The conversation flowed around him, eased along by the good food and plentiful red wine, but Ethan didn’t pay too much attention to it. He was more interested in watching how Jean-Luc interacted with the others. As the evening drew on, the shifter seemed to grow increasingly at ease in company he’d shunned since the
Spirit Seekers
team had first arrived. He appeared to be enthralled by Dex’s anecdote about the night he’d scored the winning touchdown in a game against the Denver Broncos, even though Ethan figured Jean-Luc’s knowledge of American football had to be limited at best. And he made a point of asking about some of the previous ghost-hunting investigations they’d all embarked on and what they were hoping to find when they moved on to Prague. Kim, in particular, seemed smitten by the handsome Frenchman and hung on his every word as he shared his expertise on vintage wine.
This is what you needed, Jean-Luc, just like Marcus and Thérèse told you. To be among people who are interested in you, to remember what it’s like to be engaged and alive…
A hand brushing against Ethan’s crotch distracted him in his musings. At first he thought he’d imagined it. Then it happened again. A subtle pressure at the zipper of his pants, causing his cock to thicken and swell.
He glanced at Jean-Luc, who seemed totally engrossed in the story Kim was telling of how her brother Declan had worked as a department store Santa.
“He lasted half a day. They caught him telling the kids he knew if they’d been naughty or nice, and if they’d been naughty then he had a friend in Jersey who’d deal with them…”
By now, they had reached the dessert course. Jean-Luc was cutting his apricot
tarte tatin
into pieces using a fork in his left hand. His right had disappeared under the starched fold of the white tablecloth.
The grip on Ethan’s bulge increased, sending a thrill of pleasure through his body. His grin faded as Jean-Luc tugged down his zipper. The rasping of the metal teeth seemed so loud he was sure everyone at the table must have heard it. When he looked round, no one was paying him the least attention, still listening to Kim’s outrageous stories of her brothers’ many misdemeanors.
Jean-Luc thrust his cool fingers into Ethan’s open fly and grasped his dick, bringing it out of his pants. For an instant Ethan made eye contact with his lover. The intent in that amber gaze was unmistakable. Surely Jean-Luc wasn’t going to play with him beneath the table, here in these formal surroundings and with all his friends chatting away, oblivious to this rude behavior?
He should have put a stop to this then—but he didn’t want to. Jean-Luc’s touch was so assured, so erotic. Ethan relaxed into the sensation of the shifter rubbing his thumb slowly over his cockhead.
“And what do you think, eh?” Jean-Luc asked him. He made it sound as though he was genuinely interested in Ethan’s reply to whatever had been said.
When he smiled, the sudden flash of sharp white teeth reminded Ethan of the beast lurking beneath Jean-Luc’s apparently human façade.
“I—” Ethan’s voice came out as an anguished groan.
Jean-Luc was now running his fingers along Ethan’s shaft, slowly and deliberately, making it impossible for him to retain a cool head. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t have an opinion either way.”
“Really? All the waiter needs to know is whether you’d like coffee.”
The waiter’s here? Shit, when did that happen? Can he tell Jean-Luc is jerking me off under the table and I’m doing nothing to prevent him?
Every head was turned in Ethan’s direction and his cheeks flushed with delicious humiliation. “Sure. Yeah. I’d love a black coffee.”
“Are you okay there, buddy?” Leon asked. “You’ve hardly touched your crème brûlée.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Ethan made a token show of cracking the thick caramel crust on his dessert and spooning up some of the creamy confection beneath. He did his best to concentrate on his food and not the steady, shuttling movements of Jean-Luc’s fist up and down his cock. “Just thinking about all the stuff we’ve got to do before we leave tomorrow.”
“Hey, you can worry about that later,” Kim admonished. “Tonight’s about having fun.”
Yeah, and Jean-Luc seems to have grasped that concept admirably.
Ethan just nodded. Tension was building at the root of his cock, the first indication of his imminent orgasm. Jean-Luc relaxed his grip for a moment, and Ethan sighed in relief. But the game wasn’t over. Almost at once, Jean-Luc resumed wanking Ethan, the strokes harder and more determined than before. Jean-Luc’s unspoken message seemed to be that he would make Ethan come and Ethan couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Surely someone’s got to realize what we’re doing?
Ethan wriggled against the seat of his chair, unable to remain still. Jean-Luc had taken total control of his pleasure. He did his best to keep his expression impassive but it seemed his whole lower half was in turmoil as he fought a losing battle not to come in public.
When Jean-Luc squeezed his dick just below the helmet, Ethan couldn’t hold back any longer. He focused on his dessert bowl, not wanting anyone to see the play of emotions on his face as his climax powered through him. Somehow, he managed to prevent more than a low grunt escaping from his mouth. His seed jetted up from his balls, unstoppable in its progress. From thin air, it seemed, Jean-Luc had produced a folded paper napkin that he used to catch the resulting eruption of cum. Ethan clutched his spoon so tightly, he thought he would bend it in half.
He raised his head once more, unable to bring himself to look at his lover for fear of giving the game away. When he at last risked a subtle glance, a glow of triumph appeared to radiate from Jean-Luc’s solid frame. Ethan knew he would never again be able to taste crème brûlée without thinking of this evening.
“Your coffee,
Monsieur
. I trust that everything has been to your satisfaction.”
If only you knew.
Ethan pulled together enough of his shattered composure to thank the waiter. He lifted his cup to his lips and took a welcome sip, his equilibrium returning to normal.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus pulled the cork from the half-empty bottle of Margaux so he could pour himself another glass. He might have missed out on dinner at La Reine Marie but at least he had the consolation that the château’s wine cellar could provide a vintage as fine as any the restaurant could summon up.
He thought about going into the drawing room to check on Thérèse then decided against it, just in case she’d managed to fall asleep. She’d been complaining of a headache all afternoon. As the doctor had warned her against taking any unnecessary medicines, she’d resorted to an old family remedy, rubbing peppermint oil into her temples in an attempt to ease her suffering. After Jean-Luc had announced that he’d be joining everyone for dinner in Épernay, Thérèse had wanted so badly to join the party. But the pain hadn’t lifted and now she was lying on the couch with a cold compress over her forehead.
Sipping the wine, Marcus reached for his smartphone to check whether he’d received any emails. Despite his extensive recruitment drive, he still needed to find a couple more people to help operate the wine presses. With any luck, the advert he’d placed on a couple of websites aimed at those looking for short-term seasonal employment had garnered some suitable responses.
Engrossed in scrolling through some half-dozen new messages, he barely registered the sound of the scullery door opening. Expecting to see his wife in the doorway, Marcus found himself looking at the family’s housekeeper instead.
“Hey, Agathe, I thought you’d gone home for the evening. Did you forget something?”
Agathe said nothing. A second person came to stand beside her, clad from head to toe in black. His face was concealed by a woolen balaclava and he held a length of iron piping in one hand.
“You told me this place would be empty,” the stranger said to Agathe in an accusing tone.
Marcus didn’t recognize his voice, though the accent marked him out as a local.
“Everyone was supposed to be in Épernay,” she replied. “Even the master. I wouldn’t have told you all to come here otherwise.”
All? How many others are there? What the fuck’s going on here?
Marcus tried not to let concern show in his expression.
The masked man took a couple of steps toward Marcus. “Is there anyone else here?”
Marcus thought of Thérèse, alone and vulnerable in the drawing room. He had to do whatever it took to protect her from this threat. “No, it’s just me.”
The man grunted, clearly satisfied by his answer. “Okay, Agathe, go get the boys and take them down to the cellar. I’ll deal with our English friend then I’ll come and join you.”
Agathe muttered her assent and disappeared from view. Marcus stood tall, staring at the intruder with defiance. His inner lion growled and he took strength from the response. He knew if it came to a fight, he had the beating of this man. That silly piece of pipe would be no deterrent against his fangs and claws.
“Marcus,
chéri
, is everything okay?” At the sound of Thérèse’s soft voice, both Marcus and the stranger turned toward the door.
“So much for being alone, you lying
connard
…”
The intruder rushed at Marcus, aiming a flying kick that connected hard with his stomach. Winded, Marcus staggered back and tripped over the leg of the chair he’d been sitting in. His assailant brought the pipe down, but Marcus put up a hand to ward off the makeshift weapon before it could crack his skull. The searing pain that shot up his forearm told him it had probably broken something there instead.
“No, please, don’t!” Thérèse screamed. “Leave my husband alone.” She made a grab for the man’s arm with both hands, trying to prevent him from hitting Marcus again.
“Agathe, Florent, Jacques. One of you, get in here now!” The stranger pushed Thérèse off him, seemingly not caring about her pregnant state.
The cry she let out had Marcus on the verge of shifting, even as his rational mind sought to remember the names of the man’s accomplices. If he and Thérèse got out of this situation in one piece, he knew he’d need to give as much information as he could to the police.
Seconds later, a thickset man, also wearing black and with his face disguised by a ski mask, ran into the room.
“What’s going on, Olivier?” the newcomer asked.
Whoever this gang are, they have to be amateurs. They might have dressed the part but they’re not giving a thought to how they’re identifying themselves in front of me.
Fear shivered down Marcus’ spine.
Or maybe they don’t care if I know their names because they’re not going to leave me alive to tell anyone…
His inner beast growled, impatient to be free. Much as he wanted to let that happen, he knew it wasn’t the wisest course of action. Marcus rose to his knees, careful not to put any weight on his injured left arm. For the first time, he noticed the newcomer held what looked like an old army service revolver. That firearm put paid to his thoughts of shifting. He might still have the element of surprise but a frightened man with a gun would be very likely to discharge it. Even in lion form, the last thing Marcus wanted was a bullet to the brain.
The man who’d been addressed as Olivier shoved Thérèse toward his colleague. Though his wife had to be frightened, Marcus’ heart swelled with pride as he saw how calmly she reacted.
“Tie her to a chair,” Olivier said.
“What with? We didn’t bring any ropes with us. Agathe said…”
Olivier ran a hand over his balaclava-covered face in clear exasperation. “I don’t give a flying one what she said. The plan’s changed. Just use whatever you can find that’s fucking halfway suitable.” He gestured toward an apron that hung on the back of the door. “Try that, Jacques. Just stop bleating and get on with it.”
Jacques went to fetch the apron, keeping a tight hold of Thérèse with his free hand. In order to take the garment down from the hook, he had to set his gun on the draining board. Marcus tried to weigh up whether he could make a grab for it, only to be foiled when Olivier snatched it up. He found himself staring at the barrel and prayed that Olivier didn’t have an itchy trigger finger.
Thérèse didn’t make any effort to resist. Jacques guided her over to the chair and made her sit. The bile rose in Marcus’ throat as his wife was secured to the chair with the apron strings. Jacques tied off the knots then shot a questioning look toward Marcus.
“What about him?” he asked Olivier.
“Try the drawers,” Olivier replied, keeping the revolver firmly pointed in Marcus’ direction. “There’s bound to be some twine they use to tie up the Sunday roasts or something. Don’t worry. He’s not going to try anything. Are you?”
Marcus shook his head, torn between his desire to rip out the men’s throats and his need to remain calm for his mate’s sake. Thérèse had to be feeling the urge to transform herself, too—it was a shifter’s primary response whenever they found themselves in bodily harm—but like him she must have realized the risks she ran when confronted by two armed and clearly agitated intruders.
At least he could make an attempt to summon outside help. Falling back into a sitting position, his back against the scullery wall, he carefully eased his phone a little way out of his trouser pocket. Any noise he made was camouflaged by the sounds of Jacques rooting through a drawer in his hunt for kitchen string.
Marcus managed to tap out the words ‘Intruders. Help us’ before Olivier could realize what he was doing
.
He pressed ‘send’ in the instant before Olivier spotted the movement and rushed over to kick the phone out of Marcus’ grasp. It spun away across the floor to disappear under the crockery cupboard, beyond immediate retrieval.
“Oh,
tu me gonfles
,” Olivier growled.
Marcus had picked up more than enough colloquial French to know that translated as ‘you’re pissing me off’. He didn’t care. He wanted this man riled and angry, not thinking straight. Any chance he and Thérèse had of getting out of this situation unharmed rested on Marcus gaining the upper hand from this gang.