Until I realize there’s a man in jeans and a t-shirt sitting on a branch, a few feet away.
We see each other at the same time. I shriek and grab the sheet I wrapped myself in. It shrouds me like I’m a Roman statue swathed in wet drapery—revealing more than it conceals.
He startles and fumbles for the camera dangling from a strap around his neck.
“What the actual fuck?” I shriek. My voice reverberates in the marble splendor of the bathroom. “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck…” It’s not ladylike to swear, but what the actual fuck?
I step to the window, about to throw up the sash and give him a piece of my mind, when Benedict’s half-awake bellow rings out. “Frankie?”
The paparazzo jerks in surprise again, and this time it overbalances him. With a cry, he falls from the branch, crashing through foliage.
“What is it? What happened?”
Benedict stumbles into the bathroom as I point to the window and scream, “Call an ambulance!”
Chapter 10
Frankie
An hour later, my ears are still ringing. From the ambulance siren—which sounds different here than in America. From the shouts of the poor photographer—who landed on some shrubbery. “Not badly hurt,” Daniel informed us after he spoke to the chief of police. “More than he deserved.”
The camera didn’t survive intact. Thank goodness.
We’re in the car, Benedict and I. Benedict’s transformed back into The Duke. I can tell. He was so different—still dominant, but warm and gentle last night. Right now, his profile might as well be carved in stone.
“This cannot stand,” he says suddenly.
“It’s not your fault.” Biting my lip, I take a chance. I wind myself around him, drawing him away from the window into the heat of my body. He allows me to cuddle close, tucking my head under his jaw. His body is big and solid, mine is soft and, I like to think, comforting. We fit together.
After a minute, his shoulders relax a fraction. “They’re a problem. It’s high time I do something about it.”
“The reporters?”
“Yes.” His chin moves against my hair. “The paparazzi. The royalty and paparazzi are symbiotic. It’s especially apparent in England, where the royals have little more than soft power.”
I don’t know what to say so I keep resting my head on his chest. The adrenaline from this morning has faded. I’m not tired, but I am a little wrung out.
I’m not quite dozing when Benedict says very, very softly, “My mother loved the spotlight. She gloried in it.”
His body is tense again under mine. My eyes widen but I don’t move in case I scare him off from saying more.
“It killed her,” he adds finally.
I raise my head. This is a serious conversation. “I thought she died in a yachting accident,” I say. His fingers clench and unclench until I gather them into mine.
“She did. She was partying. Making a spectacle. Bigger and better, even at the cost of her health. Relationships. And then at the cost of her life.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. My heart aches for the little boy who lost his mother.
No wonder Benedict shuns the limelight or scandal.
“She fought with her husband about it, that very night. I hung at the top of the staircase and listened. It seemed they were always fighting.” Benedict’s voice is hushed and his eyes are fixed ahead on nothing. On images from the past. He’s locked deep in his memories.
I can’t stand it. I want to help.
The car rolls on, heading into the country. After we got the reporter into the ambulance and Daniel arrived with more security, Benedict called his great aunt. She insisted we come stay at her estate where we can lie low.
We’re cozy and it’s private. The divider’s up between us and the driver. It usually is.
“How far are we from Lady Ursaline’s house?'' I ask.
“Twenty minutes. Why?”
I lay a hand on his thigh, marveling at the muscle under the suit slacks. He’s more lean than bulky, but now I’ve seen how cut he is, I can’t forget. I slide my hand up until my fingers brush the bulge in his slacks. He’s hard, as I expected. I haven’t been strategically pressing my boobs against him under the pretense of ‘comfort’ for nothing.
“Frankie.” If he’s trying for stern, he’s failing. It comes out breathy. A little desperate. “Darling.”
“Darling? That’s new. I like it.” And I slip off the seat to my knees. I position myself between his legs, looking up at him from under my lashes. He doesn’t say anything, but his chest rises and falls with labored breath.
I go to unbutton his slacks and take him out, and he catches my chin. “No.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. My tongue darts out automatically and licks at his skin. His eyes hood.
“If we do this, we do this my way.” His voice rasps.
“All right.” As brash as I’m behaving, it’s nice to just take orders. Not think for a little while.
Benedict gives a crisp nod and hits the button that allows him to speak to the driver. “McKinney? Take the long way,” he orders, and waits for McKinney’s assent before muting the com channel and gathering up my hair, tugging me back. “I’m in charge,” he tells me.
I nod, a little curious.
“Unbutton your blouse.”
Now I’m breathing hard. But there’s no time to be nervous. All I have to do is listen and obey.
I slip the pearl buttons free. I’m wearing a lacy bralette underneath. Part of my new wardrobe. I never thought there would be a button-down shirt or bralette that would fit my boobs and actually look good. The benefits of a stylist and tailor.
Benedict regards the lace with a calm arrogance that I would call dismissive, if I wasn’t almost eye level with his giant erection. The aloofness is part of his social armor, I realize. His need to be in control. Perhaps the loss of his mother at a young age.
But I can psychoanalyze him later.
“Do you want me to take it off? “I gesture to the bralette.
“No…” He reaches out a long finger and traces the lace. “Lovely. I think, just…” He tugs the bralette down, tucking it under my breasts. The white lace pushes my breasts up and out and turns my cleavage into a cavernous wonder. Benedict strokes the tops of my breasts like they’ve been put on a platter and offered up for his enjoyment. I feel like a toy, in the best way. It makes me so wet.
“Yes, I think that’ll do.” Benedict finishes arranging me to his liking. I’m breathing heavily from the casual fondling. He leans back in the seat, lounging like a bored king. “Now. Take out my cock.”
Benedict
Frankie licks her lips, frowning with concentration. I force myself to relax into a casual pose, controlling every breath as she slowly undoes my pants and draws my boxer briefs down. It’s all I can do to stop myself lunging for her, laying her out on the floor of the limo, and rutting her.
She takes hold of my member and it jerks in her hand.
Anticipation. Control, I remind myself sternly. Frankie’s hands are so small and uncertain, holding my dick.