“I know,” he moans, and it sounds like sad resignation. “But I’m very patient, and I can wait for you.”
“There are some things you don’t have to wait for though,” I say, and my gaze drifts to his balcony.
“You want to see the view?” His tone is curious.
A hint of a smile crosses my lips. “I want to see the view from my knees.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says as we step onto his balcony on the fifth floor of his flat. Below us is a cobbled street. Across the way are gorgeous apartment buildings. “You’re going to give me a blow job in exchange for me agreeing to let you marry me to save my brother’s company?”
I look at him and flash my most wicked grin. “You are correct.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
I drag my nails down his shirt and cup his bulge. “It’s only unfair if you’re assuming that you’re the only one getting pleasure from the blow job.”
He groans obscenely. “You’re perfectly fucking dirty.”
“I wouldn’t assume that until your cock is in my mouth.”
“Christ,” he mutters, his voice already husky and rough. He grabs a cushion from the chair on the balcony and sets it on the ground. I kneel on it as I work open his zipper, tug down his pants, and free him. His cock says hello, and it’s my chance to murmur my appreciation. He’s long, thick, and velvety steel to the touch. I wrap a hand around him, and he takes a sharp breath.
“Fuck, that feels better than it should.”
“You should feel spectacular. That’s the point of our arrangement. Isn’t it?” My tone is firm, brooking no argument. I look up at him. He gazes down at me. Understanding passes between us. We are on the same page. We get orgasms and profits from this—nothing more, nothing less.
“Yes. Our deal is quite possibly my favorite I’ve ever struck.”
I stroke him. “You look better than in your pictures. I like you right-side up and rock hard.”
He laughs. It’s cut short when I flick my tongue over him. His sounds turn into heady groans as I draw him in, running my tongue along his shaft.
His groans intensify as I savor his cock with my mouth. He ropes his hands through my hair, curling his big palms over my head, and I open my throat for him. He tastes clean and dirty at the same time. But the good kind of dirty, born of lust. It’s the scent of a man turned on—turned on because he’s already pleased his woman.
It’s the scent of desire.
He finds a rhythm, thrusting into my mouth as I wrap my lips tight around his length. I might look subservient to anyone watching—and anyone could watch if they peeked through their curtains across the avenue—but as I wrap my hands around his hips so I can grab his ass and pull him deeper, I’m keenly aware I have all the power.
And I need it terribly.
I need the power play. I need to make all the choices, to enter this deal with my eyes wide open.
Neither one of us believes in marriage, but we both believe in honesty, and in honest pleasure. Giving it, rather than giving away my heart.
And soon, as he rocks deeper into my mouth, nearly robbing me of my breath, I’m awash in pleasure too. I am in its throes, completely gripped by it, loving this almost as much as he is.
He grunts that he’s coming, and I dig my nails in tighter, and make sure I drink down every last drop that he gives me.
The sounds he makes are so intoxicating that I’m aching for him when he finishes and pulls me up. He kisses me madly, his hand slinking under my skirt once more, his groans guttural and wickedly thrilled when he finds I’m slick and hot.
“My turn,” he says, and a minute later, his fingers are inside me, and I’m coming again.
Somehow, we’ve just sealed a marriage deal. Our agreement is to help each other in business, and to bring each other bliss.
Just so there are no misunderstandings, I wrap my arms around his neck. “This is a deal. It’s an arrangement.”
“We’re in agreement.”
“It has a beginning,” I say, my eyes never straying from his.
“It does.”
“And it has an end,” I say, keeping my tone strong.
Resolved.
I am resolved.
He nods, his expression steadfast. “It has an end.”
17ELISE
“So this is how it goes,” my friend remarks.
My brow knits as I stare at Veronica across the counter at The Sweet Life, her flagship candy shop in Montmartre. “How what goes?”
“The process. The descent into madness.” She grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then holds it to her mouth. “Dear diary, today my friend Elise lost the cheese from her cracker. She came into my shop trying to convince me that marrying the man whose nudie shots have graced her phone for more than a year won’t end in heartbreak.”
