French Wanker : A Hero Cub Novel Read online

  French Wanker

  Victoria Pinder

  French Wanker

  Copyright©2020

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 2020 Victoria Pinder

  All rights reserved.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Legendary Phoenix Preview

  Also by Victoria Pinder

  About the Author

  Introduction

  French Wanker is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s British Bedmate. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  Chapter 1

  Kara

  As the cable car jostled me around, I scooted to the back to let the other passengers inside. Of course, most of my traveling companions consisted of young couples in love. Two different couples locked lips as if the swarm of strangers around them had disappeared. After a quick glance, I averted my eyes. Must be nice to be happy.

  The smell of lust permeated the air, and the kissing couples didn’t care if anyone noticed them.

  I envied them. Their freedom. Their confidence.

  It sucked being alone. No sisters. No friends.

  No husband.

  Just as the doors were about to slide shut, a man scooted inside with an ass my fingers tingled to touch and find out how dense those muscles might be. I’d never actually. In black pants and a black sweater, he was the epitome of what a hot Frenchman might look like. My blood stirred, rushing through my veins. I admired his chiseled jawline and the outlines of his dimples.

  If I’d known I’d have such visceral reactions to men in Paris, I probably would have booked more time here.

  I heaved a sigh. I wanted one more look at the iconic phallic symbol I’d flown all night to see—the Eiffel Tower—before moving on to my next adventure.

  Soon I’d be in Rome.

  This European trip would have to serve as my now single vacation where I hoped to figure out how happy and free felt. This started with following my plans, despite Marlon, and I’d scheduled this whole vacation to see places I only ever saw in movies.

  My dreams of riding to the top, viewing the sparkling city with my new husband standing by my side, faded into oblivion.

  Marlon, the ex who’d canceled our wedding and ruined my dream vacation, didn’t deserve a second thought. Since I’d already paid for everything, I would enjoy myself with or without him.

  As if under the spell of a magnetic pull, my eyes snapped to the hot stranger. What if all men looked like him?

  All the rom-coms I’d seen made me think Italian guys were the hottest men on the planet, but the man near me spread goose bumps on my arms.

  I checked my collar and wished I had the guts to kiss a stranger.

  He spoke French on his phone, but then he said “wanker” and laughed before saying, “Au revoir.”

  I giggled to myself. I decided right then and there he was Mr. Wanker, and I could stare at those muscles of his in that black, form-fitting sweater that hugged every sculpted plane of his body in a fabric embrace. I stepped out of the cable car, but my feet arched the second he smiled.

  My body tingled like he was behind me, but I let my hair bounce and refused to glance backward.

  On the short walk to get my ticket, I swayed my hips. If he watched, I wanted him to notice me.

  As I glanced back, he stood there, watching me. Those dark brown eyes smoldered.

  And those full lips… damn. He’d star in my fantasies from now on.

  French men had the reputation of being great lovers. With him, I’d fantasize about finding out if that were true. He probably kissed better than the fish-like kisser I’d almost married and taken forever.

  With the ticket in my hand, I headed into the turnstiles. I turned again, but he evaporated into the crowd.

  The elevator line moved, and I adjusted my jeans and plain purple sweetheart neck T-shirt. As the rest of the passengers departed, I waited my turn for the ride up the metallic penis.

  A second later, a hard body pressed against my shoulder. Electricity coursed through me when I faced Mr. Wanker himself. The others in line faded away, though the lush green grass beckoned, calling to me as the perfect place for a fantasy.

  Earlier today, lovers kissing and families playing filled the garden, not caring people rolled on the grass. Now, I didn’t notice anything but Mr. Wanker and his real, hard, and heavenly muscles.

  I skidded in my Nikes stopping myself and glanced up as he said, “Est-ce que ton père a été un voleur? Parce qu’il a volé les étoiles du ciel pour les mettre dans tes yeux. Si on prenait un verre un de ces quatres?”

  Zaps of sweet ecstasy danced in my veins, heating and liquifying my insides. “What?”

  “American?”

  “Oui.” I whipped out one of the few French phrases I understood, though he sounded British when he’d said my nationality.

  He tapped his chest, those sexy muscles of his flexing as his dark eyes bore into me, making me feel naked in the middle of the green grass near the Eiffel Tower.

  “I asked if you were alone and would want to get a drink after.”

  My heart thrashed like I’d just met the perfect man. Not that one existed, but I wanted to believe anyhow. I sucked on my bottom lip. No one could handle the adrenaline pumping all the time from his nearness, but maybe he’d be the guy to help me forget my ex.

  Or maybe that was another fantasy brought on by too many movies about Europe and how I’d planned my honeymoon based on romantic comedies. I let my lip go and said, “Depends on how you kiss, I guess.”

  “Une belle femme ne devrait pas avoir à demander un baiser.”

  My body trembled, and my lips tingled. I’d asked a stranger to kiss me. Feeling half insane, I met his gaze. As I stared into his eyes, a flush spread through my body, landing on my cheeks. I shouldn’t have asked. If I kissed a total stranger, did it prove I was completely over my ex? And Mr. Wanker made me all achy just from those dark eyes of his, but I turned away. Losing my nerve, I said, “Never mind.”

&n
bsp; His arms wrapped around my waist, and I shivered. Goose bumps popped out on my skin as I melted from the nearness of a man who smelled of adrenaline and a cologne I couldn’t quite place but had a woodsy, almond scent.

  My nipples pressed against him as my eyelids fluttered closed.

  I’d never see him again, but it didn’t matter.

  And as his lips brushed against mine, I tugged him closer.

  He deepened the kiss of all kisses, and my body weakened in his muscular arms.

  Time stood still, electricity crackling between us, for the forever perfect kiss that would fill my wicked dreams for a lifetime. As it ended, he gave me a wink and inched closer.

  I held onto his muscular shoulders for support as he stepped onto the elevator and disappeared. Touching my lips, I felt them quiver from the aftershocks.

  I’d probably never see Mr. Wanker again. The drink request must be over, but it didn’t matter. At least I knew what a toe-curling kiss actually felt like.

  I vowed never to marry without having this feeling.

  I regained my strength and glanced at the reason I made the trek up here.

  It wasn’t to kiss Mr. Wanker. The view at sunset was supposed to be magnificent. As I glanced around, I noticed most people wore jackets because of the temperature change, though I couldn’t feel it.

  Maybe some cooler temperatures might help my overstimulated nerve endings to relax. I needed a minute.

  No one was around me when I made it to the first level of the elevators and took a seat on a bench to enjoy the view. I’d head up in a minute. Mr. Wanker played in my mind. The tower still seemed so high now that I caught my breath. I let out a giggle.

  I’d kissed a total stranger. Here I was on the second floor of one of those places people call romantic and finally tasted a real man. Clearly, every ex was a frog, and I’d gone through too many of those. I glanced at the elevator to continue my journey now.

  My skin buzzed. Hopefully, my brain wasn’t fried, and I’d get back on track. My feet shuffled, and I headed toward the second bank and handed over my ticket.

  As I soared higher in the sky, it was like I was shooting straight into the heavens in a glass bubble.

  Part of me whispered, be terrified but the threat fell flat. I couldn’t be. Until the doors opened and instantly my body zipped again as I made my way and caught sight of Mr. Wanker.

  He handed me a glass of champagne and said, “Je pensais que mon ange ne venait pas. Je suis content d'avoir eu tort.”

  “I don’t speak French.” I glanced at his hand and saw no ring on it, not that it was a surefire way of assuring myself he was actually single.

  I sipped and quickly swept his marital status to the side. I wasn’t looking for more. In the morning, I’d leave for Italy. Paris had been a one-day stopover, nothing more.

  “I’ve not spoken English in Paris before,” he said while he stood close enough to touch. The “en” sounded more like “in” which made me pause, but I let it go.

  My heart pounded as I raised my eyebrow. “You do sound sweet talking with that French though.”

  His lips curved, and a dimple appeared that made those dark eyes sparkle. “Oui. I speak a dozen languages, mais tes yeux bleus me hanteront jusqu'à mon dernier souffle.”

  I didn’t understand, but my face flushed anyhow. If he continued speaking and making my panties twist, I’d want to find a room and discover if Mr. Wanker lived up to the fantasies in my mind. I batted my lashes as I asked, “What?”

  He traced my cheek, and my skin came alive from his touch. “I find when I speak about your beautiful blue eyes, my native language comes out. And I was worried you hadn’t enjoyed that kiss earlier.”

  “It was great. I just needed to calm down.”

  “I’ve not been kissed so intensely in a while, either.”

  Sweet little lies sounded sexy in his language. He probably had sex every night. I mean he could be talking about a paint brush, but the thrill in my veins grew. And for all I knew he could be married, engaged, have a girlfriend or any number of things that might ruin this moment.

  At least I wasn’t here long enough to do permanent damage. I played it off while I sipped my champagne and pretended the intoxication was from it and not him. “Well, Mr. Wanker, this champagne is delicious.”

  His gaze narrowed, like I was the one speaking a strange language until he asked in a laugh, “Mr. Wanker?”

  My cheeks burned. I’d said that aloud. If I denied it now, he’d argue.

  I lowered my flute. “I heard you on the phone when you stepped into the elevator, and the British slang was all I understood. And while I don’t know the exact meaning of the phrase for Brits, I know what I imagine.”

  His lips quirked, and there were those dimples again. “And what is that?”

  Get a grip, girl. I glanced out at the distance of the city and the river and said, “Something I can’t say out loud about the male body.”

  A deep laugh escaped his throat, and I couldn’t help but turn toward him as he was more interesting than the view I’d come to see.

  “Americans are always confusing about sex. Kissing a complete stranger but not being able to mention la queue embarrasses you.”

  I tilted my head and tried to understand when I asked, “La queue? Is there a line somewhere?”

  His eyes sparkled. “La queue… the cock though more polite. Le zob or la pine are probably more in line with cock.”

  Le zob caused a chuckle and made me instantly rhyme the term with job. Then my mind slipped into the gutter entirely. And if a girl’s job involved his cock, I’d be employed taking money for tricks instead of my boring data management job for a bottled wine factory. I ran my hand through my hair and said, “Now I am embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” His fingers against my skin made me curl into him more. “It’s not often a beautiful woman walks over to me and asks for a kiss.”

  I glanced down at his muscles and black pants. They weren’t cheap and were clearly tailored to fit him. “You’re probably lying, and this happens to you all the time.”

  “No.” He tugged my chin up. For a second my lips opened like he’d kiss me again, but instead he said, “Today was special. Would you want another champagne, Mademoiselle?”

  He let me go, and I backed away. “I shouldn’t…”

  He kissed my cheek, and my tongue became more like Jell-O when he said, “I’ll get another, and you can tell me your name in a moment.”

  So much for arguing. If I drank too much, I’d blame the alcohol, not that I’d felt the slightest tinge of a buzz. It was almost like French champagne was somehow different from its American counterparts.

  I smiled to myself and glanced out toward the horizon. The Eiffel Tower appeared in countless rom-coms I’d seen, and here I was. Finally. I let out a sigh of wonder.

  But then my lips thinned. My favorite movies had always been Italian rom-coms, which was why I’d booked most of my honeymoon there.

  A second later a thrill raced down my spine, and I turned to meet the brown eyes of the sexiest man I’d ever seen and reached for the flute he offered.

  “Thanks for the champagne and company, but while you were gone, I was thinking… no names. No history. It’s better to just let this moment live in our memories.”

  His lips pursed. “Did I not impress you?”

  I was not ready to get involved with anyone. I knew it in my brain. I’d just called off my wedding and the hours crying hysterically at the post office as I returned all the wedding gifts replayed in my mind. I sipped my glass of bubbly and cupped his handsome cheek. “The opposite, but I’m leaving Paris in a few hours, and I want to imagine what might have been.”

  He placed his flute down and took mine from me, sitting it next to his. “I, too, am leaving Paris. I came here to bid adieu to my former home, and you made the last moments sweeter.”

  “Thanks for the champagne, Mr. Wanker,” I said, and my heart beat as my lips tingled like he�
��d kiss me again.

  “Au revoir, mon ange,” he said and then his lips crushed mine.

  This was the single hottest moment of my life, and I hung onto him, unable to do anything else.

  Chapter 2

  Quentin

  The woman’s lips were burned on mine. Whoever the chestnut-haired American was, she’d given me a moment I’d never forget.

  I hadn’t expected the electric shock she’d brought to my heart would make me actually see the world in vivid color. For the first time in months, I felt something I couldn’t explain. L’amour was rumored to help tame the wild changes in life, but that hadn’t been my fate.

  Women, including my ex-fiancée, were accessories to the life I chose. They were like a fine wine that made the day pass a little easier, but the American woman’s kiss was potent, risky, and packed with a firepower I’d never experienced.

  A woman like her would be dangerous.

  As I finished packing a box of my clothes, my phone rang. I probably should’ve ignored it, but the American 01 country code intrigued me.

  Had she figured out my name? I answered fast and ignored my racing heart.

  “Doctor La Trimouille?” My heart sank as the male voice reached my ears.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Simon Hogue.”

  Blake’s best friend. I plopped into the couch that was no longer mine and closed my eyes. The last time I’d talked to Simon, Blake had been alive and I’d been six. I sighed and remembered being in the kitchen when the detectives told my mother they’d found Blake’s body.

  She’d collapsed in tears. My body trembled like I could travel back in time to hold her till she stopped crying.