The Palace (Chateau 4)

She instantly started to breathe hard, her fingers digging into my short hair.

My hands opened her thighs wide with her ass at the edge of the bed before I lowered myself to my knees. My hands supported her slender legs as I pressed my face into her sweet pussy and kissed her.

Over and over.

Deeper.

Harder.

Making her writhe and grip the sheets.

I pushed her into panting, pushed her into screams and tears.

More delectable than chocolate. Smoother than a Barsetti wine in the cellar. Sweeter than rose hips. My mouth was addicted to her soft flesh, the sex that belonged to me and no other man.

Mine.

I got to my feet and pushed down my bottoms so my slobbering dick could be free. I positioned her again, seeing a tear-stained face and running makeup, and leaned over, sliding inside in one smooth motion.

She instantly gasped at my entrance and hooked her arm around my neck, folded underneath me, her other hand planted against my chest on top of my heart. She could feel it beat for her. Feel it race. Feel it ache. Her eyes glistened with old tears and some new as she whispered to me, “Je t’aime…”

My dick twitched inside her as I thrust, our bodies close together, giving her my length all the way to the base every time even though I could tell it hurt. “Encore.”

Her voice grew louder. “Je t’aime.”

There was no fantasy that made me burn hotter than this. Whether she meant it or not, it made me thrust harder, made me moan because I wanted to come every single time I heard it. “Encore.”

“Je t’aime.” She cupped my face and brought my forehead to hers.

My hips were working faster, slamming myself into her at a pace I couldn’t control, and I commanded her not to stop. “N’arrête pas.”

“Je t’aime pour toujours.” I’ll love you forever.

My hips bucked, and I came inside her with a loud moan. Exquisite pleasure. A good ache between my legs. A load bigger than I’d ever given her. It all happened with an intensity that rivaled the heat of the sun. She was my one and only. I could never be with another woman as long as I lived. I could never go back to the whores like I did before. If she ever wanted to leave, I wouldn’t be able to let her go—not again. She’d give me strong sons. Beautiful daughters. I’d hold her against her will, do whatever was necessary to keep her in my bed every single night. It was beyond reason, insanity, but it hit me so hard in that moment. The obsession deepened. The addiction mocked my love of scotch.

I slowed down, my dick still rock hard even though I slid through my come and hers. My hand gripped the back of her head harshly, and I kept going, picking up speed as if the delay never happened. “Encore.”

Melanie sat on the stool in front of the window, her hair in place, her makeup done by an artist from Dior. Her white dress was tight around her waist but flowed elsewhere. One strap was positioned off her shoulder.

People gathered around her in the garden room with the perfect backdrop and worked until she was perfect.

Alexander prepared his canvas and supplies, putting everything into position for the ideal lighting to capture the moment. “Yes…yes…very beautiful.” The canvas was much smaller than his previous one, but I didn’t intend to cover an entire wall with this picture.

It was just for me.

And it would be much better than that piece of trash portrait I’d burned.

Melanie looked nervous, unable to stop fidgeting.

“Don’t move,” Alexander ordered as he prepared his paints. “Stay just like that…”

The hairdresser and makeup artist were escorted out of the house by Gilbert.

I took a seat in the armchair and didn’t plan to move.

Alexander continued to mix and prepare his paints, and when he realized I had no intention of leaving, he turned to me. “I work best in solitude.”

I gave him a cold look.

“It’s part of my process—”

“I’m not leaving. Get to work.”

Alexander stared at me for another moment, unsure what to do, but he eventually faced forward again and gave a loud sigh in defeat.

Melanie was in a beautiful white gown with flowers in her hair, looking more stunning than the French aristocrats who used to lounge on sofas with their tits hanging out. But she continued to fidget, as if this level of attention were uncomfortable.

Alexander pressed the wet brush against the canvas and began her cheek line, capturing the exact color of her complexion with such perfection that his title as a master was well deserved. But he hesitated, adding color, stopping, and then adding again, only to stop once more. “Madame, please stop moving.”

“Sorry…” She looked down at her hands to still them, but by moving her head, she changed the picture.