His Loving Eyes [18+]

18

The car stops in front of an enormous Victorian castle, its grand façade a testament to centuries of history. The chauffeur opens the door and I step out, avoiding his eyes, embarrassed that he heard our sexual activities. Devon follows behind me, taking my hand in his.

"Remember what I told you earlier?" he asks, his voice a low murmur in my ear.

I nod. "Stick to your side."

"Good girl," he praises, and I can't help but smile sheepishly. I love the pet names he gives me, especially when he praises me. We walk hand in hand toward the entrance of the house, where we are welcomed by at least seven staff members. They lead the way and help us take off our coats.

"Mr. and Mrs. Toussaint are waiting for you in the dining hall," one of the staff informs us.

"You've been here before?" I ask out of curiosity since he seems to know the way to the dining hall.

"Yeah, whenever I come to Paris they invite me to have dinner with them. I consider them family."

"Really? You called him a pervert a while ago," I whisper back.

He chuckles. "Well, French men have a tendency of being physical."

"And women," I add, noting the elegance of the decor as we walk through the hallway. The portraits of French royals hung on the walls of the hallway add to the grandeur, their golden frames shining under the dim lighting.

Suddenly, Devon stops walking and pushes a dark wooden door open.

The dining hall comes into sight, illuminated by hundreds of candles. I admire the structure, the color, the vibe. This place is actually giving me inspiration for a new collection.

"Alexander!" a female voice suddenly calls, clapping her hands together.

Alexander?

Right, Devon goes by his second name.

A tall blonde woman comes to our side and grabs Devon's face, kissing both of his cheeks. Instantly, I'm not a fan of the Toussaint family. So much for having the word 'saint' in their name. She is wearing a red silk maxi dress that hugs her curves beautifully. It has a deep V opening on the cleavage, showing off her ample chest, and a slit starting at the middle of her thigh.

"Mrs. Toussaint, looking lovely as always," Devon greets her.

Her hands rest on his shoulders as she answers, "Thank you. And Mathilde, please—stop with the formality, we are way past that ," she winks, making him laugh.

Way past it, huh? I already dislike her.

"Mathilde, this is my wife, Evelina," he finally remembers me, introducing us.

"She is very beautiful. Good job," Mathilde says, addressing Devon rather than me, and dismissing me altogether.

Her words sting. "Good job?" It's not like he landed a jackpot. I officially hate French women.

"Julien will join us in a minute. Now, come on, have a seat," she directs us, an annoying familiarity in her tone as if I'm not even there.

Devon pulls a chair out for me, and I sit, muttering a small "thanks." He sits to my left, his right hand finding its way to rest on my thigh. I don't like this at all. I need him to know that this is upsetting me. I wrap my hand around his wrist, trying to push it off, but it won't budge.

"Screw this," he whispers under his breath.

"So, tell me, how is business?" Mathilde asks as she pours a glass of red wine and places it in front of Devon. She has approximately ten workers, yet she pours my husband a glass of wine herself. Something smells fishy here, besides her obvious flirtation.

Devon pushes the glass toward me with a small smile. I mouth "screw you." I take the glass and twirl it in my fingers, waiting for him to answer her question.

"Well, I haven't been paying much attention to the business. My cousin, Jack, is the acting CEO for now," he replies, leaning back in his seat as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You lost your passion?" Mathilde leans forward, crossing her arms in a way that pushes her chest out. I can't believe the audacity.

"No, not really. I just found something else that makes me happy," he says, giving me a pointed look.

The hand resting on my thigh pinches the fabric of my dress, and I want to slap him because God knows I'm not in the mood to play. In fact, I'm in the mood to punch this witch in the face.

The doors suddenly burst open, giving me a minor heart attack. Julien, a man of about fifty, enters the room. He looks much older than Mathilde. Probably his mid-life crisis. Figures.

Julien approaches us, and Devon stands. "This must be Julien."

I rise and extend my hand to Julien. He grabs my wrist and pulls me into a hug, his hands wrapping around my waist and one hand sneaking down to my ass, where he starts feeling me up. I gulp, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Devon clears his throat and pulls me away from Julien's grasp.

"You've got yourself a lovely piece of ass," Julien remarks with a crudeness that makes my eyes widen.

I can't bear sitting with these people another minute. Didn't Devon just say he considers them family? I see no family here, except maybe a blonde home-wrecker. I shouldn't be one to judge on this, but in my defense, I have never flirted with a man in front of his wife.

And then, on the other hand, we have an old man named Julien who, ironically, sounds just like King Julien from the Madagascar movie. I pinch my elbow, sure that this is just a bad dream.

"Please, have a seat," Julien motions, moving around the table to join his wife, where he literally French-kisses her right in front of us. Devon and I sit down again, and I watch him try to contain his laughter at my reaction.

The bastard.

He starts speaking to Julien in French, and while I understand French, I don't even bother to listen to their conversation as I'm planning my revenge in my head. The food is served by the staff, and Devon places the napkin on his lap, giving me a wonderful idea. I place my hand on his lap, reaching for his cock. He clears his throat, and I feel him instantly harden beneath the fabric. His eyes warn me not to proceed.

Too late, babe.

I know he won't come in his pants as there isn't enough friction, so this is a win-win for me. He would spend the entire evening in agony. The chit-chat stops as the couple starts to make out again, and Devon takes this opportunity to lean into the crook of my neck and whisper, "You better be ready for your punishment back at the hotel."

"Baby, I can't wait for it," I confess.

The evening drags on as Devon and Julien discuss business in French. I half-listen, tuning in and out as I continue teasing Devon under the table. Watching him squirm is its own reward.