The Queen of Dauphine Street

by Thea de Salle

  Well, two, really. Emanuelle had to pick the prints and colors in Capulet’s jungle room. She hadn’t liked that, either.

  “It’s a bit much,” Maddy said. “But I wanted it to be.”

  Darren didn’t reply right away, instead drifting farther inside to investigate. His fingertips glided over the roses hand-painted on the black dresser side, and then over to the gilded cherub lamp with the red and black brocade lampshade with all the beaded tassels. He stopped to look at the art on the walls, in particular an impressionist piece of a dozen bodies tangled together, their faces contorted with orgiastic glee. He toed the bloodred shag carpets over the black-and-white marble floor, and peered at his reflection in the glass-top coffee table positioned between two tufted leather couches, each angled to overlook a faux fireplace with a flat-screen TV bolted to the wall above.

  He turned his head and discovered the mirror wall behind him—the only break in it was the open door where Maddy leaned against the doorframe. His eyes followed it down, to the adjacent wall with the double doors that led out onto the first half of Maddy’s private veranda—the other was on the opposite wall to their left—and then around the corner, to the open bathroom door. Inside was a freestanding shower stall with black marble walls and a glass door. Next to it was a Jacuzzi big enough for four adults—

  Or two Darrens. He’s huge.

  Across from that was yet another mirror wall with a toilet and a bidet wedged in beside a long counter with two sinks. The faucets were twenty-four-karat gold for reasons Maddy wasn’t completely sure about, but what was one more excess in a sea of excesses?

  Darren paused at the foot of the round bed, if a round bed could have a foot, and reached out for the black twisted poles that held up the canopy. They were designed to look like tree branches, and their finish was a high-gloss black to match the other wood furniture in the room. His fingers coursed over the faux knots and then stopped at the loop—not the loop near the bottom of the pole, but at the top.

  His eyebrows lifted as he turned to look at her.

  “Dare I ask what this is for?”

  Maddy giggled and sauntered inside, letting the door swing closed behind her. “Well, I could tell you or I could show you. The showing is more impressive.”

  “Show away. I’m not sure you can shock me.”

  Don’t be so sure about that, handsome.

  Maddy smirked and ducked into her closet, making a beeline for the other dresser. Not the one with her lingerie, but the one with her playtime accoutrements. She had all sorts of exotic goodies in there, from bondage silks to ropes to spreader bars and collars with chain, but she went for the simple, stretchable tethers with a clip on one end and the adjustable cuff on the other. She slid it around her neck like a doctor with a stethoscope and walked out, swinging it around lasso-style in front of her body.

  “Bondage loops,” Darren said.

  She had every intention of attaching it and giving a brief demonstration that may or may not have involved trying to tie him up by the arm that wasn’t in a sling. Instead, he stole it away from her. It slithered like a nylon snake before the cuff dropped to the floor, hissing as it dragged over marble. He turned the silvery clip over in his hand, examined it, and then attached it to the loop on the bedpost, giving the nylon a solid tug. “Sturdy, but I suppose it’d have to be,” he said beneath his breath, barely loud enough for her to hear.

  He sounds like a scientist . . .

  “Are you engineering my bondage setup?” Maddy asked, incredulous, before she burst into delighted giggles. “Oh, dove. I’ve had men say a lot of things in this room, but never that and never quite like that. You’re Bill Nye–ing my sex rig.”

  Darren jerked up his head, his eyes wide. “I work in construction! Wood’s my thing!”

  “Well, it’s my thing, too, but I’m not sure we’re having the same conversation anymore.”

  It was such a throwaway flirt, such a typical Maddy thing to say, and yet something happened in that moment. Darren’s embarrassment gave way to . . . if she had to label it, she’d call it intrigue. He lifted his gaze to hers. His upper lip peeled back to reveal his breathtaking smile, his head cocked to the side sending wisps of auburn hair gliding over his forehead. “Well, we could be, if you wanted to.”

  It wasn’t what he said so much as how he said it that piqued her curiosity. It was a little low, a little drawled out with all that Texan music attached to the words. The idea of such a beautiful man with all the beautiful everything—the face, the body, the smile, and the absolutely atrocious dad jokes—returning her flirt made her heart beat faster. She’d joked about having her wicked way with him, but it’d never been anything more than a fun afterthought. He’d come from such a terrible situation that she’d promised herself she’d leave him be. A little tease here and there, all right, but he was on the Capulet to recover from a trauma. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel like a hunted animal when he had been literally hunted not a day ago.

  You’re doing a fine job of behaving yourself when you’re showing him your bondage gear before the Capulet’s even left port.

  For the first time in a long time, Maddy’s face went hot. She wasn’t a blusher; she’d seen too much and done too much to be surprised by much anymore. And yet standing there, a foot from Darren while he held a leather cuff with Velcro in his hand, her cheeks were bathed with fire.

  “I shouldn’t—you’re here to recover. I just thought it’d be fun.” She ran her fingers down the sides of her mouth. “Why don’t we go out to the terrace—”

  “Who’s saying it’s not fun? C’mere.”

  She dared to look up at him, to meet his hazel gaze with her brown one. It lingered a beat too long, their attention fixed, before he winked at her. “C’mere, I said.”

  She was the one who gave orders, she was the one who pulled the strings, and yet she took a step forward anyway. He was surprisingly adroit for a man with only one functioning arm as he manacled her wrist with the leather. She took good care of her tack, oiling it to keep it supple, always washing it off after one of her playdates, and it was soft against her skin. There was the scruffy rustle of the two Velcroed ends meeting before Darren gently pulled her arm out from her body, stretching it long and exposing the pale underside with the blue veins.

  He was looking at the crook of her elbow, which shouldn’t have been even remotely appealing, and yet the appreciation in his gaze was there, especially as he followed the length of her arm up to her shoulder, to her throat, and stopped at her pulse.

  “You’re so fair,” he said, still looking at her neck.

  “Like Liquid Paper incarnate,” she quipped, but it wasn’t her usual delivery. It was quieter, on the raspy side, which suggested she was, in fact, baiting a hook . . .

  Stop. Just stop it, Madeline.

  She cleared her throat. He turned her arm over, his fingers gliding over the back of her hand, and she shivered. He looked up at her, his smile so warm it could have melted chocolate. She met it with her own and leaned back, showing him the give—or lack therein—on the tie . . .

  Before the knock sounded.

  “Miss Roussoux? What kind of cheese did you want on your Reuben?”

  Patrice.

  I understand that you have bathed me of my own vomit, but at this moment, I hate you because you are a ruiner.

  Darren stepped away, his hold on Maddy’s hand dropping. Maddy tugged off the cuff and cast it aside.

  “I don’t know! What’s normal Reuben cheese?”

  “Well, I like mine with Russian dressing, a touch of sauerkraut, and lots and lots of drippy, drooly Swiss.”

  “Yes. Fine. That way. Two that way.” Maddy glanced at Darren. “Yes? No? Sauerkraut?”

  “You bet, and you’d best order three, babe. I’m starving.”

  Babe? Not ma’am?

  Oh. Oh, I
like that. Okay. You just say that again.

  “Perfect. Three drooly Reubens, Patrice. Thank you.”

  You odious, wonderful woman.

  It wasn’t until the two of them were seated on the first veranda with the bistro table and chairs that she deconstructed the sequence of events that ended not with him tethered to the bed, but her. She hadn’t planned it that way, but at no point had she been put off by his heavy-handedness, either—and it was heavy-handed to order someone to come closer and then tie them without permission. She’d already mused that he wasn’t a bottom. The interlude in the bedroom only firmed her opinion that he was far more comfortable directing than being directed. If the flirtation was going to go anywhere, she had a choice to make: was she willing to let someone else run the show, at least part of the time?

  Watching him devour his second Reuben, she wasn’t sure she was attracted to him at all, never mind enough to let him top her. The sandwich disappeared into his maw in much the same way a log was mauled to death by a wood chipper.

  How can such a beautiful man do such an unbeautiful thing?

  “Careful or you’ll eat your fingers,” she murmured. “We have a doctor on board, not a surgeon.”

  “I got this.” He gobbled the last bite and sucked his fingers clean of dressing. She watched a little too intently as those lovely lips closed around his fingertip and glided up to the knuckle.

  That’s obscene. Okay, yes, I’m attracted to him, but only after he feeds.

  The digit vacated his pretty, pretty mouth with a pop.

  “Want to hear a joke?” he asked.

  Maddy blinked stupidly. “Hmm?”

  “A joke. Do you want to hear one?”

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “Sure you do!” He grinned and wiped his face with his cloth napkin, the wind rustling all that copper-kissed hair. They’d pulled out of port twenty minutes ago, the southwesterly breeze making the Texan summer tolerable. “A string walks into a bar and tries to order a drink. Bartender says, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t serve strings here.’ So the string walks outside, ties himself in a loop, and messes up his hair. Goes back in, tries to order that drink again. Bartender says, ‘Hey, aren’t you that string?’ String says, ‘Nope, I’m a frayed knot.’ ”

  Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh or you’ll encourage him.

  Except she couldn’t help it. He looked so damned pleased with himself, and the pun was beyond awful. Maddy had always prided herself on having a good sense of humor; what she didn’t realize was that her bar for good was incredibly low.

  “That’s awful. Truly awf—how do you know so many bad jokes? Are you a dad? Because those are dad jokes.”

  Darren reached for his drink, guzzling the last of his lemonade in one go and slumping into his seat. The elbow of his injured arm hit the back of his chair and he winced. “No kids yet, but maybe one day. My grandfather told me most of these. He used to buy the big box of Bazooka Joe gum and we’d laugh about the jokes inside the wrappers. I grew up with it. If it’s annoying, I can stop.”

  “Not at all. It’s just that you’re tall and gorgeous and smart and I figured it wouldn’t be fair for you to be funny on top of everything else. You’re full of surprises, dove.”

  “Am I?”

  “Well, you did tie me to my own bedpost a half hour ago. That was a bit surprising, don’t you think?”

  Earlier flirtations he’d met with an “aww, shucks” kind of southern charm. They were past that. His head tilted in her direction, a lazy smile stretching across his face. His eyes swept over her features and down, to her shoulders, to her arms, to her chest. He spent a heartbeat too long staring at her tits before he met her gaze again.

  And winked.

  Oh my.

  Oh my, my, my.

  “Guess I’ll just have to keep you on your toes then,” he said.

  Or on my back, or on my knees, or on my—

  Maddy’s brain filled in the rest, one illicit foray bleeding into the next. On the table, on the bed, on the floor, from above, behind, and the side. It was too bad he only had the one free arm to work with, but they could manage. She’d just take top a lot—she was exceptionally good at bouncing vigorously while impaled on a cock. She had testimonials, for Christ’s sake.

  Of course, it’s all moot if he won’t let me.

  The notion of having to wheedle for that, of having to accede to his preference on position, sent an unbidden ripple of pleasure down her spine that she hadn’t totally expected.

  But that didn’t mean it was unwelcome.

  Focus, old girl.

  She grinned at him, a bit too carnivore-leering-at-a-meat-Popsicle, but he didn’t appear to mind. If anything, he looked more pleased with her. “You’ll have to work fairly hard to shock a woman with a dick gallery, you realize,” she said.

  Darren pushed himself away from the table and stood to look out at the water, the sun beating in his face and making him squint. “Good thing for you I work best under pressure.”

  Ohhhhh myyyyyyy.

  EIGHT

  THROWING CHUM TO the shark was probably not a good idea, but Maddy Roussoux was an exceptionally well-put-together shark with her smooth skin, glossy hair, and curves for days. The woman oozed charm, sex, and glamour, and any straight male with an eye for brunettes was going to respond to her, well, everything. Everything.

  Plus, she started it.

  Mature, Darren.

  He’d ended their lunch with regret. Sharing stories and laughing had been fun, but his arm had started throbbing ten minutes into their meal, and when he smacked his elbow against his chair, it was all over. He needed a pain pill. He didn’t like taking them for reasons that included miserable side effects, but he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole that he wouldn’t take care of himself when he needed to, so he’d announced he needed a nap and excused himself.

  She’d been more than accommodating, showing him to his room, giving him a tour of the amenities. It was the absolute opposite of her bordello-from-hell master suite. His walls were painted a pretty light blue on the top, the bottom half ivory wood with seashell carvings midpanel. His bed had a hand-crocheted ivory lace coverlet perfectly fitted over its top, the corners of the bedspread so long they brushed the carpeted floor. His bedposts lacked the double sets of bondage hooks, but they did stretch tall to the ceiling to suspend an equally as fine lace canopy above. A faux fireplace occupied the corner, a bearskin rug and overstuffed white couch angled before it creating a cozy nook. There was a private veranda on the left side of the room—“Near mine,” Maddy said—though it wasn’t the same veranda as where they’d eaten. He’d seen the other set of double doors in her room, though, and assumed his deck abutted the master suite’s second patio.

  At some point during lunch, one of Maddy’s staff had delivered his suitcase, and it awaited him at the foot of the bed. Maddy offered to help him with it, but he’d declined, and she smiled and ducked out of the room, taking the hint that he wanted some privacy.

  “If you need anything, let me know. If you need the doctor, there’s an intercom on the wall near the fireplace. Push the button with the cross sign thingy.”

  He’d thanked her, she’d gone back to her room, and he rifled through his carry-on bag to find his pills. His suite had a mini refrigerator next to a big oak desk with a laptop setup, and he was grateful to find chilled bottles of water inside. He took his medicine and tugged off his sneakers one at a time, throwing them into the corner before climbing into bed.

  The mattress was actually long enough that his feet didn’t hang off the end.

  Small miracles.

  He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, figuring he’d wake up an hour or two later aching less and ready to entertain his hot, eccentric hostess. Except it didn’t take that long. He drifted off, rolled over, and opened his eyes only to discover o
nly twenty-five minutes had passed. He felt fine. Groggy, yes, because the pills always did that, but he was fine enough and he didn’t really want to spend his first day at sea, away from Kelly and guns and every other awful thing, in bed. He pushed himself up, stretched with his one good arm, and padded across the room to crack the door to his private deck. Air conditioning was nice, but he liked the ocean breeze—how it smelled, how it felt, how it tasted—and with balmy gusts rippling through his hair, he set about unpacking the clothes in his suitcase.

  He’d just pulled out a stack of jeans when he heard the soft moan. At first it was easy to dismiss as a strange ocean-liner squeak, but when he heard it again, and then again, he stopped to listen. He didn’t know much about ships beyond the fact that they floated on water and icebergs were bad for structural integrity, but he was smart enough to tell a human squeal from the grinding of a gear, and he drifted away from the dresser and toward the open doors to better hear.

  Ah. Ah. Ah.

  Rhythmic moaning. The moment he clued into what it was, which was a real-life porno track happening in the room next door, his eyes widened.

  And his pulse pounded.

  And his cock did a thing in his shorts.

  It was her. That lovely creature with her decadence and bountiful double Ds that filled out her dresses and shirts far too well was getting off. There wasn’t a second voice, only hers emitting a raspy, whisper-soft moan, and he closed his eyes, allowing himself the obscene pleasure of listening to her masturbate.

  A louder groan.

  She’s close.

  Physically. Close to coming, too, by the sounds of it, but she’s near. Nearby.

  Fuck she’s hot.

  His semihard cock became a hard one in short order. He wasn’t so bold as to go outside to investigate, but he did crane his head and dare a peek around the door, glancing toward Maddy’s suite. His eyes bulged from his skull seeing her not fifteen feet away, on display, stroking herself while she sprawled on a chaise lounge in the sun. She had on one of those beach caftan bathrobe things women wore over their bikinis, except there was no bikini underneath. She was bare, the belt undone, one long leg dangling from the side of the chaise, one pulled up close to her body, foot flat, knee raised. Her stomach was softly rounded with a concave belly button, her pebbled red nipples tipped mounds of soft flesh he really wanted to put in his mouth. Her head was back, the veins in her neck cording as she strained with pleasure. He couldn’t see her eyes because they were hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses. Her hair was still in a ponytail, the ends so long they brushed the floor in her supine position.