ProdigalSlave

by Roxy Harte

  I back away, shaking my head. “I’ve only just returned to you. I want you—not him.”

  “It is okay for you to want us both. You desire him.”

  “No,” I deny, but it isn’t the truth and we both know that. “I’m curious about him only. I wonder what it is about him that you love him so.”

  He pulls me close, wraps an arm around my waist and grips my hair in his other hand so that he can jerk my head back. He kisses me senseless. Damn. I feel as though I passed a test. Was he insecure I would want Pierre-Louis instead of him? I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer. His erection presses solidly into my thigh. When he releases me, he says, “After we tour the vines, I want you to shower and get dressed. Pierre-Louis is going to show you around the countryside the next few days.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear. “A small holiday for the two of you to get to know each other the way I know each of you.”

  I try to pull away but he holds me tight around the waist. I argue, “This is insane. Absurd. I already told you—”

  He silences me with two fingers pressed to my lips. “I will hear no more. You will go on a holiday with Pierre-Louis to get to know who he is. That is all.”

  My eyes narrow. I’m not certain I understand. “Could you clarify what is expected?”

  He shrugs. “I have no expectations. Pierre-Louis will have no expectations.”

  “And if he tries to,” I look down at my wet toes, heart fluttering, mind galloping away on a wild stallion of lust, considering all of the possibilities, “seduce me?”

  He chuckles, lifting my chin. “I have no doubt. Give yourself permission to enjoy his seduction. He is very good at giving pleasure. He is very romantic, a lover of life. I will not command you to have sex with him, nor will I forbid it. I only assume the natural course of events.”

  He kisses me before taking my hand to complete our tour of the vines.

  So, what? Master has spoken? Obey without question? “I don’t want to do this.”

  “It is not a choice.”

  “If I refuse to go?”

  “The staff will pack your things.”

  I’ll be forced to leave. I knew as much but I had to hear the words. There is no room for democracy in our relationship. I fight back tears. I do not want to be seduced by Pierre-Louis. I do not want my suspicions confirmed that my heart is fickle. No, not my heart. Never my heart. Just my pussy.

  “What do you fear, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte? Not even Cassiopeia? I can’t stop the sob. “I don’t want to lose you. Again.”

  “Then you obey. Without question. Simple.”

  “Yes, Master.” My eyes drop to the ground.

  “And Charlotte?”

  Charlotte. Still? “Yes, Master?” I don’t look up.

  “You will burn the robe on your return to the house.”

  I gasp. But this is my favorite robe. Briana and Ellie gave it to me for Mother’s Day several years ago. A tear slides down my cheek. “Yes, Master.”

  I turn and run from him, not caring that twigs and stones are jabbing my feet. My heart is breaking over what I must do but it is my own damn fault. Why do I keep breaking the simplest rules?

  I am out of breath when I exit the vineyards but still run across the lawn toward the house. The scent of smoke leads me to a trash-burning barrel behind the kitchen. A man I don’t recognize is turning the contents with a pitchfork.

  I strip and hold the silk robe against my cheek. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I could leave. I could go home and get on with my life. Forget Frankie forever. Wait for my daughters to come home from their summer adventure.

  I could just go back to being Charlotte.

  Damn it.

  With tears blurring my sight, I wad the fabric up and drop it into the barrel. I can’t watch it burn so I turn away quickly.

  I am startled by the touch on my shoulder. Even more surprised when I turn to find the servant holding my robe out to me from the end of his pitchfork. He nods toward the vineyard and I see Frankie poised at its edge. Don’t disobey me again.

  He doesn’t say the words, but I hear them just the same. I don’t understand his change of heart, or how he signaled the servant to prevent the robe from burning. The Master of old would have watched it go up in flames. I do not know this man watching me from across the yard.

  I snatch the robe, thankful despite my questions, and hurry to my room. Inspection of the fabric reveals two small singed holes, but the damage only makes the robe dearer to my heart as I hold the sunshine-hued silk to my face and sob. I can’t escape the mental image of my daughters’ brilliant smiles when I opened their present and exclaimed with delight. How could I ever have faced them again without guilt?

  * * * * *

  Standing, waiting in the driveway of the château, I am packed and ready to go on holiday with Frankie’s lover. The men are both still inside, leaving me waiting outside for twenty minutes. I seem too anxious. I wish it was because I believe the earlier we get started the sooner the task will be completed, as if it was some horrible chore, but the truth is my heart has been skipping around my chest with giddy abandon, which is absurd. I love Frankie. I don’t need a second lover. But God, he’s glorious to look upon. I’ve never been so affected by lust.

  I’m an intelligent woman. I can see there are clearly two paths. Utopia, where the three of us learn to live and love each other completely. Ruination, where one or all of us are destroyed by each other’s jealousy.

  How did my life take such a strange turn?

  I could have said no to all of it, beginning the night I received the bustier, but the honest truth is I feel so alive when I am with Frankie—before my children, and now since the reunion. All between seems like a cushioned dream with little vibrancy or vitality.

  I let out a deep sigh when the chauffeur drives the car up to the doors. This is really happening.

  Behind me, I hear both men step on to the stoop to join me in the bright sunshine of midday. Only one joins me in the backseat of the car. I turn to look at Pierre-Louis, thinking that any moment the bubble will break and I will come to my senses and explain that I can’t go, but when I catch his gaze he smiles softly, and I know this moment was destined from the day we first laid eyes on the other.

  “I am glad you agreed to this holiday.” He touches my hand and an electric wave seems to zip up my arm.

  The car drives away from the château and I realize I didn’t wave at Frankie. I turn and wave through the rear window. He returns the gesture but I still feel like an idiot. I turn back around and face front, not looking at Pierre-Louis. He reaches over and takes my hand. I don’t pull away from his touch but I can’t meet his gaze. I look at the leather seat in front of me, not even paying attention to the changing view until I lose track of time and am surprised when the vehicle comes to a stop. The view from my window isn’t reassuring—rows and rows of bicycles and pedestrians milling around wearing the same bright yellow shirts. Pierre-Louis squeezes the hand I’d forgotten he was holding. “I hope you can ride.”

  “You’re serious?”

  His answer is a beaming smile as our chauffeur opens my door and steps to the side so I might exit. “I’m not sure about this,” I say, mostly to no one in particular. Pierre-Louis readily assures me with a soft whisper close to my ear. “Trust us.”

  Us? Did he mean trust me? Or did he actually mean us? And by us did he mean Frankie? Of course, who else would he mean? But why a bike tour?

  Thirty minutes later I am matched with a bicycle, wearing a bright yellow tour company-logo-imprinted shirt and an equally ugly helmet. I am geared up with bicycle gear I never knew existed, including special shoes anatomically curved for more efficient pedaling. Pierre-Louis dons a pair of sporty sunglasses that mold around his eyes and I am about to comment that he looks as if he’s done this before, thinking he looks incredibly hot, when he hands me a pair of similar shades.

 
Accepting them, I thank him and ask, “Do I look as dorky as I feel?”

  He winks. “You are a goddess.”

  I snort and mount the bicycle, glad I’ve managed to stay in somewhat athletic condition by keeping up with my daughters. I hope it is enough as we take off in a pack. There are twenty-two of us as we pedal down the drive headed to god knows where, but the sun is shining and I feel strangely good. I feel as if I should be feeling irritation or out of my element or horribly manipulated, but I don’t. This is a sudden, unexpected turn of events. Much better than riding side by side, tense and uneasy about what is going to happen next.

  Our tour guide explains as we ride. The Boudreaux bike trip begins in a region called Entre Deux Mers. “This is the Bordeaux’s least heralded region, but I believe, as I feel you will soon agree, its most beautiful area. As we spread out, feel free to stop and take photographs at your leisure. Do not worry if the group gets ahead of you because we will all end at the Château de Sade. If you look to your left, we are passing now a kiwi grove.”

  The name of the château is probably a gimmick, I decide, looking over the other guests. Though they are in reasonably good shape, mostly men, I just don’t get a high-kink vibe. An hour into this adventure I think I am probably in over my head as the rolling hills feel like mountains to my calves and thighs. Only a true masochist could enjoy this torture. I look at Pierre-Louis, he isn’t struggling. Did I expect him to be? He is twenty-eight and obviously in very fit condition.

  I am ready to call it quits as we head into our second hour, but the road evens out and I find we are winding through a dense, ancient forest. It is peaceful and perfect and appears to be ripped from the pages of a fairy tale, as the pointed tower of a castle appears from nowhere. We don’t stop as a dozen others do to take photos. Pierre-Louis takes the lead as I trail behind and I begin to worry I am holding him back.

  The forest breaks into an open field. Yellow flowers on either side of the road mock the bright shirts on our backs. I see Pierre-Louis has pulled off to the side of the road, waiting for my slow ass to catch up, no doubt. He dismounts and puts down his kickstand. We’re stopping? I could jump for joy as I pull up beside him and dismount as well. Too tired for jumping, my legs tremble and I am embarrassed I am so out of shape. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. I watch him throw back his head to guzzle water from his sports bottle and decide to do the same. I am swallowing when he says, “I would love to lay you down in that field of mustard and make love to you.”

  I choke and sputter on the water. He thumps my back, apologizing and laughing.

  “You took me by surprise.”

  He looks at me and I realize how serious he is. My mouth opens and shuts but no words come out. I focus on the brilliant, cheery yellow flowers, not committing to a negative or positive response. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, promising, “Soon.”

  I meet his gaze, wondering if the lust in my eyes matches the intensity in his.

  Chapter Nine

  Sighting the château, I could weep, knowing a hot bath and gourmet meal await me. I wonder if they would deliver the meal to me in my bath…

  Seeing Pierre-Louis decked out in silk shirt, tie and suit coat, any thought of bowing out of going to dinner with him leaves my head. I am wrapped in a towel, hair dried and styled, makeup on, but still not dressed. He whistles softly. “If you are this enchanting in a towel, I am truly in trouble once you put on the dress François sent over for tonight.”

  Frankie sent a dress? I shiver, letting my gaze follow Pierre-Louis’ glance to the bed. Oh God. He really sent over a dress and he obviously meant for me to look and feel sexy in it. I walk over to inspect it, picking it up by its hanger, holding it at arm’s reach as if it is the snake from the Garden of Eden. It is an above-the-knee-length, strapless chiffon dress in the softest shade of cream, beaded over the top. It is sinfully luxurious. “Doesn’t this make you feel odd? As though he is here with us…but he isn’t. It makes me feel…” I don’t even know what word to use though so many come to mind, spied upon, manipulated. I settle on “strange.”

  Pierre-Louis comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “It should make you feel loved, cherished. He cares enough about you that he wants you to feel special. He gives you permission to let nature take its course tonight, to bring the three of us closer together.”

  I duck away from his touch. “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way I am feeling right now.”

  He frowns at me. “How do you feel?”

  I shrug, not sure, only knowing I don’t like it. Maybe I am too tired and too sore from straddling the torturously narrow bicycle seat all morning. Maybe I am grumpy because both men assume nature taking its course means I will be naked in Pierre-Louis’ arms before midnight. I sigh, knowing it is both. I am exhausted and I don’t like being taken for granted.

  “Put on the dress, Belle.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I want to. I’m too tired for dinner anyway.”

  He approaches me slowly, with a sinfully seductive swagger, or maybe the swagger is just in my mind. Sinful and seductive is just the way he is, 24/7/365. He puts his hands on either shoulder and gazes deep into my eyes. “I’m starving, it’s been a long, hard day and my ass hurts. It’s been a long time since I’ve put in that many hours on a bike, but I think dinner will make me feel better, more human, and I’m asking you to join me for a meal, not because François expects me to fall on you like an animal when I see how enticing the dress makes you, but because I would like companionship at my table. If you insist on wearing the towel instead of the dress, so be it.”

  I look away, embarrassed, and hold my hand out for the hanger. He hands me the dress and I go back into the bathroom to get dressed for diner.

  * * * * *

  I start my meal with pan-seared scallops and dried citrus fruits served with a fresh herb salad and a red pepper gazpacho topped with Bavarian garlic cream. He has an aumônière of smoked duck breast encasing eggs scrambled with chanterelle mushrooms served with a plate of stewed tomatoes and lamb’s lettuce drizzled with walnut oil. We both have red wine, a Petit Montibeau. Can I really stay irritated? Marvelous food…award-winning wine…sitting in the enclosed terrace listening to soft music, overlooking rolling hills as the sun sets on the horizon?

  “You have two daughters?”

  I look at him and realize I know nothing about him, and he knows only what Frankie has shared with him about me. “Yes, Ells and Bree.” I tilt my head, amending, “Elizabeth and Brianna. They are twins, identical in every way, but sometimes when I look at them I see more of myself in Ellie and more of John in Bree.”

  He smiles and nods. “I suppose it would be normal for them to each pick up different traits.”

  Our main course arrives and we stop talking, that the waiter may set the plates in front of us. I am served the shellfish ravioli with a leek fondue and ginger cream, and he the roasted quail, drizzled with Cognac and grape gravy served with pear compote lightly spiced with fresh ground nutmeg.

  “Magnifique,” he pronounces as he tastes the compote. “I must learn this.”

  I taste the spoonful he offers and roll my eyes. “Food should not be this good.”

  Conversation ceases while we eat and when we finish, there is an awkward silence. I fill it in with, “That was amazing.”

  “I hope you have room for something sweet.”

  “Dessert?” I ask, saying, “No. I couldn’t.” But then the waiter arrives bearing a tray laden with supreme decadence and choosing becomes difficult. No common cheesecake here. No, it is iced chestnut parfait served with vanilla cream with a hint of rum and a hazelnut dacquoise, or mango shortbread served with a pineapple and fresh mint salsa and a passion fruit sorbet topped with a red fruit espuma, or a chocolate torte served with a warm, rich fudge sauce and a white chocolate ganache. I finally choose the shortbread, he picks the parfait. We taste each other’s, agreeing when we finish the last bite we must take an
evening walk to relieve the gluttonous bloat.

  “Oh God.” I say, stepping out of the restaurant. “I could spend the entire holiday here…just eating.”

  He laughs. “I think it is a good thing we ride tomorrow.”

  My backside argues to the contrary.

  He takes my hand and leads me down a dark walking path to the grounds’ massive medieval gardens. Crickets lend music to the warm night. My heart starts pounding with their rhythm. I had been able to put the night and all that comes with darkness out of my mind for most of the day. I know Frankie said intimacy…sex…wasn’t a requirement, but damn, to deny I want to experience what this twenty-eight-year-old can do in the bedroom would be a bold-faced lie. In the darkness I bite my lip, letting him pull me through a low-growing bayberry maze. In the shadowy darkness of a corner, he comes to a stop and pulls me against him. He lowers his head to kiss me, I tilt my face up with no doubt we will kiss, no doubt what the kisses will lead to, Strangely I’m okay with the thought and equally strangely I don’t feel manipulated by Frankie.

  His lips are warm and knowledgeable, his kisses drawing moans from my throat.

  I try to be quiet but need bursts through me. I want him, desperately. I have wanted him since the first time I laid eyes on him. I push my hands under his jacket, wanting to get closer to his skin. He stills my wrists, stopping me.

  “I want to touch you.”

  “Shh, let’s go to the room.”

  “Says the brave guy who wanted to lay me down in a field of mustard today.”

  He leans very close to my face and whispers, “We didn’t have an audience then.”

  I still, forcing myself not to jerk my head around looking. If he thinks someone is watching, I believe him. I let him pull me through the maze, catching hushed whispers and giggles of others hidden among the hedges. “I didn’t even hear them,” I admit.