THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) Read online

  THAT MAN 4

  NELLE L’AMOUR

  That Man 4

  Copyright © 2014 by Nelle L’Amour

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  First Edition: October 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

  No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.

  Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support. To join my mailing list for new releases, please sign up here:

  http://eepurl.com/N3AXb

  Cover by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs

  Proofreading by Karen Lawson

  Formatting by BB eBooks

  To all my Belles who asked for more of Blake and his tiger.

  This is for you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  THAT MAN 5

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Nelle L’Amour

  Prologue

  Jennifer

  Paris~Five months earlier

  “That eez a wrap,” shouted our wonderful French director, gurgling the “r” in “wrap” the way I now knew only the French did.

  We had just finished production on the first telenovela I’d overseen for MY SIN-TV, the block of programming I’d developed around popular erotic romance novels. Shades of Pearl, based on Arianne Richmonde’s bestselling series.

  The international cast and crew broke out in cheers. Among them were the lovely and beautiful Cameron Diaz, who had played the title character—her first television role ever—and her breathtakingly handsome co-star, Gaspard Ulliel, the French heartthrob, who played her much younger lover, Alexandre. Whoo-hoos mingled with hugs and out of nowhere, bottles of bubbly champagne popped.

  I’d invited the author to the final days of shooting. A stunning, statuesque blonde, who looked like she could have easily played the part of forty-year-old Pearl, she was ecstatic. She enthusiastically gave me one of those double-cheek kisses.

  “Oh, Jennifer! It’s brilliant. Do you think we can win an Emmy?” she asked in her British accent.

  An Emmy? To be honest, I’d never thought about that. All I’d thought about was making the best possible show for my audience. I wanted our viewers to love every sinfully sexy and suspenseful minute of it.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I replied, but the fantasy of winning one danced in my head.

  With a flute of champagne in her hand, the long-limbed Arianne sauntered off to mingle with the cast and crew. Suddenly, I felt very alone. I missed that man I loved terribly—Blake Burns, the head of SIN-TV and my fiancé—and wished I could share this triumphant moment with him. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed his number. It was 4:00 p.m. The time difference between Paris and Los Angeles was nine hours. That meant it was seven o’clock in the morning in LA. Knowing his routine well, he should still be at home.

  To my utter disappointment, the call went straight to his voice mail. I left him a message, telling him how well the final shoot went. And for him to call me. My final words: “Oh, Blake, I miss you so much. I can’t wait to see you.” I was flying home tomorrow.

  The cast and crew began to dissipate from the set. Later tonight, there was going to be a big wrap party. To celebrate the completion of production, Conquest Broadcasting, SIN-TV’s parent company, had chartered several Bateaux Mouches to cruise around Paris and party. I’d looked forward to the event, but now, missing Blake so much, it just wasn’t as exciting.

  *

  A chauffeur-driven Peugeot sedan took me back to my hotel. While the stars and director were staying at the Hotel George V where we’d shot some scenes, I was staying at the newly renovated Ritz. It was like out of a fairy tale with its sumptuous décor and impeccable service. I’d never stayed in such luxurious accommodations before. They were so beyond. But what made the hotel even more special for me was this is where Ernest Hemingway, one of my dad’s literary heroes, had written his early books. To his delight, I’d e-mailed him a photo of me in The Hemingway Bar and photoshopped the legendary author into the picture.

  Wearily, I inserted my key card into the door of my tenth floor suite. Blake had insisted on getting a suite for me, and though I’d protested, trying to save the company money, there was nothing I could do. Being engaged to the head of SIN-TV and the future chairman of Conquest Broadcasting, came with its perks. Most of which I didn’t need.

  Dropping my shoulder bag on the gilded entryway console, I traipsed to my spacious bedroom with its regal canopy bed and breathtaking view of Paris. My eyes grew wide. Smack in the middle of the thick, fluffy duvet were two exquisitely wrapped boxes…one small, the other large. I recognized the wrapping of the small box immediately. With its signature hot pink heart, it was, of course, from Gloria’s Secret. Gloria Zander, the CEO of the renowned lingerie emporium, was sponsoring my block, and she had a popular store right here in Paris on the nearby Champs-Elysées. Though eager to open the big mysterious package, I reached for the smaller one and peeled open the envelope inserted under the bow. A note with handwriting I didn’t recognize met my gaze.

  Congratulations on your first production! Wear these tonight.

  The gift must be from Gloria. How thoughtful of her! With eager fingers, I tore off the wrapping and lifted off the lid.

  My breath hitched. Inside beneath layers of delicate pink tissue paper was a magnificent set of pearl white lace lingerie: a demi-cup bra, matching bikini, and a garter. Plus a pair of lace-trimmed sheer silk stockings labeled: Made in France. Little bows embellished with pearls accented the lingerie in all the right places. The undergarments were exquisite enough to wear on my wedding day. I glanced down at the big snowflake diamond ring on my left hand, always awed by its sparkle and size and the memory of that magical night when Blake had proposed to me only a month ago. To my overjoyed mother’s chagrin, Blake and I had not yet set a date. We had too much on our plates when it came to work.

  Spreading the beautiful lingerie on the bed, I reached for the big package. My fingers anxiously unwrapped it. Inside the tissue-lined box was another envelope. I carefully slit it open with my index finger. Another note with the same unrecognizable handwriting. And wear these too. It must be another gift from the generous Gloria, I surmised as I unfolded the delicate paper.

  With a gasp, I removed the contents from the large box. First, the strappy silver Jimmy Choos. And then the elegant ivory chiffon dress by my favorite designer and dear friend, Chaz Clearfield, from his new couture line, which Gloria had helped launch. It had a pearl-encrusted neckline, nipped wa
ist, and full skirt. My size—a four. I’d never owned or worn a dress as stunning as this. Very grown up, it belonged on a movie star. Someone like Cameron Diaz. Or an elegant goddess like Gloria. Not a petite, middle-class, Midwestern girl like me.

  I padded over to the imposing armoire and stood in front of the mirrored doors, holding the dress up against me. Wow! I was going to look dazzling in it. And then my heart sunk a notch. If only Blake could be here to see me in it.

  *

  What a perfect night to cruise along the Seine. The mid May air was mild and the evening sky couldn’t be clearer. Chartered buses had taken the Pearl cast and crew to the Pont D’Alma along the Rive Gauche from where the glass-enclosed boats were departing. Everyone was decked out to the nines for an evening of sightseeing, fine dining, and pure fun. Numerous partygoers, including Cameron and the very flirtatious Gaspard, came up to congratulate me on the production and commented on how magnifique I looked. I was both flattered and humbled. Paparazzi and publicists were snapping pictures at lightning speed. I smiled for the camera. But to be honest, while being Blake’s fiancée and my career had launched me into this glitzy, star-studded world, I still wasn’t used to so much attention and glamour.

  On the quay, everyone was handed tickets, indicating which boat they would be on. I glanced down at mine. Number six…the last one. Carefully, in my new heels, I boarded the vessel and made my way to the upper deck. I leaned against the railing and took in the magical City of Light. The Seine quietly lapped against the side of the boat while my new dress billowed like a sail in the warm Spring breeze. The majestic Grand Palais faced me. All lit up, it resembled a giant jewelry box.

  The rumble of motors of the other boats ahead of mine roared in my ears. They were taking off. I guess we were still waiting for more passengers to board this one because I was the sole person on it. Maybe there was another bus of people on the way?

  Ten minutes passed. And still not another passenger. The other boats were now well on their way, and they began to fade in the distance. My heart began to race. Shit. Maybe, there was some kind of mistake, and I’d boarded the wrong boat.

  “You look beautiful in that dress. Are you also wearing the lingerie I sent you?”

  At the sound of that familiar sultry voice, my heart almost leapt into the Seine. I felt my insides melt. And my center grew as wet as the river itself.

  I spun around. There he was. Leaning against the banister to the lower deck. That man. Who loved me body and soul. And mind. That devastating man. Blake Burns.

  My mouth dropped. Speechless, I now understood why I hadn’t been able to reach him earlier. He’d been flying. Flying to see me. And now, every part of me was flying because he was here.

  Dressed in one of his impeccably tailored dark suits, he loped up to me. His long-legged gait was as sexy as his smoldering gaze. I sprinted up to him and met him halfway.

  “Oh my God, Blake.” My heart pounding, I flung my arms around him. “I can’t believe—”

  He tugged my head back by my ponytail, and then his mouth captured mine, cutting off my word supply. The tongue-driven kiss was fierce, passionate, and oh so delicious. With his hard body and colossal cock pressed against me, the boat began to move.

  “Blake, where are we going?” I spluttered, finally breaking the kiss.

  “The rest of the cast and crew are going on a tour of Paris. But you, my tiger, are going on a trip to the moon and stars and back.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked.

  He tweaked my nipples between his thumb and index fingers. I could feel them harden as he smiled smugly. Heat blossomed between my legs and then his hands slid down my hips.

  He hiked up the skirt of my dress and shoved my soaked lace panties aside.

  His fingers quickly found something delicate and responsive. My clit.

  They circled it. Hard, just the way I loved it. Moaning, I rocked into him as his deft fingers picked up speed.

  “Je vais baiser votre cerveau,” he whispered in my ear, his accent perfect.

  “Parlez-vous français?” I murmured back as a mind-blowing orgasm took hold of me.

  “No, I talk dirty.”

  *

  Blake

  If you think I was going to let my little tiger party with that horny French frog, you sure as fuck don’t know me by now. Gaspard-Bastard. When I’d awoken this morning at the crack of dawn, I’d hopped into the shower, thrown together an overnight case of bare necessities, and driven myself in my trusty high-speed Porsche to LAX. Jennifer had been in France overseeing her first production for over two weeks, and I missed her like crazy. And it wasn’t just her tight little pussy I missed that my calloused fingers could attest to. I missed everything about her. Waking up to her in my arms. The taste of her kiss on my lips. Sharing showers. Her adorable giggle. And even the way she knew how to put me in my place. (Jeez. Another pun unintended?) Yes, my cock had a hearty appetite, but she’d shown me my heart hungered too.

  Throughout the long eleven-hour flight, my cock had strained against my jeans while my heart beat like a jackhammer. I’d kept the tray table down the whole time except for the departure and landing. I couldn’t wait to surprise her and see the expression on her pretty face. And then rid her of the lacy lingerie and that new dress, which I’d sent her with the conspiratorial help of Gloria Zander and her designer pal, Chaz. I was about to line up the three cherries…the right idea, the right person and, with no hitches, the right time. A big win was in store.

  Timing, I’d learned, was everything. Without it, everything could fall apart. Even the best laid plans—or plans to get laid. Luck had it the flight arrived early, and I was able to get to the Bateau Mouche with ease. Little did my tiger know, I’d chartered it out of my own pocket for my own personal use. It was going nowhere until I was on board. And neither was she.

  I fucking wish I’d taken a photo of her face when she set eyes on me. Her emerald orbs lit up like two stars in the sky, and her mouth dropped to the deck in a perfect O. An O big enough to accommodate my big ole cock. Damn, she looked hot in that dress. Magically, the river breeze blew the skirt up above her thighs, exposing her frilly garter and stockings and the scrap of lace panties I’d asked her to wear. My rigid dick was itching to get inside them. But first things first. I needed her in my arms. And my mouth needed to consume hers. It felt like years. She melted into me like chocolate, and as my tongue danced with hers, I scrunched up her silky dress. My hand landed between her thighs. Expertly, I maneuvered my fingers under her little lacy panties and found my hidden treasure.

  “Oh baby, you’re so fucking hot and wet,” I moaned into her mouth as I rubbed her nub.

  Picking up my pace, I had her panting against me. So ready to come. “Oh God, Blake,” she cried out and then she let go.

  I felt her shudder around my fingers while she clung to my shoulders so she wouldn’t fall down.

  My cock was on fire. With my mouth locked back on hers, I walked her backward until she was leaning against the railing. Her harsh breathing mixed with the sound of the soft waves brushing against the boat. I hiked up her dress once more and cupped her sweet ass. And then in one swift move, I tore off her drenched panties and spread her legs.

  “Blake, what are you doing?” Her eyes were wide.

  Monsieur Dirty Talker wasn’t done with her. Do you seriously think I flew half way around the world just to flick her clit? I gnawed at her slender neck and got right to it.

  “I’m going to fuck my future wife’s brains out.”

  “But Blake, people on shore will see us.”

  “Don’t worry about it, baby. We’re never going to see them again. And when they hear you roar, believe me, they’ll wish they were us.”

  “But, don’t you think we should enjoy the cruise? And take in all the monuments?”

  “Tiger, there’s only one monument in Paris you need to take in and it’s right here.” I zipped down my fly and out popped my rod. Nine inches of pure pleasure. It deserved
a five-star rating on Yelp.

  I nudged it against her, and in a hot breath, it was deep inside her. Her muscles clenched around my length. I hissed. I’d almost forgotten how good her tight little pussy felt. On the next breath, I was pounding into her ruthlessly, every thrust taking her closer to the edge. I clamped my hands firmly on her waist so she wouldn’t fall overboard. Fuck. That would be bad. Her moans mingled with my grunts as I pummeled her harder and faster. Her face contorted with tortured pleasure, and I kept my eyes open to enjoy the beautiful sight of her. The beauty of Notre Dame, as the boat swung around the Île de la Cité and passed by the famous landmark, paled next to that of ma belle dame in my face and in my arms.

  “Eyes, tiger,” I ordered. I wanted her to enjoy the spectacular view too. On my command, she snapped open her long-lashed lids, and I rewarded her with another all-consuming French kiss—la pelle or shovel as some called it in France. In the distance, I heard promenaders along the Seine cheering us on with wolf whistles and applause. “Allez, allez! A votre santé!” I waved to them.

  “Have you missed me?” I panted out as my cock hammered into her. Missed this?

  “Oh yes. So much.”

  Ahead of us, the Eiffel Tower sparkled. At the rate we were moving, it would be at least half an hour until the boat passed it, and headed back to the quay. My own lit up tower of steel wasn’t going to last much longer.

  “Come with me, baby.” An intense tingling sensation surged from my sac to the tip of my shaft. I swear, my cock was going to jump out of its skin.

  She emitted a ferocious roar you could hear in LA, and then I cried out her name as my own powerful orgasm met her blissful wake.

  “Oh, Blake,” she murmured, her voice, a breathy whisper.

  Spent, I nuzzled her neck. “Are you happy I came?” Man, what was with me and these double entendres?

  She sunk her head against my chest. “So happy.”

  With my arms wrapped around her, we stayed in this resting position for several long minutes as we aptly neared the Arc de Triomphe. So maybe we’d missed some of the sites along the Seine, but it didn’t matter. I tenderly kissed her silky flesh everywhere I could.