Rule: Paris Mob Book Three

by St. James, Michelle

  She reached over, lay her hand against his face. “Are you telling me I make you happy?”

  He took hold of her hand, kissed her palm. “Happy is too mild a word.”

  He ran his bruised knuckles down her cheek, then rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. He already knew how it would feel beneath his mouth, how it would taste when he tugged it between his teeth.

  She rose onto her knees so she was wedged between his thighs, took his face in her hands. “You make me happy, too. Now kiss me.”

  19

  He slid his hands into the hair at the back of her neck. She hesitated as his mouth touched hers, not wanting to hurt the cut on his lip, but her concern was forgotten a moment later when he slipped his tongue into the fevered warmth of her mouth.

  She sighed, sinking into him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he angled his mouth to take their kiss deeper. He slid his hands down her sides, tracing the curves of her body as she pressed against him. His cock was rigid against her stomach, and an answering swell of wetness blossomed between her legs, her sex already throbbing for him, already imagining the exquisite fulfillment of his slide into her.

  He nibbled at her lower lip, then trailed kisses across her jaw. She rubbed his sculpted chest with her palms, letting her head fall back as he continued down her neck, his mouth leaving a path of fire in its wake. She gasped when his tongue flicked against the tender skin at the base of her throat. A moment later he was pulling her into his arms as he knelt on the ground, her legs wrapped around his waist as he nibbled the peaks of her nipples through the cashmere of her sweater.

  “Someone will see,” she gasped, arching her back to give him better access as he cupped one breast.

  The sky suddenly spun overhead, and then she was on the ground next to the table, Christophe kneeling between her legs, looking at her like an animal about to devour its prey. The smell of lavender was heavy in the air, the weight of her body releasing the scent from the stalks underneath her.

  “No one will see,” he said, bending over her, kissing her full on the lips, his tongue languid inside her mouth.

  His hands traveled down her neck, past her chest to her breasts, full with their desire for him. He pulled down the scoop neck of her sweater, then peeled back her bra to reveal her rigid nipples.

  “Fuck, Charlotte. I never stop wanting you.”

  He closed his mouth over one of the nipples, and she arched her back, spreading her legs as he wedged himself between her thighs. He flicked his tongue against the little peak, massaging the other breast with his hand as he nibbled and sucked.

  She ran her hands under his long-sleeve T-shirt, let her fingers travel over the corded muscles of his abs, up the swell of his pecs, careful not to press too hard against his still-bruised body. When she’d covered every inch of his chest, she continued back down to the button on his jeans.

  She was throbbing for him now, his thick cock pressing against the cleft between her legs as he teased her nipples to a hard point. The need for him to fill her was painful, and she unfastened the button and zipper on his jeans, then slipped her hand inside to grasp his rock-hard shaft.

  He hissed as she closed her palm around him. She relished the silken heat of his skin as she stroked him, thrilled in the way he grew harder and bigger, expanding in her hand, moving his hips against her as he kissed his way down her stomach.

  Then he was out of reach, breathing hard as he moved farther down her body, his destination unmistakable.

  “We can’t.” Her protest was half-hearted, even to her own ears. “Someone will see.”

  His chuckle was low and sexy. “No one will see. Look around.”

  There was only the blue sky over Corsica, the drying stalks of lavender rising high all around them.

  “Are you sure?”

  He leaned back on his knees, slipped off her boots, returned to the button of her fitted jeans. “I’m sure.”

  He slid the pants from her hips, taking her panties along with them. Then he reached for his jacket next to the table and slid it under her hips.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  She looked at him through half-closed eyes. “I’ll be more comfortable when you’re inside of me.”

  He grinned, lowering himself between her thighs. “Soon, darling.”

  He spread her legs and she closed her eyes, moaning as his tongue ran from the bottom of her pussy all the way up to her clit, spreading her lips as if preparing her for him along the way.

  He grabbed ahold of her hips and buried his face between her legs, sucking on the pearl at the center of her desire while he lapped with his tongue.

  “Oh, god…” she moaned.

  His fingers slipped inside of her as his tongue picked up a rhythm, licking in time to the movement of her hips. She hadn’t realized she’d grabbed onto his hair, but she realized it now, felt the silky strands between her fingers as she held him in place, her body already working toward the orgasm building at her center.

  His fingers moved in and out of her, fucking her as his tongue lapped at her clit. She felt the sea moving beyond the fields, felt the ebb and flow of it in her body as she dove for her release, heard the rush of it at the epicenter of her body.

  “I’m going to come,” she gasped.

  She ground against his mouth, beyond any kind of embarrassment, beyond self-consciousness.

  She just needed to jump. To let go. Let her body explode in order to remake itself.

  An unbearable pressure built deep inside her sex as he pressed against her G-spot, his tongue still feverishly working her clit. And then her feet were giving up their purchase on the ground, her body flying through the air as the orgasm ripped through her, both a gentle swell and a rogue wave.

  Her body shuddered around his fingers, against his mouth. Her hips had a mind of their own, still moving against his tongue, his fingers. Trying to wring every contraction out of her body as she came and came.

  She was panting by the time it was over, both wrung out and still coiled.

  Still wanting him.

  She lifted her hand. “Please…”

  He bent over her, kissed her deeply, the elemental taste of her body still on his tongue. She was dimly aware of him removing a condom from his pocket, rolling it onto his shaft. Then he was positioning himself at her entrance, running his thick head through the juices of her passion as he prepared to drive into her.

  She lifted her hips in invitation, and he chuckled as he propped himself up on his arms, lowering his head to fill his mouth with her tongue at the same moment he plunged into her.

  She cried out into his mouth. She never stopped being surprised by how completely he filled her. How he stretched her almost to the point of pain. How he managed to push her to the limit while bringing her so much pleasure.

  But her body was already moving with him. Already answering the call of his, their rhythm unrehearsed and primal as he pulled out a little at a time, then drove back into her. She clutched his ass, pushing him deeper even as he hit her cervix, wanting to absorb him into her own body. Wanting to eliminate the invisible lines that separated them.

  He lowered his head to her neck. “Goddamn, Charlotte… You feel so good.”

  She bent one of her legs, hooked it around his hips, tilting her pelvis to take him deeper. “Come with me. I want to feel you come with me.”

  He moved faster and with more intention, driving into her blindingly, eyes closed as he sought his own release. She could feel his demons, all the time he’d spent away from her coiled under his skin like a snake preparing to strike.

  She moved with him, working with his rhythm to give him the release he needed even as her own body began climbing a new peak. She was in a fever dream of sensation.

  His cock tunneling through the swollen channel of her pussy.

  The thick crown slamming into the deepest part of her.

  The friction of their bodies sparking a fire in her clit each time he pushed into her.

&nb
sp; She let it carry her away on the breeze, over the fields and across the sea as the orgasm rose in her like high tide, filling every crevice of her body until there was nowhere else for it to go.

  And then it was there again, tipping her over the edge. She heard her voice crying out as if from a distance, echoing through the fields as Christophe groaned, pouring himself into her in a burst of heat.

  He was moving in and out of her in a frenzy, and she moved with him, wanting to milk him of all the tension in his body, all the pain that he’d endured while they’d been apart, all the darkness she knew he didn’t want to discuss.

  When it was over he slumped against her, propping himself over her body, his breath coming fast and hard against her collarbone. She ran her hands down his back, still clad in the T-shirt, then back up again, cradling his head in her hand, stroking his hair.

  When he finally lifted his head, he looked deeply into her eyes. She saw everything then.

  All his pain. All his loneliness. All the things he didn’t want her to see.

  “It’s okay.” She lifted her head to kiss him, lay her hand against his cheek. “It’s okay.”

  20

  They lay in the field for twenty more minutes without speaking. Finally he rose, kissed her softly on the lips.

  “Now you can think of me when you walk the fields while I’m gone.”

  “I’d be thinking of you anyway,” she said.

  She didn’t like thinking of him going back to Paris alone. She would stay on Corsica as he requested. That was their deal. She would get to know his father, would wander the grounds and try to imagine him playing in them as a boy. She would wait.

  But she would miss him every moment. And she would worry, too.

  It was late afternoon by the time they got dressed and rose to leave. The sun was already sinking in the sky, the temperature dropping.

  “Shouldn’t we clean this up?” Charlotte asked, gesturing at the detritus of their picnic.

  “I’ll send someone for it,” he said.

  He took her hand and they made their way back to the house. She was glad for the jacket Christophe had given her to use. She assumed it was his — it smelled earthy and male — and she stuck her free hand deep in the pocket and hunched her shoulders for extra warmth.

  They were almost to the house when she heard the whoomp-whoomp of a chopper overhead. She looked up, shielding her eyes against the setting sun as she watched the helicopter drop below the roofline of the house.

  “Is that Bruno?” she asked, looking at Christophe.

  He shook his head. “Bruno wouldn’t arrive that way.”

  “Then who?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He started walking, still holding her hand, heading for the front of the house.

  They made their way around the side, forgoing the gardens at the back, and emerged in the front courtyard. The helicopter was on the ground, its rotors slowing as a large man emerged from its interior. He ducked until he cleared the spinning blades, then straightened and strode toward them.

  It was Farrell Black.

  They walked to meet him and Charlotte looked up at Christophe, noting the tension in his jaw, the guardedness that had crept into his shoulders since they spotted the chopper. Charlotte saw the same tension in Farrell’s face when they reached him, the same kind of caution.

  “Is everything all right?” Christophe asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Farrell said. He looked at Charlotte. “Hello, Charlotte.”

  “Hello.”

  “What is it?” Christophe asked.

  “Things are going to hell fast,” Farrell said. “I can’t speak for Paris, but London is under attack.”

  “Who?”

  “Lloyd Hammond.”

  “The mayor?” Christophe asked.

  “That’s right,” Farrell said. “Plus two of my contacts inside the police department, including the chief.”

  “Dead?” Christophe asked.

  Farrell nodded.

  “They’re taking out our power structure,” Christophe said. “Our money, our informants, our sources. They’re going to burn it all. Then they’re going to come for us.”

  “That’s a safe assumption,” Farrell said.

  “Have you heard anything about New York?”

  “Put a call into Luca on the way here,” Farrell said. “He’s on the outside there, but he’s going to do some digging.”

  Christophe rubbed the five o’ clock shadow forming at his chin. “New York is chaos in terms of organization, but a lot of money is still concentrated there. If I were Raneiro, I’d take us out, then make a play for New York as my new headquarters.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Farrell said.

  Charlotte was still processing everything that had been said when Farrell spoke again.

  “I think it’s time to call Nico.”

  21

  Christophe paused outside the library. He wasn’t so much nervous to speak to his father as hesitant to have yet another conversation that would end in an argument about Bruno. But the news from Farrell had meant a change of plans, and he didn’t know when he would see his father again.

  He didn’t know if he would see his father again.

  It wasn’t something he liked to think about, but it was possible he wouldn’t make it out of the war with Raneiro alive. He had long ago made provisions for the Corsica estate to revert to his father. Now he would have to make financial provisions for Charlotte as well. He wanted to insure that she was well taken care of in the event of his death.

  But first there were things he needed to say.

  His father was lounging on the old settee, a floor lamp lighting his face as he read an old volume of The Count of Monte Christo. It had always been his father’s favorite, and Christophe always wondered if it was an effort to exact revenge for the turn of his life vicariously through Edmond Dantes.

  “Papa,” he said.

  His father looked up, eyes slightly bleary from reading. “How was your walk?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “I quite like Charlotte. She’s very beautiful.”

  Christophe tamped down his annoyance as he took the chair across from the sofa. He may have inherited his love of beauty from his father, but Charlotte had taught him that beauty was about more than perfection.

  “She’s more than beautiful, Papa.”

  “Of course, of course.” His father waved away Christophe’s statement as if he was equally annoyed by Christophe’s need to clarify. “I only briefly spoke with her. I’m not equipped to judge the depths of her character.”

  Christophe drew in a breath. This was how it always went with his father. There was too much between them. Too much history. Too much resentment under the surface.

  “Of course,” Christophe said. He wasn’t here to pick a fight with his father about old grievances. He was here to make peace. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid you won’t have the chance to know her better this time.”

  He set the book aside. “You’re leaving? But you’ve only just arrived!”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry,” Christophe said. “Something’s come up.”

  “You won’t be leaving Charlotte then?” his father asked.

  There was something plaintive in his father’s voice, and for the first time, Christophe had a sense of his loneliness. Why had he never invited his father to Paris? Made more of an effort to talk with him about something other than his women and maintenance of the house and grounds?

  “Not this time,” Christophe said.

  His father leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he looked at Christophe. “Is everything all right?”

  Christophe hesitated. He’d been vague with his father about his business interests, but he’d always assumed that deep down he knew Christophe was up to something illegal. It wasn’t in his nature to ask questions. His father was a private person, and he assumed everyone prized their privacy in equal measure. Christophe had done nothing to divest him
of the belief.

  “There is some trouble,” Christophe said.

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Legal trouble?”

  “Not exactly.”

  His father met his eyes, then nodded. “Will you be safe?”

  “I think so,” Christophe said. “I’ll try to be.”

  “And you don’t want to leave Charlotte here?”

  Christophe shook his head. “I’m taking her somewhere else. Somewhere with more security.”

  A long pause settled between them.

  “Is this about your brother?” his father asked.

  “It might be.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  Christophe met his eyes. “He might be.”

  His father stood, paced to the window. The gardens were dark, his father’s face reflected in the window pane. “I know you and your brother have your differences,” he said, still facing the window. “But you must never forget that you are bound by blood.”

  “Blood doesn’t supersede loyalty,” Christophe said, his voice hard.

  “They are one and the same.”

  “Not to Bruno.”

  His father turned. “So he has come for you then.”

  “He’s come for the woman I love,” Christophe said. “He’s allowed others to come for me.”

  His father’s gaze dropped to Christophe’s battered hands. Christophe had seen the concern in his eyes at breakfast, had watched as his father’s gaze lingered on his bruised eyes, his cut lip. The question in his father’s eyes had gone unasked and unanswered.

  “You are my sons.” His father’s voice shook, and Christophe realized that he suddenly looked old and frail, not at all like the womanizing, virile man Christophe had known all his life.

  “Yes.”

  It was at least a minute before his father spoke again. “I trust that you will do what you must. And Bruno as well.”

  It was as close as Christophe would get to a blessing for what would come next. He rose to his feet.