The Queen of Dauphine Street

by Thea de Salle

  “You’re bossy. I’m usually the boss,” she said quietly. “I’ve paddled boys like you over my knee. Maybe not quite so big, but close enough. Yet here you are, telling me what I’ll do, and I’m not minding it. I’m not sure what to think of that.”

  He grinned. “Is it bad? ’Cause I hate to say, I will never, ever be over your knee. You can be over mine if you’d like, though.”

  “Maybe,” she said, quite seriously. She continued to massage him, her fingers moving to the back of his neck. Her body was near enough he could feel the heat from it, and her cleavage was right there, all pale and enticing and wobbly whenever she shifted her weight.

  So he dropped his face into it.

  “I had to,” he said, muffled, his mouth and nose smushed against soft, gently perfumed flesh. He could hear her giggling as he dragged his bottom lip over the trim on her tank top, his tongue flicking out to steal a taste of skin. She tutted and ran her fingers through his hair, so he did it again, this time wedging his tongue between her beauties and wetting the inner curve of her breasts.

  “You’re tasting me. Does that mean I get to taste you?” she teased.

  He rubbed his cheek against her chest like a cat marking its territory. “Sure.”

  “Good.”

  She stepped back, smiled at him, and dropped to her knees.

  THIRTEEN

  MADDY LOVED GIVING head. There was an art to it—friction, suction, tonguing, lapping, spit ratio, hand pumping, ball action. She found it empowering, which wasn’t a hot take shared by many, but as per usual, she didn’t care. Life was too short to worry about what other people thought of your sex life, especially when they were probably clueless about the power dynamics therein. She’d challenge any pearl clutcher insisting fellatio was antifeminist to name a time when a person was more vulnerable than when their genitals were in someone’s mouth. Any lover she’d ever had was completely and utterly at her mercy when she was going down on them, which was how she liked it.

  Control was her drug.

  Sucking cock was being in control.

  Sorry, Darren. It’s Mama’s time to play.

  He peered at her kneeling on the floor, his smile fading not because he was unhappy, but because he was intent. On her. Her slender fingers unbuckled his belt. Her body leaned in close to his so she could press a kiss to his firm chest through his T-shirt. His muscles did a rippling thing that bordered on hypnotic, and she licked her lips, hungry for him in every imaginable way.

  “Is this all right?” she murmured. He said nothing, just jerked his head in a nod, and she took that as all systems go. The button on the jeans popped open. The zipper hissed. He wore boxers underneath, which was convenient for her, and she plunged her hand inside the flap of the warm cotton to find him.

  Warm. Throbbing. Eager.

  He groaned and it was so goddamned sexy. She watched his eyes close, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as she pulled him out, thick and heavy, to settle him in her palm. It really was a monster, but it was a glorious monster, and all hers—at least for the time being. He smelled clean, like soap, and she wrapped both of her hands around him, one stacked atop the other. Somehow—and she guessed it had to do with ten fucking inches of cock—his tip still crowned the top of her hands, red, eager, and glistening.

  It was obscene. It was beautiful. She dipped her head to lap at him like he was an ice cream cone, getting her first taste of his pre-cum. It wasn’t sour or unpleasant. It was perfect, just like him, and she enveloped him between her velvety lips, her mouth stretching wide to accommodate him.

  Too much of this and my jaw will ache.

  How divine.

  His breath hitched, so she swirled her tongue along the underside, teasing the thick, sensitive vein. He liked that, gasped, so she did it again before cradling him and angling his cock back at her throat. Her head pushed forward, taking two more inches into her hot recess. Three more. Four. His hand lifted and settled on her shoulder, squeezing—encouraging her—and she pulled back, her lips barely kissing his tip, her top lip resting just above his slit before she shoved him back into her mouth and sucked.

  And then she did it again.

  Every time she pulled back, his cock glistened more, coated in a thin sheen of her spit. She kept her eyes on him the entire time, watching his pleasure and finding it heady. She couldn’t swallow him whole or she’d choke to death, and so every thrust of her head forward was met by a pump of her fist up to meet her lips. Soon her saliva wasn’t just on him, but on her hand, too, as the blow job went from a slow, controlled thing to something wild.

  “Yes. Yes, oh, fuck yes,” he crooned. His head went back, mouth agape as she took him as far down the hatch as she dared, to the point his cock tip was at the entrance to her throat and threatening her gag reflex. Every pull of her head back was a wet slurping noise. Every push forward was his groan, and soon, hers because pleasuring him gave her pleasure.

  She squeezed her legs together and whimpered, her pussy a soaking, needful thing.

  The hand on her shoulder slid up, into her hair. He combed through the tresses, his fingers massaging across her scalp and down to the back of her neck. She mewled, cheeks concave, lips soaked. Her nipples ached beneath her shirt. Her body trembled.

  He shifted on the piano bench and there was an unearthly clang as his elbow struck the lower register keys. She sucked harder, louder, and he moved again—another unmelodious chord sounded. He stroked the top of her head, a finger dancing over the upper curve of her ear. His hips moved, rocking slightly, not enough to jam his dick down her throat but to set a pace that she followed.

  “Keep looking at me, sweetheart. That’s it. That’s it. I want to see you.” He panted between words, cheeks red, the veins in his neck bulging with strain. He was close, rock hard and ready to go, and those hazel eyes pinned her to the floor. It was need. It was want. It was frenzy as he moaned her name. “C’mon, Maddy. That’s it. That’s it.”

  Her hand jerked him. Her mouth slurped on him. It was sloppy, the edges of her mouth dribbling spit onto her shirt. She didn’t care. She wanted him to come for her. She wanted to watch him peak, and with three more hard thrusts of her head, denied air the entire time because he filled her mouth completely, she got her wish. He stiffened, he cried out her name. His body bowed up from the bench, his elbow once again pummeling the piano keys and making the worst music. The iron cock in her mouth spurted once, twice, three times. She frantically swallowed it, whining for it, his cum shooting down her throat and her loving every second of it.

  It was hot.

  It was salty.

  It was exactly what she’d wanted.

  It was exactly what she’d needed.

  “I’m pretty sure you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose,” Darren said, stroking the hair at her temples. She was on the floor at his feet, curled around his lower leg, her chin resting on his knee. She wasn’t fawning over him exactly . . . okay, yes, she was fawning over him. Unabashedly, even, because he was marvelous.

  She’d been good enough to tuck his cock away when she was done with it, placing an almost chaste kiss to his belt buckle when she’d zipped and buttoned him back to pre-Madeline condition. He was happy, so she was happy. She’d had hers in the hall, now it was Darren’s time. She’d met like with like.

  They fell into amicable silence, him running his hand over any part of her he could reach, her running her fingertips up and down his calf. And then he said the golf ball thing in a brilliant effort to ruin everything.

  “A golf ball through a garden hose, hmm? I may have heard that a time or two before.” She grinned up at him and he crooked a finger to beckon her close.

  “C’mere.”

  “Bossy.”

  “You bet. C’mere.”

  And so she went there, and was promptly pulled into a warm lap. She maneuvered herself so s
he could tuck her head against his shoulder, and he looped his arm around her waist. His lips found her neck, and then her shoulder, pressing soft, dry kisses to her skin.

  It was familiar, and comfortable, and not something she’d had for a while. Sure there’d been sweetness with her disposable toys. Even Cindy—Cameron? Christine? Kelly? Carmine!—had spooned her and sweet-talked her after their parting fuck, but this was somehow more intimate despite his not yet being inside of her. Well, not really. A finger didn’t count.

  Okay, it does a little, but that’s beside the point. It hasn’t been like that since S—

  “You have this look on your face,” Darren said. “I can’t tell if it’s bemusement, irritation, or gas. If it’s gas, I’d ask you to vacate the lap premises. I’d still like you, but these are new pants and I haven’t even farted in them. I have dibs.”

  The notion of being so ghastly embarrassed her, and she gently shoved him away, trying to squirm from his grasp. He held tight, muffling his giggles against her neck as he hauled her even closer so he could pepper her cheeks with kisses.

  “Maddy Roussoux can blush! Does the press know this? We have to notify them immediately. Farts make you blush.”

  “No they don’t! You ass.”

  Except she could feel the heat in her face, but she didn’t want to admit it, so she hid against his shoulder. He snickered into her hair, petting her from the base of her skull all the way to the top of her skirt in soothing gestures, like she was a skittish colt ready to bolt. “I kid, I kid. Just don’t ever fart in an elevator, all right? It’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  But there she was, laughing like an idiot for the umpteenth time, and he was grinning like an idiot for the umpteenth time, and a conversation that should have ruined the mood of their hot and steamy piano suck off . . . didn’t. The passion and the funny were companionable bedfellows, and she wondered if they would be, too, or if this was a fleeting pleasure she should appreciate before his conscience kicked in and said he should pursue white picket fences and 2.5 ridiculously beautiful children with some farm-fed Texas girl.

  He deserves someone sweet and stable who can’t put their issues into volumes.

  He’s good. Deserves someone good.

  “You’re a nice man,” she said, far more sober than she’d been seconds before, when the topic du jour had been the gas patterns of the great North American Madeline Roussoux. “I know some people—some women you might like.”

  “Oh?” He cocked his brow. “Tell me about them.”

  “Mmm. Well.” She took a moment, surprised he would hold her in his lap and ask about other women, but she had brought it up. She cleared her throat and flashed that brilliant smile that said nothing in the world ever bothered her, tra-la-la. “There’s a girl that works for me in marketing. Her name’s Anna, lives in San Antonio, I think? Tall, nice hair. Longer than mine. She’s got a good sense of humor and she wears suits well.”

  “Does she play piano?”

  “Not that I know of, but I could ask her.”

  “Mmm. Does she, perhaps, have a gallery of dicks?”

  “No.”

  He nodded slowly, lips pursed, head cocked like he was seriously considering her words. “And what’s her position on murder kitties?”

  “I think she has a cat. An orange tabby named Max. She has pictures of him on her coffee mugs. It’s endearing, if a little bit weird.”

  “Mmm, no. I want a woman who has a cat that can really rip a man to shreds. You know, just dig in and wear some intestines like a necklace. There’s something about the perpetual danger of disembowelment that does it for me.”

  He’s being sweet.

  Gross, but sweet.

  “So what you’re saying is I should not mention other women to you.” Her bullshit smile was replaced by a far more genuine one because . . .

  I like him.

  I might even like him that way.

  Uh-oh.

  He reached up with his hand to cup her cheek, his eyes half lidded and lazy, his smile warm honey and sunshine. “Why would I want you to talk up other girls when I have the prettiest songbird right here, her fat ass wearing a groove into my lap? Unless you’re trying to give me away . . .”

  “No!” She barked it, vehemently, and then immediately ran her hands down his chest to soften the blow. “It’s just that I know I’m ridiculous and off-kilter and probably not the type of woman anyone would want to bank on, never mind a man who’s just been shot by—”

  He cut her off with a kiss. And then another kiss, and another, until all the worries were drowned by a feeling she hadn’t indulged for what felt like years. It was potent. It was heartwarming. And it was oh so very dangerous.

  Hope.

  FOURTEEN

  IT WAS STRANGE to be sitting in Maddy’s private movie theater, watching old movies—comedies, because both of them had weaknesses for bad jokes and Mel Brooks always delivered. Right now it was Blazing Saddles. Darren had somewhat gotten used to the garishness of Maddy’s floating castle, but reclining in his leather seat, a fur blanket over his legs, munching on movie popcorn Patrice was good enough to deliver was surreal. How one woman could have so much of everything amazed him. It also disgusted him a little, if he was being honest, but he didn’t say that. She didn’t choose to be born into it, and she’d certainly suffered in other ways, but when you grow up poor and sometimes you went without shoes that fit because there just wasn’t money in the budget for it, wealth was a sensitive, complicated subject.

  Every gold faucet on the ship was some broke kid’s lunch for how many months? Years, even. He wouldn’t—and couldn’t—lose sight of that.

  He was also cognizant that he skated on thin ice with that line of thinking. Darren did well for himself—nothing on Maddy’s level, but he drove a brand-new truck and had a convertible in his garage. He’d had enough disposable income to build not only his own house but his mother’s, too, without bank loans, plus he’d bought Mama a hybrid car so she had reliable transportation when she was puttering around town or taking his grandfather to the doctor’s office. It didn’t suck to be Darren, moneywise.

  It really didn’t suck to be Maddy, though.

  He must have been wearing his deep thoughts like a mantle because Maddy touched his hand.

  “Everything all right? You’re glassy-eyed at the bean scene. This is classic filmmaking here.”

  “. . . Yeah. Yeah, babe. Sorry. Brain’s doing its brain thing,” he said, hauling her in close. She snuggled into his side, a warm, soft thing that smelled pretty and had fun, bouncy parts.

  “About?”

  I don’t think I want to tell her.

  She was self-conscious already. He didn’t need to help. That mini-rant after she’d tried to throw her marketing lady at him said she didn’t think too much of herself. He’d only known her a couple of days; they were only just getting to know each other. While he could get used to the money, she might not like that he was judging her for having money.

  “Well, whatever you’re thinking, it’s none of my business,” she said, pressing a kiss to his ear. She twined her fingers with his and went back to watching the movie.

  He went back to watching her.

  “Does the money ever bug you?” he blurted.

  So much for not telling her. I talk too much.

  He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “You talked about how isolated it made you feel. Do you ever resent it?”

  “Sometimes, yes,” she said, casting him a smile. He gazed at her, doing his damnedest to ignore the soundtrack of farting cowboys blasting out from the surround sound. “But then you’re that poor little rich girl trope, and who has time for that? I feel tedious even saying it.”

  “So how do you handle it?”

  She shrugged, her brown eyes fixed on the big
screen. “I’m not sure there’s a way to handle it. I try to spread the wealth. Set up charities, host charity dinners. On the Capulet, in fact. I give back. It’s just—you know that thing about needing money to make money? I have an empire. To keep that empire going requires money, but in turn, it feeds money back to me. I try not to think too much about it because it hurts my head, which brings us back to the poor little rich girl thing. I’m a terrible cliché, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t think so, Maddy.” She tilted her head his way, and he reached up to sweep her dark hair away from her brow. It wasn’t messy—he just liked to run his fingers through the tresses. “You’ve obviously got a big heart. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  “Maybe. Or I could have just been trying to get in your pants,” she teased.

  “That’s true, you could have. It wouldn’t be the first time people have played me like that, but I don’t get that vibe off you. My gut’s telling me you’re decent. Of course, my gut also let me date Kelly. And Samantha before that. And Janie before that, but . . . this is different. Alex hates everyone and he really likes you. It’s easy to see why.”

  He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. She’d brushed her teeth after the piano blow job, so she smelled and tasted like minty popcorn, which was a little strange, but she was a little strange, so it was fitting.

  He didn’t mean to start a make-out session, but that’s where it went, and quickly, both of them twitterpated from their day of flirting. The word “flirting” seemed insufficient in the aftermath of the world’s best blow job, but he supposed it was accurate. They weren’t together. They weren’t even seeing each other really, but they were, as his mama would have said, “keeping company” and swiftly amping up to more.

  Her hand slid into his hair to cup his skull and he groaned into her mouth. Right before his phone rang.

  He wasn’t sure if saying Alex’s name invoked him or what, but when Darren pulled his cell from his jeans pocket, there Alex was, calling at eleven o’clock at night, which was at least an hour and a half after all good Alexes went to bed. Darren broke from Maddy with a sigh and took the call.