“I filed for a divorce immediately after that incident.”
My eyes stayed locked on him, begging for—and then what?
“When she got the divorce papers, she went crazy. We had a terrible fight, and she stabbed me with a kitchen knife. Ben watched the whole thing.”
“Oh my God. The scar on your back?”
My jaw stayed wide open in shock, partly because of what she had done to him and partly because I could not believe his darling little boy had to witness such brutality.
“So, you’ve noticed it.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“It’s hard to miss,” I said, finding my voice. “How serious was it?”
He sucked in a deep breath, blinking several times, and then clasped my hand as if he needed something to hold onto to go on.
“I might have bled to death hadn’t Ben had the smarts to tell the 911 dispatcher I needed help after I collapsed with the phone in my hand. The wound required thirty stitches and I spent three days in the hospital.”
“Oh my God.”
A shudder tore through me as I tried to imagine the scene. It was straight out of a horror movie. Oh, my poor beautiful Trainman! And his poor precious little boy! His story was gutting me. My next words spilled out.
“Did you tell the police?”
“No, I didn’t want to drag my family into a New York Post Page Six scandal. My mother was just getting over my father’s death, but was still fragile, and I was restructuring the family business. I also didn’t want to scare Ben, who was already traumatized enough. It was the last thing everyone needed. My attorney sister, the rational one in the family, used her connections to keep the police away and came up with a plan to pay my soon-to-be ex off. She offered her a multi-million dollar settlement contingent on changing her name, leaving the country, and never having contact with Ben or me again. Her lawyer insisted she take the deal over a trial and possible imprisonment. She agreed to it, and I’ve never seen or heard from her again. Thankfully, Ben doesn’t remember her—or anything about the incident; he totally blanked it out. What he’s been told is that his mother died in a car accident and that’s how I got the scar on my back.”
Ari took another deep cathartic breath and lowered his champagne glass to the table.
I was on the verge of tears. His story was way more complicated and tragic than I anticipated. My darling Ari was damaged. So, so damaged. Emotionally and physically. A trainwreck. I desperately wanted to hold him in my arms and heal his scars. But I held back.
We both drained our champagne in silence until our waiter returned with a large bowl of moules and a side of frites—skinny French fried potatoes. The delicious garlicky smell rushed up my nose.
Ari’s face brightened. “Ah, Saarah, fresh mussels from the South of France.”
I wondered—did he eat these with her in St. Tropez? I loathed Ari’s ex-wife for what she did to him, and even more, for what she did to that poor innocent child. No wonder my Trainman was so afraid of getting involved with another woman. The chances of having a long-term relationship with him were dismal. And I hated his ex even more for that.
Stopping me in my thoughts, Ari demonstrated how to eat a mussel.
“It’s easy. Watch.”
He plucked the meat from the shell, dipped it into the broth, and then bit off the lower plump, fleshy part, and savored it. My eyes followed him as he discarded the tendons in a bowl along with the iridescent black shell.
“Okay, your turn,” he said brightly.
I reached for a mussel and mimicked his actions. The tender mussel meat rolled around in my mouth. God, it was good. Buttery, garlicky good. It got my mind off the revealing and unsettling conversation we’d just had. I instantly wanted another one.
I glanced at Ari. The expression on his face indicated he was pleased with my reaction. He opened another mussel, but this time held the meat by the grisly tip over my mouth.
“Ouvre ta bouche,” he ordered in French.
I assumed that meant, “open your mouth.” My mind instantly flashed back to the blowjob I’d just given him, bringing awareness to the little vibrating egg still inside me. It was making me hunger for him. Parting my lips, I let him circle them with the succulent meat until he deposited it on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I savored it and swallowed, then opened my eyes slowly.
Ari’s sapphire eyes searched mine. His warm breath brushed my neck as he moved closer to me.
“Do you know, Saarah, mussels are a natural aphrodisiac? The ancient Greeks believed they were the sustenance of the Goddess of Love.”
My God of Love must be right. My hormones were raging out of control. Wetness was pooling in the pantyless triangle between my inner thighs. My body was heating, and I was buzzing all over. Ari must have known the effect the mussels were having on me. He reached his hand beneath the table and through my thigh-high slit, he slithered his fingers up my leg to my hot, wet cleft. He caressed the sensitive folds, arousing me further, and then pulled away with a smug smirk on his lips. The tease!
“Feed me,” he ordered.
He tilted back his head and parted his lips. I dangled a mussel over his luscious mouth and slowly lowered it inside.
“Mmmm,” moaned Ari.
We continued this sensual back and forth feeding ritual until all the mussels were devoured along with the cone of skinny fries.
Ari placed my hand on his lap. Beneath his fine, gabardine trousers, his cock was as hard as I was wet. A rush of hot tingles traveled from head to toe as the flutters below turned into throbs.
Ari gazed into my eyes. “Saarah, have you ever been to the South of France?
Words trapped in my throat, I shook my head.
“It’s still my favorite place in the world. You should go there sometime.”
In my head, I fantasized being there with my Trainman. Staying at one of those five-star Côte d’Azur hotels I’d read about in magazines…sunning topless on the beach…swimming in the warm Mediterranean…making glorious love in a delicious bed…sharing mussels and champagne at a local café…fucking our brains out yet again in bed…and waking up next to him in the morning to greet the sunshine and start all over again.
Why bother dreaming? That was never going to happen. Not with this damaged man who was so afraid of commitment. So afraid of getting hurt and hurting his beloved son.
Ari’s sensual voice put an end to my mental ramblings. “Saarah, would you like dessert? The crème brûlée is excellent and rivals The Palm’s.”
The restaurant was filling up. My mind flashed back to dessert at The Palm. Dessert could prove to be too embarrassing in this small, intimate restaurant. I couldn’t risk it.
“No thank you,” I stammered, my pussy hungering for him.
“Ah, then we should, at least, share a French kiss.”
Framing my face in his hands, he crushed his soft lips onto mine and consumed them. I closed my eyes as he brushed his tongue across my upper lip, signaling me to part them. His velvety tongue dipped into my mouth and flicked mine, inviting it to dance. Our dance was slow and sensuous. A lyrical waltz with sliding, gliding, and swirling that was making me want to swoon. I took small breaths through my nose so I wouldn’t lose consciousness. Three words ran circles in my head. Oh. My. God. I forgot how this sinfully sexy man could kiss. The sweeping movements sent sweet sensations of desire to my sex. I moaned into his mouth. Oh, the power of a kiss!
As his lips and tongue deepened the kiss, he placed my hand once again under the table, back on the bulge between his legs. My fingers clasped the oh so big rigid length beneath his pants, and I knew instinctively what he wanted me to do. I moved my hand up and down. Up and down. My grip grew firmer, my stroking faster. The heat of his erection surged beneath my palm.
And then I felt his talented hand once again trail up my thigh. I spread my legs, allowing him easy access to my flooded cleft. I moaned softly, loud enough for him to hear me as my own hand continued to travel up and down
his hard as a rock cock. Making me even wetter, his middle finger moved to my already hard bud and focused solely on it. He made deep, overlapping circles with the fervor of a finger-painting child. Oh, how he knew how to push my button! Meanwhile, the little egg inside me kept vibrating, intensifying the insane pleasure that was coursing through me. As I headed toward my climax, I wanted to jump out of my skin. I dug the nails of my free hand into his thigh and my heels into the floor. His cock began to spasm, and my arousal was peaking. Oh God! Why did his gourmet dessert always have to be the best part of the meal?
“Well, Ari, how nice to see you again.”
As fast as Ari had thrust his tongue inside my mouth, he withdrew it. Just as fast, his hand pulled away from my crotch as did mine from his cock. The voice made me shudder.
The color on Ari’s face drained, and I’m sure mine was as white as a ghost. Standing before us was a tall, stunning, whippet-thin woman dressed to the nines. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 perfume wafted up my nose and made me dizzy. The scathing look she sent my way made me shake.
“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” she hissed.
Should I answer or should he?
Ari’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. In a voice as frigid as dry ice, he introduced us.
“Sarah, this is my ex-wife, Cassandra O’Toole.”
My stomach churned, and bile rushed to the back of my throat. I thought I was going to throw up.
“You’re nothing,” she hissed directly at me.
The expression on Ari’s face went from shock to rage. There was fire in his eyes.
“Come on, Saarah, let’s get out of here.”
He threw two one hundred-dollar bills onto the table and grabbed my hand. My legs were like Jell-O, but I managed to stand up and follow him out of the booth. His ex’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, sending daggers my way. Ari strode to the front door like a bolt of lightning with me dragging behind him, numbed. He couldn’t wait to get out of the bistro. And the truth is, I couldn’t either.
Ari had Andre take me to my apartment. The only thing more intense than the throbbing between my legs was the silence between us. And the waves of nausea I was staving off.
I clutched my stomach.
Breaking the silence, an alarmed Ari asked, “Are you okay?”
He immediately pulled me close to him, wrapping his arm around me.
“I feel sick.”
Ari put the palm of his hand to my forehead, the good father he was. “You don’t have a fever.”
Little did he know the fever was raging inside me. Consuming every ounce of me.
“It’s her, right?”
“No, I think I ate a bad mussel,” I lied.
Ari gently twisted my shoulders so that I faced him. “Sarah, she’s nothing to me.”
I was too distraught to say another word. As the limo pulled up to my brownstone, I was so close to throwing up I could taste it. Oh God, don’t let me barf in front of him! Not waiting for Andre to open the passenger door, I sprung it open myself and scurried up the steps to the landing.
“Sarah, wait!” I heard Ari shout out behind me.
“Please, Ari, go away,” I replied hoarsely, without looking back.
My hand jittering, I reached for my keys and jammed the one for the front door into the lock. For once, it opened the warped door in one try. As it slammed shut behind me, I sprinted up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. My heart was racing as I battled tears and nausea. At last, I reached my apartment and was grateful one more time that my key worked on the first try.
Once inside, I ran past a meowing Jo-Jo, straight to the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I yanked out the vibrating egg, tossed it into the toilet, and puked out my guts.
I had just met Ari’s evil ex-wife…Cassandra O’Toole.
My evil boss…Catherine Sinclair.
END OF BOOK 1
One-click the cover below for Book 2, the gripping conclusion of Ari and Sarah’s steamy and suspenseful story.
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THE BIG O PREVIEW
NELLE L’AMOUR
ABOUT
From New York Times Bestselling author Nelle L’Amour, a new sizzling STANDALONE that’s guaranteed to make your panties melt!
The first time Owen King sets eyes on her, she’s in a focus group, biting into a cream-filled donut and having the most orgasmic reaction he’s ever seen. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cries out. He’s instantly obsessed.
Aspiring actress, Olive Cumming, has just lost her waitressing job and can’t pay her rent. But when the CEO of Donut King steps out from behind the one-way mirror and hires the curvy respondent to be his assistant, things are about to change. Big time.
Love at first sight has never been a reality for jaded, overworked Owen. And for sweet overweight Olive, love has never been within her reach. But when fate steps in, the king finds his unexpected princess, not knowing that someone is waiting in the shadows to keep them apart.
WARNING: Be prepared for over-the-top insta-love, a bit of kinky fun, and some yummy food play. This sugar-coated full-length novel is just waiting for you to take a bite.
Copyright © 2016 by Nelle L’Amour
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved
First Edition: July 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
NOTE FROM NELLE
Hello, my Belles! This is nothing quite like anything I’ve written before. It’s an over-the-top, scorchin’ hot standalone novel that’s going to make your ereaders melt and your panties drip. We’re talking one testosterone-driven, possessive alpha male, who won’t stop for anything to get the woman of his dreams into his bed forever. And one big, sweet love of a woman, who can’t wait. Be prepared for sizzling hot insta-love, a bit of kinky fun, and some yummy food play. Pure delicious, toe-curling smut. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Hope you have a pool nearby to jump into and cool off. A cold shower would be good too. Or the O for ocean.
Get ready to laugh, cry, and swoon.
Happy reading!
MWAH!~Nelle ♥
Dedicated to everyone who’s not afraid to take the first bite
CHAPTER 1
Owen
I studied the spreadsheet on my desk. The numbers for last quarter’s earnings. They sucked. We were operating in the red and facing bankruptcy. If my dick was the line of my P&L chart, it would look like it fell off a cliff. That’s how bad things were. For decades, Donut King had been the number one breakfast stop in the country, but year after year our market share had declined. Numerous locations had shut down. What the hell was wrong with our yummy donuts and coffee? Trust me, they were delicious. Customers loved them. But with little advertising, companies like Starbeans and Coffee Depot had taken over our business. I couldn’t even remember the names of their coffees or breakfast entries, let alone how to pronounce or spell them. A Venti Caramel Macchiato? What the hell was that? And what language were we talking? Had suddenly everyone in America become seasoned sophisticates and taken a Berlitz course? A familiar caustic voice cut into my disturbing thoughts.
“Owen, you’re missing the focus group.”
“Huh?” I looked up from the depressing data and met the steely eyes of our young marketing director, Mallory Clint. While only in her mid twenties, the mousy-haired Harvard MBA looked much older in her navy pinstriped pantsuit and horn-rimmed glasses. The daughter of financier Burton Clint, whose hedge fund was keeping us afloat, she walked around as if she owned me. She thought that her father’s clout entitled her to call me by my first name while everyone else in the company addressed me as Mr. King. It pissed me off, but I had to treat her carefully. What made me even more on edge was that I sensed that she wanted more than a professional relationship with me. Trust me, I had no interest in fucking her. She wasn’
t for me. And lately, with business in the toilet, fucking anyone was the last thing on my mind. This was the longest dry spell I’d ever endured. I’m talking years.
“Sir, this is very important. It’s giving us consumer insights.”
I appreciated that she for once called me sir. I demanded and deserved respect. I was, in fact, known to millions from TV commercials as the eponymous “Donut King,” a title I inherited from my late father who started the chain. To be truthful, they should have called me “Your Majesty,” “Your Royal Highness.” or at least, “My Lord.” But at this point, it was moot. Given our latest sales numbers, I was about to fall off my throne.
I hated research. Fuck this shit. I was the kind of guy who went by my gut instincts. Nothing in my life was fifty shades of gray. Everything was black or white. I want it or I don’t. I like it or I don’t. Even my love life was like that. Or should I say lack of one. I’d never found a woman to love. Someone who I’d fallen head over heels for. Sure I was one of Southern California’s most eligible bachelors with the fortune I’d amassed from my donut empire, but that didn’t help things in the love department. I obviously had very particular taste when it came to women. When the right one came along, I was positive I’d know it.
I followed Miss Know-It-All Clint, who’d convinced me to do the group, to the research facility at the end of the hall and took a seat on the couch next to her upon entering. A platter of donuts and a tin of coffee were spread out on a credenza behind me. I peered through the one-way mirror that spanned the length of the room. The group was already in progress.
Eleven motley women of various ages and ethnicities sat around a table. But one respondent, in particular, immediately captured my attention. Holy shit! She was gorgeous. Big, blond, and beautiful. I swear I felt the temperature in the room rise twenty degrees. And that’s not all that was rising. I loosened my tie. For some reason, she turned her head so she was facing me. I got a better look at her stunning face. Porcelain skin with just a sprinkle of freckles on her rosy cheeks…frosted rosebud lips…and a button nose. I swear I could feel her big chocolate brown eyes burn a hole in me right through the one-way mirror. My skin heated up, the flesh near my groin kindling. Sweat clustered beneath my shirt and my heart palpitated. I was having a hot flash.
Naughty Nelle Page 45
