My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(50)

I licked and sucked and tugged and scraped at her pale-pink nipples, cupping her tits and giving them a tender slap every now and then.

My dick pulsated between her legs. I could tell her clit was pressing over my strained zipper because the friction was driving her crazy.

Her head lolled from side to side. “Oh, Lord. This is so…so…”

But she couldn’t find the right word, and I was in no hurry to encourage her to talk.

“Sir…” A voice drifted from the background. It was distinctively male, which meant the stewardess didn’t want to deal with me herself. She’d sent a pilot. “We’re fast approaching Le Bourget. In fact, we’re scheduled to land in fifteen minutes and already got the green light from the—”

“No,” I said with conviction, my mouth enclosed around Dallas’s entire tit. I covered most of her innocence with my arms, but I still didn’t like that he hovered next to us like a creep. “Leave.”

“Sir, we have to prepare for landi—”

“No, we don’t.” I lifted my head from between Shortbread’s chest, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. “My plane, my rules. We have enough fuel to circle around for another hour.”

“An hour? That’s a waste of—”

“Your entire being is a waste. Can’t you see I’m pleasuring my wife? Either you find your way back into the cockpit and circle around Paris until we’re done, or I’ll kick you out of here myself.”

He bolted back into the cockpit, where, I assumed, the stewardess also hid for the remainder of the flight while I showered Dallas’s tits with kisses, licks, and sucks.

She giggled as soon as he left and thrust her breasts in my face, basking in the attention. “You’re so awful.”

“I don’t remember you standing up for dear Paddy when I told him to turn the plane around.”

I dove right back to doing what appeared to be working best for me and my wife—me driving her to the edge of orgasm without actually taking her to her destination point, and her giggling and pulling at my hair until I went bald.

When the plane landed an hour later, Dallas’s chest was red, raw, and full of marks. It was also covered by my MIT hoodie and a coat I threw on her, just in case.

Overall, not the best flight I’d had by a long mile.

But at least, unlike the one we’d shared from Georgia, I didn’t nearly kill anyone.

Which reminded me…

I hoped, wherever Scott was, he remembered his new life motto.

Never touch what belonged to Romeo Costa Jr.





I didn’t have many expectations for my Parisian honeymoon.

And still, my husband managed to disappoint me.

After we landed in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, Romeo and I checked in to the extravagant honeymoon suite at Le Bristol Paris.

What I should’ve done was tear off his hoodie and rinse away the flush from our earlier encounter on the plane.

Instead, I twirled my suitcase by its handle, admiring Montmartre through the open terrace doors. “Do you want to do brunch, then hit some tourist spots?”

Already, Romeo stripped off his tux jacket, laying another crisp suit on our bed. “I have back-to-back meetings with some clients and an old university friend.”

He was leaving me to fend for myself on our honeymoon?

Since trying to appeal to his MIA conscience proved futile, I settled on another approach. The whipped cream tactic.

“Sounds good.” I shrugged, unzipping my suitcase by the foot of the bed. Cara had packed me enough lingerie to seduce the entire French nation. “I’ll see you around when I see you around, I guess.”

He stalled in front of the bathroom, scars peeking past his unbuttoned dress shirt, and produced his phone, tossing it into my hands.

“Put your number in here. The last thing I need is for you to get lost.”

With any luck, I’d be kidnapped for ransom à la Taken. Surely, the kidnappers would be better company.

I punched in my number, volleying his phone back.

He pressed dial and killed the call when my ringtone pierced the air.

Such trust issues.

“Good girl.”

“Bad husband.”

“Stop pretending you want to spend time with me any more than I want to spend time with you.”

Pathetically, I did want to spend time with him.

I missed human interaction. I wouldn’t exactly define him as human, but he came close…ish.

Once he sprung into the shower, I shimmied into a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and sheer black pantyhose with a red line in front. Then I trotted to the nightstand, flipping open his wallet.

He’d never offered a substitute to the credit card he’d canceled, so I interpreted his wallet laying out as an open invitation to help myself.

And help myself I did.

By the time he finished showering, I was long gone, my phone turned off, his Centurion Card in tow.

First, I treated myself to a four-course lunch on Champs-?lysées. When I couldn’t stomach more, I spread the wealth, metaphorically and literally, footing the bill for every patron on the premises.

After that, a cab escorted me to Rue Saint-Honoré, where I bought myself a few humble wedding presents in the form of three Hermès bags.