Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  “You should sleep,” she said. “We can talk in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” he said. “I don’t want to talk either.”

  “I know, but you need rest.”

  He captured her hand, moved it to his erect penis under the sheet. “I need you.”

  She looked up at him. “You’re hurt.”

  “So heal me,” he said. “Please.”

  It was the last word that did her in. Christophe didn’t ask for things.

  He took them.

  She was the one who begged in bed.

  Who begged him to touch her. To put his mouth on her. To fill her.

  But there was something urgent in his eyes. Something desperate. She couldn’t deny him.

  And she didn’t want to.

  She moved carefully on top of him. kissing her way up his chest, touching her lips lightly to the bruises scattered across his pecs. His hands traced the length of her spine, and she propped herself up on her arms as she moved up his neck, breathing him in as she left a trail of kisses along his jaw. She lingered at the corner of his mouth, touching her lips to his skin, still worried about kissing his battered lips.

  But he would have none of it.

  He took her face in his hands, forced her to look at him. “The only thing that will hurt me is not being inside of you.”

  She hesitated as he pulled her mouth down to meet his, his split lip making her worry all over again. A moment later his tongue slipped into her mouth, and then everything fell away. The time they’d been apart. The moments when she’d been sure he didn’t want her anymore. The wondering if she would ever see him again.

  It was him. Her love.

  The fates lead the willing.

  His tongue searched her mouth, like a man too long gone from a familiar and beloved place. A man determined to navigate every inch of lost territory. To make sure it was just as he had left it.

  She was straddling him, and the feel of his hard cock sliding between the wet lips of her pussy, his thick head nudging against her clit, lit a fire at her core. She met his tongue parry for parry, forgetting about his split lip until he winced and pulled back a little.

  “Sorry!” she gasped. “I was…”

  He laughed a little, and it was like hearing the crash of the sea after a long time away. “I don’t care.”

  She traced his face with a finger. “I care.”

  He looked up at her. “All I care about is you. That you’re here with me. That you’re in my arms.”

  She lowered her mouth to his and kissed him slow and deep, her hair a curtain blocking out the rest of the world. She cupped his face in her hands while she kissed him, wanting proof that he was real. That he was flesh and blood under her palms.

  He moved under her, slowly at first, then more urgently as he grew hungrier for her, his kisses more demanding, his hands charting a course up her arms, across her shoulders, closing over her bare breasts. He thumbed the nipples while his tongue stroked hers, and she started moving with him, her hips rocking against his, her pussy throbbing with the need to feel him inside her. She could almost feel the sensation of him sliding into her channel, filling her the way only he could.

  She left kisses at the corners of his mouth, then bent to his chest where she touched her lips gently to every bruise. His hands slipped into her hair as she kissed her way down his defined abs, past the flat of his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared under his erect cock.

  Positioning herself between his thighs, she took the rigid staff in her hand, stroking him carefully and slowly, watching as he closed his eyes with a sigh, sunk deeper into the pillow, like he was finally letting down his guard.

  It's what she wanted — to bring him fully back to her, to erase every second of pain and ugliness he’d experienced while he was Raneiro Donati's prisoner.

  He moved his hips against her hand, and she lowered her mouth to his tip, flicking her tongue against the sensitive hole at the top, then closing her mouth around the head. She sucked while she continued stroking his shaft. He lengthened and hardened in her hand, pumping his hips in rhythm to the movement of her mouth and her gentle stroking.

  She took more of him in her mouth, letting him sink slowly to the back of her throat until she had all of him. He sighed, and she stroked his testicles as she slid back up to his tip, sucking on the head for a few seconds before sinking back down the length of him.

  His grip on her hair tightened, and the pressure sent another wave of heat to her pussy. The feel of him in her mouth was the proof she wanted. He was real. He was here with her, his body part of hers. She moved faster, stroking his base while she slid her mouth all the way up, then pushed back onto him until she felt him at the back of her throat. He pumped his hips against her mouth, lost in the quest for release. She could feel it beating at the center of his body, a mandate that blocked out all other thought. He was somewhere else now, lost in the oblivion of his own desire. She stroked him as she sucked and licked, his thick cock slick with her saliva the way her pussy had grown slick with her own juices.

  Her own need.

  By the time he tugged at her shoulders, she was lost, too. Determined to give him the release he sought. Determined to taste him when he came in her mouth.

  But it’s not what he wanted.

  “I need to be inside you,” he said, looking down at her.

  “You were inside me.” She moved to take him back in her mouth, but he stopped her.

  “I need you to fuck me,” he said. “Now.”

  She kissed the tip of his cock. “I’ll hurt you.”

  “You’re hurting me now,” he said.

  She slid up his body, straddling his hips and sliding against his stiff rod. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  She should have said no. Should have given him more protest. But she didn’t want to say no. She didn’t want to protest. She wanted to feel his cock inside her. Wanted him to fill her until she was stretched to the limit.

  Until there wasn’t room for anything but him.

  She positioned herself over his hips and took him in her hand, brushing his tip against her clit. She shuddered, her orgasm already close to the surface, and she placed his swollen crown at her opening, hesitating for a split second before she sunk onto him.

  He groaned as he hit her cervix, her pussy so engorged with desire he barely fit. He grabbed ahold of her hips and started to move under her.

  Placing her hands against his stomach for leverage, she was careful to avoid his wounds as she ground against him, the brush of his skin against her clit combining with the pulse of his cock inside her to bring her orgasm to the forefront of her body.

  “Fuck, Charlotte… You don’t know how many times I dreamed of this.”

  She bent down, pressed her lips to his as she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

  “I do,” she said when she pulled away. “I was dreaming, too.”

  She leaned back, willing her body to open further for him for maximum penetration, lifting off him almost entirely on the upstroke, grinding on the downstroke. He was holding tight to her hips, rocking against her as they moved faster, their rhythm uninterrupted as they both sought the same blessed release.

  “I’m going to come soon,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s come together.”

  She leaned over him, and he took one of her nipples in his mouth and nipped at it as she sunk onto him hard and fast. It cut loose the last vestiges of her self-control, and she went flying over the edge of consciousness, the orgasm shaking her body as she shuddered around him.

  And then he was letting go, too, hot and wet inside her as he groaned, letting go of his restraint as he continued to move under her, pumping upward as she sunk onto him over and over again, lost to the contractions at the center of her body, his cock nestled tight inside her narrowing channel.

  When he stopped moving under her, she leaned forwa
rd, kissed him gently before starting to move off him.

  “Don’t,” he said, grabbing her hips. “I want to be part of you awhile longer.”

  She stroked his face. “Silly man. You’ve always been part of me. You always will.”

  10

  She was still in his arms when he woke. He’d never been so happy to see the weak light of a Paris morning leaking into his bedroom. Without sunlight, each moment in captivity had bled into the next, every day as dark as night.

  He lay there awhile, savoring the weight of her against his chest, the silken strands of her hair against his battered skin.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  He was back with Charlotte. Home. And she’d been waiting for him.

  He had an image of her the night before, her head between his legs as she took him in her mouth, and later, her hips moving against his, her body enveloping his in warmth. He’d never needed to feel protected. Never needed to feel safe. He was the one who protected others. Who made others safe.

  But he’d found refuge in the harbor of her body. Her heart. Her gentle hands.

  Business was business. He almost couldn’t blame Raneiro for wanting to take back control over the Syndicate’s territory.

  But he’d kept Christophe from Charlotte. He’d made her think Christophe didn’t want her. Had made Charlotte afraid.

  For all those things, he would have to die.

  He slid out from under Charlotte’s arms, smiling as she sighed. It was getting cold and he pulled the blankets up around her shoulders before slipping on the sweat-pants she’d brought for him the night before.

  His upper body had taken the worst of the beatings, and he winced as he pulled on the T-shirt, marveling that he hadn’t felt a moment’s pain when Charlotte had touched him.

  She was his enchantress. His healer.

  He left the bedroom on bare feet and stepped into the hall. The night before was a blur, but he knew Farrell and Luca had been there as well as a handful of other men he didn’t recognize. Now the house was quiet, and he had to assume they’d left him alone with Charlotte. He would call them later. They had plans to make, but for now all he wanted was to be with her.

  He descended the back stairs into the kitchen and crossed to the fridge. He expected it to be filled with rotting food — or at best to be empty. But he was surprised to find it full of fresh eggs and milk, butter and fruit, jam and assorted vegetables.

  He turned to the island and noticed fresh bread and coffee.

  Farrell had been a good friend to him, but he couldn’t see him carefully shopping for all the things Christophe liked. The same was true of all the men who had rescued him — great with guns, not so great with thoughtful grocery shopping.

  Which meant it had to have been Charlotte.

  She couldn’t have known for sure he would be brought back safely, but clearly she’d believed. Had wanted him to come home to the things that brought him comfort. Something squeezed against his chest, like a rope tightening around heart, and he hurried to the fridge, removing the eggs and milk, choosing vegetables for omelets, all the while imagining Charlotte shopping for him while he was still imprisoned in the damp room in the warehouse.

  He started the coffee first, then set to work whipping eggs with a fork and dicing tomatoes and mushrooms. It was difficult work with his battered fingers. He tried to focus on his movements, but there were dark things pushing at the edges of his consciousness.

  The cold metal of the chair under his body.

  The sound of Rudy’s footsteps approaching the door to his room.

  The split-second before the hammer made contact with his fingers.

  He pushed the thoughts down. He didn’t have to analyze what had happened to him. He didn’t have to “deal” with it. He would simply focus on his revenge instead.

  Focus on bringing down Raneiro Donati.

  He put a thick chunk of butter into the hot pan and lowered the heat. When it melted, he poured in the eggs, then set out bread and a bowl of strawberries while it cooked. Charlotte loved strawberries, and he was surprised to realize he wanted to spend a lifetime giving her all the things she loved. Wanted to spend a lifetime watching her face light up when she looked at a beautiful piece of art.

  He wiped his palms on his jeans. What if she didn’t want to be with him forever? What if his kidnapping had driven home the reality of his business — his life — in a way she hadn’t realized before? Everything else had been about the cross, he and Charlotte unwitting participants in its recovery. Bruno had been involved, but it hadn’t directly been a product of his business. If he and Charlotte hadn’t tried to recover the cross, they would never have known Raneiro had been after it to fund his takeover of the old Syndicate territories.

  His kidnapping had been different: the first direct hit against him because of his business. Could he blame her if she didn’t want to be part of it?

  “Good morning, you.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, smoky with sleep. She stood in the doorway in one of his shirts and the pair of socks he’d left on the floor of the bedroom. Her hair was tousled, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses the night before.

  From his cock, taken deep into her mouth.

  He forced his thoughts away from the image. He wanted to feed her. To take care of her. To show her that he was fine now. That he didn't need her to worry or fuss over him.

  He crossed the room, bent to kiss her head. “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?"

  She stretched, and the shirt lifted to reveal her shapely thighs. “Like the dead.” She reached up to touch his face. “Did you sleep well?”

  He placed his hand over hers, turned his face to kiss her palm, avoiding the concern in her eyes. “Very well. And I made you breakfast.”

  He turned away, not wanting her to dwell on him. His feelings. His wounds.

  “I see that.” He was relieved when she followed him into the kitchen, turning her attention to the food instead of him. “And just as importantly, there’s coffee.”

  He poured her a cup, then slid it toward her. “But of course.”

  He finished the omelet, cut it in half, and slid each piece onto a plate. Then he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat next to her at the island.

  “I’ll have to go home soon,” she said, picking up her fork.

  He turned to her. “You are home.”

  He held his breath, wondering if she would refute his claim. Instead a smile crept slowly to her mouth.

  “Of course.” She reached over, pushed her fingers into his hair. “But I will need something else to wear.”

  11

  She sensed Christophe’s tension as they drove across town to Galerie Duval. It had been coiled under his skin since the moment she saw him standing at the stove that morning. She wanted to ask him about his time being held captive by Raneiro’s men, but whenever they came within striking distance of the issue, his expression shuttered and he moved quickly to put distance between them.

  She didn’t blame him. He was a man of strength and dignity. A man who prided himself on being in control at all times. On controlling every situation. To be held prisoner by Raneiro Donati for nearly a month would have been intolerable for more reasons than one.

  She would wait until he was ready. She was just happy just to have him back. To know that he was safe.

  For now…

  She pushed the unspoken thought aside. She wasn’t foolish enough to think it was over. Raneiro’s attempts at stealing the cross were ancillary — he’d simply needed a way to fund his new operation.

  This was different. This was personal.

  Kidnapping Christophe had been the opening salvo in what would surely be war between him and Donati. And that meant this was just the beginning.

  But she’d suffered without him, both when she’d thought he hadn’t wanted her and when she’d wondered if he would return alive. She wanted to spend a few hours with him by her side, soaking up his p
resence, reassuring herself that he was still with her.

  They entered the Fourth Arrondissement and turned onto the narrow street that had been home to her father’s shop for as long as she could remember. Christophe pulled the car next to the curb, then checked the holster strapped to his side. He’d done it at least five times since they left the house in Saint-Germain, like he needed the reassurance that he had a weapon. That he wouldn’t be caught off guard by Donati and his men again.

  They got out of the car and made their way to the front of the shop. It was Monday, the one day a week they were usually closed, but when Charlotte went to use her key the door inched open, already unlocked.

  Christophe moved in front of her, holding her behind him with one hand as he withdrew his gun with the other. “Stay behind me.”

  She waited as he slowly pushed open the door, trying not to jostle the bell that hung over the glass. She followed him into the showroom, the shadows of old furniture, floor lamps, and sculpture looming eerily from the edges of the room like specters.

  She couldn't see much behind Christophe’s broad shoulders, but she scanned the parts of the room that were visible as her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. She wasn’t ready for this. She’d just gotten him back. Couldn’t they catch their breath before the next threat presented itself?

  Christophe stopped walking as the sound of clinking metal sounded from the back of the store. It was followed by a dull thud, and he moved forward more quickly, Charlotte on his heels.

  They passed through the overflow room holding the less valuable pieces that weren’t suitable for the showroom. There was a shuffling from the workroom, the sound of feet on the concrete floor.

  Christophe paused outside the door leading to the final room, then put his hand behind him as if to tell her to stay back. She held her breath as he stepped into the room with his gun drawn.

  “I suggest you put that down and turn around,” he said, his voice low with menace. She was struggling to see around him when he spoke again. “What the…?”