by Alix Nichols
Hang in there, Diane!
The question is, onto what? The impenetrable Anti-Darcy Defense Shield around my heart is melting away faster than I can regenerate it.
That is, if I could be bothered to regenerate it right now.
In a last-ditch attempt to avoid inglorious defeat and capitulation, I peel my gaze away from his darkened eyes. Only instead of focusing on the wall or the ceiling, my traitorous peepers zoom in on the bulge in his pants.
And what a nice, voluminous bulge it is!
On a rugged breath, I dig my fingers into my thighs and force myself to look away.
Is it time to wave the white flag?
Darcy takes my hand and covers it with his large palm.
I stare at his hands holding mine and then plunge into his bottomless gaze.
Resistance is futile.
I’m done for.
EIGHTEEN
“You never told me what you did with the portraits of me you took at the castle,” Darcy says, stroking my hand.
“I sold them to Voilà Paris for five hundred euros.” I give him a saucy smile. “Would you like a share?”
“What will Voilà Paris do with them?”
“They’ll use them at their discretion to illustrate various articles in future issues.”
“Including the nude ones?”
I nod. “But don’t worry, no one will know it’s you in any of the pics. I made sure of it.”
“I’m relieved.” He looks at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You asked if I wanted a share.”
“I give Elorie fifty percent for her nudes, so it’s only fair I offer you the same rate.”
“How about you pay me in kind instead?”
My heart skips a beat. “What do you have in mind, Sebastian?”
“I want to take a photo of you naked.” His gaze burns into mine.
Wow.
What happened to his aristocratic stuffiness? Has all that Zubrowka gone to his unaccustomed Scotch-lover’s head?
Good thing it hasn’t gone to mine yet. What I’m going to do is laugh in his face and say he can shove his brilliant idea where the sun never shines.
I really should do that.
Now.
“Why?” I ask instead. “Are you planning to sell it to a men’s magazine?”
“Of course not.” He hesitates. “I’ll keep it for personal use.”
Mmm. My subservient mind generates an image of him reclining on his pillow in the privacy of his town house bedroom. He’s holding a sexy nude photo of me in one hand while his other hand slides under the blanket. His gaze is dark and deep—just as it is now.
“OK,” I say. “But only one shot, facing away.”
He nods, looking as if he just up and made another billion.
I fetch my camera, moving fast, determined to get it into his hands before I change my mind. Sitting next to him, I screw on the lens, adjust the settings, and show him the basic functions.
“Take your clothes off, please,” he says.
I lift my T-shirt over my head.
“Now the bra.”
I undo the front clasp, spread the cups apart and flash my tits.
He leers like a starving wolf.
I grin, satisfied with the effect, and remove the bra completely.
“Now take off the bottoms.”
My stomach flips as I stand. Just as my hands slide to the waistband of my leggings, a bulb goes on in my head. This is not how it’s done. I signed up to pose for him—not to strip for him. The deal was that he takes a nude photo. He was supposed to turn away while I undressed.
That’s how it’s done.
Fuck that.
I hook my thumbs under the elastic band and peel my leggings down. There’s no denying how much I’m enjoying doing this shoot the wrong way.
“The panties,” Darcy rasps. He isn’t even trying to pretend this is about the photo anymore.
I shake my head.
He raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“Not until you lift the camera.”
For a moment, he looks as if he has no idea what I’m talking about before his gaze lands on the device in his hands. “Oh.”
He raises the camera in front of his face, and I let out a little sigh of relief.
“Will you take your panties off now?” he asks, still seated.
I turn around, push the lacy thing down my hips and wiggle until it hits the floor.
“Step out of it,” Darcy says.
I do.
“Go to the wall.”
I obey.
“Place your hands on it and spread your legs apart.”
Done.
“Now lift your hands… higher… lean forward.”
As I do what he’s asking… er, ordering me to do, I realize he’s repeating my instructions from the castle shoot almost word for word. The difference is that I’m sent to the wall, while he was directed to the window. And that he’s forgotten about the camera again.
I can’t help smiling.
“Bend down,” Darcy says.
Oh. Monsieur is improvising now.
“Is that really necessary?” I ask.
“Yes, it is,” he says. “It’s very necessary.”
I turn my head to look into his eyes, and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. The desire in his eyes hits me like a shockwave, so hard I nearly stagger.
“Bend down,” he repeats, his eyes drilling into mine. “Please.”
I turn back to the wall and lower my upper body until my breasts touch the cold wall and my backside sticks out in the most shameless way imaginable. Arousal and discomfort wrestle inside me. My ears are open for the click of the camera—the single shot I promised Darcy—after which I’ll straighten up and march out of the room.
But that click never comes.
Instead, I hear Darcy put the camera down and lurch toward me. He grabs my wrists, shackling them to the wall, pushing me up, and leaning both of us into its hard surface. His large body presses against mine. He trails his mouth along the side of my face, chest squeezing against my back, groin nestled against my backside.
It’s as if he’s trying to get as close to me as humanly possible.
His free hand fondles my breasts, slides down, and lingers on my tummy. Heat pools in my pelvis in anticipation of its next stop. But instead of going further down, he glides it over my hips to my derriere. Darcy caresses it with the flat of his hand, softly at first and then in a more demanding manner, digging his fingers into my flesh.
I arch my back with the pleasure of it.
When his hand travels over my hips again, back to the front and down, I’m so ready it’s ridiculous. The second his fingers ascertain that fact, a guttural growl rises from his throat.
He bends his head to my ear. “I want you, Diane. I want you so much.”
These are trivial, overused words that millions of men have said to millions of women in the past. A few men have said them to me in the past. They’re nothing to write home about. They shouldn’t impress me. My knees shouldn’t wobble in response. I shouldn’t have to press my lips together so that my mouth doesn’t plead, Yes, please, take me, any way you want, just do it now!
Instead, I reach behind my back to palm him through his pants.
He moans and drops hot, toothy kisses to my neck and shoulders as I rub. Then he steps back. I hear the click of a belt being unbuckled, the crisp sound of a zipper, and a foil tearing. Had he planned for this to happen, or does he always have a condom on him? He steps closer, slides his knee between my legs and nudges them wider apart.
I stand on tiptoes to make his entry easier.
He wraps an arm around me and plunges in.
The sweetness of it almost unbearable.
My head falls back into the crook of his neck. I inhale him—that unique, masculine scent that’s so quintessentially Sebastian I can’t imagine him smelling any other way.
He stirs inside me.
I roll my hips to en
courage him.
“Diane,” he groans and begins to thrust, alternating sharp lunges with gentler strokes.
When his cadence picks up and we find a rhythm that’s just perfect, I lean back into his torso and let go of the last shreds of restraint. My legs start to shake, and I find myself moaning and saying his name.
“Diane… come for me,” he grates between his thrusts.
My inner muscles contract around him a few seconds later.
And as they do, long and hard, muddled words erupt from me that are half plea, half order. “Yes, Sebastian, don’t stop. Oh God, please, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop!”
NINETEEN
A question has been eating at me since I woke up ten minutes ago and found my bearings—Diane’s bed, her apartment, late Saturday morning. Following a short night. Short because we spent most of it fucking in the living room, in the hallway, and here in this bed.
I barely noticed that question when it arose as I was thinking of something else. But, for some reason, it stuck in my mind. It blitzed out all my morning routines and is now invading the areas of my brain normally reserved for strategic thinking and processing of financial data.
Diane stands by the window, gazing outside, completely oblivious to my turmoil. She’s wearing my shirt in lieu of a dressing gown. I was still asleep when she got up and put in on.
This burning question is killing me. All my neurons are currently working on it, desperate to figure out the answer before it’s too late. I wouldn’t go so far as to say my life depends on it, but my emotional and physical well-being certainly do. Perhaps even my sanity.
What I’m so desperate to know is whether Diane is commando under my shirt.
I can discern her nipples, so I know she didn’t put on her bra. But the cotton of my shirt is too opaque to see through. What’s worse, its weave is too tight to permit an educated guess regarding the presence of panty lines across her butt cheeks. If only she would bend down to pick something up, it would give me a fighting chance. But as things stand, my guesswork is perfectly ineffectual, and I’m scorching my neurons for nothing.
Would it be too rude to dig into the heap of our clothes on the floor and hunt for evidence? Last night, we undressed in the living room, so she must’ve fetched our clothes when she woke up. I could always pretend I’m looking for my own underwear. Except my boxers are in full view on top of that heap.
Damn.
Will she tell me if I ask her politely? Will she be sympathetic if I beg her to put me out of my misery? Or I should try a different tack and I announce that I need my shirt back? Will she take it off?
One thing is certain: If I do nothing, she’s going to pick up her clothes and head to the bathroom. That will mean I’ll never know. And I’ll have to live with that glaring gap in my knowledge for the rest of my life.
“Last night was a mistake,” Diane says without looking at me just as I’m about to stand up and do something radical such as slip my hands under the hem of that stupid shirt and get my answer.
It takes me a few moments to process her meaning. “I had the impression you enjoyed yourself.”
She still won’t turn toward me, but I can see her ears and cheeks color.
Good.
“I did,” she finally says. “And that’s the problem.”
“Why?”
She spins around. “We’re in a fake relationship that’s soon to become a fake marriage. That’s hard enough to handle. But if we start having sex…”
My thoughts exactly.
Until last night.
“Won’t it be easier?” I sit up and stare into her eyes. “It’ll actually make our fake love look more natural.”
“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “It’ll be too fucked up, even for me.”
I think I know what the real issue is here. “You’re afraid you’ll fall in love.”
“With you?” Her face contorts into a grimace. “You’re the last man in the world I could ever fall in love with.”
The vehemence of her denial would’ve been suspicious if the horror on her face were less sincere. I know Diane well enough by now to conclude she’s truly appalled at the notion of falling in love with me.
That rattles my ego somewhat.
But I remind myself that I, too, would find the prospect of falling in love with her unpalatable. Diane is a radical leftist and an undereducated have-not. When I identified and hired her, she was lower in the societal food chain than most every person in my employ. Her father tried to elevate his family to a better life. But he failed due to poor business skills.
And yes, I’m aware that part of the reason he failed was me—the highborn have who crushed him like an annoying bug. And who believes that the best social order is when the elites are at the helm and the masses are at the oars.
“Excellent,” I say. “I have no intention of falling in love with you, either. But I don’t see why we can’t have some fun while we’re contractually bound to each other.”
“My mind is made up.” Diane gives me a hard stare. “I don’t want this to happen again, and you have to respect that.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Not a problem.”
An image of her face, flushed with arousal and pleasure as I stroke her core, pops into my head. Then another image of her moaning as I push into her. Ah, the sweetness of being inside her! I’m not prepared to give that up just yet. The desire will get stale, as it usually does, in just a few weeks. As for feelings, I’m perfectly safe from them. Even with Ingrid, whom I intended to marry, I never experienced that all-consuming emotion they call love. By the time my contract with Diane expires, I’ll surely be through with her.
But not yet.
At this point in time, I want more of her sweet body, her pretty face and even her sharp tongue. She arouses me as much as she entertains me. And I know I arouse her as much as I repulse her.
Anyway, arguing now is pointless. She says she doesn’t want to have sex with me again. Fine. So be it. I’m not going to beg her. Instead, I’m going to lie low and wait. Starting next Saturday and for the rest of the summer, Diane will live under my roof and sleep in my bedroom.
Who knows what will happen?
“When I move in with you,” Diane says as if reading my mind, “do I absolutely have to share your bedroom?”
“It’s in the contract.”
“I know that. It’s just… If I sneak out and sleep next door, no one will know.” She gives me a pleading look.
“Let me ask you something. Have you ever slept in a house with live-in help?”
She shakes her head.
I sigh. “I thought so.”
She smirks, and I realize my remark sounded more arrogant than I’d intended. But hey, Diane considers me an arrogant ass anyway, so I guess I’m just living up to her expectations. Anyway, I was trying to make a point.
“You see,” I say. “You can fool your family—parents, children, siblings, cousins, grandparents… Grandmas can be perceptive, but even they can be duped. Who you can’t fool is the people who serve you breakfast in the morning, make your bed, and clean your bathroom. They know everything.”
“Do they?”
“Trust me, they do.”
She turns away and stares out the window.
I’m sure she understands, but I want to make myself crystal clear.
“In addition to me,” I say, “there are five other people living in my town house. Some of them you’ve met already, others you will the day you move in.”
Diane gives me a sidelong glance, her expression wary.
“If we don’t sleep in the same room,” I say, “they’ll know. I can’t risk that.”
“OK,” she says. “Not a problem.”
The next second, she picks up my boxers from the top of the pile and sets them on the bed. I watch, forgetting to breathe. She pulls my jeans from the bottom of the pile and places them next to my boxers. Then she grabs the rest of the pile, without sorting it, and heads to
the bathroom.
“Sorry I borrowed your shirt,” she calls from the hallway. “It won’t happen again.”
TWENTY
The majordome opens the door and bows his head. “Welcome to Darcy House, mademoiselle. Everyone is thrilled about your arrival.”
“Thank you, Octave.” I clench my fists to stop myself from giving him a hug and a cheek kiss. “I’m thrilled to be here.”
On my first couple of visits, I cheek kissed him. Then Darcy explained to me it was inappropriate and it made them uncomfortable. So, I’ve learned to keep my body language in check, hoping that my friendliness shows in the smile and the tone of my voice.
And that’s how I greet the rest of the inhabitants of the mansion on rue Vieille du Temple—Lynette, a dynamic woman in her late fifties who helps Octave run the house; Michel, the cook with a proud beer belly that he calls his professional deformation; the shy maid, Lou; and Samir, the smiley gardener/handyman.
Samir carries my suitcases inside.
“Mademoiselle. Monsieur.” Lynette hands Darcy and me a glass of bubbly. “This calls for a celebration.”
Darcy touches his glass to mine. “It certainly does. Welcome to your future home, my dear.”
I produce a saccharine smile. Someone, give me a Légion d’Honneur medal for not rolling my eyes.
We spend a few minutes in the foyer, sipping champagne and chatting with the staff. I insist that they call me by my first name. Lynette, Michel, and Samir promise they will. Octave says he can’t. He’ll call me mademoiselle and, once Darcy and I are married, he’ll switch to madame. He apologizes profusely for his refusal to comply with my request, but he’s just old-fashioned like that. It can’t be helped.
When our glasses are empty and Lynette carries them away, Darcy takes my hand. “Let me show you around properly.”
As we tour the airy hôtel particulier, Darcy explains that it was built almost four hundred years ago for a royal paramour. It changed hands many times and fell into disrepair in the nineteenth century when the aristocracy abandoned Le Marais. But his smart grandfather Bernard bought the mansion from a Swiss couple in the sixties, just before the neighborhood became hip again, and had it restored to combine the original grandeur with modern comforts.
