Chapter 18
DIANE
“You never told me what you did with the portraits of me you took at the castle,” Darcy says, stroking my hand.
“I sold them to Voilà Paris for five hundred euros.” I give him a saucy smile. “Would you like a share?”
“What will Voilà Paris do with them?”
“They’ll use them at their discretion to illustrate various articles in future issues.”
“Including the nude ones?”
I nod. “But don’t worry, no one will know it’s you in any of the pics. I made sure of it.”
“I’m relieved.” He looks at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You asked if I wanted a share.”
“I give Elorie fifty percent for her nudes, so it’s only fair I offer you the same rate.”
“How about you pay me in kind instead?”
My heart skips a beat. “What do you have in mind, Sebastian?”
“I want to take a photo of you naked.” His gaze burns into mine.
Wow.
What happened to his aristocratic stuffiness? Has all that Zubrowka gone to his unaccustomed Scotch-lover’s head?
Good thing it hasn’t gone to mine yet. What I’m going to do is laugh in his face and say he can shove his brilliant idea where the sun never shines.
I really should do that.
Now.
“Why?” I ask instead. “Are you planning to sell it to a men’s magazine?”
“Of course not.” He hesitates. “I’ll keep it for personal use.”
Mmm. My subservient mind generates an image of him reclining on his pillow in the privacy of his town house bedroom. He’s holding a sexy nude photo of me in one hand while his other hand slides under the blanket. His gaze is dark and deep—just as it is now.
“OK,” I say. “But only one shot, facing away.”
He nods, looking as if he just up and made another billion.
I fetch my camera, moving fast, determined to get it into his hands before I change my mind. Sitting next to him, I screw on the lens, adjust the settings, and show him the basic functions.
“Take your clothes off, please,” he says.
I lift my T-shirt over my head.
“Now the bra.”
I undo the front clasp, spread the cups apart and flash my tits.
He leers like a starving wolf.
I grin, satisfied with the effect, and remove the bra completely.
“Now take off the bottoms.”
My stomach flips as I stand. Just as my hands slide to the waistband of my leggings, a bulb goes on in my head. This is not how it’s done. I signed up to pose for him—not to strip for him. The deal was that he takes a nude photo. He was supposed to turn away while I undressed.
That’s how it’s done.
Fuck that.
I hook my thumbs under the elastic band and peel my leggings down. There’s no denying how much I’m enjoying doing this shoot the wrong way.
“The panties,” Darcy rasps. He isn’t even trying to pretend this is about the photo anymore.
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Not until you lift the camera,” I say.
For a moment, he looks as if he has no idea what I’m talking about before his gaze lands on the device in his hands. “Oh.”
He raises the camera in front of his face, and I let out a little sigh of relief.
“Will you take your panties off now?” he asks, still seated.
I turn around, push the lacy thing down my hips and wiggle until it hits the floor.
“Step out of it,” Darcy says.
I do.
“Go to the wall.”
I obey.
“Place your hands on it and spread your legs apart.”
Done.
“Now lift your hands… higher… lean forward.”
As I do what he’s asking… er, ordering me to do, I realize he’s repeating my instructions from the castle shoot almost word for word. The difference is that I’m sent to the wall, while he was directed to the window. And that he’s forgotten about the camera again.
I can’t help smiling.
“Bend down,” Darcy says.
Oh. Monsieur is improvising now.
“Is that really necessary?” I ask.
“Yes, it is,” he says. “It’s very necessary.”
I turn my head to look into his eyes, and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. The desire in his eyes hits me like a shockwave, so hard I nearly stagger.
“Bend down,” he repeats, his eyes drilling into mine. “Please.”
I turn back to the wall and lower my upper body until my breasts touch the cold wall and my backside sticks out in the most shameless way imaginable.
Arousal and discomfort wrestle inside me.
My ears are open for the click of the camera—the single shot I promised Darcy—after which I’ll straighten up and march out of the room.
But that click never comes.
Instead, I hear Darcy put the camera down and lurch toward me.
He grabs my wrists, shackling them to the wall, pushing me up, and leaning both of us into its hard surface.
His large body presses against mine. He trails his mouth along the side of my face, chest squeezing against my back, groin nestled against my backside.
It’s as if he’s trying to get as close to me as humanly possible.
His free hand fondles my breasts, slides down, and lingers on my tummy.
Heat pools in my pelvis in anticipation of its next stop.
But instead of going further down, he glides it over my hips to my derriere.
Darcy caresses it with the flat of his hand, softly at first and then in a more demanding manner, digging his fingers into my flesh.
I arch my back with the pleasure of it.
When his hand travels over my hips again, back to the front and down, I’m so ready it’s ridiculous. The second his fingers ascertain that fact, a guttural growl rises from his throat.
He bends his head to my ear. “I want you, Diane. I want you so much.”
These are trivial, overused words that millions of men have said to millions of women in the past. A few men have said them to me in the past. They’re nothing to write home about.
They shouldn’t impress me. My knees shouldn’t wobble in response.
I shouldn’t have to press my lips together so that my mouth doesn’t plead, Yes, please, take me, any way you want, just do it now!
Instead, I reach behind my back to palm him through his pants.
He moans and drops hot, toothy kisses to my neck and shoulders as I rub.
Then he steps back. I hear the click of a belt being unbuckled, the crisp sound of a zipper, and a foil tearing.
Had he planned for this to happen, or does he always have a condom on him?
He steps closer, slides his knee between my legs and nudges them wider apart.
I stand on tiptoes to make his entry easier.
He wraps an arm around me and plunges in.
The sweetness of it almost unbearable.
My head falls back into the crook of his neck. I inhale him—that unique, masculine scent that’s so quintessentially Darcy I can’t imagine him smelling any other way.
He stirs inside me.
I roll my hips to encourage him.
“Diane,” he groans and begins to thrust, alternating sharp lunges with gentler strokes.
When his cadence picks up and we find a rhythm that’s just perfect, I lean back into his torso and let go of the last shreds of restraint. My legs start to shake, and I find myself moaning and saying his name.
“Diane… come for me,” he grates between his thrusts.
My inner muscles contract around him a few seconds later.
And as they do, long and hard, muddled words erupt from me that are half plea, half order. “Yes, Sebastian, don’t stop. Oh God, please, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop!”