His Princess - Stacy Gail Page 0,34
him deeper in the hole. Maybe he should stop digging before he buried himself completely. “You know I grew up rough, even before I wound up living at St. Ambrose,” he began grudgingly while she reached out to the cart for cream and sugar. “My old man… Let’s just say that selfish bastard showed me how bad life can get when you fall into debt and can’t get out. Your parents are supposed to be your protectors, the foundation that your whole world is built on, right? Well, my world was built on shit because of that useless assclown father of mine, but he taught me one life lesson I’ve never forgotten—being indebted to anyone is the scariest goddamn thing there is. In every relationship I’ve ever had, whether personal or professional, I don’t take a fucking thing from anyone that I haven’t earned. It’s just not in me.”
“I see.” Thoughtfully, she sipped her coffee, her golden legs crossed and platinum blonde hair shining in the early morning light. “So, am I to take it that your response just now was a knee-jerk reaction to being given something?”
The way she worded it made him smile. “That’s a pretty posh way of putting it, but yeah. That was definitely a knee-jerk response on my part.”
“Because instinctively you feel I might try to coerce something from you now that I’ve bought you breakfast.”
“You bought a lot of breakfast.” He glanced at the laden cart. “Like, a lot.”
She waved that comment away. “The point is, you now think that I’m going to demand something from you.”
Oy. “Look, I don’t think that—”
“But you should,” she cut in, shocking him into stillness. “I’m most definitely going to demand something from you, and feeding you was part of my diabolical plan. I need you to fuel up with all this food so that you can show me what other sex positions you’re partial to. We only hit a couple last night, but I’m sure there must be more.”
He stared at her for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. “You might be learning about me, but I’m doing the same with you. And you know what I’m learning?”
She looked at him over the rim of her cup. “What?”
“You’re never going to stop surprising me. Honest to God, I don’t know if being unpredictable is a good thing or a bad thing, but I like it.” He reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee, picked it up and toasted her with it. “A lot.”
“Good. Now eat up, because I have every intention of keeping you as my sex slave, at least for most of the morning. Then I want to go on a tour of the winery and potentially get smashed on their exquisite Malbec wine over a late lunch. You don’t have any problems with these plans, do you?”
“None at all,” he chuckled, and reached for some eggs Benedict.
“Admit it,” Joelle said, breathless with anticipation. “Sixty-nine is one of your favorite positions.”
“My favorite thing to do is fuck you senseless, lady, so I don't give a damn what position I have to get into to do it. Now,” Gus went on, lying back against the pillows while she straddled his torso, her back to him while she faced his fiercely erect cock, “scoot that sweet cunt back to where I can get my tongue on it.”
With a thrilled little sound she did as he instructed, straddling his head while leaning forward to rest her chest lightly on his torso. She braced one hand against the rumpled bed, while the other one closed around his stiffened dick, her eyes on its dark, purpling crown.
Oh, yes. This was going to be fun.
Their whole day had been fun. After the bump they had hit over breakfast—a bump that had startled her enough to wonder about the folly of flying halfway across a continent with a man she barely knew—they’d alternately made love, and worked their way through the enormous breakfast she’d ordered. Clearly the man was a bit of a control freak, but he'd indulged just about every whim she had, post-bump, so she'd been in high spirits as they at last left their bungalow to tour the winery.
The sprawling property running along the river truly was the slice of heaven she had originally called it. The early autumn sun seemed somehow softer as they watched workers harvest grapes for what the locals called the “crush.” Most of the Valley's grape harvest happened at night, when