Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
We walked into a different alcove that showed one of the biggest paintings I’d ever seen. It would take up an entire wall in a museum. Those paintings usually depicted large battles that required a lot of detail, but this was just a portrait of a woman. She stood in a white dress with the sleeve falling down one shoulder, her brown hair thick and beautiful, her eyes downcast.
A man stood beside the painting, but he wasn’t in a tuxedo, so he must be the artist.
The title was on display in front of us, along with the artist’s name.
The Most Beautiful Woman -Alexander Pedrotti-
Fender didn’t look at this painting with the same luster as the previous ones. It was immense in size and quite impressive, but Fender’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, like he wasn’t impressed in the least. The energy around him was different, hostile. His hand left my waist, and he stepped forward. “Je vais acheter votre toile.” I will buy your painting.
The artist stepped forward. “Elle vous plaît, monsieur?” You like it, sir?
Fender didn’t respond. “Je veux que vous me peigniez un portrait.” Paint for me.
“Désolé monsieur, mais je ne fais pas ça.” Sorry, sir. I don’t do that.
“Vous le ferez. Donnez-moi votre prix.” You will. Name your price. Fender stared him down, daring him to defy him.
He gave a sigh in defeat. “Qui est le sujet?” Who?
“La plus belle femme du monde.” The most beautiful woman in the world.
He was in a foul mood for the rest of the night.
Our pleasant conversation was over.
The drive was spent in silence.
I’d assumed we had dinner plans afterward because we didn’t eat, but he blew them off.
I didn’t understand why a single painting could make him so angry.
We returned to the palace and entered the foyer.
Gilbert immediately came to greet us. “How was your evening, sir?”
“Deliver dinner to my bedroom in an hour.” He took my hand in his and pulled me to the stairs.
Gilbert was flabbergasted. “I…I didn’t realize you were expecting dinner this evening. I’ll get right on that.”
Fender took me up the stairs, to the top level, and into his bedroom. There was an urgency to his movements, like the way he sped through the streets even though he had nowhere to go. He gripped my hand tightly as if I might slip away and fall down the stairs. He’d been angry before, many times, but he’d never been quite like this.
His clothes dropped, and he tugged everything off like he couldn’t get rid of it quickly enough.
Unsure what to do, I just stood there and watched him.
He got down to his bare skin, his dick hard despite his anger, then flashed me his aggressive stare.
I froze.
He stared at me as his chest rose and fell with his deep breaths, giving me a searing look that was aflame with molten fire. He sprang into action and cupped my cheeks, giving me a passionate kiss full of those deep breaths, full of unbridled need.
My mouth immediately responded, and my hands were on him, feeling him devour me, holding on to him for balance as he backed me up to the bed, his big fingers yanking down my zipper and getting the dress free.
He pushed it down my body, yanked off my underwear, and then carried me to the bed. My back hit the sheets as his arms hooked behind my knees, and he quickly positioned his thighs so he could push inside me.
His tip went in first then he sank the rest of the way. A possessive moan escaped his lips as his eyes burned into my face. He paused as he dug his hand into my hair and kissed me, kissed me like that for the first time since I’d left. When he pulled his lips away, he started to rock hard and deep. “Tu es la plus belle femme du monde.” You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. Between his hard thrusts, he spoke to me. “Toi.” You. He kept going. “Et tu es à moi.” And you’re mine.
The next day, he was still in a bad mood.
A night of sleep hadn’t dulled the offense from the night before. He’d taken that painting personally, even though he didn’t know the artist or the woman in the portrait, even though it didn’t matter who was more beautiful.
But it mattered to him.
I sat in the office with my book open on my lap, the dried-out petal on my knee so I could insert it once I was finished.
He didn’t acknowledge me as he worked, talking on the phone to people in French, typing on his laptop, eating his lunch in silence. Based on the way he’d made love to me all night long, he wasn’t angry at me.
He was just angry.
I watched him from my position on the couch, noting the black fire in his eyes as he stared at his computer screen, the hardness in his jawline, the deep level of masculinity that I’d never seen displayed in another man. He thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world—but he was the most beautiful man.