Chapter 13 #3
I shake my head. If I am, I’ll ignore it because I don’t want to go. I don’t want our bubble to burst.
‘Let’s get coffee.’ He lifts my hand to his lips then guides us down the hill.
We take two stools in the window of the French bakery. ‘We’re going to need lots of fresh baked bread,’ Gregory says to the waitress as we take off our coats. ‘And two coffees. Americano for me: black, no sugar.’
‘Latte for me, please.’
‘Would you like anything with your bread?’ she asks with a gentle French lilt. ‘Cheese, olives, oil and balsamic, meats?’
‘All of that.’ Gregory’s polite but distracted.
I have his complete attention. He pulls my stool towards him so my knees are pressed between his thighs.
We eat and talk, we laugh, in this exact position for almost two hours.
It’s easy and right. We talk about everything and nothing of consequence.
Gregory rubs a rogue drip of balsamic from my chin when it falls and pays the bill without entertaining my protest.
Dusk is already descending when we leave the café and stroll arm in arm back towards the car.
‘Oh, I love this bookstore.’ Slipping out of his arm, I go into the traditional store, every wall lined with hundreds of books, and head straight to Classics. ‘This is my favourite of all time,’ I say, holding the book in front of my chest.
‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’
‘Yes, it’s so wonderfully tragic.’
‘Agreed.’
I cock my head to one side with a raised brow. ‘You’ve read The Count of Monte Cristo.’
‘Of course. It’s a classic. Do you want it?’
‘No, I have it at home.’
He pouts then snatches the book from me and takes it to the counter, handing over a two-pound coin.
‘Now you have a copy for your new home.’ He hands me the yellow paper bag, rests an arm around my shoulder, and points us back towards the car.
He wants to share his home with me. He looks and acts like he loves me. But he doesn’t say it.
I’m risking everything for you, Gregory. Please let me in.
Amy has made boeuf bourguignon and left a note to say it’s in the oven. It smells delicious but I’m still stuffed from the bread feast at lunch.
Gregory pours us both a glass of water from the fridge and slides mine across the breakfast bar to me.
It seeps into my veins, cool and refreshing.
He fiddles with the remote to the sound system and Des’ree ‘I’m Kissing You’ plays through the entire apartment.
He takes a glass of wine to draw us a bath and calls me to join him once I’ve undressed and hung up my clothes.
I sit in the bath, leaving space for Gregory to lower himself into the bubbles behind me.
His movement makes the candles in the bathroom flicker as he pulls me back into his hard chest and begins soaking and squeezing a flannel over my skin.
‘Tell me about the women: the women at the hunt, other women.’
I feel him tense against my back. He stills for a moment, then slides the flannel across my chest.
‘I don’t want to piss you off; it’s just, I know you must have been with a few. I guess I’m curious. Have you ever… been in love?’
He exhales and squeezes the flannel again. I leave the silence hanging between us, waiting to be filled.
‘The night of your father’s funeral, you asked me to help you forget. Do you remember?’
I nod, not wanting to speak because this is new and I don’t want to say the wrong thing and close the door.
‘You wanted to have sex with me so that you didn’t think about anything else. To help you block out the pain.’
I’m beginning to understand. I nod again.
‘I’ve spent my life trying to forget, Scarlett, and it never worked. Not until you. Those women, all other women, they’ve meant nothing to me. I sleep with women, I work, drink, run, all to try to forget. It never works.’
I shuffle in the water so I’m resting between his legs, my chin on his chest, looking up at him. ‘What do you want to forget?’
His expression changes; he’s putting up his walls. I’ve found out everything I’m going to. For now. I crawl up his body and press my lips against his, thankful that he’s shared at least something.
He’s never been in love.
He pulls his hands through my wet hair and kisses me, his tongue working around mine in slow, smooth circles.
My hips roll against him in response. I move my hand to his length and find him already hard.
He groans into my mouth before I break our contact and slide down his wet skin.
His hips rise, lifting his shaft out of the water.
I look up at him and find hazed eyes. He wants it.
I turn my tongue around his tip and listen to him moan.
Then I nibble the skin at his navel and down each of his thighs until he’s pushing his pelvis up, inviting my mouth.
I make him wait, trailing a finger up his sack until I cup him, applying pressure to his base and lightly stroking his back entrance.
When his hips buck higher, I take him in my mouth, sucking the head then seizing as much of him as I can.
I close my eyes and concentrate on taking him deep until he’s touching the back of my throat.
He thrusts his hands into my hair and pushes further into me.
I take a deep breath and accept him, opening my throat. Then I swallow.
‘Fuck, Scarlett!’
I draw back up his length and flick my tongue across his sensitive spot, then slide back down, taking him deep again.
‘Fucking hell!’
He’s pulling my hair, holding me still and pushing himself deeper into my mouth until my eyes are watery.
His need for me turns me on beyond reason.
Drawing back and wrapping my hand across his base, I swirl my tongue around the end of him and pump up and down with my fists, feeling him build beneath me.
He throbs and swells further, his scrotum tightening.
I remove my hand and withdraw my mouth. Then I step out of the bath and, feigning nonchalance, dry myself off with a towel.
‘You are fucking kidding me, lady!’
I wrap the towel around me then throw him a minxy grin over my shoulder. ‘I was promised a spanking.’
‘Oh, now you’re definitely getting a fucking spanking!’
‘Is there a need to swear, Mr Ryans?’
He practically jumps out of the bath, his erection red and menacing. I squeal in delight as he yanks me up from the waist, my thighs locking onto his hips. He lays me down on the tiled floor and unties my towel. ‘You want it hard?’
I bite my bottom lip and nod enthusiastically, already flooded with anticipation.
Jerking my legs apart with his knees, his dripping-wet body hovers as he takes my wrists above my head, securing them with one hand.
There’s no need. I have no intention of doing anything but accepting him. Rough. Brutal. I want him.
He moves the other hand to my sex, cupping me first, my hips already moving in response to him. His fingers enter me and stroke my G-spot. He brings them to his nose, then his mouth.
‘You always taste so fucking good.’ His words are throaty and dry.
He attacks my rock-solid nipple with his mouth and clamps down his teeth, sending a spike of lust through every nerve ending in my body.
He takes the other in his teeth and slowly pulls back, extending my hard end.
Then he moves his mouth to the fullness of my breast and sucks, drawing blood to my skin, marking me as his.
He sucks and nibbles his way down my stomach, finding my clit. My back arches as I reel from his carnality. He bites until I’m crying out. An indulgent, yearning cry.
I drag my fingers through his soft hair and he rises sharply as he growls. ‘Hands.’
I quickly throw them back above my head and watch him drive into me.
‘Gregory!’
‘You like that, baby?’
I nod, shake, whirl my head. ‘Yes.’
He powers forward again, a hedonistic and utterly mind-blowing drive.
I close my eyes and try to control my erratic breaths and tensing muscles.
Then his hands are on my waist and he’s flipping me onto all fours.
He spreads my knees and pulls my hips back towards him, then lifts my hands to the rim of the bathtub.
‘Hold on.’
I do. I grip the rim tight, bucking forward when his hand strokes my centre.
He yanks my hips back to him then pounds his cock into me, sending me forward on a scream.
He pulls me back to him and draws out slowly.
Then his palm comes crashing down on the globe of my arse with a growl.
It hurts but my hips push back, begging for more.
He strikes again and I take a deep breath, expecting.
He waits. I feel exposed and desperate, but deliciously so.
‘Gregory.’
‘You want me, baby?’
‘Please. Yes.’
He hammers into me, hitting my end, lifting me to a euphoric fog. He pulls out slowly, excruciatingly slowly, then crashes back into me and I groan as my body starts to pulse. Then his palm comes down again, followed by a brutal thrust.
My insides are in blissful turmoil. My rear stings but there’s something about his power, his control, that’s driving me crazy.
‘More!’
He yanks my hips back as he pounds into me. ‘Fuck, Scarlett! You feel so.’ Crash. ‘Fucking.’ Crash. ‘Good.’
I throw my hips back as he thrusts again. ‘Gregory, I’m there!’
‘Not yet.’ He slaps my arse again and rams into me. I can’t take any more. My body clenches, inside and out.
‘Now, baby.’
He crashes into me again and I come undone, reaching an overpowering climax. He drives again and his warmth fills me.
‘Jesus!’ He squeezes my hip bones as he pulses and bucks into me, no longer controlled at all.
I hang my head between my arms as he circles, bringing us down. My body is drained, panting and weak.
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back onto his lap, where he rests his head in my neck, his sweat mixing with my own.
We sit together until our pants subside and my blazing heart returns to a steady beat.
I lean my head back against him, shattered.
I could sleep right here on the tiled floor.
As I close my eyes, he lifts me and takes us both back into the lukewarm bath water. He rubs us both down, then lifts me out of the bath and dries my body, smiling as he moves the towel over me.
‘Boeuf bourguignon?’
I nod faintly.
Dressed in a short, teal nightdress and matching silk kimono, I find Gregory downstairs dishing out boeuf bourguignon and wild rice, wearing a pair of black lounge pants, only black lounge pants, bare-chested and truly tantalising.
He lifts me onto his lap on a stool and we eat like that, wrapped in each other. When we’re done, I rinse our plates and stack them in the dishwasher.
‘I need to work for a while, angel.’ He’s apologetic but I recognise that I’ve had him to myself almost all day and I bet he hasn’t had a day off work for a very long time, if ever. ‘I’ll work here, on the sofa.’
‘Okay. I’ll read The Count.’
He takes the middle of the sofa facing the lights of the city set against the dark sky and pats the corner for me to sit.
As I slide down the leather arm, he lifts my thighs across his legs.
I snuggle into his arm and start reading The Count of Monte Cristo for probably the tenth time in as many years.
He dims the lights with a remote control to a cosy level where we can both still read with ease, and grabs his laptop.
I sneak glances at him, watching his stoic business face and the occasional twitch of the muscle in his neck as he concentrates.
Sometimes, he catches me and flicks his eyes to my book, telling me to read.
I giggle each time and start reading again.
It takes me over an hour to get through the first chapter.
Being so close to his naked skin is more than a little distracting.
With a sigh, he leans forward and sets his closed laptop on the floor. ‘Read to me.’
He lifts me to my feet then lies down, his spine against the back of the sofa. He pats the cushion resting on his forearm, and I climb back onto the sofa in front of him, pressing my back into his chest and my feet between his warm legs.
I read to him. I read until his head falls into my neck and his breathing slows. Then I carefully lean forward and drop the book to the floor. I hit the off button on the remote control and nestle against him.
‘I love you.’ I know he can’t hear me but I whisper just in case. If he can’t hear me, it can’t tear another piece of my heart when he doesn’t say it back.