18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Duncan
" I 'm nervous about the reception," Elsa said as she lay with her head on my shoulders, her fingers making patterns on my chest.
I'd never held a woman like this after sex, not in a long while, not since university. It was surprisingly pleasurable. Contentment flooded through me. Would this be the same with any woman, or was Elsa unique? I knew she was. There was an innocence about her—a positivity that came from naiveté that was unusual in the world I lived in.
"Why?" I stroked her back, sliding down, down, down to cup her ass. I couldn't stop touching her. Whether a caress or just an arm around her, I felt like I needed the connection to keep me grounded. What the fuck?
"I don't like his world. I don't like the men. Mamman never let me go for any of his parties or celebrations," she continued.
"Then why do you put up with him? Why do you listen to him?” If she was so distant from his world, why on earth was she still in his grip?
She chuckled. "No one says no to Jean-Luc Moreau. I know that. Mamman knew that. If I don't play along, he'll force me. Regular people do his bidding, Duncan; I'm his daughter; you think he'll let me get away with not following his orders?"
My hand stilled. I heard the fear, the uncertainty in her voice—but a chilling thought ran through me as I remembered Dom's words. I didn't know Elsa. And she'd just said she did what her father wanted her to do. Was her doing me something he'd ordered her to do?
"Is that why you came to me?"
She lifted her head, and I saw the confusion in her eyes. " Quoi? "
"Your father has been trying to get me to do business with him for a long time and—"
She moved away from me and sat up. Her breasts were illuminated by the streetlights filtering through her cheerful curtains.
"You think he asked me to whore myself with you?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You did whore yourself, Elsa. You told me you were an escort breaking into the business. I left you a fucking tip after we were done." I kept my voice calm and cool, though something inside me felt like it was twisting with rage, burning with an unfamiliar intensity.
She put a hand to her mouth, and I saw her eyes flood with tears.
Fuck!
"I didn't even know your name," she breathed, "just your room number."
"Elsa, I live at the Ritz; it's not hard for anyone to figure out my room number," I chided. I sat up and leaned against her headboard.
She looked horrified. "You think Papa asked me to…to—"
"Have sex with me and get knocked up? Yeah."
She put a hand on her mouth, but I heard her cry of pain ?
"You think that of me?"
I shrugged. "Anyone is capable of anything, Elsa."
She dropped her hand and shook her head. "But…but you've gotten to know me. Do you think I'm capable of that?"
"Like I said anyone is capable of anything."
But not Elsa , something inside me insisted. She wasn't skilled in that kind of subterfuge. She was fucking sunshine and daisies. Beautiful inside and out. She was a baker living in a tiny apartment in the Marais. If she was her father's puppet, she'd be living it up, wouldn't she?
She moved almost unconsciously, keeping her distance from me. "How…how… comment peux-tu dire ?a? Comment peux-tu penser ?a ?" How can you say that? How can you think that?
It was charming how her almost perfect New York English failed her when she was nervous or agitated.
"Elsa, we don’t know each other very well," I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as if I were speaking to a wounded animal.
She looked at me with such pain that my heart clenched. I didn’t want to hurt her. In fact, I never wanted this woman to be hurt by anyone.
I reached out, but she pulled away, slipped off the bed, and wrapped herself in the silk robe she often wore around the apartment.
"You think I'm a whore? My father's whore?"
I couldn't stand it. I wouldn’t let her struggle and suffer because I couldn’t open my heart and was full of doubt.
I came off the bed and put my hands on her shoulder. "No, ma douce . I don't. You're too pure, too sweet, and—"
"Then why did you say such things to me?" she accused, tears rolling down her face.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, "Please don't cry. I'm not worth your tears, baby."
I hugged her close and felt her tears scald my chest. I was an asshole. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Who cared if she was doing what her father asked—or if she wasn’t? None of it changed the fact that she was pregnant with my child.
Are you sure it's your child? I heard Dom's cynical voice in my head. Of course, it was. She and Thierry were friends. I'd seen them together.
But when you've lived a life trusting only a handful of people and viewing the world through a lens of deep cynicism, it was hard to believe what was in front of you—especially after being wrong so many times that you no longer expected others to be good or honest.
"No more crying." I pulled away from her and wiped her tears.
She licked her lips. "I'm in love with you," she whispered.
Two things happened at her confession.
The first was unexpected. I felt a surge of something that I had no choice but to identify as deep, unadulterated happiness. I grew up surrounded by love—my parents and my brothers—but Elsa loving me made me feel like a fucking King.
The second part was expected—I didn’t believe her. I wondered if she was trying to manipulate me, steering the conversation away from my doubts and toward convincing me that I should believe her because she loved me.
I gave her an uneasy smile, unsure how to respond. I struggled to balance my skepticism with the vulnerability in her eyes, which revealed just how much it meant for her to open up to me.
I kissed her forehead. "Thank you for loving me, ma douce ." Those words came from my heart, the one I didn't think I had. I was grateful for her love, for her affection.
She looked radiant even with her eyes still glistening with tears.
"I don't know what the fuck it means to love a woman," I explained, "But you're my wife, and I'll take care of you and our child." I put a hand on her stomach, cupping our baby.
"I don't need you to take care of me, Duncan," she said patiently. "I've been taking care of myself for years, and I can take care of our little one as well."
"Then what do you want from me?" I asked a question I'd never asked anyone; never gave anyone that kind of right to me.
"Be with me."
Fuck!
"Don't leave me."
I nodded, speechless.
"And don't use me."
I leaned my forehead against her. "I promise, ma douce . I'll always be there with you and for you, and I'll never use you."
I couldn't believe it. She didn't expect love from me or even the words; what she expected was decency and respect. For a man who had arranged his life so he bought sex, this woman had turned everything upside down.
I vowed never to fail her.
I kissed her because I wanted to taste those three words she'd given me. I wanted to claim them, her. She was mine . She loved me. She'd never said those words, I was certain to any man but me.
Or had she? I pushed the thought aside. I wouldn’t let my doubts ruin this moment—this rare, untainted moment with a woman who loved me, even knowing I didn’t love her and maybe never could.
I kissed her gently, almost reverently, my tongue invading her mouth. She was my sweetest conquest. My hands gripped her ass, lifted her, and she immediately wrapped her legs around my waist. Without breaking the kiss, I took her to our bed. I watched her lying on her feminine pale pink and cream sheets—and she looked a vision.
I moved over her and kissed her again. Her hands were in my hair, her moans urging me on. I broke our kiss to trailed my lips over her neck. I nuzzled down to her gorgeous breasts, which had grown in size, preparing for her to breastfeed our child. I sucked a nipple, making her arch. Her breasts were more sensitive, and sometimes I could make her come by just playing with them. I squeezed her other breast, and she moaned.
"Fuck, baby." I trailed a hand to her pussy. She was wet. And suddenly, I couldn't wait. I worked my way down her body, kissing her swollen belly, loving her cries, her hands in my hair, demanding that I give her release now .
I gently licked her clit before circling my tongue around it, suckling it, loving how each time her body jolted, she called my name in that cute French accent of hers.
"Duncan."
"I want you to come around my cock," I said, my breath ragged, an urgency inside of me that I didn't understand because this wasn't just sex; but then with her it had never been just anything.
I covered her body with mine and kissed her again, soft, slow. I shifted, so my cock was at her entrance. I could feel her heat, feel her hips move restlessly, demanding that I enter her, take her.
As our tongues tangled, I pushed into her slowly until we were both panting, wanting more.
"Tell me," I groaned as I moved within her.
She arched her hips, and I rammed into her, balls deep.
"Tell me," I demanded.
She looked at me, her eyes wide with arousal and something else that I suspected was love , which I knew I didn't deserve, but like hell, I would not take it.
" Je t'aime , Duncan."
And just like that, she gave me more, when she gave me those precious words in her language.
I lost control, hammered into her, and asked her to keep telling me that she loved me. I didn’t know where this need to hear her say she loved me came from. All I knew was I didn’t care why—it had become a hunger. She’d said it once, and now I wanted to hear it again and again.
As I claimed her, I realized as we came together, Elsa had claimed me as well. I may distrust her. I may not love her. But I was hers just as she was mine.