Page 3 of A Royally Fake French Menage
I froze like a Rippton U goalie against an oncoming Blackstone U opposing team hellbent on our mutual destruction. The last time I flirted with him, Beau ended up with both the girls I wanted, fucking them each publicly on party night in full view of the frat house and then some. The whole debacle left me whimpering after my conniving ex. Becoming involved with her again turned out to be a poor choice in a long line of equally shitty decisions that night.
I moved out of the Kingsman house to get the fuck away from Bennett and his ilk the following week, preferring the mixed odd company of the rockstar, the geek, the goth girl, and the tennis champion who made up my current independent household and out of Allstar-fratboy land.
Along with the rest of the family armor.
Not taking the whole lot with me at the time seemed remiss at this point, but I hated sweat. Just another fucking poor decision on my part.
Which brought me back to the asshat blocking my path with broad shoulders and suck-me-off worthy lips.
"Move," I said tightly, flapping a manicured hand at him.
"If I don’t?" Beau’s dark eyes glinted as he stared me down.
I'll find the Claymore and cut off your goddam balls.
My mouth kept mum on that one, thank fucking God. Otherwise, it would've been somebody else who got castrated. My stepmother wouldn't be pleased to miss out on doing it for him.
"Move." I shoved aside my exhaustion, readying myself for the oncoming fight that I couldn’t see a way around.
The Kingsman attic at the end of the hall was dry, dusty and made up of fifteen feet and twelve steps of utter hell that no one but me ventured into for the past fifty years. Sweat trickled into the crevices in my elbows, itchy fingers trailing in a slow procession to the small of my back.
I straightened to my full height and planted my feet squarely, managing to stare the jock before me down, and gained half an inch on his height thanks to the stout heels on my Italian loafers.
Beau blinked. The corner of his mouth lifted in a fleeting smile. "That was… Cute."
My dick started to harden.
"Don’t fucking flirt with me,” I snapped, as flustered as fuck. “Go play with some other goddamn lord, like Nelson. Doesn’the still live here? Besides, don't you have your own Toy to play with?” I trotted on out his pet term for the girl he loved to fuck not so quietly around the house with the sort of showmanship that made him forget why he clung to her so tightly int he first place.
Beau Bennet wasn’t half as untouchable as he thought.
A single snarky remark, and all the humor left his face. "That wasn't smart.”
I smirked, just to shit him off further. "Probably not.”
“Barclay," cried a soft voice I recognized from the way the asshole made her scream his name and no one else’s loud enough to ruin a good night’s sleep for the entire household.
Those cries on nights while I lay beside my ex-girlfriend-turned-psycho left her voice utterly recognizable and me very damn lonely with my spent cock in my hand.
A dark head whipped out from behind Beau and a figure darted toward me. Slender arms engulfed me at waist chest level. The tiny woman hugged me with all the considerable strength she hid in a fun-sized package.
I rested one hand on her head, twirling the dark strands between my fingers. "How are you doing, chipmunk?"
Sylvie batted her lashes as she looked up at me, giggling. “I'm good." She snuggled for a moment longer then detached herself, glancing over her shoulder at Beau who glowered at both of us.
"If you're done." A muscle along his jaw flexed, green eyes blazing as he stared at her and then lifted his gaze to me.
Now that's some possessive alpha level shit.
I knew a man like that once. He'd been good fun to play with, for a few seasons back in France. The year when I found I had a heart, despite my mother’s efforts to the contrary.
I bent down to Sylvie's level. Just to shit Beau further up the wall I kept her chin in my hand and tipped her head back so she looked straight at me as I lowered my face to hers, like I mightkiss her. "Be a good little Toy, and ask your boy to move for me, honey?"
A secondary use of all his little keywords that he didn't keep mum about around the house seemed warranted.
I might be poppish, petty even. Hell, I was born that way. But if Beau Bennett thought he had the market cornered on keeping house secrets, he had a long way to go. I was raised on intrigue in English courts, and learned the names of a certain European prince’s seven secret mistresses. The eighth, and most recently discarded one, taught me how to make a woman orgasm in just as many ways the hour after she left the palace.
"Say bye-bye, Toy,” Beau murmured, his voice lowering the easy words into a threat.
