by Roxy Harte
I can only assume I look as panicked as I feel.
He shrugs and challenges with his gaze, looking so masculine, so predatory…and laughing. His gaze absolutely holds laughter. At me? With me?
I’m not laughing.
Frankie leans into my back, resting his chin on my shoulder. He whispers, “Are you afraid? Are you awaiting my permission?”
I turn my head and see the same challenging smirk on his face.
“I want you to enjoy him,” he says. “There is time for roles later. No topping, no bottoming, just you and him, exploring each other. Get to know him.”
Get to know him? Intimately, right? Not just chatting? I swallow hard, trapped between the laughter of two men, feeling completely out of my league. What am I doing here? On this plane? I should be at work. I should be…bored out of my mind right now.
No. I’ve spent long enough being good. Is that what I’ve been doing as part of the normal, vanilla world? Being good? While my philandering husband screwed coeds? I push down my anger, not helpful on this trip, but still feel guilt. I have responsibilities to others. Like my children. Am I seriously considering what they don’t know about Mommy won’t hurt them?
I push back against Frankie. “This isn’t as easy for me as it was when I was twenty-something.”
He kisses the side of my face and a thrill of pleasure speeds through my veins.
“I never expected it to be easy. I do assume you still desire to please me above all else though.”
Damn. Do I?
Fuck.
I. Am. Not. The. Same. Person.
“Sit in his lap. What can it hurt? You have your clothes on, he has his clothing on. Get to know him better. It is easier this way than forced nude together in the backseat as we drive through the country to the estate, am I wrong?”
Oh god. Easier. Yes.
I stand, pivot and sit my ass on Pierre-Louis’ knee. I feel awkward. I let out a deep breath, not looking at either man as I try to draw from a reserve of fortitude. This is every woman’s dream, right? I should be doing cartwheels over the opportunity. I glance up, not at Frankie. Looking at Frankie this second would be too much. I lock on Pierre-Louis’ gaze and don’t find laughter or teasing. I find patience. Perhaps even empathy. He runs his hands up my back in a gentle caress, easing his fingers into my tense shoulder muscles when he finds them strung tight. He rubs softly, not sensually, and that is good. He is sexy enough and it is difficult already, sitting in his lap, without him trying to seduce.
Massaging harder, he elicits deep appreciation, though I don’t say it. I think he realizes. I lose track of time when he turns me so both of his hands can knead and rub. I am content, my eyes closed, and when I feel him pulling me back against his chest, I stiffen a little. He molds his body into mine. “Sh-sh-sh, relax,” he says, his arms going around to hold me close to him. “Just getting to know one another, oui?”
I don’t open my eyes, and do the best I can to let the tension run out of my limbs. His hands roam over my stomach and ribs, making me self-conscious of the extra twenty pounds, but then he wouldn’t know that, only Frankie would know.
I move my hands over his, catching his wrists and pulling so his arms and mine are crossed over my stomach. His fingers play over my ribs and I’m okay with that. Not one hundred percent comfortable, but better.
He kisses the side of my face and I think he seems more mature than twenty-eight, his patience earning him bonus points. I think we should have gotten all of this getting to know each other stuff out of the way when I was drunk on Bordeaux, but then I wouldn’t remember and I would still be just as awkward.
He slides his hand under the edge of my shirt to find bare skin. The warm touch is startling. Hot against my skin. No way to escape the sensation of so much heat traveling over my flesh, rubbing my stomach, teasing my ribs. His other hand joins the first, both roaming, and I am at a loss with what to do with mine even though they are resting on my thighs. It seems I should be doing something, touching him. Stopping him. I don’t move, keeping my own hands where they are and relaxing into the sensation of him touching me, his caress exquisite. And sensual.
I don’t think about the what next. I just stay wrapped in the delight his fingers are causing my flesh. I appreciate that his touch doesn’t stray to my breasts or lower, and I am grateful he is consciously giving me time to get used to him, but then after a while I want him to explore my womanly places. I pray he won’t make me ask, or worse, beg. I arch my back, moving my hips, and he pushes me forward, staying molded around me, readjusting us. My head drops forward, exposing the long line of my neck to him as my hair shifts with the motion. I feel limp as a dishrag but oh so horny. He doesn’t disappoint me, dropping a line of kisses over the back of my neck that leaves me trembling. I realize only after a moment of lost-in-space utter pleasure that he is unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. He adjusts my body backward, taking my shirt by the tail and tugging it over my head in a smooth move. I gasp but he doesn’t stop. He holds me tight around the waist and I see Frankie has already knelt and is unbuckling my sandals. Once my shoes are off, he pulls down my pants.
The cabin of the jet suddenly seems chilly as I recline against Pierre-Louis’ warmth in my lace bra and panties.
Without a word Frankie returns to his seat. To. Watch. Oh shit.
Pierre-Louis kisses my shoulder, my neck. Watching Frankie watching reminds me of the past, parties he would allow me to participate in only so much—dangling me like a ripe cherry perhaps—before pulling me away. It makes me feel strange that he has actually suggested a ménage, implied Pierre-Louis and I will be lovers. I wonder if I will watch the two of them do more than kiss. I wonder—even though I know Frankie tops and Pierre-Louis bottoms in their relationship—who actually does whom in the bedroom. I feel myself blushing. These are not thoughts I should be having right now.
Pierre-Louis slides his hand beneath the waistband of my lace panties and suddenly my attention is diverted back to the man whose lap I sit in. I turn my head to look at the man touching me instead of the man watching us. His blue eyes flash at me, making me feel he is glad he has my undivided attention again. He teasingly nips my shoulder, a slight distraction to take my mind off his fingers traveling deeper inside my panties. Does he really think he can take my mind off realizing he is finding me slippery and ready? His fingers tease through my folds and my hips respond with small rocks against his thigh.
I never dreamed anything like this would ever happen. Even after the gift from Frankie, even after my mind adjusted to the thought I might entertain the notion of going to see Frankie. I had imagined returning to Frankie’s arms, perhaps as a part-time lover, as if I believed he would actually allow so little from me. My brain would not have been able to wrap around this…but my body isn’t having the same difficulty. I want him.
As much as I ever wanted Frankie.
I want Pierre-Louis.
I want him to fuck me, but I also want to find out what naughtiness we can get ourselves into. My mind runs amok with images and ideas. What we could do together…
I see him topping me.
I see me equally topping him and honestly the second run of fantasies—him on his knees before me, licking my stilettos, me grabbing his short crop of hair and jerking his head back to make him look at me—is preferable.
His fingers find my clit, rolling over, teasing, drawing moans from my mouth. God, oh god.
Frankie said no role, no topping, no bottoming, but in my mind I am topping him. I am asking him to please Mistress. Where in the hell did that come from?
I smack his face and tell him he will have to try harder to please me…
“Ohgodohgodohgod.”
Chapter Six
In Chicago I am well used to driving past an array of varying-sized McMansions. Frankie’s manor is a fine specimen of what a Chicago mansion looked like pre-cookie-cutter architecture. An obvious show of wealth doesn’t astound me. Or at least it never did before r
iding through the French countryside where the homes of even the moderately well-off resemble castles. I gape…at the openness of the fields, at the sheer architectural beauty of the villages and châteaux, at the vineyards. Frankie’s childhood home, Château de Hart, is no exception. I gape. Openly. The three-story brick manor is timeless and ancient, it is everything I expected and a hundred times more. The brick is a softly faded red, the shutters covering the windows freshly painted crisp white. It is both foreboding and inviting. Holy shit, he grew up here?
He points.
East. “Stables.”
West. “Vineyards.”
North. “Outdoor swimming pool, the gardens and l’orangerie.”
South. “Caretaker’s house and chai.”
He catches my gaze. “There are sixty-four acres, you have free roam of all of them. Try to not get lost and do not leave the grounds without an escort—either myself, Pierre-Louis or I have three trusted employees. Of course, you will ask permission should you require doing so.”
I don’t bat an eye even though I am shocked. I’d forgotten. So many restrictions, so little freedom. Can I really do this again? He smiles, motioning toward the house. “When you are ready, I’ll show you around.”
I try to take in the view of all that surrounds me. In the distance, ponies are romping in a field. I shade my eyes, scanning and easily finding where the vineyards begin. The sheer beauty of this country setting is too much. Too idyllic. As much as I dreamed…and more. I would very much like a closer look at the stables and I suppose at some point I will be given a tour of the chai. Part of the dream I had when we were together before was to help him with the day-to-day operations of the winery…
Regret for a lost past twists my heart. I reach out my hand to be pulled along inside. He announces rooms as we peek inside each on the ground floor. “Entrance hall, grand salon, dining hall, kitchen, office, library, interior courtyard.”
It is too much magnificence. My entire Cape Cod would fit inside the interior courtyard. He points through the windows at the swimming pool, which is sparkling clean and well cared for. Just beyond the pool, the shining glass of the greenhouse, what he referred to as l’orangerie, is visible. He explains, “Nude sunbathing on nice days is expected.” At my look of stark horror, he amends, “Unless we have guests.”
“You have maids? Butlers?” I stammer.
He smiles. “My employees are well used to the way my household is run. They won’t pay any attention whatsoever. The house rules are the same here as in Chicago. Both you and Pierre-Louis will be nude at all times unless we have visitors. Below us there are three wine cellars and of course the dungeon that has been converted to a rather entertaining playroom.”
The dungeon, of course. I shiver, expecting that he is teasing me, betting he isn’t. I sincerely hope he doesn’t expect me to disrobe immediately.
“Ready to see the upper floors?” he asks.
I hate to be rude but I don’t think I can take more tour in my five-inch heels. They are beautiful but painful. He starts toward the staircase. “Come, come.”
I suck up the pain and follow him. Pierre-Louis requests permission to stay behind and make certain the kitchen is in good order for our stay. Frankie explains as we climb the stairs, “While we are here, Pierre-Louis will do much of the cooking and baking. It is what he enjoys. So, what is it you enjoy?”
I pause on the steps. What do I enjoy? It takes me a moment before I answer, “I still like to read.”
“Ah, oui, my little bookworm. You will be happy to know the library is on the second floor.”
Reaching the top step, he turns left and starts the tour. “There are thirteen bedrooms, seven on this floor, six on the floor above us. We will share this bedroom,” he says as we enter a large suite. A wide window bank opens onto a balcony much like his bedroom in Chicago. He points to a second set of doors. “Through there is the bathroom. It will have a bedroom similar to this one on the other side. Pierre-Louis will stay there for now.”
For now? Eyeing the supersized bed in the room, which was obviously built with three or more in mind, I don’t ask. I turn to face him, letting out a small sigh. Stepping closer, he brushes his fingertips over my cheek before pulling me toward him for a kiss. Our mouths lock and I remember the hours we once spent just kissing. He steals my breath away, making me ache with want. Releasing me he asks, “You will let me share you with Pierre-Louis tonight?”
I understand it is not a question but a request. Still, I nod my assent, making him smile. He kisses me again and I find myself wishing we were here alone, no Pierre-Louis, but that dream was the one I walked away from. I had Frankie all to myself. Once. Threw it away. It seems my future, if it is to include Frankie, will also include Pierre-Louis.
You will let me share you with Pierre-Louis tonight? My mind is flying over the possibilities.
“You may disrobe now.”
I pull from his grasp and walk over to the bed, where I sit on the upholstered bench at the foot to remove my shoes. I place the shoes on the floor before standing to shimmy from my jeans and pull my top over my head. I strip for him without self-consciousness. How many times have I stripped for this man? I start to remove my bra but he lifts a hand, signaling for me to wait. He motions for me to turn. I turn for him slowly, not once but twice, waiting for him to say “Stop.” Isn’t it funny how memories long forgotten return? This was one such moment. Turning for him, letting him see the handiwork of each mark he has left on my body. I am surprised when he says “Stop” after only two turns. He says, “Remove the rest.”
I slide out of my bra and panties, then stand unmoving as he looks.
It is hard to stand under such scrutiny, so much easier when my body was in motion. With my body still, my mind is in motion, thinking too much about how he sees me. If he is disappointed by the extra pounds, the extra curves. He steps closer and his hand drops to the soft, girly curve of my belly. His fingers trace the deepest groove of my not so obvious stretch marks. I have four from my pregnancy, all faded to soft silvery-white lines, but one is dented and he found my imperfection immediately. I tighten my jaw, stiffen my spine. Did he expect me to be as beautiful as I was when I left, when I was twenty-six and at the height of my physical perfection?
He surprises me when he drops to one knee and kisses the scar. “I did not give you this mark.”
“No,” I whisper.
“I regret that, ma belle, because it is the most beautiful mark on your body.”
When he stands and walks away, I am shocked, even more so when he exits the room, leaving me alone. He leaves me not knowing what to think, not knowing if or when he will come back. I don’t follow him, though I wish to. Damn it, I’d forgotten how hard it is to be a silent, compliant, obedient sex slave…
I touch the dent low on my belly, remembering the flash of heat and itch one particular day late in my pregnancy. The most beautiful mark. Frankie obviously has regrets too. It pains me to believe he might have changed his mind about children had I stayed, that we might have formed a child together. I shake my head. Silly thoughts. “The past is what it is.” There’s no sense in regret and I love the daughters I did have and can’t imagine life without them.
I am left looking around the lavishly decorated room. My bags have not only been delivered but unpacked, with all of my intimate clothing put away in drawers and my slacks, tops and dresses hung in the armoire. My shoes, jewelry and toiletries are also organized. Invisible servants. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see I am not alone after all. He said his staff was well trained. I’ll say.
I open my purse and take out my cell phone, carrying it with me out onto the balcony. A brilliant sun falls over my nakedness, warming me. I sit on an upholstered chair and scroll through my phone, wanting to talk to my daughters. No, I need to talk to my daughters. A dose of reality is definitely in order, especially now that I am once again the very naked property of François de Hart.
“Mommy.” Ellie answ
ers, sounding much happier than the last time we spoke.
“Hi, beautiful.” I sound high-pitched and nervous, probably because I am sitting out on a balcony—naked. Will I ever be able to get used to this again? I go back into the bedroom and rummage through a drawer until I find a comfortable shorts-and-shirt outfit to wear, dressing while we talk. The whole lounging around the house naked thing was fine when I was twenty-something, now it is uncomfortable, especially while talking to my daughters. “How’s the boat?”
“Dreadful. We both got seasick and had to disembark.” She giggles. “It was horrible, we were puking because of the motion sickness and then we started sympathy puking for each other. You should have seen it.”
“Mm, the visual is enough, thanks,” I assure her, laughing and thinking it must be genetics. “So what’s the new plan? Did you see a doctor for some motion sickness pills?”
Her voice is full of disappointment when she says, “You didn’t see my blog yet? We’ve joined up with a bus tour for a scenic drive through Italy. Then France. Then Spain. After that? Who knows.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, feeling sympathetic, knowing a group bus tour is as far from an exciting Mediterranean cruise as night and day. I promise, “I’ll look at your blog tonight, but that’s actually why I called. Is your sister there beside you?”
“Of course. What’s wrong?” Her voice switches from bored and desperate to concern in seconds. She sounds so much like her father…
I assure her nothing is wrong before asking her to put her cell on speaker. “I don’t want you to worry, but I’ve decided to take a trip myself. I’m actually in France.”
“You’re planning on spying on us,” Ells accuses.
“Oh, Mommy. Really? France? France isn’t far at all.” Bree exudes then yells to the others, “Mom’s in France,” and I assume she is making the announcement to my parents, knowing I’ve assumed correctly when I hear my mother in the background, “France? Your mother is in France?”
