SMITTEN
by Juliet Braddock
© 2018 Juliet Braddock
Cover design by Wicked Women Designs © 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
IN MEMORY OF
ANDREW
A quarter-century wasn’t enough.
I miss you every single day.
My world has a lot less laughter in it now.
I hope you get to read dirty books in Heaven,
because I wrote your scene for you.
I hope I treated it with the
poetic justice it deserves.
Until we meet again, my dear friend,
I love you and miss you
with my entire heart.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My gratitude runs deep for the people who have stood by my side throughout all the changes in my little world over the past year.
Andrew Patrick. You were no Brad Pitt, but you will always be my Shi’Thead. You might not be here now, but you were there for me when it mattered most. In fact, your voice was the first familiar one I heard after my brain surgery. Great human beings are few and far between, and you were one of the best. I miss you. And I still love you…even though there’s really no such thing as Bigfoot. But we’ll debate that one after the Sleep Apnea Contest on the other side.
As always, my love and appreciation to my editor and friend, Rachel Williams. Beyond your keen sense of humor (and sixth sense for character development) and your ability to understand my writing better than I do, you are my “eyes” on the worlds I create. We’ve had a few good laughs over my “blind” eyes and their perception—or lack thereof— in my settings…my research…and Jimmy’s questionable fashion choices. But you were also a significant contributor in the ordering of my new fall wardrobe. “Um…can you look at this link and tell me what color that sweater is?” Rach, I adore you, and your help and dedication has played such a huge part in my life as I try to navigate this new world.
Dave—my text buddy and Judge of the aforementioned Sleep Apnea Contest—thank you from the bottom of my crusty, weathered heart. For getting me through these last few months. For your acerbic sense of humor. For understanding mine. For your appreciation of the wild and wacky characters who live in my head and sometimes come to life. And most of all…for those wonderful memories we shared with Andrew. We’ll always have Kentuck Knob, my friend…we’ll always have Kentuck Knob.
Emma-Louise, you are the Beta BOMB! You pumped me up, and you gave me the confidence I needed at just the right moment. And you helped me to finesse Nigel’s lingo. You’ve already claimed him as your book boyfriend, and I give him to you—he’s all yours.
To VioletWanda, thank you so much for helping me with my research on the sizzling details on the wand scene. Your correspondence helped me to figure it all out. (Readers, head to www.violetwanda.com to find some of the accoutrements used in SMITTEN!)
And my life just would never be complete without Paula, Joanne and Greg. I can’t even describe how much I love you three.
Now, sit back and have some fun with January Gallimore and her journey to figure out if happily ever after exists!
I love you all…I really love you!
Juliet
ABOUT
The Paris Après Minuit Series
Confession: I have an obsession with all things French.
Over the years, I’ve had so many chances to immerse myself in French culture. My conversational skills admittedly suck, but my travels have led me to explore France time and time again.
I’ve written about France before. I’ve used my own personal journeys in my research. And I always find myself in my happiest place when I’m writing a scene set in Paris and surrounds.
As my readers know, I love to bring a scene to life through the setting. Ripe with history, art, drama, literature, films and music, France inspires me. The lush landscape and the centuries-old details of the architecture leave me breathless every time I visit. Just like New York City, there’s so much to absorb. It’s the beauty of the culture set against the individual stories that lie within the resilience of the people that fascinates me.
SMITTEN is my first book in what I hope will become an evolving series over the coming years, Paris Après Minuit—Paris After Midnight.
My intention is to write a series of standalones set in the City of Light, but I have a feeling there might be some recurring characters. One thing I know for certain is that I’m not finished writing about my adopted home, and I wanted a spot to place all of my future books that I plan to set in France.
In SMITTEN, I’ll take you through a wild romp through Paris and Provence. Snuggle up with a pot of fondue and a glass of Bordeaux. And join January Gallimore in her journey to find true love.
Happy Reading!
JB
PART ONE
Entertaining Etienne
Chapter One
The second he opened the door, his attention settled upon the sight of a perfect heart-shaped ass, framed by frilly ruffles.
This particular ass exhibited perfection. Just plump enough with a rosy hue cascading over the fine porcelain skin, the delectable derriere presented itself to him at the most unexpected moment.
Nearly tripping in the presence of this surprise visitor, he stopped whistling an old Johnny Hallyday tune and scuffed his shoe. He dropped his weekend bag from his hand with a thud to the wide-planked floor in the foyer. As he ran his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair and blinked his chocolate eyes in disbelief, she turned around.
He just hoped that the bellhops wouldn’t be arriving with the rest of his luggage any time soon.
“Well, Monsieur…” the woman said with a shake of her feather duster as she tugged on the barely-there skirt of her black and white maid’s uniform. “They didn’t tell me you’d be here so soon.”
Her shiny raven hair, so silky that it almost sparkled, twisted into a bun beneath a white pillbox cap. Wiggling her hips, she continued to dust the table beside her, but she watched him all the while.
“I did not realize that my room came equipped with a personal maid,” he said finally.
The Plaza Athénée was arguably the most lavish hotel in all of Paris. With its recent restoration, the property attracted members of the global jet-set and celebrities alike, all of whom played behind the century-old walls, including beloved French pop icon, Etienne Marçeaux.
“At your service,” she said with a quick curtsy. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Another sigh escaped his lips as Etienne looked beyond the scene before him to the open windows that afforded the suite a picture-perfect view of the Eiffel Tower.
How he loved this time of the year in Paris. Flowers bloomed in nearly every corner of the city, and nightfall came later each evening.
Home again, Etienne thought to himself, and he smiled for one brief second. Home again, but not for long.
“What is that I hear in your voice?” he demanded. “Certainly, you’re not French.”
“All American,” she winked with a bat of her thick faux-lashes. “Corn-fed on the farm and delivered straight to you from Kansas. Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur…?”
“Monsieur Marçeaux,” he said as he made his way toward her, his arms opening slightly. “And the pleasure…is mine…”
Her squeal shrieked through the living room as he reached around her and under her skirt to squeeze that ass that filled his palms so fittingly.
And then his hand came d
own again to spank her right through those lacey French lace panties.
“Oh…!” she nearly choked on a sob. “Mmm…”
“You like that, ma chérie?” he asked and cracked her again. “You like?”
“Oh, mais oui, Monsieur…”
Instead of spanking her again, though, he had to knock that silly hat off her head.
She looked like an old-fashioned pin-up girl with her black hair and creamy white skin. Etienne had to have her. He wanted to fuck her up the ass. He wanted to make her cry. First, though, he needed to kiss those puckered, red, American lips and give a bite to the beauty mark on her chin.
With his cock at full attention, he lifted her up and held her against his raging erection. One black stiletto pump and then the other fell to the floor as he carried her to the living room.
For a man of forty-five, Etienne maintained a strong body. He prided himself on his detailed abs and fit physique, but he worked hard with his trainer who traveled with him on his hectic tour schedule. He had an image to uphold—not to mention a mob of female fans. A daily fitness routine was all part of the job.
When he placed her down on the mirrored coffee table, Etienne knocked over a vase of fresh flowers, but he didn’t care. Raw desire took over, and he needed some release before the next leg of his tour began.
“Clean it up!” he ordered her as he pointed to the floor.
“Well, yes, Sir,” she said as she stood up and posed for a split-second with her hands on her hips. “Let me…find some towels.”
Slowly, she shook and shimmied her way to the bathroom, never missing a beat in her runway swagger. Even though those damn panties covered her completely, he still couldn’t take his eyes away from her rump.
Mouth, ass, breasts—Etienne wanted to devour her. He just didn’t know where the hell to start.
When she returned with towels in her arms, she circled her lips with her tongue. Now, she scooted along the floor like a geisha in a tight kimono. Yes, she was there to serve him—and she would.
Methodically, she stopped right in front of him and bent over to hike up her uniform before she got down on her hands and knees to clean up the mess he’d made.
Now, she played him, taunting with those virginal white panties. First, she picked up the flowers and arranged each one in the vase. Then she went back to pick up the petals and fallen leaves, which she carefully collected in a tiny pile on the rug beside her floral display. When she finally reached for one of the towels to sop up the water, her moves were delicate and dainty. All the while, she held those heart-shaped cheeks in the air.
“Does it take you this long on the farm?” he wondered out loud as his impatience surfaced.
She whipped her head around. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur?”
“On the farm—where you came from in America—do you make the farmhands suffer like this when you do your chores?”
“Oh!” She blinked her eyes, a deep gray with rising hues of navy blue. “No, Monsieur. I don’t like to see anyone…suffer…”
Even her voice—so affected and breathy—struck him right in the groin. This was not how Etienne planned to spend his day.
Behind her, he towered above her tiny frame while she continued to pat the thick velvety towel to the silk, Art Deco rug.
“The carpet was dry twenty minutes ago,” he griped. “Now, you're just being a tease.”
“Why, how dare you?” Twisting her head around again, her eyes shot him a warning glance. “I would never—”
At that point, there was no fighting himself. He brought his hand down to her panty-clad ass and gave her three more strikes of his palm, punctuating his words with each crack. “Yes…you…are…”
“Ow-ouch!” she cried out.
“You are a…very…” Just for sport, he continued with his smackdown. “…bad…girl…Miss America.”
As she spread her legs wider, he spotted the evidence of her lust for his rough play, glossy and gleaming, between her thighs.
“Oww!” she wailed. “S'il vous plaît, have mercy on me…”
“Ah, chérie, did you say merci?”
“I…said…” she managed to whisper in between breaths “…MERCY!”
“That’s it!” With a grunt, he picked her up by her panties and moved her to sit on the mirrored table.
As his hands worked at the tight buttons on her uniform, her breasts popped forth and nearly smacked him in the face. Sacre merde, he wanted to kiss her, but not before he bit down on her rock-hard nipple.
“Yeah…” Her chest distended with that single word. “Harder, Frenchie. Harder…”
“Ah, you American girls like it rough, do you?” he muttered as he clamped his teeth down on her other nipple. “You play like I’m hurting you, and then you want more!”
Those teeth—nipping, biting, gnawing and teasing—tempted her. However, she didn’t touch him in return. She waited and watched, fascinated by his intensity.
Her hair, now having fallen from the wrap of her bun, floated upon her shoulders. Her skin smelled of roses. Her style upheld the test of time. However, Etienne refused to ignore the ache in his jeans.
While his attention settled on her breasts, he literally ripped her uniform open, exposing those panties that clung to the soft cushion of her lower lips.
Taking a step back, he absorbed the beauty of her body. Those tits jiggled above her tiny waist that swept down to the distinct curve of her hips. She almost looked as if she’d been corseted.
With greedy hands, he reached out and wound her hair around his fist, only to prompt a cry of delight from her.
That was it. He had to kiss her.
With fierce abandon, he grabbed her shoulders, subsequently pushing the sleeves down her arm. He’d almost shredded the uniform, but she didn’t seem to care as his lips covered hers, pressing hard with passion. Since he hadn’t shaved that morning, his growth scratched her pale face. Nearly smothering her, he allowed his tongue to explore the sweet, hot taste of cinnamon in her mouth.
Then, she dared to reach out, and she sunk her fingers into his dark wavy hair. While she gasped for air, she never stopped moving her lips, manipulating his tongue as if she sucked his cock.
Her tiny cries of delight echoed between them and emboldened his lascivious libido. His hungry soul craved her, and with every murmur, Etienne coveted those red lips. Between them, he pulled at his fly, his anxious hands losing the zipper pull in the proximity of her sinuous movements against him.
As much as he hated the thought of leaving their kiss, he had better things to do with her mouth. The gentle shove of his hands pushed her back, and he ordered her, “Get down on your knees.” Seconds ticked away as she gazed at him with a steely yet almost detached look in her eyes. “Right now. You know, I could just walk outside and find someone else who’s willing…”
“Well, with that kind of challenge—I guess I have no choice.” Shedding the uniform with the shake of her shoulder, she slithered her way to the floor.
However, Etienne couldn’t seem to get his zipper down. Closing her hands over his, she gave them a squeeze, urging him to calm down—if only for a second.
“Allow me,” she suggested. “Remember, I’m at your service.”
Slowly, his hands fell away, but he continued to stare into those enigmatic eyes. “Of course, you are.”
Carefully, she gave the zipper a tug and pulled it ever so slowly over the track. Holding his gaze, she dragged both his boxers and jeans down his legs. Into her petite hands, he sprang, and she stroked the long, thick length of him with her sleek red nails.
Her attempt at tenderness, though, just irritated him. He needed to feel her. Without a scrap of decorum, he grabbed himself and guided his shaft into her open, waiting mouth.
The tickle of her tongue at the head soothed him, and as she took him deeper, Etienne thought he might relax.
Her lips did not disappoint. She had a way of savoring him by working every single muscle in her mouth. As he slid f
urther inside and then down her throat, she knew how to take him, pleasuring him from the tip of his cock straight to his balls.
She drove him crazy—straight to the edge. With her coos and purrs that reverberated around him, she shattered his composure and sent him moaning and groaning into the stratosphere.
And then without warning, he pulled out.
She didn’t have to wait long for direction, though, as his hands circled her waist. So small and light, she was easy to maneuver around.
Struggling with his jeans at his ankles, he helped her gently to the table and settled her on her hands and knees. The mirrored top reflected her image. Her breasts jutted forward, and the struggle between arousal and fulfillment cloaked her face. She needed him just as much—if not more—than Etienne needed her. Together, they fed each other’s ravenous appetites.
One slight problem, however, presented itself: she still wore her panties.
“Ah, putain!” he swore. “Pourquoi? Why?”
Somewhere within, he mustered the energy and gave that fine lace a wild rip, splitting her lingerie just enough to allow him the room he needed.
Such a beautiful ass she had—even prettier now without the frills. Yes, he had to indulge himself in the pleasure of caressing his hands over those silky porcelain cheeks, adorned with the rosy evidence of his palmprints. Just feeling her petal-soft skin dizzied him. Temptation took hold as his fingers played along the crack of her ass. Of course, he had to test the waters and make sure that she was ready by sliding one inside her.
As he lifted that same finger to his lips for a taste, he smiled to himself. Yes, she was indeed ready.
His chance was now, and as he held his cock in his hand, he took a deep breath.
SMITTEN (Paris Après Minuit) Page 1
