Page 16 of A Royally Fake French Menage
A smile that barely hid her proverbial fangs was the only answer the wicked witch gave as I allowed her to drag me to my fate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BARCLAY
“Tonight is going to be an utter disaster.”
I cupped Genie’s chin. When her lips parted for a kiss, I dribbled a mouthful of expensive family labeled chardonnay between them.
The ballroom was full of guests I didn’t know and for that, more was the far more fucking merrier. Because if I was going to self-implode, I’d do it publicly and in style.
The worst of it was that I still didn’t understand why I had hauled my pasty ass partway around the globe to find out what Monique wanted…because she wouldn’t tell me. So far I’d been shown off in front of her friends, introduced to neighbors I didn’t know I had, and simpered over by a cache of Parisian girls shipped in for the occasion.
Genie saved me from that conundrum of actually telling the poor things that I was taken on two fronts and that they’d just have to make do with the very well hung stable boy around the back, assuming that Vincent still worked for us and that Monique hadn’t banished him from the property yet. Doubtful,if she’d discovered his particular oral skills that he backed up with stunning enthusiasm and endless stamina.
The concept of doing the decorous thing and leaving deserted me hours ago, around the time of the first course at Monique’s long dinner table. That was when the woman next to me decided to have a grope beneath my napkin, no doubt in a bid to secure an emergency pregnancy that would lead to a child of semi noble birth that didn’t really count on this country, or some other such rubbish.
I was inclined to give her my American body count just to see the horror written across the face that I’d end up reading as tomorrow’s Parisian headline proclaiming my playboy status and unchanged French tendencies.
Then every whore and its pussy would be after the foppish cock I pretended to be—mostly—and I’d never get enough peace to fuck either Genie or Jacques. Or perhaps both of them together.
A decanter of red wine spilled over the offending guest shortly afterwards, and Jacques ushered her to a bathroom. I hadn’t seen my attacker as my valet fulfilled his secondary, or what that his primary task, whisking away any threat to my personage.
Which brought me back to Genie bent backward in my arms, trying not to let the sweet and sour wine I dribbled into her mouth spill down her cheeks. A game we played where my breath holding skills outmatched hers, apparently. Perhaps we could put that to the test later.
Her eyes widened as she swallowed frantically, desperate to play by my rules—I was grateful, and half hard—as I toyed with her in front of an entire ballroom of my stepmother’s peers.
Read that one carefully. My stepmonster’s peers,notmine.
Which meant I got to play bad, be filthy and absolutely, ten thousand percent,notgive a flying fuck what a single one of them thought of my behavior whatsoever.
Especially when Jacques, doubling for a waiter this evening in all white with a black bow tie and bearing a fresh tray of champagne to mix my drinks nicely, topped me up for round two.
“In case of your need, sir,” he murmured almost reverently. Dark eyes glowed at me over the tray of bubbles while Genie choked prettily on my saliva in my arms.
Across the room, Monique and her friendstksedandahhedlike the fucking British, utterly disgracing themselves while I flirted and played with two lovers at once.
France is good for me.
I couldn't deny it as Genie reached through the enormous folds of the ball gown she managed to compress into an overnight case by some miracle. The voluminous skirts hid her otherwise obvious grope. She played with my balls through my suit pants while Jacques turned a pretty shade of lily pad green.
I laughed softly, holding his gaze. Tonight couldn’t be more perfect.
Taking the chilled champagne with a steady hand, I tipped a little of the fresh golden liquid between Genie’s lips. She swallowed sweetly, the tip of her tongue flicking out to catch a drop that beaded on her lip.
“Delightful,” I murmured, as she fluttered her lashes. “And cheeky.”
“Should I be any other way?” Genie adjusted my bowtie, a pale pink that matched the scalloped lace on her rose gold gown.
“Sir.” Jacques circled us and discreetly tugged at the neckline of Genie’s dress where it pulled down to expose the dusky top of her nipple on one side.
The heated glance that seared the air between them left me light headed.There is hope.I wrapped my arm tighter around Genie’s waist as a few caustic members of Monique’s posse appeared on either side of us.
I was sure they meant to appear imposing, but Geniejustmanaged to repress a giggle as their strategic appearance, her face pinking prettily with each stifled breath.
“Can I help you, ladies?” I asked, letting my Parisian accent thicken, but spoke in English all the same, just to be a pest.
“Oh, Barclay. Don’t you know how much better a French woman is in bed?” One woman with a head full of ringlets that belonged firmly in the previous century or the one before that murmured, dancing a little closer on heels that left her tottering.
