Chapter 1 His Perfect Little Heirs #3
“You have a Learner sign on your car, Miss. I shouldn’t have been on the side of the road. I should have been—”
“Considerate,” Clay grounds.
The man agrees with a nod. “Yes.”
“Now, be a good boy and tell her that you didn’t have your hazard lights on; therefore, it was your fault.”
“Yes,” he says, sweat gathering across his brows. “I didn’t have my hazards on. You probably couldn’t see me properly.”
This is surreal, but my panic has mellowed some. Pregnancy does that, too. A whirlwind. One minute you’re crying and the next, laughing. And I wipe the tears from my eyes, feeling better about this conversation. “That’s okay. We all forget things sometimes.”
“No. It is not okay.” Clay lifts his chin to the distance, dismissing the man—the Clay Butcher nod. “Leave. Now.”
The man jogs quickly to his car, his shoulders dropping with relief as he is allowed to climb back into his vehicle, unharmed but clearly rattled.
I arch an eyebrow at Sir. “That wasn’t fair.”
Something carnal with warning moves through his clear blue gaze. “Did your eyebrow just give me attitude, little deer?”
I relax my forehead. “Um..”
He drinks me in through slow lusty strokes, before adjusting his tie at his thick neck. “You heard the boy,”—he opens the car door and gestures with a nod for me to step from the driver’s side—"He didn’t have his hazards on.”
“He’s not really a boy—”
“To me, he is.” Clay darts his unamused gaze between me and the open car door he is silently signalling me through.
“Okay.” I crawl across the centre console and nestle into the seat, crossing my legs, unable to stifle my glee when he growls with frustration at still holding the door open.
“Are you being facetious on purpose, sweet girl?”
I bite my lip to hide my budding smile. “I don’t know what facetious means, Sir.”
He ducks into the driver’s seat and with a roar of the engine—a noise I didn’t know this car could make. “Purposely difficult. Treating serious situations with mockery.” He pulls out onto the quiet suburban street.
“Oh.” I smile harder. “Then yes. I am.”
We pull into a drop-off circle under the shelter of a grand canopy, where a man rushes to open Clay’s car door and take his keys. I sit and wait like a good girl.
Clay circles the car and opens my door. This time, I step from the vehicle, and he places his hand on my lower back to guide me into the store.
Immediately, I’m confused as we enter the large rectangular room that ends with an impressive, exposed-brick fireplace.
It takes me a few moments to deduce we are not in a restaurant because although there are tall, cushioned stools in dark leather and women and men drinking champagne at high marble counters, in front of them are glass display cases.
Each couple has an attendant, a pretty woman or handsome man showing them various pieces of jewellery.
Oh. My. God.
It’s a jewellery store.
Keep your cool, Fawn.
I stop mid-stride. “A jewellery store?” I touch the diamond-encrusted butterfly pendant around my neck, the strategically set spotlights overhead dancing inside the facets.
“I have this. I don’t need an—” Then it hits me, but I’m too dazed to speak.
I find myself walking with his assistance to a private room behind the fireplace.
It is a miniature replica of the larger room but with one case and two chairs.
I approach the display. Inside the navy moulds are rings.
Only four. Each with a different band, clasp, and setting.
Two are solitaire. Two have smaller diamonds haloing the larger one.
The central rock is the same size in each and the same shape. My pulse thrums along my neck.
Stunned, I stare at the rings when a hand slides across my jaw to direct my eyes to our female attendant as she opens a small square box with a large blue round-shaped diamond inside.
My breath hitches.
The lady says, “This is the one, Mr Butcher.”
I knew this was coming. He proposed to me weeks ago. I was lying across his lap on the sofa in our room, and he was playing with my body. The aroma of coffee and the flick of newspaper sheets, have come to arouse me. It can be quite inconvenient at times.
This early morning, he had insisted I read to him while he touched me. But the papers he gave me to read were divorce papers signed with a kiss—a blessing—from Aurora. He then stood me in front of him, so his lips brushed my swelling stomach, and said against the flesh,
“Although I will kneel for you, sweet girl, and the children you make for me, should you ask me, I will endeavour to put you all on a pedestal, so I need not to.”
Drawn back to the elegant room, bathed in a warm hue, I watch in awed silence as Clay picks up the diamond and scrutinises the rock with obvious familiarity. The attendant is smiling at him, pinkened by the stunning diamond or the magnificent man holding it; I don’t know which.
Clay hums and then says, “Lovely.” It’s not unlike the decadent sound he makes when spreading my legs.
I press my thighs together as that deep, impressed rumble spindles through me. He told me once he would train me to be needy for him, to be ready, his, and I am. I really am. I clear my throat, but my voice is shaky as I say, “It’s blue.”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t diamonds usually white?”
“Boron.” He smiles smoothly at me before sweeping his eyes down to where my feet move against my efforts to stop my body from rocking towards his.
I want that sound again. “I presume you don’t know much about diamonds, sweet girl.
Most of the women I know would be fainting in the presence of this diamond. ”
“Are you disappointed that I’m not fainting?”
He juts his chin towards the door, and the attendant leaves. When he leans in close, his lips hovering by my ear.
“No,” he purrs. “I’m very pleased my little deer is wet, instead. Was it the sound I made? Or the latte aromatics burning in the corner?” I flush everywhere. I twist to see a candle burning, and yes, it’s coffee scented. Heat brims in places that throb for him.
He straightens and says, “Both, I imagine. Let me tell you about her before I spread you open on this cabinet and taste between your thighs.” I swallow, and he sets the diamond in my palm where I move her—it—around with my finger.
“She is quite the enigma,” he goes on. “Most diamonds of this calibre have a long, precise history, but the reports of her are unclear. She was owned by royalty and then disappeared. We know she was dug up in the seventeenth century, and experts say she was cut from the same stone as the Hope Diamond.”
I look up at him. “The one from Titanic?”
His chuckle is deep and delicious and not helping the wetness gathering against the fabric of my underwear.
“The one that inspired the one from Titanic, yes. She is the same colour as your right eye, little deer, and if you like her, all you need to do is pick your band and clasp, and they will have her made for you.”
“For me…” The words trail to a shocked sigh. “How do I thank you, Sir? For everything you have done for me? For this”—I widen my arms— “life.”
“You don’t thank me, little deer. Not for this.
It would be an insult. This is not a favour or a gift.
It is your right. It is my great privilege to touch you, to take you, taste you, have your trust in all things, your body beneath mine, your watery eyes looking up at me when you suck my cock.
It is my greatest privilege to spoil you as you do me. ”
Plucking the diamond from my palm, he places it back in the box and slides it to the side.
I hold my breath as he retrieves the four rings from inside the display and places them in my hand.
Exhaling, I accept them. Before I can study each clasp or band, he lifts me to sit on the display case, my skirt hiking up further, flashing him with white lace knickers.
“Play with your pretty things while I play with mine.”
He twists me to lay flat along the glass case until I am the damn display. I stare at the four rings as he spreads my legs on the counter and moves to the end.
He loosens the tie around his neck, his own greedy need for me revealed in that action. “You’re blushing across your thigh skin,” he groans, dipping down to trail his tongue from my knee to my wet centre. “So pretty.”
Moans cascade from me as he laps up the wetness trailing down my inner thigh. His nose is in my knickers now, inhaling. I sigh with relief at the heat of his breath. This man is my orgasm, has made me his in every way. Tuned my body like an instrument to his specific way of play.
I fight the roll of my eyes as he eats me through my knickers. Focused on the gold band, it instantly stands out to me, but then the rose-coloured one is also prett— God.
He slides the fabric away.
I hitch my legs over his shoulders, cuddling his head and neck into me. “I can’t pick,” I breathe, then whimper as his hot tongue circles my clit. “I can’t—” I buck when he sucks the bud in, and God… the skill this man has. It shouldn’t be legal. “I can’t concentrate.”
“I know the one you will choose, little deer.”
“How can you? When I have no idea.”
“Christ, the taste of you is painful at times.” He slides two fingers into me and starts to fuck, encouraging more slickness into his mouth.
Stars scatter behind my eyes.
Fuck.
This.
Is.
Too.
Good.
The sound of his fingers fucking me and his lips lapping greedily fills the room with thick arousal. A very real energy. Lusty. Dark. Tangible force.
I pant under the attention. Bucking as my chest grows tighter, the weight of need sitting heavy on me.
It’s perfect.
Right there.
That… place.
I cry out as pleasure floods me with sweet— He stops. He damn cuts the orgasm off mid-detonation, dropping the pressure, making me dizzy and frantic for my release.
“Sir,” I beg and roll in his palms. “Please.”