But she hadn’t demanded he stop “seeing” her husband—if seeing was what they did behind her back. And she hadn’t refused to set eyes on the man again. In fact, she hadn’t acted like the hysterical wife, a role she deserved to play.

Christ, Devvy’s reaction to learning her husband had a secret male lover had been far more relaxed than the treacherous SOBs deserved.

Why
was
that, though?

Because it was Alexei Ivanov—a man she’d idolized and drooled over for far too long—and that made it okay?

Devvy had a horrible feeling that was the exact reason her anger hadn’t detonated.

As the car crossed the Seine, which would take them from the sixth arrondissement to the eighth, where Alex lived, she caught a glimpse of the Louvre. The pyramid glistened in the early spring sunlight. The Palais-Royal played peekaboo through the traffic, but she ignored it the instant they turned away and headed toward the Champs-Élysées. Alex lived in the Triangle d’Or, one of the most expensive residential areas in the whole world.

His wealth didn’t impress her, nor did his address, but still, it was a huge achievement. Few scientists attained such a position, but then, this was Ivanov. It still astounded her that she’d been in his presence. Never mind the fact he’d handpicked her to be the stuffing in a Sebastian and Alexei sandwich.

The thought made her lips twitch and rather than feel repulsion, she felt something else. Something at the other end of the spectrum. Something that had her crossing her legs and clamping down on her inner thighs to stop the insidious feeling deep in her belly from spreading.

It was with a sigh of relief that the car pulled to a halt beside a
pharmacie
. She told the driver in her best pidgin French that she’d call when she was ready to leave, and then she stepped out into the dynamic, bustling street—that bustle was contagious. No matter the
quartier
, there was a vibrant energy she’d never experienced anywhere else, but that was distinctly Parisian.

On this street, it was a shade different. Here, there were none of the more laissez-faire, bohemian types. This was all money. All elegance. The shops reflected the zip code’s wealth. Expensive jewelers, restaurants and boutiques lined the streets but she ignored them and looked up.

The building was old. Stylish and elegant. From another era. She recognized the Haussmann style simply because Bastien was an architecture buff and she was a Sebastien buff. Whatever interested him, she tried to share it. Pathetic or what?

Wrought iron railings, ornate with swirling curlicues. Tall windows with elegant cornices framing them. The beige stone had worn well over time. The carvings were as sharp as ever, the decorations still a strong part of the building’s appeal.

Deciding she was procrastinating, she found the entrance to the building and pressed the bell to Alex’s apartment. Barely a minute passed before he buzzed her in, and she set toward the elevator. Inside, there was a restrained air of wealth. As well as silence. Her heels tapped on gleaming checkerboard tiles and the elevator, when it came, was one of those kinds that was modern but had been made to look antique. More wrought iron.

It was a smooth and fast ride to the top floor. Too fast. She barely had time to reconcile herself with what could only be a disastrous meeting, before she was there. But she was in for a surprise. The elevator hovered, and opened up directly into the apartment. Her eyes darted over to Alexei’s, and to the subtly, but expensively furnished foyer behind him.

He owned the entire floor?

Wow.

Now she was impressed, and she lived in a mansion.

The décor didn’t really interest her, but the man himself did. Yesterday, he’d worn a shirt and dress pants. Today, he was in a T-shirt and jeans. He was also barefoot. And Devvy truly believed that she’d never seen sexier feet in all her life.

Quickly, she flickered her gaze from the elegant arches, because who found feet attractive aside from fetishists? The thought made her hope she wasn’t one. Before Alexei’s toes, she’d found most feet repulsive. Especially men’s, which always seemed to be battered or wonky from the sport they played. Either that or sweaty with broken nails from poorly fitting shoes. Yuck.

The overall decision after taking in Alex’s clothes was that she was overdressed for the occasion. But she’d rather that than look dreary.

“You’re here,” he murmured, voice soft. She could tell he was pleased, but at the same time, faintly surprised. He must have thought she’d renege on their bargain.

Huh, why hadn’t she thought of that?

Fuck, she really had dived in headfirst, hadn’t she? Somehow, visiting Alex had seemed like the only option open to her, and she didn’t even know why. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that she could cancel. That she didn’t
have
to visit with him today.

“This is all very confusing,” she replied, crossing her arms in front of her belly.

Her awkwardness made a smile tug at his lips.

At least it was amusing somebody!

“It is, but there’s no need for you to feel uncomfortable. Come. I had my assistant fetch us some lunch.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that!”

In the act of walking down the vestibule, he stopped and turned to look at her. “There was every need.”

His eyes were filled with heat, and a corresponding warmth kindled in her belly. She moved a hand, and pressed down against her lower abdomen. He recognized the gesture for what it was, an act of suppression, and took a step toward her, then hovered. The pair of them stood like that for at least a minute, staring at each other, letting their eyes drift over the other’s form.

“This is wrong,” she whispered, breaking the silence.

“No, it is what I knew would happen. If we both want it, then it can’t be wrong.”

“I’m a married woman. I shouldn’t be feeling this way.”

“Bastien will be kissing the ground you walk on for feeling the way you do.” He shook his head, the gesture impatient. “What exactly is it you’re feeling, Devvy?”

Her cheeks heated at the idea of telling him the truth, and she ducked her head, needing to say, “I want you,” instead repeating her words of moments before. “Fuck, this is wrong. So wrong.”

“Be honest with me, and with yourself. You can’t be ashamed of the truth.”

She sucked in some air and begged for calm. But there was no calm. This was no peaceful meeting between two people, a woman who idolized a man for his intelligence, and a guy who was interested in a chick’s conversation. This was no friendly chat. This was a woman who looked at a man and thought about digging her feet into his ass as he pumped his cock into her. This was a man who looked at a woman and saw her legs spread, pussy lips parted as he sucked her clit.

Sex lay at the heart of the glances they shared. And they both knew it. Even if Devvy wanted to deny it, she couldn’t. Just looking at him, from the rumpled white-blond hair to his bare feet, she needed to be close to him. It was difficult to reconcile that need with action, though.

Oh God, this wasn’t her. This wasn’t who she was. Who she’d been raised to be, dammit.

She loved her husband. She wanted him. How could she want this man, too? This…stranger, who she felt like she’d known all her life. Who she’d already argued and dined with. Talked to and lusted after from afar.

“I’d be cheating on him,” she told him instead of giving him the words he wanted to hear. She couldn’t allow him to sway her from the idea that what they both wanted, that what their clashing glances inferred, wasn’t adultery. It was.

“It isn’t cheating, when he wants it. When he wants you to want me.”

“It feels like it, whatever you say. And that just makes it all the weirder. What kind of husband wants to share me?” she spat, feeling angry at Bastien for permitting this. For making her question herself.

“It isn’t a sickness, Devvy,” he retorted, evidently pissed off at her words. “There’s nothing wrong with him. We all have our own kinks. This is ours.”

“That doesn’t justify it, Alex!”

“Maybe not, but we can’t help it. We can’t help wanting each other and wanting you.”

She groaned. “Stop bullshitting me!”

“It isn’t bullshit,” he snapped. “It’s the truth.”

She ran a hand through her hair and froze when Alex reached up and played with a strand. God help her, the instant he touched her—just her hair, for God’s sake—her pussy softened in reaction as her scalp tingled with pleasure at the simple touch. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here, allowing you to think I’m okay with this.”

“That’s the problem, Devvy. You
are
okay with this, but a lifetime’s teachings are telling you this is wrong. Screw what the people outside of these walls think. Do they matter? No, of course not. Sebastien matters. The man who married you, the man who loves you. He isn’t judging you for wanting me.”

She glared at him. “Who says I want you?”

He grinned. “The fact you nearly melted when I combed your hair behind your ear.”

Devvy’s mouth pursed in irritation. “This isn’t right,” she continued stubbornly.

“Who said it isn’t? What goes on behind closed doors is our business. Now, I know you do, but you need to admit it. Do you want me, or not? If not, then leave. No recriminations, no angry words. Are you here because you want to be, or under some kind of force? Don’t think about Bastien, don’t think about anyone. Think about you, and what
you
want. Because,
bébé
, that is all that counts.”

Her insides twisted, going into revolt at his tiny dip into French. Did it make her a slut to want him and to want her husband? Something wasn’t right with her to need them both, surely?

She nibbled her bottom lip and whispered, “I don’t understand it, but I do. Nobody forced me to be here. I’m here under no duress. That doesn’t make it any easier to accept, Alex.”

He sighed and narrowed the three steps between them so only a wisp of air separated them. His hand came up to cup her cheek. “At least you feel something for me. Even if it’s just hero worship.”

Devvy couldn’t let him think that. “It is a little bit, but it’s more than that. I don’t understand it, and I can’t believe I feel the way I do when I’m so head-over-heels in love with Bastien, I’m practically doing a headstand twenty-four-seven!”