The Grumpy Count, page 13
I shouldn’t have scolded her the way I did.
But that’s nothing compared to how I’ve been treating Margot since this morning. It’s beyond despicable. She’s done nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve such treatment. And I bet it wouldn’t even occur to a less thoughtful woman to consider that she might have. But, introspective as she is, Margot has probably been wondering if she screwed this up somehow, and wishing I’d tell her if that was the case. I could see the plea in her eyes all day.
Thing is… I can’t tell her the truth. And I can’t bring myself to lie to her.
I have a date with Giselle, the Key to the Key, tomorrow afternoon. She’ll give me a private tour of the Giselle Fisher Regency Museum. During our long confab after Leo left, I asked her if she had antique keys in her collection because I have a bit of a fetish for them. She told me she did, both catalogued and uncatalogued. The latter is great news because an undercover MESS agent visited the museum as a regular guest and didn’t find our key in any of her public showrooms.
After I saw Giselle out, I sent a coded message to the head of MESS, feeling rather proud of myself. As far as my mission goes, it’s been a great day. But on a human level, I feel like punching myself. Real hard.
Margot must’ve come to my room earlier tonight to confront me, no doubt. But she didn’t get a chance. I was odious. Instead of taking her somewhere private so she could air her grievances, even slap me across the face if needed, I took the coward’s way out.
It’s what’s keeping me awake now at one in the morning. Not the yearning in my loins, but the guilt.
The guilt that’s eating at me has nothing to do with Giselle. I have no intention whatsoever to follow the Montevor princes and marry my Key to the Key. What’s more, I don’t plan on fucking her, or even kissing her. I’m just charming her long enough to find the key. So, two-timing Margot is not an issue, though she doesn’t know that. It’s about having seduced her, knowing that we can’t be together. Not now, not next week, not after I’ve secured the key, not ever.
The hot thing we had going, it’s finished.
We belong in different worlds, and I shouldn’t have entertained ideas to the contrary. I can’t imagine us as friends with benefits. Nor do I see us in a loose, long-distance relationship which I could turn off when I’m in Mount Evor or Cannes and turn on when I’m in London.
Margot is a take-it-or-leave-it kind of woman. And I’m leaving her in the ugliest way I’ve ever dumped a woman.
I need to talk to her. I must apologize to her, let her yell insults at me. It’s the least I can do.
My decision made, I leap from the bed, pull a hoodie over my pajamas, and tiptoe out of the room. At Margot’s door, I lift my hand to knock, freeze in midair, and return to my desk, where I find a condom and shove it into my pocket.
I won’t need it, obviously.
Just on the off chance that she takes the initiative… Sweet Lord, to hold her one more time, to kiss her, to wait on her glorious pussy in every possible way, using my fingers, cock and mouth… One last time.
In your dreams, stupid!
She’ll be furious, and rightfully so. There’ll be no last times.
I set the condom down on the desk.
At Margot’s door again, I knock. There’s no answer. I wait, knock again, listen closely. Not a sound. I try the handle and the door opens. The dressing room is empty.
Did she move out at this hour?
Her backpack is here, though. Maybe she couldn’t sleep and went down to the library, like on the night of the ruined gown? Hold on… Her sleeping bag that I glimpsed on top of the settee the other day is gone. Did she take it with her to the library? Or maybe to the attic?
But of course! I told her about the cozy corner waiting for her upstairs. If Margot couldn’t find sleep here next door to me, then that’s the most likely place she’d go with her sleeping bag.
I climb the stairs to the vast, dark attic, and carefully make my way to the dim light at the opposite end. Good. That means she’s here and still awake. I navigate the crowded space toward the light, like a ship to a beacon, until I’m just a couple of meters from the corner delimited by antique screens.
“It’s me, Jonas!” I call. “I’m coming in to talk to you.”
I hear her rush to the screen from the other side, “No!”
“Please, Margot,” I say. “I’ve been a dick and I wanted to apologize.”
“You can apologize through the screen.”
“OK.” I lean my forehead on a lacquered panel, searching for the right words. “You have every right to be mad at me. I ignored you all day, and I flirted with today’s Elizabeth.”
I pause. There is nothing I can say in my defense without jeopardizing the mission. The only people I’ve discussed it with after my briefing in Pombrio are the royals who came to my house with news: Gigi, Max and Lucie. My sister, my mother, even my cousin Louis, who uncovered the truth about Prince Benjamin’s death, haven’t heard a word from me about this.
So yeah, all I can do is let Margot know that it’s over and tell her I’m sorry.
“Why?” she asks. “I’ve been racking my brain for an explanation, but I’ve got nothing.”
“Neither have I.”
In the eerie quiet, I hear her shaky breaths on the other side.
“I am deeply sorry, Margot,” I plead. “I hope you meet a great guy who deserves you, because you’re amazing. Just… don’t go out with Peter. He isn’t that guy.”
“You can leave now.”
“OK,” I say, but I don’t move. My head spins, and my legs refuse to carry me away from the screen. Away from her.
“Go away, Jonas! Please.”
“I can’t.” I want you so much it’s making me physically sick.
“You. Must. Leave. Now.”
With an effort that requires all the willpower I possess, I turn around and trudge away.
She catches up with me in the middle of the staircase. “I hate you.”
Careful to keep my balance, I pivot toward her. The steps between us adjust for our difference in height. I move closer.
She draws away, arching backward over the handrail.
“Watch out!” I grip her waist.
She straightens up. There’s more light here from the hallway below than at the top of the staircase.
My hand still clutching her, I stare at her beautiful face. “It’s pure madness,” I wheeze, “what you’re doing to me, Margot.”
She looks at my mouth, her chest heaving.
Is she fighting her desire? Is she going to run away?
Her lips part on a whisper, “One last time.”
CHAPTER 27
JONAS
My arm constricts around Margot’s waist. My other hand flies to her cheek, cups it, pulls her head closer.
When our lips meet, her arms lock around me like she never wants to let me go. I crush her body to mine until there’s no space left between us. She melts into me, hot and sweet and eager, and her heart races against my chest.
God, the softness of her lips, the feel of her curves against me… I brush my lips across hers, gentle for now, holding her face between my hands. Her breath flutters over my skin. I don’t want to rush this.
Easier said than done.
Remote-controlled by the stiff cock sandwiched between our tummies, I probe the seam of her lips. She grants access at once, and I plunge inside her mouth. Margot’s arms reach up. Her hands tangle in my hair. All I can do now is slow down the pace and the force of my tongue fucking her mouth. It works for a short while. But then she wraps a leg around my hips and I come undone.
The kiss becomes frantic. I’m devouring her mouth with deep, powerful strokes of my tongue. It makes me dizzy. She tastes delicious—better than cherry pie, better than I remember from last night. There’s a new edge to her flavor. It must be the sour tang of our imminent separation, the knowledge that I’ll never hold, kiss, or fuck this beautiful woman again.
We pause for air before we start all over again. I’m reeling. When Margot’s hands race up my back, gripping my shoulders tightly, desperately, I lean her on the wall and rest my hand against its cold surface to steady myself.
We break away from each other, panting. Margot opens her eyes. As we recover, the mist over her gray irises dissolves. She trains her eyes on mine. There’s sadness, confusion, and questions in her gaze.
I won’t be answering them. Instead, I want Margot in the throes of passion, the way she was last night—careless, playful, insatiable. I need her to let go so she can give herself to me without reservations. Without regret.
My palms travel down her sides and squeeze her butt. It isn’t a gentle caress, but a bossy, deliberate sign of what I want, a reminder of where we’re headed.
“Wait,” she exhales, pulling back.
She peels off her pajamas as fast as she can, revealing her toned figure and smooth skin. I undress on the double, tossing my sweatshirt and pajamas on the steps. Moving closer, I gawk at her. A chill runs over her skin in response. Her nipples harden, begging for attention. Within seconds, I’m all over her. My mouth sucks her breasts, my hands roam over the small of her back, her buttocks, then back up to her soft, round breasts.
Moments later, I release her nipples and knead her bottom once again, before stroking the inside of her thighs. Opening them.
Eagerly, she spreads them. I bring my hands to her pussy, parting her folds with my thumbs. We both look down. Her flesh glistens in the dim light, waxed and slick with pent-up desire.
Almost shaking in anticipation of the joy that awaits me, I kneel between her legs. Margot sets her right foot two steps up. An animalistic growl comes out of me. It seems to rise from beneath my throat, to travel up all the way from my aching cock. I bring my mouth upon her sex, and let my tongue dance around her slick, hot, sensitive clit. A strangled gasp leaves her lips.
I increase the intensity of my movements, licking and sucking until her legs start to quake. My cock is straining, throbbing with want, but I’m determined to ignore it until Margot comes against my mouth. I trace my tongue from her clit to her entrance, dip inside, and trail it back. It’s tempting to slip a finger or two into her pussy and pump, but I resist. I want her first orgasm to be clitoral only. I flick my tongue faster, press harder.
“Oh, God,” she bites out, writhing. “It’s too much… I can’t…”
She tries to wiggle away but I grip her hips and hold her in place.
“Fuck me,” she begs. “Or finger-fuck me, anything, just fill me, please!”
The crudeness of her words, coupled with the despair in her voice, breaks my resolve. I close my lips around her clit and push two fingers into her sopping vagina. She comes at once, shuddering. I redefine my goals. My new short-term objective is to prolong her orgasm. My fingers keep moving up and down as I suck her clit hard, reveling in her reactions. She rides the waves of her release, squeaking, thrashing, muttering dirty words, repeating my name, calling out to God.
Ha-ha, right now I am her god.
Her body surges upward and then, suddenly, she’s too limp to remain upright, even with me propping her up. I let her fold, guiding her down to her knees. Panting, she rests her forehead against mine. I hold her tight.
Moments pass. Neither of us utters a word.
Margot’s breathing becomes even. She stirs and reaches down for my cock.
“Want a taste?” I ask as she wraps her hand around it.
Silently, she nods.
I stand up. Margot’s eyes meet mine. The light is too dim to tell whether it’s in surrender or as a challenge. Her lips press to the tip of my cock for a moment, unmoving. She gives it a few slow, tentative licks, swirls her tongue around the head, and then, suddenly, she’s wild. She takes the length of it inside her mouth and sucks with abandon. She teases and tugs on me, moving faster and faster, pushing me toward the edge.
I grit my teeth. I draw back. I even picture Kurt Ozzi’s ugly, withered mug to stop myself from coming.
But she’s too eager. There’s only one way I don’t ejaculate within the next ten seconds. I need to take control. Gripping her head, I take over the pace and slow it down to sedate. Her blow job becomes that other act whose name escapes me, the one in which the blown one takes charge.
I push her mouth toward my base even as I thrust my hips to feed more of my throbbing flesh into her. When my tip brushes the back of her palate, she doesn’t draw away. Instead, she grips my ass harder and allows me to slide deeper still.
Holy cow!
The next couple of minutes is a flurry of pleasure more exquisite than I’ve never known. I don’t hold back, and Margot keeps opening up, relaxing, doing better with each unrestrained stroke. Too soon, I reach the point where it’s no longer possible to delay gratification.
“Margot,” I grunt, ramming down her throat. “God help me. I’m going to come.”
She sucks me in deeper.
Groaning, every muscle tense, I explode into her. Scalding jets of cum gush out. I dig my fingernails into her shoulders as more and more of it pours out of me and into her. I clench my jaw to muffle a cry, to steady myself, to resist the force of the orgasm tearing through me. But my body seems to have a mind of its own. My hips rock against her, driving out new spurts that keep shooting up from my swollen balls, thick and hot.
When, at last, I’m spent, I pull out of her mouth. Delighting me, she licks the last few drops from my softening length.
I pull her up so we’re face to face again. “I hadn’t pegged you as a deep throat.”
“I’m not.” She seems to cogitate, confused. “That I was able to do is as much a revelation to me as it is to you.”
“Even better! It fills me with pride to be so sexy that I awakened your hidden gift and pushed you to surpass yourself.”
“You did no such thing.”
I rub my forehead. “You sure?”
“I didn’t surpass myself because you’re so compelling.”
“Then why?”
She hardens her eyelids midway. “To make sure you’ll regret letting me go. It’s my way of cursing you.”
I should be used to it after two weeks of sparring with her. She never says the expected thing. Her unique blend of unconventional and uncut never ceases to surprise me. And so, instead, I kiss her, taking inordinate pleasure in how she dissolves from a smart-ass into a yielding, giving, pliant slave to sensation.
My body is my weapon! And my cock is hard again.
“We’ll need a condom,” I say.
She hunkers down, fumbles for her pajamas, rummages in its pockets, and hands me a foil packet.
Hands shaking, I roll the condom on before drawing her closer. My cock prods her center. I push the head inside, pinning her against the banister.
Not safe, the last of my sanity whispers in my head.
I pivot us to the wall on the other side. My legs wobble. Afraid they’ll give out, I grope for balance, but they keep buckling. Awkwardly, struggling to stay inside her and taking care not to stumble and fall, I maneuver us down. We shift and writhe on the stairs to find a good position. When I’m satisfied, I tuck our pajamas and my sweatshirt beneath her back to blunt the sharp ridges of the steps. And then I cushion the back of her head with my hand.
At last, I ram into her.
“Yes, like that,” she says. “Hard.”
“As you wish, Madam.”
I hold nothing back, pumping her with strokes that are hard, fast, and relentless. She moans, rolling her head on my palm. Her vagina contracts and pulls at me. Its pressure on my cock renders me ferocious. I bang her with thrusts that are borderline savage. She clutches at me for dear life.
Can she handle this? In another flash of lucidity, I search her face.
“Harder,” she grates. “And don’t stop.”
Fuck!
I pound harder, and harder, and harder still—completely unleashed. The walls of her channel grip and suck me. When her eyes roll in her head, and she bites her own forearm to stifle a scream, I erupt. My cock shoots out torrents of sperm just as eagerly as it did in her mouth. It’s as if there is no rubber between us, and I’m trying to make sure that all the cum left in me and all that I’ll ever produce empties into Margot.
Finally, we come to a stop, with me buried deep inside her. My body is still covering hers, pressing her into the stairs. As I recover, I discern the smell of sex permeating the area around us, the silence of the sleepy house, our heavy breaths, the postcoital throbbing of our sexes… Her back must be hurting like a bitch, lashed by the ridges of the stairs.
Quickly, I pull out and collapse on the stairs next to her.
She stirs and lifts off just enough to free our clothing. I push myself up, sort our items, and pull mine on.
She stirs again, props herself on her elbows, her eyes glazed over.
I offer my hand, but she pretends she didn’t see it. Slowly and deliberately, like a drunk, she turns over and heaves herself up to her hands and knees. Again, I move to help her, but she draws away from me. Her long hair tumbling over her forehead, she steadies herself.
“Margot, let me help you!” I pick up her pajamas.
She heaves herself up and sways. I catch her. I help her into her clothes. I smooth her damp hair away from her face.
She pulls away again.
Her contrary, obstinate, needless self-sufficiency both puzzles and saddens me.
She skews a faint smile. “Good night.”
In any other circumstances, I would’ve refused to leave just yet, would’ve helped her back to her bed in the attic and stayed with her a little longer, but Matteo is alone in my room. And the house is chock-full of people I didn’t know from Adam three weeks ago. While I’m fairly certain Sandra’s company harbors no sickos that would try to hurt my son, I’d rather be safe than sorry.
