by ANDREA SMITH
I sat at my desk for several moments after the call, examining my motives for this decision I’d made on my own, which clearly was something new for me.
Finally, I got up and walked out into Darcy’s darkened office. I noticed that one of her sweaters was hanging on the back of her chair. My fingers gently caressed the soft wool knit. I pulled it from the chair, and rubbed the sleeve up under my chin. I could smell the faint scent of Darcy’s perfume.
My driver had taken me to the address of the mortuary outside of Paris my mother had given me. It was nearly midnight by the time I’d arrived. Once inside, I immediately spotted her sitting in a dimly lit corner of the huge room, wringing her hands.
“Mother,” I greeted her, bestowing a quick, stiff kiss to her cheek as expected. “I’m sorry I’m too late.”
She took my arm, leaning against me for support. “Easton, I didn’t expect your father to pass so quickly. I thought there’d be time. He wanted to meet you, to tell you things,” she sobbed softly. I bristled at her casual use of the word “father” when describing the man who’d apparently donated his half of the chromosomes to my cause and nothing more.
“I’m here to keep my part of the deal,” I clarified, as she continued nudging me towards the closed door of his viewing room in this gothic mortuary, which frankly reminded me of something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel.
“But certainly you’re curious as to your royal bloodline?” she asked, pulling back from me in order to gaze up into my face. “I owe you an explanation. I want you to have it.”
“What possible difference does it make, Mother?”
“It’s your heritage to claim, Easton. It’s your birthright. Come, follow me. The mortuary has taken considerable risk in allowing us in at this time of night. We’ve no time to waste…”
We entered the room where his body lay in state. It looked like a fucking royal wake. I wanted to scoff out loud at the absurdity of it all. Royal bloodline, my ass. There was no French monarchy and hadn’t been for more than two hundred years.
She hurried off to where the opened casket was at the front of the chapel. Floor candles and endless flower arrangements adorned the walls of the room. I watched as she leaned in and smoothed his coloured robes. I could only guess it was some sort of royal burial ritual.
I stood next to her, watching tears roll down her face and then drop into the casket and on to the body of this man who, according to her, had fathered me. I felt nothing.
“Easton,” she whispered as if there were crowds of people around, “This is your father, Constantine Xavier de Conti, Marquis of the Sovereign House of Capet.”
I looked at the man in the casket. He was older, much older than my mother. He still had thick hair that was graying, but I could tell it’d been dark like mine. His arms were crossed over his chest like the crossing of swords. There was a crested ring on one finger that caught my eye. It bore the royal insignia of a titled Marquis.
“Go ahead, son. Take it.”
I turned abruptly, peering down at my mother. Her tears had left a wet path on both cheeks, but her eyes were brilliant as they looked up into mine, an almost pleading expression on her face.
“Take the goddam ring, Easton,” she said, her voice now louder. “It’s your birthright. He had no other children. Only you. He wanted you to have it. It was his last dying wish and I promised him you’d have it.”
I continued watching her, wondering why it was so damn important to her that I have his ring, this symbol of royalty that no longer had significance in modern society.
She blinked several times, wringing her hands. “You’re a titled Earl by blood and for thirty-five years I was nothing more than a whore to him that he claimed he loved. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him go six feet under still wearing it. I’m the one who earned it—for you. Now take it,” she coaxed.
I reached over and slipped the ring off of his cold, stiff finger, examining it in the candlelight for a moment, before slipping it into the pocket of my trousers. I did it for her—well, maybe for me as well. The bastard owed me something, though I’d be damned if I’d ever lay claim to my royal title, or wear the ring for that matter. That was about her, not about me. She smiled up at me approvingly, leaned over, and kissed his cold lips.
“Jusqu’à ce que nous nous réunissons à nouveau mon amour, sachez que je serai toujours vous aiment Constantine,” she said to ears that couldn’t hear her. She brushed her fingers against his cheek and then turned to me.
“Come, Easton. I’ll ride back with you. I need to tell you how it all happened.”
chapter 45
It was a perfect day.
That’s the thought that kept running through my mind as I found myself completely sprawled out over what was becoming my favorite place in the Presidential Suite at the St. Regis Hotel: the deliciously oversized couch in the sitting room. My “stomach bug” had not made an appearance in three weeks. I felt healthy, energetic and extremely happy with the time and attention Easton had been devoting to me lately.
Yes, I decided, being right here, right now was the perfect place to be. Kicked back on this luscious sofa, an open book perched against my knees, sneaking peeks at Easton who was sitting across the room in the overstuffed chair, pecking away on his laptop.
Shirtless.
I was pretending to be reading a book. I mean sure, I’d actually started out reading it, but every time I heard his magical fingers tapping away on the keyboard, or heard him sigh—completely unaware he’d done it, or saw him run a hand through his gorgeously disheveled hair in my peripheral vision, I had to avert my eyes from him.
My favorite was when he stretched.
Fuuuuck.
The jury was still out as to whether he was aware of me watching him, because I made sure to oh-so-subtly glance down at my book whenever he shifted or started to turn my way … which seemed to be happening more frequently as this Saturday afternoon dwindled by. This time, when I glanced down at the perpetual page sixty-seven of my book, I felt his gaze linger.
Caught!
I felt my lips begin to curl up at the corners, knowing he was now staring at me. I looked up to see those gunmetal eyes lock with my blue ones. But where I was facing away from the window, he was facing it directly, causing the 2 p.m. sunlight to reflect in his eyes, making them look like dark fireworks.
“You haven’t turned the page in a while, love,” he told me, as if it was a secret. “What’s wrong? Having trouble with the big words?”
I gave him a soft smirk, my eyes still on his and gave the page a turn for good measure. But I saw the way he was looking at me, his eyes lowering to the thin tank top I was wearing. He was aware that I was bra-less, because it was he who had refused to give it back to me this morning after we’d played.
I was so onto him.
“Don’t even think about it, Mr. Matthews,” I scolded lightly, knowing what it did to him when I referred to him by that.
He let in a lazy inhale, his eyes now deepening to a yet-unnamed shade of gray. Resting his jaw on a propped-up fist, he replied, “Think about what, Ms. Sheridan? And you didn’t answer my question.”
I raised the book up in front of me, “Small font,” I explained innocently. Placing the book facedown on my stomach, I languidly raised my now free hands to my hair and started to pile it up on top of my head into a knotted bun. The mid-June heat and humidity had found its way to the top floor of the St. Regis.
His eyes followed my movements.
“And you know what I meant when I said, ‘don’t even think about it,’” I told him, trying to fight back a smile as his gaze was now fastened on my exposed neck.
“I assure you, I don’t,” he responded softly. “Please elaborate for me.”
Easton slowly stood up, leaving his laptop on the chair, open and forgotten, and began a leisurely pace towards the couch. Looking up at him, I watched as he knelt down next to where my head rested on some pil
lows. His hands made their way to my bun, and the elastic securing it, and gently released the heavy waves. Decorating my shoulders with my now-freed hair, and tucking a piece behind my ear, he leaned in and whispered, “I like it better down.”
He leaned back, supporting his weight on his calves, and gave my body a slow perusal. It was a different kind of perusal from what I was used to, though. Instead of the hunger that usually made a home on his face when he’d study me, this time it was like he was memorizing me—as if he was pocketing my curves, features, and errant freckles, planning on saving them for a rainy day.
His hands surveyed me next, distracting me from my thoughts. I watched as he took my book and casually tossed it to the floor. He then began to inch my shirt up, placing a soft kiss on my thankfully still-flat belly. And my nerves caught fire as his tongue followed his lips.
“That was a good book,” I tried to fake-scowl at him, but he wasn’t paying attention to my face as he quickly pushed my shirt up over my breasts, sucking in a sharp breath at my exposed nipples. Raising himself and leaning over me, he rested a hand on the back of the couch and the other on the arm. Instead of acknowledging my comment, he used his mouth to lightly lick around my hardening nipple. ”Easton,” I inhaled.
“Tell me about the book,” he replied, right before sucking hard on the tender tip.
I hissed through my teeth. “God,” I whimpered.
His mouth kept nursing on my flesh, going back and forth from hard suckles to light nips. A hand now kneading the other one, lightly pinching and rolling my nipple. I felt his denim-clad knee come up and rest between my legs.
Easton’s mouth released my nipple, making a slight sucking sound. “A book about God, Miss Sheridan? That wasn’t the Bible, was it?” Both of his hands were now massaging my breasts. Watching his hands and the flesh beneath them, he continued. “Because if you’re in need of a prayer, I’d rather first give you something to confess.”
He moved his knee higher, to where it was now resting against my pussy. His mouth was nuzzling the side of my neck.
“Move,” he whispered roughly.
My breaths were getting a little faster. “Wh-what?” I tried to concentrate on his request, but his tongue was now licking my pulse.
He moved his knee even higher against me, making me let out an audible moan at the contact.
“Move,” he said again, nipping at my earlobe, the words no longer a request as they ribboned into an order. “Move your wet pussy against me, Darcy,” he clarified harshly.
Holy shit.
I raised my hips, and hesitantly brought them back down, feeling the friction it caused between our clothes. I repeated the action, this time rubbing up harder against his thigh.
“Mmmm...” I mewled when he moved, pressing his knee right over my clit. My hips followed the action, and soon I began panting as we set a rhythm.
He bit down on my right nipple, soothing the abraded skin with his tongue. My rhythm became more frantic, as I was reaching for the edge of a shallow climax. ”What’s wrong, baby?” Easton asked after a sharp pull of his teeth.
“I can’t…” my words stumbled. “Easton … I need … more…”
I felt his body swiftly leave mine. Opening my eyes, I saw and felt his hands on the button of my loose shorts. Quickly moving the fabric down my legs, he dropped the shorts onto the floor. ”Here,” he said softly, bringing his mouth to where my panties were probably drenched by now. I felt his warm breath through the cotton before he took the wet fabric into his mouth. His eyes were on mine as he sucked on the dampness. ”Jesus,” he said, letting it go, and bringing my panties down my legs. “I’ll never forget how sweet you taste.”
Before I could register his words, his hands were back on my hips and were picking me up and turning me over to where I was now lying on my stomach. They stayed on my hips as he slid me down to where my legs were now hanging over the arm of the couch. Without any sort of preamble, his mouth was once again on my pussy, sucking as his hands ran down my back before gripping my ass.
“Fuck, love” he hummed. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Always for me,” he lapped his tongue through my folds from bottom to top. “Just for me.” He tightened his grip, flexing his fingers hard on my cheeks as he took his tongue as far as it could go into my pussy.
My hips started moving against the arm of the couch, stimulating my clit, and trying to get Easton’s tongue to move deeper.
He began to slow his tongue, moving one hand around to my stomach, drifting lower to where it was now settling right above where I needed it. His tongue stopped completely. I let out a frustrated moan as Easton asked in his low, sexy voice, “Where do you want this hand, Darcy?” I felt his fingers flex below me. ”Tell me,” he whispered savagely against the small of my back.
“On my pussy,” I gave him a flustered reply against the couch cushions, trying to subtly shimmy my hips to get his hand to move a little further south.
He obliged what felt like a friggin’ millimeter down. I heard his soft laugh. His other hand was rubbing up my back. “It’s already on your pussy, love.”
I felt a finger lightly rub my clit before disappearing. “That’s your clit, love. Right on top of that sweet cunt of yours.” Another light flicker of his finger. “Is that where you want it?”
“Yes.” I was panting now; I could feel a light sheen of sweat begin to ignite my skin. “Please, Easton … fuck. I need you to rub my clit. Please,” I groaned desperately.
He answered me by rolling the delicate flesh between two fingers. Another pair of fingers began thrusting relentlessly into my pussy. The orgasm was building too fast now … too hard.
“Easton!” I was being electrified, my nerves humming with fire, my back bowing up in the intensity. For a minute, I lived in heaven. My hands curled up into fists, but not wanting to fight the stretches of lightning that reached to them.
Never in my life had I felt this amazingly satisfied, so deliciously depleted. And the entire time, Easton was showing me that he was the only one who could bring me there.
He was quietly ruining me, wrecking me, shattering me on a low pulse for any other man. He owned me, and I was happily being captured.
I felt his hands move my hair to the side as he placed the softest kiss on the back of my neck, letting my skin keep it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, right before lightly turning me over, and gently picking me up to cradle me as he carried me into his—our—bedroom suite. He carefully set me down onto the soft mattress. I loved how he did that; handled me physically like I was made out of glass … but still took me to physical limits, knowing that I wouldn’t break.
He unfastened his pants slowly, making a modest show of it, because he knew that I loved to watch. Through thoroughly sated eyes, I watched as Easton brought his pants down to the floor, followed by his boxers, letting me see how hard his cock was and silently letting me know that I was the cause of that.
Slightly dipping the mattress, his body hovered over the length of mine. He placed his weight on his forearms as he gazed at my face in that memorizing way he’d done earlier. Skin to skin, I let him. I didn’t know why he was looking at me like that, but I loved the feel of it, knowing that I was being cherished to a level that I didn’t yet understand.
Once again, he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love your hair,” he whispered into the late afternoon. His eyes were looking straight into mine now, as his fingers brushed my lower lip. “I love your smile.” I rewarded him with one, kissing his fingers in the process.
God, listening to his murmured words is amazing.
“I love your strength. And how you’re never able to stop yourself from voicing your opinions, because I love your words.” He quietly continued as his fingers swept lightly over my nipples, making their feather touches to my ribs. ”I love the way you scrunch up your nose like this,” he said, making a ridiculous scrunched-up face that made me let out a
series of giggles, “when you’re trying to hold something back.”
“And Jesus, love…” He brought his forehead down to mine, as his hand was now drawing idle stars on the skin between my hip bones. “I love your laugh. If I could,” I felt his body draw back, and I breathed in the feeling of feminine contentment as I felt his cock tease the opening where I wanted him, “I’d make sure you’d always be laughing. And making sure that your smile was never far behind.”
Is he about to tell me…?
He rotated his hips, his piercing teasing over my clit. ”Easton…” all thoughts from before were scattered across the room as I felt him tease my slick entrance.
His lips skated over my forehead. “I hope that you’ll always be happy, Darcy,” he whispered, right as he entered me in one full thrust.
“Oh…” I moaned, raising my hips. He kept the pace slow, pulling back, and re-entering me in single thrusts. He was done teasing me, but the sensations that became crumbled shards of sensation through my body kept me biting my lip, chasing the release. ”Faster, Easton,” I told him, before he brought his lips back to mine.
He kept his pace. “No, love,” he pulled back. “Just feel it.” He calmed me. “Let it come to you.”
“Mmmm,” was my response as his lips traveled to my breasts. He didn’t suck hard this time, instead went with a gentle pulling that left my flesh with just his lips. I felt it building, my muscles beginning to shake as Easton kept his measured momentum. My nerves were beginning to fray at the ends, my brows pulling together at the delicious torture.
“Please…” staggered from my lips, almost soundless.
He changed the angle, lifting my knees, so his piercing was now brushing my clit with every heavy thrust. The release was coming faster to me now, my hands white-knuckling the sheets. His hands made their way to my breasts. ”Go over for me, sweetheart,” he said both roughly and gently, right before I felt the hard pinch on my nipples. That was all I needed.
Oh … my God!
