by Nadia Lee
Damn. Dominic’s trust in me is humbling and empowering. The knot in my chest loosens up a bit. “Well, you’re right. I’d rather cut off an arm than hurt Kristen. But no matter how things turn out with her, it’s not going to change how I view our friendship.”
Dominic gets up, pours a couple of whiskeys and hands me one. “To things working out. And friendship,” he says with a grin.
I clink my glass against his. “To love and friendship.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kristen
On Sunday morning, Liza and Dominic are being lazy in bed. Not that I blame them. They may not be in Bora Bora anymore, but they’re clearly still on their honeymoon. They were lovey-dovey even before the engagement. At the rate things are going, they may never graduate from the honeymoon phase.
How adorable.
I put on a thin sunny yellow and pastel blue maxi dress with spaghetti straps and wedge sandals and check my watch as I sip my coffee. Two minutes until ten.
And at exactly at ten, Antoine shows up at the penthouse. He’s dressed for work, and my face falls.
“Work? Really?” I point in the direction of the master bedroom suite. “My brother isn’t even up yet.”
When Antoine texted me last night he was coming over at ten, I thought it was something romantic and fun for ourselves, not work.
“I know. Probably won’t be up for hours.” Antoine rolls his eyes. “Lazy bastard.”
“What he is is a happy bastard. You could try some of that.”
“I did…yesterday.” He kisses me behind my ear. “We stayed in bed late. Doing things. Really fun, dirty things.”
My body heats as I remember. He went down on me until I was begging, then made me come until I couldn’t draw in air. Then he fucked me until I almost lost my voice. It’s a good thing I’m not a singer.
“Want to come up to my room?” I whisper breathlessly.
“Tempting, but no. It’s one thing for Dominic to be cool about us seeing each other, something else to catch us in the act. Come on. We’re going on a date.”
His fingers slide against mine, and we link hands.
Antoine takes me to a diner not too far from my apartment. I discovered it about a week after I first moved in. An aspiring actress neighbor told me about it, saying it was homey, delicious and inexpensive.
What she didn’t tell me is that she waitresses there. But I don’t mind. It’s a fabulous place. The interior is old, but clean and functional. Seats and booths in pink and green vinyl, faux wooden tables with chipped corners and carved graffiti. Discolored baseball and football posters hang on walls, corners curling, but you know the owner is a huge Beatles fan because the lone Beatles poster is in a frame—albeit a cheap one you can buy from a local craft store. The stereo system plays Beatles songs, too.
I’m surprised Antoine knows about it, though. I never breathed a word about the place to him.
“I read their bacon and pancakes are something you gotta have at least once in your life,” Antoine says, as he leads me inside the diner.
“Where?”
“Yelp reviews. I looked up diners in the area. I hate a bad breakfast.”
We’re immediately seated, despite the crowd. I give him a curious stare, and he says, “I reserved a table.”
“They don’t take reservations.” I know. I asked.
“They do…for a hundred bucks.”
We munch on our food, him enjoying extra bacon and pancakes, and me chewing on pancakes and French toast.
“You should have some protein,” Antoine says.
“I do, just not in the morning.”
“How come?”
“The body metabolizes carbs best in the morning. You know how much I love carbs? My God. And I can’t have too many because I don’t want to turn into a whale.” I look down at myself, pursing my lips.
“What the hell are you talking about? You aren’t anorexic or anything, are you?”
I laugh. “No. But when you work in fashion, you can’t help worrying. Everyone around you is so skinny. Every time I retain even a little water, I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“If you’re the Pillsbury Doughboy, I’m just blubber.”
“Blubber?”
“Yeah. I don’t even get to be an actual whale.”
I know from extensive explorations that Antoine doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. When our waitress asks if we need anything else, I hesitate, then order another serving of French toast.
“You must be hungry.” Antoine grins. “But then, you have been doing extra cardio…”
I laugh. “Yeah. But I also don’t need to worry about being skinny for a while.”
“Oh.” He sobers. “The job.”
I nod.
“How did your talk with Lola go?”
I haven’t had a chance to discuss it with him. Actually, I haven’t had a chance to process it all myself yet. “She wants me back. Told me she’d mentor me herself.”
“And…?”
“It’s tempting.”
“Is she giving you a pay raise too?”
“Um, no. She didn’t say that.”
“An apology, a pay raise and a personal mentorship is the least of what she owes you. And until Lola treats you right, she can go fuck herself.”
I stare at him, surprised at his vehemence.
“You’re selling yourself too short if you take less. Demand more if you want more.”
I chuckle weakly. What he’s saying sounds great, but I just can’t imagine myself calling Lola and demanding all that from her.
We linger over our brunch. Antoine doesn’t bring up Lola again or insist that I do as he advised. He spends the morning amusing me with anecdotes from his childhood and stories involving him and Dominic.
Although he makes most of them sound funny, I can sense his childhood wasn’t all ice cream and roses. His mother was very demanding, wanting him to do well so she could brag about his accomplishments to her sister. And his father went along because it was easier for him to please his wife than be nurturing to Antoine.
When we’re finally done, it’s almost noon. He and I walk toward my apartment building. I sigh.
“What?” he asks.
“I don’t know…feeling a little sad, I guess. I just want to be back in my own place.”
“Dominic’s penthouse not good enough for you?”
“Totally not luxurious enough,” I joke, although part of me resents that I lost the right to have a private life when my brother became too successful for his own good and married someone as famous as Liza. Still, I wouldn’t want anything else for him. He worked so hard, and he deserves everything he has.
Antoine puts an arm around me. “Want to go inside?”
“No. It’s okay.” It would only make me want to stay in there longer.
“You sure? The place is ready for you to move back any time…assuming you’re okay with the cleanup work I’ve done.”
A shock jolts through me, and I spin around to face him. “I thought you said it wasn’t safe.”
“I know what I said, but you made it clear you wanted to be home. So I did some research and found out who two of your most persistent stalkers are.”
“Really? Who? Anybody I know?”
“One is a guy who saw your picture on the Internet and became fascinated. He’s a loser in a stained T-shirt and shorts who lives in his mom’s basement. Sending you flowers was the highlight of his day.”
“Wow.”
“And the other one was Preston.”
I choke. “Seriously?”
“Yup. Mr. Amour.”
“Then why did he react so strangely when he saw me throw out those roses from my Number One Admirer?”
“Because he also sent you roses. He thought you’d get all stupid gushy over his flowers.” Antoine snorts. “He won’t be bothering you anymore either. I put the fear of God into him.” He smiles, his eyes going dreamy, probably reliving the confrontation.
“Nope. He’s still alive and intact. Told to keep his distance if he wants to stay that way.” Antoine gives me a smile, which isn’t exactly reassuring. Preston—and Mr. Mom’s Basement—will hopefully never send unwanted flowers to a woman again.
“But that isn’t all,” Antoine continues. “I installed security cameras and some basic systems. It’s enough to deter your typical stalkers, would-be burglars and ordinarily motivated paparazzi.”
I jump, wrapping my arms around him. “Thank you. How did you get the super to agree?”
“Threat of a lawsuit.” Antoine grins, his eyes positively evil. The superintendent is a total dick. “He knows Dominic has an army of legal barracudas on retainer.”
I smile, so happy that I’m back in my own place. Holding his hand, I drag him up to my apartment. It’s immaculate now. Whatever junk my stalkers sent is gone. And the furniture’s either been cleaned or replaced.
“Is that a new bed?” I ask, staring at the pristine sheet stretched taut across the mattress.
“Yup. Burned the old one.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward. “Do I get a kiss?”
“Every knight who burns a dirty old bed gets a kiss.” I put my hands on his shoulders and press my mouth against his.
“Mmm, that isn’t too bad, but I want more,” he murmurs.
“Like?”
“I’ve been thinking about your pussy since this morning.” He nibbles along the sensitive skin on my neck.
My breathing shallows.
“Something so gorgeous must be tasty.”
I flush, then tremble. “You already know. So don’t act like you’re wondering.”
“I’ve been wondering if what I tasted before was real.” He gives me a look. “It was that good.”
Sitting on the mattress, he pulls me toward him. My God. The way his gaze darkens with need makes me wild for him. It’s the hottest of foreplay.
“Take off your dress, Kristen,” he says.
And I do, letting the soft fabric whisper over my skin and pool at my feet. His eyes blaze. “You haven’t been wearing panties all this time?”
I shake my head. “I never put any on.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “But you have your bra on.”
“My girls need some support.”
“I’ll support ’em.” He cups my breasts. “Take it off.”
I undo the front clasp and let it fall. Continuing to cup them, he flicks the nipples with the pads of his thumbs. I shiver.
“So responsive. So perfect.”
Instead of teasing me, he pulls a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking hard. My knees go weak, electric pleasure coursing through me. My heart races, and my fingers dig into the back of his skull and the muscles where his neck meets the shoulders. He pulls back, letting my nipple pop out of his mouth, then devotes the same sweet attention to the other one.
His fingers trail down…lower… and lower…
The feathery light touch sends hot sparks down my back, and I moan softly, panting. His thumb brushes over my wet, swollen clit, and he lets out a husky, wicked laugh. “You’re so damn wet.”
“I know.”
He touches me intimately, ordering me to part my legs.
“I want you to sit on my face so I can lick you and watch your expression above me.”
I gasp, stunned.
He continues, “I want you to control the pace, pressure—everything.”
“Antoine…” I’m so scandalized…and excited.
“I want to do it for you and me. I’ve always wanted to do that to you. Nothing gives me more pleasure than seeing you come against my mouth, around my fingers, around my dick.”
His voice is hypnotic, and I can’t resist. I position myself over his body as he lies back, still in his clothes. He grins up at me. “This is the best fucking view.”
I flush.
He places his hands on my ass and pelvis and slowly guides me down. I press my palms against the wall for better balance. His breath tickles my most sensitive flesh. I feel the muscles there clench.
I lower myself over him hesitantly. At the first touch of his tongue, I almost jump back, but his hands clamp down on my thighs, holding me in position.
“Don’t worry about anything except pleasuring yourself against my face, Kristen,” he orders, his voice rough with desire.
And I do—oh yes I do. Being on top while he licks and suck on my most sensitive nub is different—new. And it’s incredibly erotic, pleasurable and empowering. The sound he makes deep in his throat tells me how much he’s enjoying it.
Soon I’m lost to sensation, grinding myself against his face shamelessly. Rapid, shallow breathing mingles with an animalistic growl…his thumb pushes against the opening of my dripping pussy, then lightly against the tight rosette of my anus…the sensation is stunning yet so blissful, I come, screaming his name.
He pulls me down for a savage kiss. We don’t leave the bed for a long, long time.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kristen
I spend the following week thinking about my next move, mainly about Lola’s proposal. I also update my résumé and send it out because you never know what opportunities will present themselves.
Antoine and I spend as much time together as possible. It thrills me to pieces. Even though he hasn’t technically moved in, he might as well have. He even left a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush.
The only thing that mars my week is another bouquet of red roses that arrives from my so-called Number One Admirer, together with another typewritten note. He wants to meet. He apparently owns a yacht and wants us to sail up the coast together. Hahaha, maybe he’s going to tell me how stupid he thinks I am. I’m not naïve enough to agree to get on a boat with a stranger, especially one who keeps sending me flowers I don’t want. And it isn’t like he really owns a yacht. Most people don’t have that kind of money, much less someone who lives in his mother’s basement. I should make a mental note to mention it to Antoine.
Late Thursday morning, I get a text from Nick reminding me of the party. I haven’t forgotten. I just haven’t had a chance to bring it up with Antoine yet.
I don’t know why I’m hesitating. He isn’t going because he has something else to do, but there’s no reason for him to upset if I go to meet his family. I don’t think he’ll be cruel about it, like he was before with his mother when he talked about cutting off his man parts. He explained why he had to say that, and I accepted his reasons. I mean, if I had a mom as overbearing as his, I might have done the same thing…
Maybe.
I tap my fingers on the tabletop and text Antoine.
When are you coming by this Saturday?
Late. Maybe after six? But I’ll make it up to you.
I make a face. My brother’s overworking my boyfriend, and I don’t know why. Dominic always looks vaguely displeased when Liza has to work late. He should understand Antoine now has a girlfriend who needs her own TLC.
On the other hand, maybe it isn’t work. On Saturday, Antoine leaves my place in a T-shirt, black jeans and old Chucks. Definitely not a work outfit. And he doesn’t take his gun, either.
Huh.
I want to ask him where he’s going, but catch myself. I don’t want to seem clingy and controlling. I remember how much I hated that about my ex in college. It was one of the main reasons we broke up.
Although the party is outdoors, I put on a slightly impractical sleeveless blue wrap dress and wedge sandals. Antoine’s mom’s going to be there, and I want to make a good impression. I even spend half an hour doing my face, going for a natural beauty look, which I think I pull off.
I drive out to the Pryce grove. I’ve only heard about it from Liza and her brothers. Her half-brother Elliot said the house there has the best wine cellar. Apparently Liza’s uncle
loves to drink. Knowing Liza’s capacity, I wonder how much you’d have to be able to guzzle down to actually be known in that family as a man who loves to drink.
The grove is as magnificent as the pictures I’ve seen in magazines. The parking area is huge and surrounded by some kind of trees with green citrus. Maybe limes or unripe lemons. They smell divine.
The lot has numerous cars, far more than I imagined. Nick and his mother made it sound like it was a small, cozy gathering, but I count around thirty cars, all of them European and expensive. Mine is easily the saddest. I just hope they don’t tow it away, mistaking it for some beggar’s losermobile.
I take a path through a huge garden leading to a giant three-story house. The structure is made of stone, designed to appear sun-bleached. It overlooks the rows and rows of trees lining the rich soil, and I study the fruit on them. This section has oranges. Lovely. Bricks create an even path that leads from the house to the picnic area near a rectangular lake with a water garden. I see a crowd gathered there, and start walking toward them.
Nick spots me first and comes over. He’s sporting a pair of dark sunglasses, a silk shirt and pale cream slacks with loafers, looking like an affluent gentleman of leisure from Cary Grant’s era. The Rolex on his wrist sparkles in the sun as he waves. “Kristen! How wonderful of you to stop by!” He gives me an exuberant hug. “I hope the grove is worth the drive.”
“It’s beautiful. You’ll have to tell me how you managed to borrow the place.”
“Scotch. I gave Salazar Pryce an Old Dublin he couldn’t refuse.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
He leads me to the group of people, all with dark Gallic looks. Some of them have green eyes like Antoine, some brown like Nick. But all of them are impeccably decked out in clothes made of the finest fabric and workmanship. Sparkling jewelry, expensive perfume and priceless watches complete their ensembles. I don’t look overdressed at all, standing among them. As a matter of fact, it’s slightly the opposite.
