21. Lily #2
“Right before dumping my ass to run to his wife who was about to give birth to their first child, Jean-Philippe felt it necessary to mansplain how things worked in France. A little vagabondage while you’re married is normal.
The French aren’t as uptight as us overly puritan Americans when it comes to affairs.
And it’s an equal opportunity thing. Both men and women have petites aventures , aka booty on the side.
It’s the best way to ensure a long-lasting marriage. ”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“Not according to Jean-Philippe. Affairs prevent you from getting bored of your spouse and the day-to-day drudgery of married life.”
“Why not be upfront about it from day one?”
“He assumed I knew how things ‘worked’ in France,” I say with air quotes.
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“As the door slammed behind him, I realized when he told me I was his only girlfriend, he meant I was his only side piece.”
Gage shakes his head.
“Embarrassed, I called my best friend Nadine because I needed a shoulder to cry on. She came to the rescue in record time with booze and loads of desserts. As I was crying my eyes out, she consoled me by reminding me, although there are jerks and assholes in every country who cheat on their wives or partners, Frenchmen who stray are more prone to telling their mistress about their wife—and vice versa—when the situation calls for it. In her opinion, Jean-Philippe expected me to be okay with it.”
“Were you?”
“Hell, no,” I say. “Nadine also warned me Jean-Philippe would be the type to call me to pick up where we left off.”
Gage’s eyes bulge out of his skull.
“I thought she was lying. That’s the only reason why I didn’t block his number.”
“He contacted you?”
“To my utter disbelief, he texted me to share photos of him holding his bundle of joy. He also wanted to know when we could pick up where we left off since his wife couldn’t have sex for at least six weeks.”
Gage’s jaw drops.
“I was outraged and enraged. Not only for myself, but also for his wife.”
“I hate drama.”
“Trust me, it’s not my MO.”
“You were an unwilling participant.”
“I was unknowingly the other woman. Same as Mom?—”
“No shit.”
“Yup.” I nod. “She was also nineteen when my father seduced her. Granted, he was more than twice her age. Since I was born a bastard child, I promised myself I would never look at a married man. Worse, sleep with one. But there I was, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Jean-Philippe is a fucking cheater.”
“Given how I came into this world, that’s one aspect of France’s culture that would never sit well with me.”
“Here in the US, cheaters are crucified. The higher your status, the more the public cries out for your balls.”
“France tends to turn a blind eye to cheaters. My best friend being the exception to the rule.”
“What do you mean?”
“My best friend’s mom knew the older man who was overtly flirting with her was married. The whole world knew. She was so much younger than him and a subordinate, so it was easy for him to abuse his power. That’s how she ended up as France’s Monica Lewinsky?—”
“Your best friend is Nadine Whelan?”
“Yes.”
Gage’s eyes widen in surprise. “Holy shit.”
“Nadine’s mom one upped Monica with a surprise baby. The fact Marciana was American didn’t play in her favor. She was lynched in the media and in the court of public opinion.”
“And you and Nadine ended up becoming friends. ”
“Isn’t it ironic?” It’s a rhetorical question because I keep talking. “Nads is like a blood sister to me.”
“Doesn’t the former French president have children?”
“Yes, Nads has half-siblings, but they’ve never warmed up to her.”
“Like your half-brothers.”
“Like my half-brothers.” I bite down the bitterness.
“We’ve struggled with imposter syndrome our whole lives.
Our fathers are powerful and wealthy men, but we came out of the womb labeled as the undesirable progeny.
We’ve spent our whole lives feeling less than.
For my best friend, it’s worse because her name is splattered all over French social media forever more. ”
“The American press didn’t spare her.”
“True, but she doesn’t live here, so those opinions don’t affect her everyday life.
It’s not the case in France. She’ll never be able to escape the stigma.
To this day, many circles in Paris give Marciana the cold shoulder, snubbing her, while singing the praises of former President Laurent Rocard de Villepin. It’s an unfair double standard.”
Gage shakes his head. “The onus is on the person doing the cheating to be on the up and up. In your case and Nadine’s, we’re talking about dirty old men, preying on young, vulnerable victims. Your mom was only nineteen—barely legal.
Marciana Whelan was twenty-two—a woman, but still so young.
As for you and Jean-Philippe, he’s a royal douchebag.
I don’t care if it’s the French way or not, he should’ve made sure you two were on the same fucking page. ”
The fire behind his words does something to me. So far in my life, I haven’t had that many people in my corner.
I respond with a sad smile.
“Can I ask you a question about your dad?” Gage changes the subject.
I brace myself. “Sure. ”
“You always refer to Fisher as Father . Never as Dad or Daddy. There’s no steadfast rule, but for some reason, I can’t help but sense in your case, it’s deliberate.”
He’s perceptive.
“If I could still get away with calling him Fisher, I would. He put an end to that when one of his business associates thought I was his flavor of the month, commenting how he liked them younger and younger, bordering on not quite legit. I was seventeen at the time, so that guy guessed right. My father always treated me like a dirty little secret, so other than close family, few people knew he had a daughter. That incident creeped him out. After that, he demanded I call him Dad. I settled for Father. It allows people to know the type of relationship we have, without pretending he’s the doting dad figure you expect to see in a light-hearted romance movie of the week.
” Warm and fuzzy are foreign words to Fisher Edgington.
Gage nods.
The energy in the room has shifted. This conversation is a mood killer.
Delving into my past tends to do that. So far, this evening has been such a high, I’d hate for it to end on a depressing note.
“There are a thousand more interesting things to talk about than Jean-Philippe, the former President of France, or my dysfunctional relationship with my father.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
I bite my lower lip, my cheeks flushing. “You know,” I say.
His gaze drifts down to my chest. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?”
Shit.
My bravado slips a little.
He cocks an eyebrow. “All talk, no action?”
He scoots his chair back.
A pole is tenting under his robe .
Adding fuel to the fire, he parts his legs. Unlike me, he isn’t wearing any underwear. The fabric of the robe slides, revealing strong, muscular thighs, and…
Did his cock grow by several inches?
Oh, boy.
Old Lily would agree with him on the all talk, no action part, aware she’s no match. LA Lily has a decisively more daring and bold approach.
Challenge accepted.
I lean forward and allow my hand to drift over his thigh, moving closer to his mighty erection.
My pulse quickens as my hand explores his body.
He moans.
God, I love that I do that to him.
His eager hands work on the tie holding the sash at his waist, pushing the robe fully open. I didn’t think I could find tattoos attractive, but he’s proved me wrong.
The man is unbelievably well-built and my mouth waters at the sight of him.
It’s a struggle to tear my gaze away from his tattooed chest, chiseled rippled eight-pack, and his happy trail that runs from below his bellybutton to the top of his pelvis.
And there’s the pièce de resistance … the V-muscle…
it makes me want to drop to my knees between his legs and lick it.
God Almighty.
I reach out a hand.
“I haven’t given you permission to touch me.”
My eyes fly up.
I’m about to laugh, but his expression has me reconsidering.
He’s serious.
“ I give you permission to come and I give you permission to touch me.”
I’m baffled.
He narrows his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not how it worked with Mr. Cheater Douchebag?”
Jean-Philippe was a puppy dog, always eager to roll over for a belly rub. Gage is an Italian mastiff. He’s the indisputable top dog.
I can’t explain it, but a frisson of excitement runs through me.
I shake my head.
“Words, Lily.”
“No.”
“Everything is different, angel, now that I’ve claimed you.”
I’ll have to thank Nads for introducing me to steamy romance novels.
I thought alpha males could only be found between the pages of a book. These men exist in real life?
Color me surprised.
“Are we clear?” The lust-filled gaze he levels me with causes my pussy to pulse. Nope. Not pulse. I’m doing Kegel exercises.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Now you can touch me,” he says. “My cock needs attention.”
I run a finger along his chest, tracing tattooed music notes and stars in a languorous movement, before traveling down his body until I reach the prize. I curl my hand around his impressive length, and stroke him up and down.
“You have an eye-popping shaft?—”
“Cock,” he says. “Dick, is also acceptable.” His eyes lower. “He’s American. Not European.”
I laugh. “Your American cock is cut.”
“Mr. Cheater Douchebag wasn’t?”
I shake my head. “No. And he wasn’t as big as you. Not that I ever pulled out a ruler, but it’s like comparing a baby carrot to a zucchini.”
“Which begs the question. Didn’t you want a smaller cock for your first time?”
“I wanted you for my first time. Big dick, big balls, and all.”
Gage Hollingsworth bursts out laughing, his broad shoulders shaking.
I stare at him, my mouth agape.
After several heartbeats, he finds his composure.
I’m still in a state of shock.
“What?”