The Palace (Chateau 4)

“Thanks.”

His shoulders were relaxed, but his gaze was sharp like the tip of a drill. He constantly dug into my surface, burrowing deep down below.

“Where are you going?”

His expression didn’t change.

“Sorry…just trying to make conversation.”

Dark. Observant. Powerful. He looked at me exactly the way he used to. We could sit together in silence for hours and not speak a word, and he seemed perfectly content with that. As long as his eyes were on my face, that was all he needed.

My eyes dropped down from his face to his body, over the two slabs of concrete forming his chest, the bricks of his abs, the flesh that had remained untouched despite his violent affairs. Even if I’d never seen him before, he would be exactly what I described as a perfect man. If we’d met in some other way, the second I looked at him, I would never look away. He stared at me like I was the work of art—but he was.

If he had somewhere to be, he was clearly in no rush. Unblinking. Potent. Deep. That stare was endless.

I left the couch and came around the coffee table toward him.

His eyes followed.

I stopped in front of him and reached for the zipper at the back of my dress. Slowly, I pulled it down, letting the delicate fabric release its hug from my body, and felt it slide down around my heels on the floor.

His eyes dropped to my free tits. He never seemed to think they were anything less than perfect.

My thumbs hooked into my panties and pushed them over my ass and down my thighs until I was in nothing but pumps.

He inhaled a slow breath, his eyes darkening even more.

I lowered myself to my knees in front of him and gripped his bottoms with both hands.

With his eyes on me, he lifted his hips and allowed me to pull down the sweatpants, reveal his cock that was ready to go. It lay against his stomach, the thick veins matching the ones in his neck.

I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his balls, which were groomed at all times like he could get head at the drop of a hat.

After a few seconds, he released the breath he held.

My tongue dragged up his length to his tip then I positioned him upward, giving his head wet kisses, just the way I kissed his mouth. Slow. Wet. Deep.

He watched me, his eyes heavy and lidded with pleasure.

I released his heavy dick and watched it plop back against his stomach like a heavy rod before I crawled up in his lap and got on top of him, my thighs over his, my hands planting against his chest for balance.

He’d only taken me with my face down lately, but he didn’t try to stop me. His arms remained restrained in his refusal to touch me. He wanted me, but he only wanted to take, not give.

I grabbed his base and slowly slid down, getting his thickness past my entrance in a gentle glide. When I had a good hold, I slowly sank farther and farther, getting every inch of that thickness inside of me.

He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath accompanied by a moan, and then his hands were on me. They gripped my ass, his large fingertips kneading my cheeks. When he looked at me again, he was there with me.

In this moment.

Together.

My hand cupped his face, and I started to ride him slowly, rolling my hips just the way he liked, pressing my face close to his. “Tu m’as manqué.” I missed you. “Tu es le seul homme pour moi.” You’re the only man for me. “Je t’aime…”

Things got better.

Change was slow with Fender, but it did happen. It was like the blossoming of a rose. It started with a green bud that blended with the vine, but slowly, it finally started to open. Then it opened wider and wider until it was in full bloom.

He ate his meals with me. Carried on a little conversation. Let me get on my knees and blow him when I wanted to please him. Let me get on top of him whenever I wanted to ride him. But he never initiated anything on his own. He never spoke to me in French. He never told me he loved me.

He never called me Chérie.

I had to continue to be patient.

At the end of the day, he entered my bedroom. There was no knock or any kind of announcement. He just let himself inside.

I was on the couch working on my French. I closed my notebook and looked at him, seeing him in a suit.

I was taken aback, because I’d never seen him dressed that way.

Handsome. Elegant. Powerful. He could pull off any look, even one as refined as that. The jacket made his shoulders broader, the slacks fit his muscular thighs perfectly, and he stood with a posture that evoked his fortune and status.