Chapter 2
Gustave
It’s reckless.
It’s very reckless.
The tabloids had a field day with my divorce, and it will be another field day if someone sees me walking into a hotel with a mystery woman.
But she is perfection, drinking her cocktail in that blue dress that makes her look like an enchantress from an old fairytale—only she’s real, warm, alive. Her legs, impossibly long and smooth, are crossed to tease. Her lips, painted a deep crimson, are an invitation to sin.
Her skin glowed, bronzed like sun-lit terracotta, her dark hair tumbling in rich, loose waves that I doubt even Degas would be able to capture.
Her beauty pulls in the light, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
A modern princess, though not the fragile kind, trapped in towers. No, this one carries her crown in the tilt of her chin, in the spark of melancholy in her honey-brown eyes.
When I ask her if she’ll come with me, she hesitates, and I almost back out. But then she smiles and says, “Lead the way, Gustave.”
Merde*! That voice of hers is erotic.
We leave the bar together, the Parisian night wrapping around us like a velvet cloak.
I tell her I have a suite, but I don’t mention that I always have a suite at H?tel de l’?le—the presidential suite, unless a president of a country is in Paris. This is a family hotel—a de Valois property.
It’s a safe space for me. No one will talk to the tabloids. Guests won’t see us because we’ll take the private elevator.
There will be champagne in the suite. There will be a bed.
“This is a beautiful hotel,” she murmurs as we walk to the elevator.
“It’s been a hotel since the eighteenth century,” I remark as I wait for her to step into the opulent elevator cabin.
“And a count or duke used to own it?” Her eyes are bright.
“A count,” I tell her, but don’t mention that I am a direct descendent of said count.
She looks nervous.
There is something honest about her.
I’m usually not the kind of man who pursues women, and it’s been a while since I’ve bedded a woman.
After Simone and the divorce from hell, I’ve been reticent to put myself out there, as my son says I should. But he’s eighteen, what the fuck does he know about the scars I carry for being married to his maman* for nearly two decades?
It was a dynastic marriage—planned by our families, though we pretended to date and tried to fall in love. The honeymoon lasted exactly a year until she got pregnant. Once she had Aubert, it got worse.
First, I thought it was postpartum depression—but then I learned that it’s a damn stupid idea to marry at the age of twenty-two. Dumber to have a child so young.
When I told Aubert we were getting divorced, his reaction shamed me.
“Finally.” His relief made me realize that staying in an unhealthy marriage for the sake of a child was the most misguided decision a parent could make.
“You and Maman fight all the time. At least now you both have a chance to be happy.”
“We didn’t fight all the time,” I protested.
“Papa, silence didn’t mean peace in our house.”
It gutted me—and freed me in equal measure. My son understood what I was too stubborn to admit: sometimes a marriage becomes a battlefield, and there is no saving it.
Apparently, my son is more intelligent than both his mother and me. So, at least, we got that right.
Simone and I sucked as a couple, even if we were dedicated parents.
Now, it doesn’t matter. Aubert is an adult, preparing for le bac, the national tests that determine university entry. He’s a good kid. Thoughtful, sharp-witted, kinder than he lets on. He doesn’t resent me or his maman for our marriage—he only wants us to be happy.
In fact, just this morning, he told me, “You have to put yourself out there, Papa. It’s been a year since the divorce was finalized. You both need to move on.”
Which is why I’m entering a plush and decadent suite at my family hotel with the beautiful Tara. I know nothing about her except her name and that she’s probably of Latin descent, as evidenced by her beautiful milk chocolate skin and almond-shaped eyes that resemble those of a Disney princess.
I’ve had sex since Simone and I separated two years ago, but usually only when I’m out of the country. One-night stands are great for scratching the itch—but this one is dangerous because we’re in Paris, and the risk of someone posting a photo somewhere is high.
Then why are you taking a chance, Gustave?
Because I can’t seem to want to resist her.
I close the door of the suite behind us.
I want to show her I have finesse, but I fail when my hands are on her, almost instantly, pulling her into me.
Our mouths meet with desperate precision, my tongue slipping past her lips to taste her—sweet, alive, intoxicating.
She moans and presses her body against mine.
I’ve been hard since she first smiled at me. And I thrust, fully clothed, against the cleft between her legs.
It’s not enough.
I take a moment to remove her dark woolen coat. It doesn’t suit her. She deserves mink. I’ll buy her a beautiful brown coat to match her eyes.
“Tu es magnifique*,” I growl against her lips, my hands sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her closer still.
Tara whimpers, her hips grinding against me, the friction making my head spin. When I raise my head, I see that her eyes are blazing with lust.
I can’t resist her any longer. All evening, I’ve been thinking about how her pussy will taste.
I hold her gaze as I sink to my knees.
“Oh,” she whispers in surprise.
I slide my hands up her thighs, pushing her dress up, out of the way.
“Mon Dieu*,” I breathe, gazing up at her as I peel off her panties, the fabric damp with her arousal.
Tara’s breath hitches as I grip her thighs, spreading her wide for me.
“You’re wet, chérie.” I can smell her heat, her arousal, and it’s exciting.
No other woman has gotten to me so quickly.
Physically, this is improbable. I’m forty-two years old. I’m not a teenager, but she makes me feel like one.
It’s her skin. Silky smooth.
Her gasps and moans, so fucking honest.
Her desire, real, not made up.
I know, at this moment, I shouldn’t be thinking about Simone and how our marriage was a constant contest of wills.
I never cheated on her, I’m not that man, but she used sex as a weapon early on in our marriage, which led me to simply not want her.
After you hear “not tonight” often enough, you stop asking.
My right hand and I became good friends over the years.
But sex, the kind that is full of passion and lust, isn’t something I’ve experienced since I was a kid experimenting with sex. As a grown-up, this is the first time I felt this kind of elation.
I lick a slow, deliberate path up Tara’s slit.
She cries out, her hands tangling in my hair.
I plunge my tongue inside her, fucking her with it, wanting to consume her.
“Oh God.” Her legs tremble as I work her hard.
It’s delicious to make a woman…this woman moan like this, want me like this.
I pull back to suck her clit into my mouth, my lips and tongue working in tandem. I want her to orgasm. I want her to—
“It’s too much,” she wails.
I kiss her clit gently and lift my eyes to hers. “You want me to stop?” I have to ask. I know the rules.
“No,” she whimpers. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”
Her desperate words soothe me.
The world looks at me and sees a man who is confident, sure of himself. The successful and ruthless Comte* de Valois. But I have not had the softness of a woman in my life—not like this.
The one-night stands I’ve had before pale in comparison. They were necessities, sustenance for the most primal part of me, but this is…so much more, so unexpectedly more.
I slip a finger inside her and start to pump.
She’s tight.
Putain*, but she’s so tight.
“You’ll strangle my cock,” I tell her.
Her pussy quivers.
She responds to dirty talk, I think, delighted.
“Come, chérie. Come hard for me.”
At my words, her orgasm crashes through her.
Her body convulses, and she cries out my name. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
I stand and begin to undress.
She watches like I’m unwrapping a Christmas present.
I step out of my underwear, and she gasps.
I stroke myself. I’m hard. Achingly so. But I’m in no rush. I want to take my time, I want to—
“Putain de merde*,” I groan when she wraps her small, warm hand around my shaft.
“Let me taste you,” she purrs.
This time, she’s the one who gets on her knees. I’m mesmerized as her tongue darts out and licks the bead of precum on my glistening tip.
I won’t last, I think desperately, as she takes me in her mouth, her lips stretching around my girth.
It’s been a long time since someone gave me a blowjob.
I can’t remember the last time…I think it was in Athens, but even with a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to recollect the face of the woman who had given it to me.
It didn’t feel like this.
Nothing has ever felt like this.
Sex with Simone had been perfunctory, missionary. She thought it was crass for me to eat her, so I didn’t. She thought it was disgusting for her to suck me off, so I didn’t ask. We had sex, and it was…whatever it was.
All thoughts of my ex-wife dissipate as Tara sucks me hard, her tongue swirling around the head of my erection before she takes me deeper.
I hit the back of her throat, and I worry I’m going to spill into her mouth.
“Tara, chérie…you have to….”
She looks up at me, her lips slick and swollen, her eyes sinfully aroused. “I have to what?”
“I….” My chest heaves. I stroke her cheek. She’s so beautiful, this woman with her warm eyes and talented tongue. “I don’t want to come in your mouth.”
She grins. “No?
It’s incongruous to feel this strange happiness at the mischief in her voice. This is how sex is supposed to be. Light-hearted fun, not a warzone, not a duty…but easy pleasure.
I used to have that…before Simone…before marriage.
“I want to be inside you,” I murmur.
“You can be inside me the next time,” she suggests, and then, as she watches me, she draws me in.
I’ll remember this for the rest of my life, I know.
This one-night stand is one for the history books. But she’s wrong. I want the first time I release with her to be inside her tight pussy. I want to feel her orgasm around me.
I stand her up and lift her. “Next time…I’ll come in your mouth.”
She wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her into the bedroom of the suite, and lay her on the bed with a view of Paris right outside the large windows.
I turn on the bedside lamp and open the drawer under it.
I know my hotel. I know that the suite is stocked with condoms right by the bed. In the bathroom, you’ll find tampons, razors for men and women, dental floss…anything a traveler may require.
“You okay?” I ask as I unwrap a condom.
“Yes.” She’s flushed. I can see her face in the gentle lamplight.
“You’re beautiful.” I slide the condom on.
It’s true. She is.
She lifts her hand to my cheek, her bangles chiming softly, the sweetest music.
She’s layered in necklaces—not couture, not diamonds, but pieces chosen because she likes them.
There’s a simplicity to her, a lightness, and already I regret that this will be the only time.
Because I know nothing about her. And I am the Comte de Valois.
I cannot simply fall into a relationship with a random woman.
The tabloids would have a field day—and I will not put my parents through another scandal.
They’re already disappointed because of the divorce.
My father doesn’t understand why I can’t take a mistress like every other man of my station.
“It’s the French thing to do,” he says.
But that isn’t who I am.
And a mistress, no matter how discreet, never stays hidden for long. In my world, secrets ripen into scandals. The revelation would upend both my life and hers.
A woman who could live with that kind of chaos isn’t one I want.
And the woman who would be destroyed by it…won’t want me. Not when cameras wait like wolves for the slightest crack in our armor, ready to devour our privacy.
“Hey, come back to me,” she urges as if she can see I have wandered off to a dark place, and she is the light.
“I’m here,” I assure her as I slide my hands up her thighs. I position myself between her legs. “Is this alright?”
“Yes, Gustave.”
Merde! The way she says my name! I’m ready to come right here and now.
She whimpers when I rub the head of my cock against her slick folds, teasing her and myself.
“You like that, ma chérie?” My voice is rough with lust.
She nods frantically, her hips bucking against me, desperate for more.
“Tell me,” I demand, my cock pressing against her entrance but not entering yet. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you!” Her voice breaks on a sob.
I grip her hips as I drive into her in one smooth stroke.
Bliss floods me; a sense of rightness that I have never associated with sex.
Tara cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders. I move my hips, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back into her.
“Tu es vraiment serrée*,” I growl as my thrusts deepen.
The pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful.
Her legs tighten around my waist, pulling me deeper still.
I fuck her harder, faster.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with our gasps and moans.
“Come for me again, Tara.” I need her to orgasm one more time. I need to feel her around me.
I’m a considerate lover, but even I don’t worry about trying to make a woman come twice. Once is good enough. But not with Tara.
I want her screaming.
I want her begging.
I want her panting.
I want this night to last forever.
Her hands claw at my back. I’m driven by the animal now. No finesse. No Comté de Valois. Only the man.
I capture her lips in a searing kiss, my tongue plunging into her mouth as I pound into her.
I feel her orgasm before it hits her—the waves building, cresting. And then she tightens around me, hard, pulsing. My movements falter, grow erratic as my own release builds.
With a final, fierce push, I bury myself deep inside her, my cock pulsing as I come.
It goes on forever, at least it feels that way to me.
We collapse, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged pants.
I press a kiss to her forehead and draw her against me, lying on my back so she can rest across my chest.
Her warmth sinks into me as though she belongs nowhere else.
“Sublime*,” I murmur, my voice soft, satisfied.
* Shit (French)
* Mother (French)
* You are magnificent (French)
* My God (French)
* Count (French)
* Damn (French)
* Holy shit (French)
* You are really tight (French)
* Sensual/reverent/sublime (French)