Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  Eventually, it’s our turn. “Simone and Jacob. How wonderful it is that you could make it.”

  Almost on cue, Renée appears at his side and she cuddles up to Jake. Resting her hand on his lapel, she murmurs, “You have had something to eat, oui?”

  Fighting the need to sling her hand away from Jake’s chest, and discomforted at that sudden flare of jealous possessiveness, my attention is taken as Rousset says, “I have something to show you, Simone.”

  Worked apart by the pair, and in truth, in their clutches is where we want to be, Jake and I allow ourselves to be separated. As we part, Jake glances at me, eyes flaring wide. My nod is tiny, but I silently tell him I’ll be on my guard for the jade bi. It would be a damned sight easier if it was here and then we wouldn’t have to travel down to St Tropez. Not that I wouldn’t want to visit, but not because of Rousset. I’m getting sick of him. The old letch.

  Even now, as he urges me through the crowd of people in his sitting room and toward the hall, his eyes are on my tits. I want to cover myself up, but that would just bring more attention to that area and encouragement is not something a guy like Rousset needs.

  Working our way into the hallway, he leads me to a staircase and, fearful for my life in my ridiculously high heels, I clutch the rail as I descend to the next level. My attention is focused solely on not falling flat on my face, so by the time I make it and my head rears up to stare in awe at the view, I fail to realize that Rousset has come up an inch or so behind me.

  This story is completely free from walls, save for supportive columns. And it’s only as I try and spin around to see if it’s a three hundred and sixty degree space dedicated to a personal art collection, that I realize he’s there.

  Forcing a chuckle, I step forward, relieved when he doesn’t try and stop me. Turning to face him, I say, “Incredible, Pierre. I didn’t realize you were such a collector.”

  “Pretty things, Simone, I’m a man who enjoys being surrounded by them.”

  I’ll bet, you dirty old bastard. The thought is an inch away from escaping my lips, but I retain it. Just.

  Even someone as relatively inexperienced as I, can’t fail to miss the look in his eyes. He deserves for me to insult him, because that one look alone is offensive to me.

  Christ, Rousset is Henry, the concierge, after a few decades’ study of Misogyny 101. Zane’s concierge has a long way to go, but the pair of them share those creepy eyes that make a woman feel as though slime is slithering down her spine.

  Someone should tell them it’s not the greatest of come-ons.

  Stepping away from him, I start to walk around the room. The backs of my heels begin to chafe within my new shoes and without missing a beat, I swoop down and remove them. Ignoring his delighted chuckle, I hang them from two fingers and meander through the various plinths topped with small bronzes and glass display units loaded with ancient pottery, and drool over what has to be an original Pissarro. Each piece has a light spotlighting it, highlighting each marvelous inch to my delighted eyes.

  And I can’t deny, this collection is better than some I’ve seen in museums.

  I recognize a piece or two of pottery from another archaeological magazine. It’s difficult to contain my reaction, when I realize that this must have been stolen from a museum, too, because these pieces had been excavated with foundation backing. From the soil to the museum. Not to private collectors.

  As I walk around, looking at a mannequin dressed in a gown I recognize as once belonging to Elizabeth Taylor, another smaller model, this time with a thick and ornate collar of large, glittering gems, I can’t help but wonder what else this man has stolen. All of it? Has he paid for any of it?

  And why is he showing me?

  And then, I spot it. The staircase led into the center of the room. And at the back, behind the stairs, tucked in a glittering nook carved out of the wall, supported by some kind of transparent plastic framework so it looks like it’s floating in midair, is the bi from Jake’s photos.

  I stop, my mouth dropping open at Rousset’s audacity.

  “Is this what I think it is?” I ask, when my voice returns.

  “Yes, it is.” Rousset’s heels click on the tiled floor. He comes up behind me again. Invading my personal space in a way that has me inching forwards. He grabs me by the upper arms and holds me still.

  “I thought Henri Leroy had it. My husband has been in negotiations with him to purchase it for me.” My throat is dry at the clammy hold Rousset has on my arm. And if the tight clasp wasn’t bad enough, his fingers are roughly massaging my flesh.

  Attempting to incite what, I don’t know.

  I’m taller than him by an inch or so, and as I’m a short ass that tells you how small Rousset is. His chin rests on my shoulder and the pressure behind the move tells me that he has to stand slightly upright to maintain the position.

  One hand drops down to cup my waist and he brings me deeper into his hold.

  My fingers tighten their grip on my heels. Instinct tells me that this situation isn’t going to improve any, and I’m distinctly grateful that I removed my shoes. Thank you, God, for the blister. There’s a reason stiletto heels were named after the knife.

  “I overheard you talking that first night we met, but then, that was your intention, non?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I burst out, hoping my irritation seems genuine and isn’t mistaken for fear. Does he know what I’m doing here?

  “Of course, you do. I heard that little act you put on with your husband. You want to buy this piece of ancient artwork for a paltry fifty thousand dollars?” He snorts as though the idea was ludicrous. Thank God he doesn’t have a clue as to why I’m really here. Our story hasn’t collapsed around us. Phew.

  “That’s more than generous. It’s been stolen from a museum,” I hiss, my umbrage genuine. Not at his insult, but at the fact his hand is inching ever upwards. Two inches away from reaching my breast, he stops. His fingers sliding along my lower rib.

  I want to pull away, but I know I’m going nowhere until this man has played out his role to the fullest.

  The only reason I’m not yelling for Jake is because I have a pair of stilettos in my hand and I’m not afraid to use them if this creep decides to do more than just touch. Secondly, I want to know what he’s going to say. How far he’s going to take this.

  Maybe I’m riding a dangerous rogue wave, maybe I’m not. But I’ve found that I rather enjoy this intrigue. Jake’s exposed me to a seething underbelly of crime and I’ve loved every minute of exploring it. And it’s changed me. This entire situation has forged a new woman out of the mouse that once existed.

  The Mona standing in the here and now wouldn’t mind slamming the edge of her palm against Rousset’s nose. In fact, she’d rather enjoy the gush of blood.

  With violence simmering in my veins, the sound of my pulse echoes in my ears as he bites out, “You think that matters? I have private collectors drooling at the idea of being this close to the bi. We both know what it is, regardless of what the experts say. It’s the Imperial Seal.”

  “So? How much do you want?” I ask, trying to break free of his hold. Jerking forward a little, only to be reeled back against him.

  The ridge of his erection is unexpected and unwanted.

  I want to say, whoa, there. Slow down, boy. But Rousset grinds, yes, grinds his hips against my butt and with his lips against my neck, whispers, “One hundred thousand.”

  “Even on the open market, it’s only worth a few thousand,” I argue.

  “Then why were you willing to pay fifty?”

  “Because I always get what I want.”

  “Your husband is very tolerant of your greed, then.” I can feel his lip curling against the soft flesh of my throat. That his touch is so intimate revolts me. I want to jerk away from him, disliking the tenor of this current path, but I know it will only incite him into more explorative touches.

  Creep.

  “If you were listening, t
hen you know he’ll only pay fifty thousand. Not a cent more.”

  “Then you’ll have to persuade him if you really want the bi. And you do, don’t you, Simone? After all, you always get what you want.”

  For a second, my naivety blinds me. The part of me that was raised a Christian, who attended Sunday school until the end of high school, because my dad forced me to go regardless of my age, wonders what he’s after. The woman who has endured nearly a decade in New York, who has watched way too many movies, wonders if the guy’s for real.

  What does he expect me to do? Barter for the bi with my body?

  Get real.

  Apparently, I’m a far better actress than I realized. Because Rousset grinds his cock once more into my butt. It takes every single ounce of strength in my possession to not pull free and to remain in the game. This isn’t my fight, it’s Jake’s. I know that, but I’d still like to help him.

  Hell, earning him a decent commission is the least I can do for fucking his husband. If leading Rousset on a merry dance does that, then I’ll keep on at it until he freaks me out too much.

  And I get the feeling that this train has left the station. I have to play this out, because Rousset has no intention of letting me escape.

  That could scare me, in fact, I can't lie, it does. But I'm strong enough to handle this creep, I just have to believe in myself.

  I can do it.

  “What do you want?” I ask, my voice resigned.

  He chuckles. “Nothing that you haven’t gifted to others, Simone.”

  I hate the way he says my name. Almost as though he’s saying, ‘See-Moan’. I pull a face, because I know he can’t see my expression. The face contortion is also handy, because his hand finally makes the leap and cups my breast.

  His fingers are like pincers. Pinching, grabbing, squeezing.

  Revolting.

  From that one single touch, I make a comparison to Zane.

  And my next thought is, poor, poor Renée. Having to screw this useless fuck however many times he requires it.

  Shuddering at the thought, I tense and at his chuckle, want to laugh myself at the man’s ego. He thinks my reaction was because of his touch.

  He actually thinks I enjoy being groped by his little hands and pudgy fingers.

  “How many times would I have to sleep with you to make up the difference?” I ask, wincing as his other hand slides down to follow the line of my groin beneath my dress.

  “How long are you in Paris for?”

  “A week, maybe two more.”

  “Once a day for the duration of your stay. And whenever I am in the US, I may call upon you to avail myself of your services. As well as accommodation in your house.”

  “And how do I know you’ll honor that agreement?” I ask stiffly. “That you won’t ask me for the remaining fifty thousand after I sleep with you?”

  “You don’t. But the risk is yours. I, on the other hand, will accept no risk. I will keep evidence of your possession of the bi and if you ever refuse me access to your home or your body, then off it will fly to Interpol.” He huffs under his breath, as his hand continues its squeeze of my soft flesh. “You’re just like my wife, if you want something badly enough, your body is just another commodity. I suppose it all depends on how badly you want it, ma chérie.”

  “Oh, I do, Pierre. I really want it.” My voice is breathy. Just call me Marilyn. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in all of my life.”

  Another chuckle, this time filled with arrogance. He thinks he’s won. He thinks I’m a slut, like Renée, willing to whore myself out for whatever current trinket takes my fancy. The man is obviously not living in reality. Or if he is, and that’s the way the women in his circle work—bartering with sex—then it’s a circle I’m glad I don’t inhabit.

  He reaches for my hand, the free one and prods it between our bodies. The instant my fingers brush his cock, I let them envelope the bulge, and with hands made strong from scrubbing floors and from other manual tasks, they bite down into the squelchy softness of his manhood.

  My smile is pleasant as he howls out his agony.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You’d think I’d pulled his cock off the way he whined on and on.” My grouse is swallowed by Jake’s chuckle.

  “Would you like me to pull out your ovaries and kick them?” he asks, his left brow rising in question.

  Pouting, I shake my head. Jake’s mood is a strange one to explain. He’s both annoyed and exhilarated. Angry and amused. I’m not entirely sure how to handle him.

  “Well, then. You’ve no idea how much you hurt him.”

  “Is that a complaint?”

  “No, an explanation as to why he’s whining.”

  “Why are you mad at me? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am,” he grits out.

  “Yeah, you really sound it.”

  “I wanted your help, Mona,” he spits after a few moments’ silence. “I didn’t ask you to nearly get raped as you did it.”

  “He was no way near raping me. I knew what I was doing.”

  Jake snorts. “Yeah, right. You’ve about as much street smarts as a kid in kindergarten.”

  “If I thought I couldn’t have handled it, I wouldn’t have got myself involved. As it was, I knew I could poke him in the eye with my shoe.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  The small explosion has me frowning at him. “What’s wrong with you? You got the bi, didn’t you? Rousset’s behind bars. What else do you want?”

  “Nothing.” His teeth clamp down. I can hear the crunching. “Nothing at all.”

  “Anyway, the bastard deserved it. Thinking I’d sell myself for a bit of ancient jade. Christ, who in their right mind would sleep with that creep to buy an artifact at half price?”

  “Renée?”

  His wry comment has me chuckling, and I tap him on the arm. “He really deserved it, Jake. Honestly. I could have left him alone once he fell to his knees, but if I hadn’t been in control, it could have been quite frightening. He’d have slept with me there, with or without my consent and with or without my agreement to purchase that bloody relic.”

  Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

  The tic in Jake’s jaw flares up again. Fluttering back and forth every few seconds or so.

  “So you thought you’d put your heels back on and stand on his dick again?”

  I shrug. “Why not? I had to run upstairs to get you. It would have been a lot harder if he’d been conscious.”

  “You’re probably going to be charged with assault,” he bellows at me.

  “I’ll counter the charge with attempted rape.”

  He simmers down a little, sinking back into his seat, and glaring out the window.

  “I’m sorry you’re mad, I thought I was helping.” My voice is small, if a little put out.

  What the hell else should I have done? I want to shout. But I don’t. There’s no point. He’s mad, and will be until he gets over my supposed misdemeanors. Whatever they are.

  I don’t think either of us expected Rousset to urge me into using my body as a currency. There was no backup plan. I mean, we didn’t really have a plan at all. Infiltrate Rousset’s circle and get invited to St Tropez, where hopefully we’d find the bi. Jake wanted proof of the artifact’s location, nothing more, nothing less. He hadn’t even wanted Rousset to be arrested yet.

  Which part of the loose itinerary indicated that I’d have to protect my modesty from the thief we were trying to catch in the act?

  I’ve always been an overachiever when I set my mind to something. Whoops.

  Silence simmers between us. Jake sits on his side of the car and I sit on my side. Around us, flashlights glare into the back seat, the ever-present honks and toots of the traffic haven’t dissipated any in deference to nightfall.

  We’re about a block away from our hotel, when eventually Jake grits out, “You have helped me, Mona. I should be thanking you, not yelling. I’m
sorry.”

  I don’t know what made me do it, but my hand reaches out to connect with the one he’s resting on his left knee. I clasp his cool flesh for a moment and then immediately retreat. The chilly temperature of the silence has disappeared somewhat. It’s not as bone-numbing as it was, but there’s a charge zipping through the atmosphere. And I know what it is and it both terrifies and relieves me. Because at that moment, I know my crazy attraction to Zane’s husband is mutual.

  The driver discharges us at the front entrance of the hotel. The grand façade is riddled with the nineteenth century, ornate, antique, filled with history. And each step into the foyer declares that this place has withstood far more than I’ll ever hope to achieve. In a silence so thick it’s taken on a corporeal form of its own, we travel in the elevator to our suite of rooms, which are as decadent as the public area.

  In fact, they’re even more so.

  Our shared lounge is a mixture of old and new. There are comfortable cream sofas that blend in with console tables dripping with real antiques, paintings on the wall that aren’t regular, crappy prints but genuine works of art. Maybe not from the major players of the art world, but they’re the real deal. A baby grand piano overlooks the panoramic vista we have of Paris. A wet bar is nestled neatly into one side and is filled with expensive bottles of liquors. A plush carpet is a nightmare for my heels, and rugs that are undoubtedly of Middle Eastern origin cover great expanses of the huge floor space, adding bright shades of purples and reds to the otherwise creamy palette.

  There’s a kitchen that neither of us have used. A small cloakroom for outerwear. Then there are two bedrooms and the bathroom that joins them together.

  As soon as Jake unlocks the door, I retreat to my room. I know I’m running, hiding away from that charge of electricity that shot through the atmosphere back in the car, but as relieved as I am that Jake feels something for me—something that isn’t wholly negative—my next step is still freaking me out.

  After Zane’s last call, because I’ve ignored his subsequent ones, I’ve had a lot of thinking to do. And there are a few options open to us all. Some lead us down a path where one of us is left out in the cold. Another is simply leaving the status quo as is. And then, there are those which belong in either a porn movie or an erotic novel.