The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  The word hung heavy between them.

  He wanted.

  Me. He wants me.

  Looking at him sitting there, hungry and desperate despite the strain on his body, every one of his enormous muscles furled, she realized he wasn’t alone.

  She realized exactly how much she wanted him, too.

  She let out a sigh that could have been a prayer, lifted her hand to his face to cup his cheek, and smiled.

  “Then have me.”

  NINE

  TREAT HER LIKE a customer, you said.

  This is not treating her like a customer.

  He didn’t exactly jump her, but he came close, hauling her over until she stood between his splayed knees. His body ached from his day in the car, but it suddenly didn’t matter so much anymore, not with the beautiful banshee so near he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She’d offered herself to him, and while he knew he should say no, should go downstairs to get her a separate room so he could pray very, very hard to resist such lovely temptation, he was toast. He wanted her. More than anything. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day long, even when he was at peak irritation—perhaps especially when he was at peak irritation, because she was right there, and had he been allowed to touch her, like she had done in The Seaside’s stockroom when they’d discovered Sol and Rain fucking, she might have been able to calm him down.

  The woman got under his skin, for reasons good and bad alike. She drenched his thoughts and made his body burn.

  He should have wavered, should have hesitated before continuing, but when she stepped in close and lifted her other palm to his face, cradling him, her plump lips curled into a smile, there was only resolve to see this through to its inevitable conclusion. His big hands settled on her hips, enjoying her curves. They curled around, grabbing an ass that was ample enough to border on fat. His fingers dug into the meat through the thin cloth of her dress.

  “Don’t mind my unmentionables by the sink,” she’d said.

  She’s not wearing any panties.

  His cock quickened, twitching and thickening inside of his shorts. He peered up at her, examining that pale face with those big eyes, the thick fringe of lashes, the long narrow nose and pointed chin, and his breath caught in his throat. She was perfection carved in ivory and she was saying he could have her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  Her smile widened, one of her brows lifting in saucy invitation. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Oh, that’s it.

  The motion was fast and smooth. One minute she stood before him, between his knees. The next he was picking her up, his hands cupping her ass as he stood. She was a tall girl, a solid girl, but he was strong, and hoisting her took no effort at all. She erupted with a surprised squawk when he carried her through the room, her arms wrapped around his neck, her long legs locking around his waist before he unceremoniously dropped her on the desk next to the TV. The weatherman drawled on about another hot, humid day in Louisiana, like that was anything remarkable, and he fumbled with the buttons on the side of the Samsung to shut him up.

  “Alex, I—” Whatever she was going to say didn’t matter. What mattered was his mouth finding hers. What mattered was giving her his kiss and her taking it. He muffled her words, but she didn’t fight it or him, instead cradling him close with her body, her limbs holding him hostage as he leaned into the deep V between her legs. Her lips were soft, he liked that, but they weren’t enough. He wanted more, and so he reached up for her chin and pulled it down, opening her for his tongue. She readily complied, and he delved inside, tasting her, his tongue sweeping over hers and then pulling back to flick and tease.

  Her fingers found his back muscles, splaying against his hot skin before coursing over him from shoulders to his waist. It sent shivers down his spine. It made him harder. He groaned into her mouth, his hands abandoning her luscious ass to bury themselves in all that wet red hair. It was twisted silk, and he bunched it up, using it to hold her head in a way he could deepen the kiss. She writhed before him, arching into him as he stole her breath away and, in turn, lost his own.

  We fit well together, she and I.

  We’re a matched pair.

  He growled into her mouth as his hands traveled again, his fingertips brushing the sides of her swanlike neck and down, over her décolletage, to her heavy tits. No bra, just soft bounty, and he cupped her, his palms grazing hard, proud nipples straining against her dress. Her legs moved higher on his waist, pulling him closer and mashing his pelvis to hers.

  Forcing his cock to rub against her through his pants.

  She tore away from him, sucking in air and quivering.

  “Fuck, I want you,” she rasped, and oh how he wanted her right back. It would have been nice to carry her to bed, to strip her down, to explore every inch of that long body with hands and mouth, but when she reached for his wrist and guided his fingers between her thighs, pressing him against her cunt through that flimsy blue barrier, there was no hope. None. They would not get there. He forced the cloth against her most tender folds. She was soft and damp. Sodden. He moaned and craned his head to capture the shell of her ear with his mouth, sucking on it as he inched her dress up, impatient now. She helped, tucking the fabric under her ass and trapping it around her waist so she was completely bare.

  He gently pushed the petals of her pussy open so he could explore her. The pad of his pointer finger swept over her, starting at her clit, tapping at it and milking her for a gasp. He rubbed her, slow and steady pressure, not on the nub but a scant bit higher so he wouldn’t overwhelm her. She cooed and craned her head back, granting him access to her neck, which he greedily sucked upon. She smelled like soap and shampoo, and he breathed her in as he let his fingers drop, away from her straining flesh to the pool of molten honey below.

  She’s soaked.

  She’s ready.

  I can’t . . . fuck it.

  He pulled away from her, his hand shaking as he unlatched his belt. His cock couldn’t get any harder. For that matter, nothing was harder—not marble, granite, or diamond, his need for her was that great. He was none too gentle as he unleashed himself, unzipping his fly and hastily shoving down his boxers, his body trembling as his sensitive tip brushed her silken thigh, leaving a glistening trail of pre-cum in its wake.

  Like I’ve marked her.

  Another shudder.

  “Can I—”

  “Yes. Yes, now. Do it now. I’m safe. I’ve been tested,” she interrupted. He’d been tested, too, after Lyn, and so he did it now, reaching down and guiding himself between her pink folds. She had a pretty cunt, with fat lips, a trim triangle of red hair above, and a dewy hole, and he wanted to sob in thanks as he sank into it, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t dare go any faster—he was big. Not freakishly so, but Lyn informed him back in the day that he was girthy, and the girthiness “was pleasant, but took some time getting used to.” So he spread that tight, hot recess open with care, his body tense but eager.

  It’s been so long and she’s so perfect.

  My God, if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Theresa crooned before squeezing him with her legs and thus feeding herself more of his dick. She reached for his face, pulled him down to her so their mouths could meld, her tongue slithering over his lips. He opened for her, then took charge again as he eased in, deeper. Deeper, both mouth and cunt, until he was kissing her breathless and buried so far inside of her his knees collided with the desk legs.

  She gasped and moaned, eyes fluttering. He ran his hands down her back, bunching up the fabric of her dress before he pulled out a few inches, paused, and shoved back in. She whimpered, he echoed it, and did it again.

  Slap.

  Slap.

  Every kiss of his body against hers made a smacking sound, in part because of the fuc
k, in part because the desk rocked back and struck the wall with the momentum. He didn’t care, not as he settled into a rhythm, steadily at first but building fast into a frenzied tempo, her begging for more with every hard push.

  “Give it—yes. Harder. Fuck yes. Alex, yesssssss.”

  Her fingernails bit into his bare back, not breaking the skin, but scouring hard enough he’d bear marks later. He stared down at her, at her flushed face and wide eyes, her lips parted and swollen, and he leaned forward, looming over her, letting his body envelop hers as he braced one hand against the wall so he could pummel her harder. His cock filled every available bit of space inside of her, sieging her cunt, spreading her open. She smeared him with her juices and he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he loved it—the idea of her all over him, drowning him, and he moaned his pleasure. His thrusts grew more frantic and their soundtrack grew more lewd. Squelching. Squishing. Sighs and groans. It was wrong and yet so completely right, and he slammed his eyes shut as his heart raced and his breathing came in gaspy pants.

  He wanted to come, to flood her. It’d been so long, but he’d hold back as long as he could for her sake. She was good enough to let him fuck her, after all, and without much in the way of preliminaries needed. On one hand, it bothered him that he hadn’t given her proper foreplay. On the other, she was mewling like something out of a porno reel and he was pretty sure by the sweat sparkling along her brow and the copious wetness on her thighs that it wasn’t manufactured.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she chanted in time to his thrusts. He dropped his head to her shoulder, craning his face so he could breathe her in, his lips latching on to her pulse. The desk was jumping off the floor with the power of his fucking, but he was mindless to everything but finding pleasure—his own and hers.

  She has to finish first. She has to.

  Every part of him wanted to tip over, but he wouldn’t, no matter how tight she was. No matter how sexy she looked, sounded, and smelled.

  I can do this. I can . . . oh thank God.

  She stiffened before him, then stiffened around him, her body jolting against his as pulse after pulse ripped through her. She cried out, bucking through her orgasm, her mouth finding his shoulder and peppering it with kisses. Her hole, already snug, contracted around his cock, squeezing him, and that was it—there was no more holding back, and he whispered her name as he slammed forward, burying himself in her and spurting, shot after shot of cum taking full advantage of what she’d so kindly gifted him.

  I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  But I did. I did and I loved it.

  He collapsed against her, his face buried in her hair, his arms wrapped around her waist.

  TEN

  SHE DIDN’T REMEMBER getting to the bed, though she guessed it involved being lugged around like a sack of flour. She didn’t mind his high-handedness—at least not in this particular way. She was snuggled up against a warm chest, her leg wedged between two furred ones, her arm looped around a trim waist—or as trim a waist as a refrigerator could have. He was asleep still, his chin resting atop her head, his chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. It was close and intimate and wonderful.

  I haven’t had this since Scott. I’ve missed it more than I like to admit.

  Scott was a writer—or a “novelist” as he preferred to call it—fifteen years her senior, whom she’d met at a friend of a friend’s party right after she’d graduated from college. Their affair went from zero to sixty in about six seconds, Scott overwhelming her until she had no choice but to succumb to his charms. He was successful, not making ridiculous money penning his mystery novels, but he did well enough that he could comfortably support himself from his trade without needing a second income. Some of it was his way with words. Theresa preferred nonfiction to fiction, but even she found a smile reading his work that was some parts comedy, some parts detective crime adventures. The rest of his success, though, was his good looks and personality. At every book appearance, Scott was swarmed by eager-beaver reading ladies who worshipped him as a poster-child handsome academic while waving copies of his latest trade paperback under his nose for signing.

  Their relationship had started strong, Scott putting her mind at ease about the age gap between them and supporting her despite her mad-dash approach to starting her photojournalism career. He wrote her sonnets and love letters and sang to her on Skype on the nights she was on location photo shoots. Six months of dating and she’d moved in with him. Nine months of dating, they got a dog and named it Sawyer. And when Scott bought her an engagement ring and presented it to her on her birthday that year, televising his proposal on the big screen at a baseball game so the world could see, she was smitten and felt infallible.

  But then year two happened, and things . . . changed. Her star rose ridiculously fast on the photojournalism front, her inaugural work taking awards for a series she did on Afghanistan. Scott was excited for her at first, accompanying her to cocktail parties and ceremonies, but a few months in, when the fervor didn’t die down but seemed to escalate as she got handed opportunity after opportunity, he lost enthusiasm. For all of it. For her, for her photography, even for his own books. He went to counseling for depression for a while, and they put him on the requisite pills and treatment schedule, but it didn’t do much to treat the listlessness.

  When he’d made a quasi-miraculous recovery after Christmas, she’d wanted to believe something had clicked for him, that he’d found the magical concoction to ward off the depression. She wanted to believe he’d go back to sonnets and Skype singing, and she could have her career and he could have his, but it never happened.

  No, what happened was that he began not one, but three different affairs in three different cities after his publisher sent him on a twelve-city book tour, which she only found out about because she happened to search his name on Twitter and saw one of the fangirls talking about him “that way.” He apologized for the misstep, vehemently even, and she’d accepted the apology and even considered getting into couples therapy with him to see if they could repair the damage. But then a second mistress was unearthed, and then a third a week after that. Scott kept saying how contrite he was, but he never really showed it.

  He’d lied to her about so much, how could she presume the apologies were genuine, too?

  Despite Scott’s passionate pleas and protests, Theresa had moved out and moved on in short order. And while a year after their breakup she missed Sawyer far more than she missed the philandering ex-fiancé, she wasn’t such a shrew she’d deny that there’d been some benefits to cohabitation, up to and including the comfort of waking up next to a big warm body.

  And now I have another body to cuddle up to. For now, at least.

  She nestled into Alex’s chest, feeling good. Sticky, but good. She should have showered after their fuck, but sleep sounded its siren song and last night’s lazy decision meant she woke feeling like she’d doused herself with Elmer’s Glue.

  Yuck.

  She turned her head to eye the clock: 8:30. If they hurried, they’d still make the continental breakfast. She groaned and stretched, gently trying to disengage herself from Alex’s grasp. She thought she’d take the first shower, let him get in after, but the possessive tug at her waist and Alex’s half sprawl on top of her kept her trapped.

  “We’ll miss breakfast,” she said quietly.

  “Mmmm” was all she got back, so she settled in for more sleep, figuring that as neither of their phones had blown up, the wedding was surely safe from anarchy for a few hours yet. She’d just dozed off when Alex shot up in bed beside her like someone had lit a firecracker inside his backside.

  “Oh. Oh hell,” he murmured, his fists balled up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Kinda doubt the continental breakfast is that good,” she quipped. He jerked his head to look at her, mouth agape, eyes wide in . . . shock? Horror? Whatever it was she was witnessin
g, it wasn’t good.

  She frowned. “I don’t look that bad in the morning.”

  “No, of course not. It’s just . . . this. Whole thing. I . . . mmmm.” He hauled himself from the bed, revealing a taut ass that was far too pale against the rest of his tanned body.

  She propped herself on her elbow, the sheet clasped to her chest to cover her breasts. Modesty in the wake of what they’d done was silly, but he seemed skittish—ready to bolt. If he was fragile—and by all appearances he was definitely fragile—she didn’t want to make it worse. “Are you having regrets? I’m on the pill. I’m safe. You’re safe. It’ll be okay?”

  His silence was thick. It probably should have angered her or made her feel used or something, but she understood it even if she didn’t like it. He was devout, had said as much, had indicated as much with his practices. Fucking was bad enough, but mentioning birth control on top of that? Well, that was a two-for-one in the sin department. She was a believer, too—never missed Mass, said her prayers, did her penance—but she allowed herself some deviation from the path. Not often, but occasionally. Premarital sex wasn’t something she’d had since Scott, but now that she’d indulged, she forgave herself. She was an adult woman in her prime, and she had needs.

  She recognized that it was a very personal decision. Alex might not come around to that way of thinking, and maybe he never would. It wasn’t up to her to change his mind, and if he struggled with it, that was his business. All she could do was have some understanding that this was a matter of faith for him, it was complicated, and give him the space to figure it out.

  “I had a good time, if that helps at all,” she said. “There aren’t any hard feelings.”