Page 60 of Crown of Thorns
“My granddad did. I need to go and see the notary to discuss the details. Apparently, it was specifically left to me.”
That’s an odd agreement, but then, I have seen worse. In the land of the rich, you often see the most creative constructions to avoid certain family members.
His hand lands on my hair, his fingers gently brushing through my strands. I rest my cheek on his knee, the gesture making me feel strangely aroused and comfortable at the same time. I mean, he’s fully dressed, while the towel barely hides my hips and…yes, hard cock. But there’s also something incredibly intimate about listening to him talk with that soft, husky voice. He articulates every syllable like the professor he is, though he often needs to search for his words. It’s clear he’s not used to speaking his emotions, if that’s what we’re doing here. Yes, my baby is a true enigma.
“Grandpa was a good man,” he says. “He and I used to go for walks when I was a child. He…I…he loved the forest. If you come from the church, from the other side of Saint-Laurent, you can walk all the way up to the wooden barrier that separates Monterrey’s land from the one owned by the church. Well, that’s what I believed, that the forest land was owned by the church.”
“Turns out it’s yours,” I joke, but his gaze is vacant, as if he still can’t believe it.
“I never asked myself that question, who it belonged to. I never…I mean, I was young when I left. It was always just there. The forest.”
“How much land did you inherit?”
“Four thousand square metres. Can you imagine?”
He chuckles uncomfortably. I can’t see his face from this position, but the feeling of wonder is clearly laced in his suave timbre. “Those walks were probably on his land. We’d talk and just…spend time together.”
“Were you close to your parents?” I dare ask. My hand traces the lines of his thigh. When he coughs, his muscles ripple under my fingertips.
“I was close with Mom, yes. Dad, not so much. He was a soldier and often on missions.”
“What are you going to do with that land? Build a second castle in Saint-Laurent?”
He huffs. “I may have inherited land, but with whose money do I build?”
“If you ask me nicely…” My hands slide up further to his crotch.
Noah chuckles breathily. “You really drive me crazy.”
“Well, I fucking hate how gorgeous you look, so we’re in the same situation, I guess. With one minor difference.”
“What’s that?” His fingers in my hair halt as if sensing danger. I grin to myself.
“You know what that is. Unless you want me to spell it out?”
His fingers tighten, pulling at my strands, making my eyes burn. I love how he tries to keep his cool, but how his desperation transudes through his body. He can’t help it; he’s already mine.
“No.”
“Grow your hair a little longer, baby. I love to pull it, love to snap your head back, and sit on your face. Have you choke on my dick whenever I want to.”
He chokes, face blushing prettily. “You know we shouldn’t.”
“You’re saying that now. But as soon as you lose control, you become all hot daddy with me.”
“Louis!” He pats my hand, making me laugh.
“Alright. Tell me something else,” I say instead. “Something I don’t already know about you.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Well, I know your favourite coffee is a flat white, that you prefer croissants to pain au chocolat, that you love apples but dislike bananas, that your favourite sport is football, which is excellent taste by the way, that you even played it when you were a kid and secretly adored Zidane, who, yes, was an incredible player, that you have a soft spot for fancy cars, but drive inan old barrel yourself, that you studied sociology but would have preferred studying archaeology…” I take in a much-needed breath.
Noah doesn’t talk. He sounds breathless. I look up to find him staring down at me with those stormy eyes. In the light, they look silver. Beautifully adorned by thick lashes and filled with a wonder he shouldn’t have anymore at his age.
“You really suffered as a teenager, didn’t you?” I whisper.
His jaw clenches, turning to stone, and his lips press into firm lines of disapproval.
