by Lula Baxter
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he sighs. At first, I think it’s just to make me feel better. Then I see the intensity in his eyes and it sends a wild burst of pleasure through me, despite the lingering pain. I want him to enjoy this. I want him to experience as much pleasure as I’m able to give him.
My hips roll up to meet his as he fills me almost to the hilt. He slides out again, so only the head remains, leaving a void inside of me that’s almost as intoxicating as having his huge cock completely stretching me open. He slowly works himself in and out like that, filling me, pulling out, filling me, pulling out, toying with my pussy.
“Alexandre,” I moan.
So this is what it’s like. I can see the promise of just how perfect it will one day be. Right now, my body is just absorbing this strange experience, focusing on each detail of it: his hard body on top of me, his hot breath against my face; the hair on his thighs brushing against the soft, smooth skin of my legs; the way his back muscles ripple like waves underneath my fingertips; the guttural groans in the back of his throat; but most of all, that hard shaft invading me, touching every part of my insides, making me wet and hungry for more. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this. He’s stretching me so wide, I’m almost certain I’ll feel the absence of him for the rest of my life once this is over. I absolutely don’t want it to end.
His movement increases and I accommodate him, rocking my body with his until I finally feel every part of his body tense up. Even though I’m new to this, I’m fully aware of what’s coming and I’m fully alert, wanting to experience it completely. When he finally climaxes on top of me, it rocks my whole body, absorbing the impact of it.
“Astrid.” It’s a whispered groan that’s everything to me. One word. My name on his lips. I’ll never forget it.
Alexandre slides off me, rolling to his side, still breathing heavily. Sure enough, I feel his absence immediately. It’s almost as tortuously pleasurable as having him invade me.
“So, was it imperfect enough for you?” he says next to me.
That gets me giggling, then laughing. He laughs with me both of us easing into the comfortable aftermath of what just happened.
“How do you feel, really?” he asks, all seriousness now.
“It was…amazing.”
“I agree,” he breathes out, falling onto his back next to me. “You have a natural enjoyment of it, Astrid. It’s almost a shame….”
He lets the rest linger into some internal thought. Something in his voice hints at a certain longing. It reminds me that this is just for tonight. Tomorrow, all of this will just be a memory. Then I’ll go back to Boston and marry Bruce.
That thought ruins it all. Sending the bubble that I’ve been floating on since I entered the suite crashing down to the ground with a sudden pop.
If I stay, I’ll only feel even more despair. Seeing Alexandre’s perfect body next to mine, imagining all the ways it could make me feel even more magical than it already has. I imagine a life married to someone who actually worships my body the way it should be. Someone who makes me feel like a queen.
“I have to go,” I say, suddenly sitting up.
Alexandre is quick to follow me. “Stay,” he says, taking hold of my arm.
Just the feel of his hand has me wanting to fall back into bed and curl up into him. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. The night is still young.”
I turn to him and see those green eyes, forceful and longing. So tempting….
“I can’t,” I say, pulling my arm out of his grasp. “Thank you for this, Alexandre.”
He must see it in my eyes. Staying here would just be torture for me, reminding me of all that I’m going to be missing out on once I head back home.
He slides off the bed and pulls me up into an embrace. His warm, solid build makes me want to cling to it, forgetting about the future I’m promised. The one I’ve promised to others.
He leans down to kiss my forehead. It’s so innocent that it’s almost inexplicably obscene.
“Au revoir, Astrid.”
I enjoy the last lingering touch of him, then pull away. Thankfully, he stays in the bedroom as I go back into the living room to collect my clothes and get dressed again.
It’s only when I escape through the front door, closing it behind me, that I realize what his parting words were.
Au revoir, Astrid.
Until we meet again, Astrid.
Chapter Twenty
Alexandre
“So what did you find out?” The voice is in French and feminine, but husky in that sensual way most men like.
I look up from behind my desk, in the Paris headquarters of Bernard Financiers, to see Gabrielle leaning in my doorway. She gives me her trademark smile that has a hint of come-hither about it. Seduction has always been her modus operandi.
Without a doubt, she’s a beautiful woman, with long, dark hair and that chic perfection Parisian women always seem to have. That infamous je ne sais quoi they carry about them, which makes foreign men succumb to their standoffish charm. I should know, I fell prey to it when we were both still teenagers. Since then we’ve dabbled off and on in the bedroom, sometimes right here in the offices at the company we co-own.
“I found out that whoever is in charge of research should be fired,” I reply curtly, also in French.
She gives a breezy laugh and slinks into the chair across from me. She’s wearing a hip-hugging, black, pencil skirt and a filmy, white blouse through which I can see more than a hint of a bra. I know her too well to assume this was worn for my benefit. Gabrielle is the type who likes to make all the men around her sweat.
“And why are we firing the research department?”
“Because they failed to note that Astrid Hawthorne is engaged.”
“To that Bruce Campbell? It was inevitable, I suppose. They’ve been dating for well over a year now.”
“Has it been that long?” I ask, raising one eyebrow in surprise.
I visualize Astrid lying back on my boat, her legs spread open for me as the late morning sun made her glow. Then, back in the hotel suite, her legs and arms wrapped around me as I was the first to claim her. Even fully clothed, she could make a man fall prey to sin.
Except one it would seem.
“On second thought, don’t fire them just yet. I want the whole department focused on finding out everything they can about Bruce Campbell, the whole Campbell family in fact.”
The last hint of a smile evaporates from her face. “And why are we focusing on them?”
“They are the reason that Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals is getting funding,” I say. This is true, but it isn’t the main reason.
“Is this because of the daughter?” She gives me a smirk that is deceptively coy. It doesn’t fool me, inside I know she’s seething. She doesn’t mind sharing, so long as it’s never more than a fling. “She obviously made quite the impression on you in Monte Carlo.”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Gabrielle,” I say, returning to my paperwork.
“I don’t get jealous,” her voice is like ice. “When I want something, I get it.”
“Well, then,” I say bringing my attention back to her, “since you are part owner of this company, you should also want to know everything there is to know about the Campbells, specifically Bruce.”
“We already know they are the reason Edgar Hawthorne is getting such a large influx of financing. His daughter was dating their son. Now with a marriage, naturally—”
“Do you honestly think that marriage is enough for almost fifty-million dollars in financing?” I say, my impatience bubbling up.
She stares at me for a long hard moment. “So it is about the daughter.”
I lean back in my chair and wait for my nerves to settle. “I met Edgar Hawthorne while I was in Monte Carlo.”
“Who was the reason you were supposed to be there in the first place,” she says, her voice rich with accusation.
“Gabrielle, why did you
r father start this company?”
Her chin lifts ever so slightly in a petulant manner. “Money.”
I laugh, which causes her body to stiffen. “This is why he left me in charge of things and gave me the greater share.”
She no longer bothers to hide her animosity. “He always favored you.”
“Because I always had foresight and purpose. When you only focus on money, you become no better than the people we target. Getting rich doesn’t have to mean giving up one’s morals. Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals, in particular, can be salvaged another way,” I say, then add in a dry tone, “and still make us rich.”
Gabrielle doesn’t answer. I can see she is still bruised from the discussion about her father.
Jules Bernard started his career working as a money manager for an international firm. After seeing the depths to which many of his clients would sink just to make themselves wealthier, he lost the passion for what he did. Eventually, he found a new passion, stealing from the rich. It started off small, shaving a bit off the top, such that it wouldn’t be noticed. But it wasn’t enough for him.
With enough money stolen from the rich, he started Bernard Financiers. On paper, the company invested in corporations in need of immediate large sums of cash to expand or launch a product; just enough of an investment to have a significant voting interest, and, more importantly, to gain access to sensitive information. Behind the scenes, it gathered enough to commit various forms of corporate espionage. Jules focused his energy only on the worst offenders.
After my father died, my mother brought me to Monaco and took a job in the casino of a hotel, the one I now own. That’s where she eventually met the older, wealthy gentleman who soon became her benefactor. After some initial resistance, I was more than happy to let Jules take on the role of surrogate father. It didn’t hurt that he had a daughter who made every one of my teenage hormones sit up and beg.
Jules became as much of a father to me as he was to Gabrielle, perhaps more so. As my relationship with him grew closer, he began taking me under his wing in the company. I soon learned there was much more to this successful “money manager” than met the eye. I was more than happy to take over in his stead. After all, I had even more reason to be as savagely ruthless against the corruptible and unethical corporate entities of the world than he did.
“So, you want to break up the engagement?” Gabrielle asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“It would prevent funding from the wrong sort of investors, which was the goal all along.”
“The goal was to become one of the investors, and eventually cripple the company.”
“Only if they became unethical,” I remind her. “We can still become an investor and mold the company into what we want it to become. I have reason to believe Edgar Hawthorne may not be as unscrupulous as his potential investors are.”
“But for fifty-million dollars?” she asks, staring at me in surprise.
“We buy into businesses for legitimate financial reasons all the time,” I reply. “Like the hotel and casino in Monte Carlo.”
“Only as a cushion to fund our other objectives, and certainly never this much.”
“His company will be profitable. He has a new patent which may be promising.”
Gabrielle sits back and gives me an assessing look, completely unconvinced. “I never thought I’d see the day when you let your cock—”
“I am the head of this company, Gabrielle. This means I have the final say in things,” I say tersely, suddenly feeling my anger set in, mostly because there’s a seed of truth in what she’s hinting at.
The thought of Astrid—my Astrid—in the arms of a man she doesn’t love, who doesn’t love her, fills my blood with venom. I fully plan on putting an end to this engagement, no matter what.
“All focus should be on finding out everything we can about Bruce Campbell,” I say, with a hard note of finality in my voice.
She tightens her lips and glares at me, but nods all the same. She rises from her seat and walks to the door. Before she exits, she turns to me with a cool look. “I just hope all your foresight and purpose doesn’t destroy us.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Astrid
My mother and I were enjoying a rather exciting morning in Naples, Italy when we learned the news.
We had just witnessed a young woman who, while eating gelato, had her purse stolen by someone riding on the back of a scooter. In the next instant, a gorgeous man sitting in the same area somehow reached out and rescued her bag. It was all very thrilling and kind of romantic.
My mother, of course, saw it in a different light.
“I knew we should have skipped Naples. I’ve heard about things like this happening here.”
“She could have just as easily been robbed in Boston, Mom. It’s a gorgeous city, let’s just enjoy it,” I say, smiling as I look at the damsel in distress and her hero. They are now chatting and flirting with one another and I can’t help but think of Alexandre. Did I have the same silly look on my face as she does now, looking at this man?
That’s when I feel my phone buzz in my purse. Almost the next second, my mother’s phone rings in hers. I pull mine out to see a text message from a number I don’t recognize.
Rethink the man you are marrying.
Lord Wilmore.
Underneath is a series of photos of Bruce Campbell…with Conrad Donovan, one of his teammates on the lacrosse team. The two of them are very much In flagrante delicto, pardon my Latin.
It’s nothing too terribly graphic. Just the two of them, Bruce pressing Conrad into a wall with a look on his face that he never once held for me. Then there’s one of them actually kissing, again never once like he kissed me. Then there’s one with his hand down Conrad’s shorts, again…never once.
“What?” my mother cries into the phone, a look of horror and disbelief on her face. Her eyes dart up to mine and the look only intensifies. “Edgar, you are making absolutely no sense.”
So it’s Dad she’s talking to. I feel dread begin to overwhelm me. Why did her phone ring at almost the same time mine did?
Mom pulls the phone away from her ear and taps something onto the screen. The look on her face as she stares at it says it all. She must be looking at the same photos I am.
How many people have these photos been sent to? It isn’t my own embarrassment that I’m concerned about, and it certainly isn’t Bruce’s. But if the Campbells decide to cancel the wedding now, what will that mean for all Dad’s potential backers?
“Hold on Edgar, I can’t do this outside. I’ll call you back from the hotel room.” Considering the growing hysteria in her voice that’s probably a good idea. Already, people around us are beginning to stare. For a split second, I have this irrational fear that they all know exactly what’s going on, which makes no sense. No one here in Naples cares about the Campbells, let alone knows who they are. In Boston on the other hand….
Mom hangs up, grabs me by the wrist, and drags me down the street, presumably back to our hotel. She puts her other hand up to shield her face like we’re being stalked by paparazzi or something.
“Tell me this isn’t true, Astrid,” she says, taking on that school teacher voice of hers that she’s always utilized to get me to confess to something I did wrong.
“Mom, just…just wait a second,” I say, pulling back in resistance.
“Not here, Astrid,” she says tersely, tugging even harder.
“Mom!” I shout, planting my feet firmly until she has no choice but to stop.
“Not here, Astrid,” she repeats, spinning on me.
“No one here cares!” I shout, waving my hands around me just to make the point.
She stares, wild-eyed, at me, then looks around. The few people who stopped to glance our way during my outburst, have now continued on, completely ignoring us.
“What did Dad say? What did you see on your phone?” I ask.
The look of indignation on her face begins to melt into something l
ike devastation. Knowing my mother, it could be a typical overreaction on her part. Still, I feel my stomach begin to bottom out on me.
“He…he said that Bruce,” her face contorts into disbelief again. “There were photos of Bruce and some…boy.” She spits out the last word as though wanting the taste of it off her tongue. “But why would he…why would he propose to you if he was,” she looks up and around at the colorful buildings surrounding us as though searching for any spies, then she whispers fervently, “gay?”
I’m not about to answer that right now. “What did Dad tell you? Did he say anything about the Campbells?”
If they know, then that’s not good news for his company. If the wedding is off, so is the expansion of Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals.
“What does that matter?” she cries, throwing her hands up. She’s starting to get hysterical again. “Is this true, Astrid?”
“Mom…,” I sigh. I have no idea how to answer this.
Of course it’s true. The photos I saw didn’t lie. In fact, they reveal almost the very thing I saw with my own eyes several months ago, but not quite as graphically.
There was a small get-together at Bruce’s apartment with a group of his friends, including Conrad Donovan. As the “hostess”—now official, complete with an engagement ring—I’d been the last to leave, Bruce giving me his usual, perfunctory kiss on the cheek as I did. It was only after I was on the street that I realized I’d left my favorite sweater behind. The doorman recognized me, and he simply waved me up.
It was in the hallway that I saw it. Bruce had just opened the door for Conrad, and the way they were looking at each other put it plainly, even to my naive mind. Conrad had apparently also returned to Bruce’s apartment for something, though nothing as innocuous as a sweater. Bruce pulled Conrad in by the waistline of his pants and they kissed, hard and passionately, before falling into his apartment, and slamming the door behind them.
