Page 13 of A Royally Fake French Menage
And received…
Nothing. Nothing at all for any of my efforts.
And so that’s what I gave him now. A void of emptiness that yawned between us.
Barclay straightened, inclining his head. The perfect mask of man I knew back in place. Everything about him was so fuckingfake, fake, fake.
“Thank you, Jacques. I am…fine.”
I smiled at his back as he walked through the gilded, powder blue doors that matched the walls of the blue room in the Monaco palace.
My lord, the liar.
But you can’t lie to me forever.
Even if he could, apparently, lie to himself.
CHAPTER SIX
BARCLAY
Jacques held out my dinner jacket. Gray eyes traveled over my body. Not a word slipped from his lips of what we’d done earlier, or how I walked away. As always, he remained the epitome of discretion.
I followed that lead, slipping my arms into the garment and tried to ignore his presence as he worked on my cufflinks. Neither of us had spoken since I stepped out of the shower to find him in my room, presenting me with two dinner options after I’d slept off the ex-lover hangover of epic proportions. All after he’d made me lose control not just once, but twice within half an hour of arriving at La Borde.
One long finger traced across my pulse point, lingering across my bare flesh. My heart rate ratcheted up a notch, and I knew we both understood just what sort of power Jacques still held over me. I snarled my discontent at him, and reached out to do my own buttons, but he batted my hands away.
"You've forgotten how things are done here, my lord." He shook his head, making a mockery of my own attempt to dress myself. Talented fingers slid each button together in an out oforder dressing that left his hands skating over my bare skin on my torso as often as possible. Jacques reached around my waist to tuck the shirt into my pants at the back, his chest almost pressed against mine.
Almost.
The man was a study of decorum, but also a master of control and flirtation. He could wring a tease out for hours, days.
Fucking weeks until I crawled and begged for what only he could offer.
We both knew that.
Only, this time, I didn’t have weeks at hand for him to fine tune his greatest weapon.
"I can put those on myself, " I said dryly. "America hasn't changed me quite so much."
Liar.
He didn’t need to say it. I read the truth in his gray eyes. Jacques stood a good head above me. His shoulders were wider, too. The man could flatten me if he so chose, and for good reason. Rather than tip my head back the way he wanted so our mouths aligned, the perfect height for kissing or spitting—Christ, how many times had he done either of those things to me?—I focused my gaze a little lower after risking a glance upward without moving my chin.
A mistake, as that left me staring at his arched mouth that had kissed me so roughly I’d come in his hand hours before. My cock jerked to attention in my pants and I closed my eyes, trying to refocus but nothing seemed to work.
"Perhaps it has." Jacques finished with my buttons. “You have changed, my lord. Perhaps too much."
I didn't bother to answer though I knew I should berate him, put him back in his place. But I didn’t have the energy to fight when I still had dinner with Monique to go. And Genie…
“Fuck,” I muttered, neither aiming the curse at him or myself.
Instead, I let him manhandle me, looking out at the darkened hedge illuminated by lamp posts that studded walk that decorated the entire front of the house where this bedroom looked over. The greenery formed a seasonal labyrinth beyond my window.
A perfect place for midnight rendezvous, a child’s imagination or to walk straight into the middle should one know the way and have the desire to scream themselves silly.
"Did we confirm which maid was assigned to Genie? Monique has…"
