The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (16 page)

He hovered back over me, dominating my eyes with his. I gasped and flinched with intense pleasure as his finger brushed my engorged clit. “You are so wet,” he said. “My greedy Fleur.” He forgot his own command to hold my stare, because he shifted down quickly.

“I must taste you again,” he murmured, and his mouth sated itself on my wet core. I was moaning loudly, as thrumming pangs of desire burned my insides.

He flicked his tongue in just the right whir of pattern, and yet more waves of powerful desire and exquisite elixir rushed through me. “Yes,” I gasped.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he hummed against my clit, sucking it hard. I nearly screamed with desire. I forgot his command and my hands reached down to grip his head.

He slipped a finger in me at the same time he tugged on my clit with his mouth, and I expressed how much more pleasure I felt from the inside, loudly. I was moaning in chorus with the waves of heated pressure, as he pushed his finger in and out.

He switched, fucking me with his tongue. I gasped at the erotic intrusion. Back to the finger and his mouth, he worked my pussy with magical design. I was climbing . . . higher . . . a ladder to sensual relief . . . so close so close so close, I moaned
yes yes yes
over and over. . .

“
Oui, ma petite fleur, viens,”
he murmured, and—

The universe exploded as my body heaved with orgasm, the night sky a blur of gold and black. Everything was beauty and perfection in the one singular moment. I rode ripples of pleasure that cascaded through me, rocking my head side to side. When my body finally released its tense grip on that high, he lapped at me still. “Too much,” I choked.

He pulled away and rose back up, staring down at my delirious face. A prideful smile.

I smiled back shyly, then flinched as the head of his cock rub itself on my front door. He was moving it around my wet pussy, back and forth in his fist, gently kissing my lips, my body flinching from the overwhelming sensation on my wracked clit.

Oh. Oh my God, this was it.

He curled down over me, poised to enter me, one arm beside my head, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

He searched my face, maybe with a look of tenderness, and my stomach dropped. Because he was going to hurt me. There was no escaping that, even in my post-orgasm hangover.

“Remember, I said this was part one,” he murmured, kissing me softly as if I might break. “The pain you feel is nothing compared to the pleasure that awaits tomorrow. Remember this, my Fleur.”

The head of his length pressed at me, and harder, pressing still. The vein in his forehead was pulsing and his jaw was clenched tight, and fear pulsed through me—he was struggling to restrain himself.

And . . . and maybe I should change my mind.

I was certain the door simply was not going to open—

“Oh,” I gushed, as the tip of him stretched me, pleasure competing with pain. “Look at me, Fleur,” he garbled through his own guttural moan. Using both arms, he forced my head into one locked position, facing his, showing me just how clearly everything about me was his.

My eyes, my pussy, my heart. They were his. And I could trust him with them. He wanted me to know that.

He pressed deeper into me and his mouth opened as pleasure ripped across face. “I knew you would feel this way,” he whispered, staring into my eyes.

I was trying to let him take me, but what had started out as utterly erotic, had quickly turned very unpleasant. My whole body tensed up, completely unprepared for the degree of suffering he seemed committed to inflict on me. My friends had said the first time hurt. They hadn’t said your hymen is slaughtered.

“Look at me, Fleur.
S’il te plaît
,” he murmured, breathing labored. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, Louis, but I think,” I whimpered, “maybe you are too big.”

He laughed out of his nose. “It will fit. But you have to trust me to let me hurt you. Do you trust me to hurt you? Look in my eyes and see the pleasure”—I moaned sharply as he drove his full length into me with bone-snapping force—“your pain gives to me.” He pulled out, I took a big breath, and, holding my frightened stare, he forced himself back in all the way, moaning
oui
, and my body seized from the pain, and yet . . . willing. Totally willing.

Wonder dawned. This was what he wanted from me. My body was his completely. It was his prize. He owned me in that moment, and I wanted him to, and the realization shone like one of the brightest stars behind him: this was the way it was meant to be.

His breathing was raspy. “I would like to do this for hours—” he pulled out slowly and drove himself back in deep, my eyes opened even wider and I moaned out a protest “—but I would go quickly to ease your suffering, since you give it to me freely.
Oui
, I see that in your eyes.”

He pumped me then, several times with merciless force, holding my stare, unblinking, groaning with pleasure. “
Oui
,” he murmured over and over, altering his rhythm, slower, more gentle, and I could tell it took some major self-control. My walls throbbed from the pressure of his girth . . . the pain, it had lost its unfamiliar edge and become tolerable, maybe even gratifying in some way.

I whimpered, moaned in adored agony, and his eyes willed me to trust him longer.

And I would endure for him.

He stroked himself slow and fast, harder and harder. Taking my mouth. Releasing it.

I would give him anything in that moment.

His eyes searched deep into my soul and I tried to tell him silently to take what he wanted.

More and deeper and harder he battered me until the cumulative pain was just too much. I had reached a breaking point.

I couldn’t—I had to make him stop! But . . .

I watched his face clench up with mortal bliss, his eyes barely able to hold my stare, his entire body shaking above me as he released his seed into me, moaning gruff pleasure.

His enormous body shuddered twice more, his face twisted in a passionate grimace. The walls of my pussy clenched, despite the pain, all on their own, as if to milk him of every drop. When he was finally empty, his body eased down.

He kissed me, sensual, tasting, through heavy breaths.

I closed my eyes, and felt a tear slip out, and opened them again. He held himself above me still, just inches from my face, regulating his breathing (me, too), smiling slightly, gazing in my eyes.

For too long he remained there staring at me, cock snug inside.

“What?” I whispered shyly, recognizing the change in me.

It was over. I was a woman now.

“I thought you were most beautiful when angry,” he said quietly. “But I prefer you like this.”

“How’s that?” I asked, my heart flipping, my pussy throbbing.

“Mine.”

I was his. There was no denying that. The next day at work, I was still lost in memories of him, his musky smell, his rough sweat-slicked skin, his hardness, the sound of his voice in lust, his own urgent, violent need as he hammered into me—reliving moment by moment. He’d ruined me for other men. I knew it in my heart. No one could ever own me like he had on his yacht under the stars. And I didn’t want anyone else to, ever. The idea was sacrilege.

I was in deep.

Sweet mercy. I glanced at the clock, nearly falling asleep at my office desk. Sylvie had asked, no actually, she’d pleaded with me to stay late, to meet a delivery that was supposed to have arrived yesterday. She had to get ready upstairs for some extremely important dinner with a fashion editor. Of course, I agreed enthusiastically, silently protesting inside. I had hoped to catch a quick cat nap before “Louis Fucks Fleur—The Sequel.”

I checked my phone again. No text from Louis.

After, when we lay under the stars, me tucked under his arm, I’d actually fallen asleep to the thump of his strong heart. I’d jolted awake, thinking I’d only been out for a few minutes. When I’d realized it was two a.m. I told Louis I had to get home in case Marie came back. I confessed to him that I’d lied to her about where I was. He seemed to appreciate this, and thanked me for my discretion after we were dressed, asking me to continue to keep our goings-on private, for now. I agreed, frowning. I wasn’t ready to explain any of this to Marie, partly because I wasn’t sure what any of this was, but I also hated lying.

Shirtless, he led me through the main living area near the cabin’s only exit. I could see we’d sailed back to the port, and his security guards had noticed us through the windows. They moved closer, but waited outside the door, respectfully. I gazed at Louis, my cheeks pink. He held my hand. “Remember tomorrow, part two,” he said. My heart gave a small cheer. Though as excited as I was in that moment, I wasn’t certain my innards could take another battering from his ram so soon.

I glanced down. He was holding a box out to me, one he must have grabbed somewhere between us getting dressed and walking here. It was velvet, and rectangular. A necklace? My heart pounded, and I smoothed my hair.

“What is this?”

“For your dress.”

“Oh. Well I can’t take it—”

“Open it,” he ordered.

In a sex-induced hypnosis, I complied.

A lovely, long gossamer-thin gold chain held a delicate, paper thin, large pendant in the shape of his tattoo, the masculine fleur-de-lis symbol, embossed with tiny diamonds. “I wanted them to put in purple stones, but they are too cheap,” he said, lip curled.

I guessed that’s why he’d asked for my favorite color. Glancing back at him, smiling, I spotted his clenched jaw. I was starting to wonder if that was a tell for
any
emotion he felt strongly, not just anger.

“Louis.” I said his name with no clear intent and his cheeks blossomed red for the second time I’d ever seen. As thrilled as I was, it was unfamiliar territory accepting such an extravagant gift from a man. “Thank you, but I told you I don’t need stuff like this.”

“It is to replace your dress. Wear it, always.” He stared at me like he had an hour ago, when he inflicted the most pain I had ever felt in my life. I nodded.

He put it over my head, where it rested on my cleavage. “What is it?”

“A symbol with great meaning to my family.”

I waited for an explanation.

“Someday I will explain. Not tonight.” I liked the sound of someday. He bent over a good distance in order to plant a kiss on my
décolleté
, and as I turned to leave, he smacked my butt lightly. I couldn’t bear to look at him, or anyone, after that, because his guards had just witnessed my first public booty-smack. And while they hadn’t smirked as I’d expected, they weren’t blind either. I’d walked back slowly, with their assistance, feeling increasingly naughty and lonely the farther away from Louis I got.

By the time I’d gotten back to the apartment last night, I was spinning with dread over what I would I say to Marie. That I’d gone dancing with Chloé? For once, I was happy she was not home.

I ran a warm bath, took an Advil, and soaked my sore bits, which somehow still managed to ache with longing.
Mon Dieu
. How Louis held my stare while he took his pleasure. I attempted to ignore the pain to try to make myself come again while the warm water lapped at my nipples. I wanted more. I could take more. But . . . the soreness was too much. What a sham. All those romance novels make it sound like the pain disappears after initial penetration. It only got worse.

After my bath, I hadn’t been able to fall asleep, of course. I had to take two shots of whiskey, for medicinal purposes. (It was something my mom advised only once before when our cat died.) So when I woke up to the alarm, I was disoriented. My eyes were puffy with exhaustion. I’d had maybe five hours sleep.

It was 7:10 p.m. now. I pulled out the necklace I’d kept under my blouse all day, and admired it. In bed at home this morning, lifting up the stunning pendant, admiring its delicate beauty, I wondered if Louis had given it to me so I would feel less wanton (I was going to say slutty, but my feelings for him ran far deeper than lust), and I shivered with remembrance of his hungry gaze. The design sparkled in the daylight coming through the blind, and that reminded me of the stars the night before, and my incredible orgasm. Having a gift from him, such a personal gift, helped to make me feel special even as doubt crept in.

I checked the shop room clock.

7:12 p.m.

I’d contemplated calling in sick to work today, and right now, I wished I had. Did broken snatch count? That being said, it had healed miraculously throughout the day. The body is an amazing thing, I marveled.

7:13 p.m.

Was Louis going to text me or what? He’d said he make up for the pain tonight. I shifted in my chair, horny for him already. Yes, being in lust was an ailment, I decided.

I stared back at the computer screen, where I was trying to work on my latest food post since I was officially off Sylvie’s clock. I was trying to be honest with my bloggers about my obsession with wanting to eat meat. But the words weren’t coming. It was no use. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but one man’s sausage.

Was this normal? I was itching to call Jess. To tell her that the seal had finally been broken. But not only did I hesitate, because I didn’t think she’d approve, and that bothered me a lot, but I stopped myself from dialing because I didn’t actually want to divulge all of the details. I cherished what Louis and I had shared last night. Plus, I couldn’t possibly ever recount it with its just due, especially not with Jess cracking lewd jokes.

I heard a truck beep its horn and whispered a Hail Mary—they were here, finally—and tucked my necklace back into my blouse. It kept threatening to catch on things, and because it was so delicate, I worried it would snap off.

My phone pinged, just as I rose, and my heart skidded.

I checked it. BLOCKED NUMBER.

My apartment. Ten?

Louis.

Beep! Beep!

Dammit—I had to let the truck in before I could text back. Frustrated, I brought my phone with me.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Jesus. Hold on to your hat, buddy! I dashed past the seamer machines and into the warehouse. Pallets of fabrics and materials were stacked ceiling high. And there were lots of other boxes that, to be honest, contained contents I couldn’t begin to guess at. I mean, it’s not like Sylvie had
that
many orders.