The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Brielle licks her lips, eyes anchored to mine for support as the fingers of my second hand curl into her hair as well. A moan escapes her lips as my fingertips press into her scalp, massaging it as I free the mane of short hair. It loosens and falls just barely to her neck, surrounding her beautiful face.

  The dress is easy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take my time with it. I trace a line down the curve of the lone strap, fingers dangerously close to the nipples hardening underneath that fabric. I want it off. I would rip it away, tearing that clingy fabric to shreds, but that would make for an even more awkward trek home for her tomorrow. Instead, I find the zippered side and lower it at a glacial pace. It takes one flick of my fingers to slide the only thing holding it up down her shoulder.

  She isn’t wearing a bra and I take a moment—a long moment—to admire what she’s given me to work with. Her breasts are small peaks with just barely enough weight to have a hint of a curve at the bottom; dark nipples turned to tiny chocolate pebbles as they succumb to the cool air and the overworked senses of their owner.

  “Stop,” she whispers, eyes falling to the floor.

  “No,” I say, with enough ambiguity to force her eyes back up to read mine, determining whether I’m referring to what I’m doing or her decision to break eye contact. The wicked grin I feel coming to my lips does nothing to answer the question.

  I slowly back her up until she’s flush against the nearest wall. Her eyes widen in surprise as I fall to my knees before her. She presses her palms into the wall on either side of her, gripping for support against the textured surface. My hands slide up the smooth planes of her outer thighs until my fingertips meet the hemline of her thong underwear. I curl them into the elastic and slide the lacy fabric down. The flesh that was soft and trembling on the way up is now taut and tense on the journey to her ankles.

  I’m eye-level with her nicely trimmed pussy and part of me wants to skip right to dessert, tasting the result of the delicious treat I’ve been whipping up all week.

  But what fun would that be?

  Instead, I grab one ankle, forcing it up so that her strappy heel rests on my shoulder. Her slit is parted, revealing the perfectly pink head of her clit between the dark petals of her lips.

  Formidable.

  Brielle stares down at me, wondering which part of her I plan on starting with. I think back to all the times she’s denied me and feel a rush of wicked vengeance run through me. My fingertip glides around the strap binding her ankle, then snakes its way up over the curve of her calf, tickling the back of her knee, which almost causes her to slide down the wall in weakness, then along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

  “Andrew!” she yelps when I plant it right against her clit, testing the sensitivity.

  I guess that answers that.

  I show no mercy, slowly circling it, pulling the finger briefly away to taste the hint of pleasure I’ve released, then wetting my fingertip only to place it back again, slicker this time.

  Her face contorts with something like pain and I laugh, causing her to shoot me an angry glare.

  “Stop,” she protests, and I feel her heel slipping away from my shoulder.

  Quick as a viper, my hand comes back to her ankle, gripping it like a jaguar seizing his prey.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I threaten, my eyes hardening as I stare up at her—a reminder of who the maestro is tonight.

  She goes silent with obedient acquiescence and settles against the wall again. I stare at her for two more beats just to stress who the boss is, then allow my eyes to slowly wander from hers, across every inch of her exposed body until I reach the foot resting on my shoulder.

  The straps are probably the most complicated thing she has on but my fingers have nimbly mastered far more challenging obstacles than this. Within seconds the shoe is loosened and I grip her ankle once again, this time to remove it. I do the same with the other, leaving Brielle completely naked.

  A perfectly blank canvas to work my magic on.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brielle

  It feels strangely erotic to be so completely naked while Andrew has yet to remove even the bowtie to his tux.

  After removing the second heel, he stands up, towering over me with those same commanding eyes. I’m significantly shorter than him now that I’m out of my heels, which only heightens the vulnerability I feel. He could do literally anything and I doubt I’d be able to stop him. My stomach quivers with prurient delight at the thought.

  The removal of his clothes is almost as painstakingly slow as mine was, except I’m not afforded the benefit of being allowed to touch him. That’s fine, my eyes are more than capable of filling me in on the details.

  After the first layer of nonessentials is dispensed with, my gaze greedily laps up the raw, masculine flesh that’s slowly exposed as he unbuttons his shirt and peels it away from his shoulders.

  Good God, have mercy…

  With a mental note to pay far more attention to the men’s gymnastics during the next Summer Olympics, I bite my lip as the next course is offered for my consumption when his hands fall to the fly of his pants. The large bulge hidden underneath is enough to cause my tongue to thicken with thirst.

  The wicked grin on Andrew’s face is a reminder that he’s the one determining whether or not it rains. When he finally reveals what he has to offer, a veritable flash flood flows through my body.

  “My God…” I whisper, staring down at the thickness and length of it in awe as he finishes removing everything.

  “Close enough,” he says with a grin, just before coming in closer, pressing his dick into the soft yield of my stomach.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” he orders as his hand comes up to grip my hair.

  I don’t know if I even have enough air left in my lungs to respond. He doesn’t give me a chance before his hand drops from my hair to take my hand and lead me toward the bedroom.

  The sight of the bed has the effect of snapping me out of this fantasy with a bit of practicality.

  “What about…?”

  Andrew gives me a taunting wink before he walks over to the cabinet with the mini bar. My brow wrinkles in confusion and I’m about to correct him that it isn’t more alcohol I need but—

  He pops back up with a condom between two fingers. “Eight dollars, but worth it, no?”

  A feel a smirk come to my face, which slowly disappears as I consider this. “How many women have you brought to this hotel?”

  He laughs and walks back toward me, ripping it open. “Does it matter?”

  I swallow with indignation, then my eyes follow the movement of him bringing the rubber down to the thick head of his cock.

  No, it sure as hell doesn’t matter.

  I refuse to say it out loud, but when my eyes roll back up to his, he can see it all over my face. His grin practically slaps me in the face with my own desperate need. I turn away.

  Andrew reaches out a hand to take hold of my chin and bring me back around to face him.

  “You’re the first,” he says his gaze softening.

  I feel that dimple in my cheek come to life with a smile of blasphemous pride.

  “Now…finish me,” he commands, his eyes darkening once again and forcing my eyes to follow his down to the massive length that stands fully erect between us, just the head covered by the condom. “I want to feel your hands on me.”

  Every atom of my being wants to resist at such a blatant command, but they are shocked into compliance by the part of my brain that has taken over the control panel, the part that wants this—needs this.

  All I can do is stare back with as much defiance as I can muster as I take hold of him, sliding the rest of the condom down. I try to ignore the way it feels in my grip, the promise of what it will soon feel like inside of me. The flood between my legs shows no sign of stopping and the only dam capable of mastering the flow before it completely destroys me is currently in my hand.

  “Lie down,” he says, forci
ng me vividly back into the moment.

  I comply, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge. I fall back helplessly. With that fall every bit of resistance leaves. I smile up to the ceiling, awaiting my fate.

  “Open your legs,” Andrew says, walking over to invade my view. My eyes roll down to focus on him, the looming length of his cock firmly planted in my periphery. “I want to see how wet I’ve made you.”

  I spread for him, reaching one hand down to open myself further, feeling the lurid delight hit me with the tingle of cool air against wet flesh.

  Andrew reaches down to remove my hand, replacing it with his own. Two fingers plunge into me—the same ones my own tongue cleansed of champagne earlier—causing me to gasp with pleasure. He works them in and out, revving the engine that growls inside until I have to beg him.

  “Please…”

  “Please what?” he orders.

  “Fuck me,” I say, not even ashamed when he meets that plea with a wicked grin and another deep thrust of his fingers.

  Andrew replaces them with the fat head of his cock. With one quick, hard stroke, he paints my insides with the most spectacular sensation. He builds on that, working and working until I start to feel the final masterpiece come to light.

  “Yes!” I hiss as my fingers claw into his thick shoulders. Faint images flash through my brain of young, firm men holding their athletic bodies up with perfectly horizontal arms straining between two hoops, just like the man above me has no doubt done on many occasion, at least by the feel of him. I press my nails harder into his skin, my palms lying flush against Andrew’s muscles, capable of seemingly impossible feats. The rest of him snakes against me, hard flesh bending my softer body to its will. I follow it, synching with his rhythm as he works himself in and out, faster and faster.

  “J’ai vraiment envie de toi,” he growls in my ear.

  His dick has its own beat, carrying me away like the pied piper, tempting me to follow at my own peril. And my body happily dances to the tune, welcoming the invasion as my insides sing along with pleasure.

  Keep playing you damnable bastard.

  And he does, with admirable stamina that would have my jaw dropping if I wasn’t so caught up in the moment. My hands slide down to his ass—holy shit!—just to experience the flex and movement as he grinds his hips into me. I feel the intensity build right before he takes me to the edge.

  My body seizes with rapture, then falls into a quivering, gelatinized mess underneath his hard, solid force.

  “God, Andrew,” I half sigh, half whine when I’m done. He’s still hard inside of me, using me like I’m his pleasure device, and I helplessly allow it.

  Now, I can focus on him, his eyes intense as he lifts up above me. The work of art his skills have produced is not quite done yet. Andrew adds the finishing touches with a frenzy that brings me back to life. I’m more than willing to be so pathetically used…if only to hold onto that hard gaze that bores into me, like nothing else in the world matters, like I’m a precious prize he’s managed to capture and make all his own, like there’s no place he’d rather be than right here inside of me.

  “Come,” I say, urging him on as I threaten to destroy what he so skillfully produced before.

  I didn’t think it was possible for his body to be any more firm than it was, but he turns to steel, every muscle flexing as he releases into me. I come on the heels of that, enjoying the way his spasms help me along.

  Andrew’s breath is heavy as he amazingly manages to rise up on his arms, which look like two molded columns on either side of me.

  “Mon dieu,” he breathes. “You’re…”

  “Formidable,” I whisper with a smile just before he falls down next to me with a laugh.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Andrew

  “Well, I certainly admire your artistic skills, Andrew Mercier,” she says before smiling and curling into my side. I wrap an arm around her, enjoying the way she feels by my side, even with a slight sheen of sweat covering her body. I’ve quickly recovered, being used to far more rigorous routines, though none nearly so pleasurable.

  “You should have said yes that first night after the bar. We could have filled a gallery by now.”

  “That’s assuming I’d still like you.”

  “After what just happened, do you have any doubt?” I ask in an idle tone that belies how curious I am about her response.

  Brielle lifts up on one elbow and stares down at me with a soft smile. Her makeup is erased or smudged, her hair mussed into a high bouffant. In other words, gorgeous.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Maybe because I’m so cocky,” I say with a smile, my stomach releasing with relief. I raise one taunting eyebrow. “Or maybe you really have developed a taste for French, after all.”

  “Or…maybe because you’re so good at gymnastics, or maybe because I have a thing for gofers from the IT department, or maybe because you know the Wincrofts.” It starts out playfully, but with each statement, I can hear the growing realization start to hit her. She has no idea who I really am.

  “If there’s something you want to ask, ask me.”

  “So we’re playing truth or dare?”

  “Careful, I may only pick dares.”

  “Okay then, let’s stick to the truth.” She gives me a cynical smirk.

  I stare at her for a long moment, relishing in the blatant irony of her remark. “Are you sure you want to play that game?”

  Something flickers in her eyes as she realizes the trap she’s set for herself. She’s not so subtly accusing me of not being entirely truthful when she knows full well she has her own secrets.

  “Never mind,” she says, trying to brush it off.

  “Truth.”

  She stares down at me, testing that response out in her head. We’re both good at the facade, but I’m tired of it. Mostly because it’s so one-sided. I know almost everything about her and she knows nothing about me, even the fake me is still mostly a mystery. It’s like playing poker against someone who’s cards are facing you so even they can’t see them.

  I can’t tell her everything, obviously. That would close up shop for good. But I can tell her just enough to keep her by my side, if only for my own selfish reasons.

  “Truth,” I repeat, uttered with complete frankness now.

  She stares at me a moment longer before letting go of a breath. “Okay, who are you?”

  “That’s a bit broad.”

  “So answer it broadly.”

  “I’m a French citizen, momentarily living in New York.”

  She stares at me as though waiting for more. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Then ask the right question. My turn.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but snaps it shut, realizing I’m right. Her gaze narrows. “Dare.”

  “Une femme typique, changing the rules in the middle of the game.” I laugh softly and raise one eyebrow. “D’accord, I dare you to spend the weekend in this hotel room with me.”

  “That’s not a dare.”

  “I agree, far too easy to perform.”

  She twists her lips to the side, hiding the smile that wants to force its way through.

  “Okay fine then, just the truth,” she says, sitting up and becoming serious again. She doesn’t try to cover herself, which I find admirable…and distracting.

  There are a hundred things I want to ask. Why do you have such a sweet tooth? Where is the damn proof you have of ownership of the painting? Why haven’t you used it yet?

  What is this effect you have on me?

  “Have you ever been to Paris?”

  Her brow creases with confusion. Even I’m surprised at the banal question that just slipped from my lips.

  “No? I’ve never even been to Europe,” she answers, still bewildered that of all the questions I could have asked, I landed on this one. Her gaze sharpens as her mind refocuses. “Your turn. Let’s get the truth out, starting with why you were under my desk that morning.
”

  I cross my arms underneath the back of my head and stare at her. Now is definitely the moment of truth.

  “I was looking for clues.”

  Her eyelids flutter in almost comical fashion. “What?”

  She doesn’t even seem to know what she wants as an answer to that, so I continue to observe her, letting my words sink in and waiting for a proper reaction.

  “Clues for what?” she finally insists.

  “Clues for how you plan on stealing that painting.”

  This time the reaction is fierce and instantaneous. She sits straight up, knees curling up underneath her. Her hands fly up to cover her breasts as though hiding her physical nakedness will also place the shroud back over her secret plans for Noémie.

  “Why in the world would you think I’m interested in stealing the painting?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course not!” she spits angrily.

  “Hmm…my mistake.”

  Brielle furrows her brow at that, still trying to make sense of what I’ve said even after this blithe dismissal.

  “The truth, Andrew,” she insists.

  “You first,” I reply with a piercing stare and an edge to my voice. “It’s obvious you have some plans for the painting. Why else would you know so much about it? Why else would you work for that asshole, Bernard? Why else would you look at it that way?”

  She stares down at me, still in shock. “From that, you get that I want to steal it?”

  “Again, don’t you?”

  She laughs and shakes her head in wonder. “I don’t have to steal it, Andrew. It’s mine—well, it belongs to a friend of mine. Bernard Gaultier is going to give it to me, fair and square.”

  I want to laugh at her naivety. “You can’t actually believe that will happen, can you, Brielle?”

  She works her jaw so hard I’m surprised I don’t hear the joints grinding. Instead of answering, she meets fire with fire.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but it’s starting to sound suspicious. Now, I’m wondering what your interest in the painting is. In fact, now I’m beginning to rethink every encounter I’ve had with you. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. The painting doesn’t belong with Gaultier. By the end of the week, it will no longer be his.”