Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
The thought unsettles me. I do know my own worth, don’t I? Maybe I do too much sometimes, but I haven’t been nice to him. I roll my shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable, because I do sometimes find myself wishing, usually after the fact, that I could’ve said no.
His expression softens. But it’s the only thing soft about him as he lowers himself onto his forearm, leaving his other hand free to roam. “So, this sister of yours. What else does she have to say?”
I wriggle under his questing hands and feed my fingers through his. “She says you’ve met.” I chance a look at his expression. Barely an eyebrow raise. “At Art Basel,” I add, sort of wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. “She owns a gallery in Shoreditch. Maybe you’ve been? Whit & With?”
He gives a tiny shake of his head. “I don’t think I remember your sister.”
I doubt he’s been anywhere near her gallery, not with his expensive tastes, though I try to ignore the satisfaction I feel that he might not find Lavender memorable. “You’d remember her if you had met. Lavender leaves a lasting impression.” A bit like a hand put a cheek at high speed.
“Like her sister.” His lips brush my hair. It’s a good thing I’m lying down, or I might’ve melted off the bed. “So you’ve spoken to your sister about me?” There’s a note of teasing in his tone.
“Just in vague terms. She knows Emmy, and I suppose she must know she works for you.”
“Emmy never mentioned to you who she worked for?”
My shoulders lift higher up the bed. “Probably,” I admit with a slight twist to my lips. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I didn’t know who La Billionaire Bleu is.”
He groans at the tabloids’ moniker and drops his head to my shoulder. But then his head comes up fast and his gaze sharpens. “So that’s the name I see burning behind your lips sometimes.”
“What?” The word hits the air with such amusement.
“Admit it.”
“Blue-eyed billionaire?” I scoff. “That’s a pretty poor insult.”
“So you insult me?” he demands, delighted.
“Everyone has names for their boss!” I exclaim, laughter coloring my excuse.
“What did you call me?”
“None of your business.” Heat floods my face as I try to roll away, though Luc catches me, hauling me closer with his arms and his legs.
“Primevère,” he growls.
“Absolutely not!”
“Confess!” He pokes me in my ribs.
“Oi! The only thing I confess is I only use it when you deserve it.”
“So you insult me!” he exclaims to the tune of ah-ha!
“You bring it on yourself with your big—”
“I thought you like my big…” he purrs as he prods me again. Not with his finger this time.
“—brooding presence,” I end. “And your annoying ways.”
“What is it, this insult you have just for me?” His touch skates down my arm.
“I’m not tell—” My denials halt as he tickles my ribs. “Stop that!” I exclaim, pushing at his arm.
“Tell me.”
“Never!” I turn to jelly as he tickles and tickles me again.
“You will confess.”
“Monsieur… monsieur…” I’m laughing so hard, thrashing this way and that to the point I can barely get the words out.
“Monsieur what, Primrose? Monsieur I’m sorry? Monsieur let me make it up to you?”
“Monsieur LDH,” I wheeze. “That’s what I call you. Please!”
“What is the meaning?” His thumb swipes at my tears.
“Oh my days,” I rasp. My stomach hurts from laughing too hard. And from being sexed within an inch of my life.
Luc’s warning comes in the form of another pinch.
“No, please. Stop!”
“Monsieur Lethally, Devastatingly Handsome?”
“Good guess, but no,” I splutter.
“Monsieur… Likes Disobeying His Nanny? Leaves Doctors Hot?”
“Nope and no. But also yes,” I add. “On both counts.”
“Monsieur Le Diable Himself?”
“Well, I have called you the devil a time or two.” I put my hand to his face. “And you do seem to possess the devil’s tongue.”
“Tell me,” he purrs dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”
“Oh, no.” I give my best ‘damsel in distress’ gasp.
“I will tie you to the bed,” he warns, dragging my hand from my body and lifting it to the pillows. “And have my wicked way with you again and again.”
“Where’s the threat?”
He grabs my other hand, both wrists easily held in one of his hands. Then he twists to reach the nightstand behind him and oh, what a joy. Muscles twist and flex, nature’s machinery at its best. “How do you feel about amateur photography?”
I stare at the phone in his hand. “How…” What?
“Comment dit-on ça en anglaise,” he says, affecting confusion as he taps his phone ponderously to his chin.
“Very funny. You already said photography.”
“Ah!” He makes a gesture like eureka! “Désolé,” he says with great exaggeration. “Not photography. How do you feel about amateur pornography?”
Oh no.
41
PRIMROSE
For days afterwards, we live in a bubble of bliss. There’s no work to do, no people around, no one to think about or please but ourselves. And we do spend a lot of time pleasing each other.