21. Drake
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
During the last few days of our severely brief honeymoon, I negotiated with my dad on where my splendid new wife and I would stay when our time in the quaint little cottage ended.
William Graham recommended one of our properties, naturally.
Monty turned her adorably cute nose up at the suggestion, also naturally.
Monty declared she would not be told where to stay and my dad’s assumptions about where she went were positively barbarian. I didn’t stare at her like a besotted fool as she paced the kitchen and ranted. Well, at least not the entire time.
The following conversation decided where we went.
“The Graham family will not control me just because we’re married.”
“Right. Of course.”
“Your father can suck an egg for all I care!”
“Yes, he’d love that.”
“We’ll go to my house.”
“There’s nowhere I’d rather go, really.”
“My security will double check the property before we arrive.”
“As they should.” I’d also check the entire house from top to bottom before letting her enter it, but I’d save that conversation for arrival. The recent attack had thoroughly shaken her, but the woman was incredibly stubborn. No one and nothing could keep her from returning to her home.
A two-hour private flight returned us to New York City.
Normally, I hated flying, remembering years of traveling to London and back to school.
That flight was monumentally different. I hadn’t intended on joining the Mile High Club, but my insatiable succubus of a wife lured me into the back cabin, pulled up her chic dress, and rode me until I was seeing stars.
I needed to get us back on a plane as soon as possible. Or her home, or a bed… or anywhere we were alone. Even that hardly mattered. I just needed to be inside of her 24/7 and that would quite possibly solve all my problems.
On the drive to her house, our dual phone calls interrupted any blissfully wedded silence we might have had.
She spoke to her parents on her cell, rapidly speaking French, to update them on our decision to go to her house.
I sent my dad a not at all impersonal and very fond email, letting him know my status with the new wife.
The drive from the private airport to her home ended with me on a three-way call with Julian and Douglas to let them know where I was and when I’d return to work.
“If the new wife isn’t worn out, maybe you should call me over,” Julian joked.
I promptly promised to break his legs.
“Wasn’t she attacked at her house? That doesn’t seem safe,” Douglas said.
“Shut up, Dougie,” Julian and I replied.
Our veritable entourage of security arrived in her neighborhood around noon. Heavy white clouds obscured the sky, and trees lining the streets gently fluttered in the midday breeze. But I was focused on the two-story structure at the end of a short driveway.
The house of the most brilliant and gorgeous woman alive was surprisingly modest, given her taste in fashion.
Red brick, white columns, a navy-blue front door.
Four, maybe five bedrooms, I guessed. A recently built gate parted to allow the black escalade into the driveway, and I took in the neatly manicured lawn and trimmed hedges.
I blinked and almost missed the fresh grass growth on a patch of the lawn from the front door to the end of the driveway.
A reminder of the recent attack and why that fancy new gate was built on a rush job.
Her personal guards, Bobber and Georgiana (calling them the wrong names annoyed Monty, thus I had to keep doing it) exited the car first and swept the perimeter.
Opening the door, I slipped out and strolled across her lawn.
“Are you just going to invite yourself in, then?” Monty huffed, trailing after me.
I spun on my heel, and she nearly slammed into my chest. “I’m going to dig around a little and make sure everything is safe.” She glared at me, crossing her arms. I placed a hand on my heart and raised the other to vow, “I promise not to rifle through your underwear drawer.”
Monty rolled her eyes, and a purely exasperated noise vented from her. “You’re not leaving me out here alone to triple check my house is safe. It’s been monitored every day since?—”
“Alright, alright,” I placed my hands on her shoulders and her hackles lowered. “Give me a tour then, wife.”
Blue eyes rolled, and full lips hid a smile.
She unlocked the door, but I stepped through first, hand lingering near the gun strapped under my suit jacket.
Her heels clacked on the hardwood as she purposefully stomped past me into an inviting entryway.
Green pops of color from plants interspersed warm tones and perfectly organized décor.
Organized until she led me to the living room, which might have been a landfill of paper or an exploded library. Books spilled over the built-in shelves around the wall hosting the TV, and a trail of folders and binders led to an equally frantic office.
“Damn, Monty,” I blurted. “Your office at work is so well put together. I really didn’t expect this disaster.
” Though the more I looked around, the less disorganized it appeared.
There was a sort of method to the madness, a chaotic yet meaningful flow from the shelves to the tufted leather couch to the tables overflowing with heavy tomes.
She gave me a look, daring me to say anything else. Clearly, I wasn’t as smart as her because I couldn’t comprehend the brilliance behind whatever contained bedlam she was managing.
“It’s not a disaster! I was reorganizing to make room for a new collection. My timeframe got delayed with the attack on my front lawn. Mother actually forbade me from returning to my own house until the gate was finished. Can you believe that?”
“I’ve met your mother. So, yes.”
Ignoring my comment, she flounced down the hall and ran over the layout of her kitchen. I followed her around the large, marble-top island, taking inventory of her well-stocked gadgets and utensils. Maybe she’d let me play with her oven and cook her dinner, I wondered.
Our trek took us upstairs, where she showed off four bedrooms and another office (my guess was close enough).
Though the upstairs office mirrored the one from her parents’ primary building.
What stuck out to me was the corkboard on the wall, positively loaded with printed pages, pictures of thugs, pushpins, and multi-colored string tying things together.
“Solving a murder, Detective Monty?”
“Charming,” she deadpanned. Her glare said when I kill you, they won’t find your body.
My pants grew tight, and I gulped.
“Alright, no need to explain your brilliant methodology to us peasants.” My hands raised in surrender. Then I turned to the French doors half-hidden by heavy drapes. “Though I’m not happy about this balcony here. Good point of entry for an intruder.”
“Oh, you’ll absolutely hate the bedroom then.”
That piqued my interest. Monty giggled when she saw my brows shoot up into my hairline. I cleared my throat.
“Lead away, by all means.” Very gentlemanly of me if I said so myself.
The spare rooms we passed were modestly decorated, if a little sparse.
I couldn’t imagine why one woman needed so much space, but given the amount of books displayed on every surface, I guessed she was trying to build her own Library of Alexandria from the ground up.
Compared to my bachelor geared penthouse, it felt like too much space—a comfortable if not lonely place.
A wild thought crossed my mind; images of tiny smiles and childish laughter filling all those extra rooms. Little ones with wild curls and crystal blue eyes, running on small feet to greet me at the end of a long day.
Monty with a dark-haired baby in her arms. My heart skipping nearly made me trip on the walk down the hall.
Helen allowed me a brief glance of her bedroom before sure fingers were yanking at the buttons of my white oxford. Her hot little mouth claimed a spot on my neck, and she had half my buttons undone before my brain caught up with what was happening. “Fuck, Monty?—”
“You should,” her breathy giggle melted my faculties.
We were in her space, and I wanted our moment to be about her, for her to feel good.
Taking charge, I grabbed her hands and spun her around.
With her back to the bedroom door and her dainty wrists in my fists, the air thinned, and we froze on the cusp of mutual collapse.
When she looked up at me with those big blue eyes darkened with desire, I dropped my mouth to ravage her.
My lips on her throat tugged a moan from her.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her head knocked against the door, rolling to give me access to the entire column of her neck.
I ran my teeth carefully over her tender flesh, then laved my tongue over the goosebumps that followed.
A searing need burned in me, to pick her up and savage her, to taste her, and tear her apart.
Helen dragged her fingers over my scalp in the way I loved as I lowered myself along her body. I nuzzled my face in her chest, lapping at the skin above her dress, dipping my tongue between her cleavage. My hands massaged her hips before roaming to her backside to palm at her perfect ass.
“I need to get this dress off you,” I groaned into her skin, tasting her fluttering heart on my tongue.
“Yes, Drake,” she moaned. Her wanton need permeated the air, filling my head like a drug.
One hand slipped between her thighs, quickly finding the damp lace of her underwear. She whimpered when my thumb located her clit through the thin fabric, rubbing tight circles into the sensitive nerves. Her hands fell to my shoulders, almost pushing me lower, silently encouraging me.
“God, Monty, I want to taste you. Want to feel you coming on my tongue.” Fast, shallow breaths. Racing hearts. Hands tugging and desperate for skin on skin. We moved in a joint frenzy, tangled in a web of restless passion.