With that, I’m gone.
“I feel like we’ve come full circle,” I say, perched on the edge of my hotel bed. Cristiano uncorks a bottle of red wine by the dresser, pouring two glasses.
He brings one to me and takes the spot beside me.
“A couple weeks ago, we shared a hotel room together for the first time,” I say. “And now we’re here, in some kind of twisted, fated, random coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Wrinkling my nose, I say, “Really? After all of this?”
“I think we’re always somehow exactly where we’re supposed to be.” He takes a sip and leans back, resting on his elbow and staring up at me. I’m not sure if his expression is dreamy or if he’s simply exhausted, but it’s late in the day, and it could very well be the latter.
“That night you kissed me in the hotel – after I’d come out of the bath,” I confess, breathy. “I’d just made my New Year’s resolution.”
“Yeah? What was it?”
“I wanted to fill my life with priceless experiences; the kind money can’t buy.”
He glances up at the ceiling and then back to me. “Okay, we’re a few weeks into the new year. How’s that going?”
Fighting a smile, I lift my wine to my lips and say, “So far, so good.”
Our eyes hold for a moment, and then I catch myself studying his lips, his hands, his shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest. I drag the spiced scent of his cologne into my lungs and silently will him to touch me again because there’s a very vocal part of my ego that wants to feel his body on mine, and it’s refusing to wait a moment longer.
Cristiano tosses back the rest of his wine, emptying the goblet, and then peels himself off the bed. There’s a cool space that accompanies his vacancy, and I watch him move back to the dresser, pouring himself another glass.
“What’s this?” he moves toward my portfolio, catching a hint of a drawing I did today and pulling it out.
My cheeks warm, and I sit up. “That’s you.”
Turning to face me, he glances at the charcoal drawing and then looks across the room at me. “You did this from memory?”
I nod, biting my lip.
“God, you’re so fucking talented.” He shakes his head, studying the portrait once more. “I kept that one you drew of me, from the hotel. Hell, might even get it framed, but that might be weird. Nowhere to put it. Don’t want to hang it on a wall, but it’s too good to be hidden away in some junk drawer.”
Cristiano pours himself another glass and returns to the bed, the mattress sagging slightly beneath his weight. Reaching toward the nightstand, I place my glass on its wood top and stretch my body across my side of the bed. Rolling to my back a moment later, I massage the back of my neck, rubbing away the aches that accompany sitting on an artist’s stool for eight straight hours.
Scooting closer, he takes my hand in his, pulling it away, and he gently rolls me onto my side. Brushing my hair from my neckline, he trails his fingers along my shoulders before pressing his thumb into the knotted muscles just past my nape.
Breathing a sigh, I close my eyes and revel in his careful, kneading touch. A moment later, the warm sensation of his lips against my bare flesh sends a quick jolt through me. Eyes open now, I fight a smile and try to quiet the pounding in my chest. Every nerve ending is wide awake, anxiously anticipating where he’ll go next.
I listen to him breathe me in, steady and relaxed as he peppers kisses against my flesh. He’s taking his time, savoring each endless second that drips between us. And I am too. I come alive in these seconds, and while his touches may be skin deep, I somehow feel them in my bones. In my soul. In my heart.
Rolling to my back, I catch his eye, lingering in a gaze that feels like delicious eternity, and I smile.
Because I like him.
I like him a lot.
And I don’t want to think about tomorrow or the next day. I don’t want to think about next week or next month.
I just want to be here. Now. With him.
I’ll worry about everything else some other time.
“I want you, Daphne,” he breathes, grazing his lips over mine. The curtains on my hotel balcony are pulled wide, and the city lights sparkle beneath a star-lit sky.
“So what are you going to do about it?” I tease.
His full lips pull up at the sides, and he climbs over me, pinning me beneath him before his mouth crashes onto mine.
34
Cristiano
I’m addicted. The sweet taste of her tongue. The soft scent of her skin. The clean fragrance in her hair. The way her body melds to mine. The sound of her heart drumming in her chest and that barely audible sigh she doesn’t know she’s making half the time.
I want her. And I want all of her.
Lying over her, her curved body pinned beneath mine and her hands traveling the length of my sides, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt and pulling it over my head. I kiss her harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone before. My cock strains against the inside of my jeans, raging hard, impatiently waiting to feel her warmth. Gripping her waist, I roll to the side and guide her over my lap.
Her eyes are hungry, flickering with the same desire she finds in mine. She wants me just as much as I want her, though it’s not a competition. This is survival. Two broken, damaged hearts seeking refuge.
Bending forward, Daphne lunges for my mouth, pressing her lips hard against mine until our tongues meet again. My hand cups her jaw, guiding her, keeping her near. Right now, I need her like the air I breathe, like the blood that courses through my body and keeps me alive.
Leaning up, Daphne still in my lap, I rip her blouse off her body, my fingers on fire against her cashmere-soft skin. Unhooking her bra, she smiles, dragging her fingers through my hair and tugging on the ends just enough that it hurts so good.
Cupping her full tits, I lower my mouth, taking a nipple between my teeth and pulling it taut. She sighs, giggling, and tosses her head back, and when she sits up once more, she presses her mouth against mine, exhaling as her hips grind against my hardness. She rocks back and forth, impatient for the inevitable.
When she sits up, she peers into my eyes, her lust-filled blue gaze searching mine, and I cup the underside of her delicate jaw. Raking my thumb across her full lower lip, she smiles, uncharacteristically vulnerable for all of a moment, and then she covers my hand with hers.
Biting her lower lip, she climbs off me, peeling her leggings off her long stems and tossing them to the floor before returning to bed. Her eyes travel to my lower half, her hand moving toward my belt as she flashes me a smile and an eyebrow raise as if to say it’s my turn.
The floor to ceiling sliding glass doors to her balcony place us on full display, but judging by the electric heat between us, it’s the last thing on our minds right now.
Working my belt buckle, her hands brush against my contained hardness, and I slide my wallet from my back pocket, grabbing a condom and tearing the packet between my teeth the moment she unleashes my rock hard cock. Preparing to sheathe myself, I pause when I catch her beautiful stare again, her pale eyes silently pleading for me to touch her.
Reaching behind, I click off the bedside lamp, wanting to see the way her naked body looks illuminated by the moon and stars and cityscape outside. She’s glowing, radiant, her curves highlighted in warm light, her angles painted in darkness and begging to be explored.
She crawls toward me, my hands sliding down the outline of her hourglass curves before my thumbs land at the two dimples above her perfect, peach-shaped ass. Daphne’s hips sway, and she lifts herself onto her knees as I grab a cupful of perfection behind her.
Her mouth curls into a curious grin as she slips a finger between her teeth, and her gaze moves from mine to my throbbing cock. Within seconds, her lips are pressed against the tip and her hand gently pumps my shaft. Grazing her tongue up and down my length, she takes the rest of me, her mouth warm and wet, her strokes hungry and desper
ate to please.
“Holy fuck,” I say, exhaling. My hands lift behind my head as I fuck Daphne’s bee stung pout. Those lips . . . they were made for my cock. I fucking knew it. I want this again and again. I could do this all night. Her tongue soft and wet on my cock. Her hand pumping in perfect rhythm. Her lips dragging against my hot flesh with just the right amount of pressure.
If she keeps this up, our night’s going to end a whole lot sooner than I want it to.
Settling against the headboard behind me, I hook my hand under hers and pull her up. She wipes the corner of her mouth and flashes a naughty smile, and I fish around the sheets for the rubber I must’ve dropped. I grip the base of my cock and pull her closer, her legs parting as she straddles me. The scent of her arousal fills the air and I pull in a greedy lungful. Lowering herself onto my cock and carefully sliding down, a soft sigh leaves her lips and her head dips back. With her hands braced on my stomach, she rocks her body back and forth, circling her hips and bouncing on her knees, guiding my hands to her ass.
Daphne bites her lip, scrunches her eyes, and then relaxes her face each time she presses her body against mine. I’m not just inside her, I’m consuming every fiber of her, igniting her soul, filling a deeper part of her that perhaps she never knew was empty.
Leaning forward, her white-blonde waves spill across her chest, tickling my face, and she brings her lips to mine again. I pump myself into her, meeting her circling hips and pressing myself deeper and deeper.
But it’s not enough.
I want more.
Grabbing her by the hips, I flip her onto her stomach and crawl over her. Gripping the base of my cock, I slide into her from behind, aided by her wetness, feeling the resistance of her sweet, tight pussy as our friction builds with every insertion.
Arching her back, Daphne mumbles and moans soft, sweet nothings. With her face buried into the pillow, she turns her face to the side to catch her breath, her hair sticking to her damp forehead and her lips gasping, breathlessly, for air.
A tightness builds at the base of my cock, and Daphne presses her hips back against mine every time I thrust deep inside her. Her sighs grow a little more desperate, a little more helpless with each passing second, and when she grabs a fistful of hotel sheets, I know she’s close.
Her jaw falls and her face winces a minute later, and she screams into the pillow as I fuck her harder, faster, relentlessly, and when I blow my load, she fucks me back, harder than ever before, coaxing every last drop and draining me dry.
When I collapse over top of her, our skin sticky and sweet, I slide my hand beneath her jaw, angling her head to the side and searching for her lips in the dark. Every place our bodies touch is lit hot with flamed desire.
I burn for this woman.
My soul needs her.
She’s the only girl who can make me forget about all the bullshit. All the shitty hands life deals.
She’s the only girl who makes me want to think about the future, and that’s something I haven’t thought about in years.
“You should call in sick today.” I watch Daphne gather her clothes off the floor the next morning, her body partially bathed in a pinkish early morning light. The rest of her is covered in a thin white bath towel, and her damp hair clings to her bare shoulders.
Brushing a strand of wet hair from her eyes, she stops, stooped over with an armful of clothes, and shoots me a grin. “Believe me, I’d much rather spend my last day in Paris with you, but this is my job. I can’t.”
Taking a seat on a nearby chaise, she dresses in front of me, slipping on her lace bra followed by matching pink panties, and it takes all the strength I have not to climb out of his bed and rip them off her and have my way with her all over again.
God, she’s beautiful. So damn sexy. I could fuck this woman every single day for the rest of my life and it would never get old, of that much I’m certain.
My rock hard cock rubs against the comforter, a casual reminder that I’m completely naked under these covers. Last night, I made love to Daphne, and she fell asleep in my arms. I’m not a romantic guy, but I can’t think of a better way to spend a night in the City of Light.
“What do you want to do tonight?” I ask. “One of my friends is in this play. He could get us tickets, backstage passes too. You want to go?”
Daphne pulls a blouse over her head. “Cool it, Romeo.”
“What?”
“Just stop with all of this,” she says, rising and stepping into a pair of skintight jeans that make me want to bite my fist. “We have fun together. We have amazing sex. But I don’t want this to be a thing, you know? You don’t need to take me on dates. You don’t have to pretend that this is going somewhere when you and I both know it’s not. Just spare me the formalities.”
“Taking you out tonight is not a formality. I enjoy being with you. I have fun with you. It’s not that complicated.”
Stepping in front of her mirrored dresser, she pats some moisturizer into her skin and then slicks on a coat of pink lip gloss using the pad of her ring finger. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she says, “The other night, at the restaurant, these women were talking about French men versus American men.”
“Yeah?” I lift a single brow, not sure where she’s going with this.
“Basically, they said that French men take their time. They don’t rush things. And American men are intense. They want what they want, when they want it.”
I nod. “I see nothing wrong with that.”
“Yeah, well, in my experience, when people rush things, they tend to over promise and under deliver.” She clicks the lid to her lip gloss, spinning to face me. “And that’s how people get hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Daphne,” I swear to her. “Now get to work, and I’ll see you at seven. And stop acting like you’re not excited.”
35
Daphne
My body shivers so hard I can barely speak as I wait beneath the theatre awning. His friend’s play just let out, and Cristiano’s attempting to hail a cab, but the ones that have passed so far are either not in service or it’s raining so hard they can’t see us. Or they don’t want to stop and have two rain-soaked passengers drench their backseat. I’m not quite sure, all I know is I’ve never had this hard of a time catching a lift in Manhattan.
I watch as he tries, in vain, to hail the tenth taxi of the night.
“It’s okay,” I yell out, though with the city traffic I doubt he can hear me.
He lifts his arm, watching another go past, and then he jams his hands in his pockets and runs back to me. January is the wettest month of the year in Paris. The coldest too.
“I’m sorry,” he says, dragging his palms up and down my arms. “Jesus, you’re shivering. Here. Take my coat.”
“No, no. You need your coat.” I refuse his gesture.
“We could always wait for the rain to stop.”
“Could be hours,” I say.
“I’m sure we can find a café or something. I could’ve sworn there was an all night coffee shop just around the corner.”
He takes my hand, pulling me behind him, and we run-walk to the next street corner, jumping over puddles and laughing as we dart through passersby and in between parked cars. This feels like a mad dash, a game of sorts, but before I’m aware of how long we’ve been running, we spot a well-lit café half a block ahead. From the outside, I spot the cozy glow of a fireplace and spot a gathering of soft furnishings beside it. Following Cristiano’s lead, we make a run for it and enter the establishment looking soaked clear through to our bones.
My makeup is melted, my hair is sticking to my rosy cheeks, and my damp clothes are clinging to my shivering body, but damn if Cristiano doesn’t look at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He pulls me aside, away from the draft of the door that threatens to freeze us on the spot with each patron’s coming and going, and he wraps me in his arms. Peering down, I meet his gaze, losing myself temporarily, u
ntil he presses his mouth against mine. And in that moment, I find myself again. I’m ejected into the present moment. Here. With him.
But as beautiful and wonderful and magical as this moment is, deep down, I know it’s only temporary. We’re blinded by the romance of Paris. By the thrill of exploring an exciting city with a familiar face. By the promise of new love that we know will lose that ‘new car smell’ the second we set foot on home soil.
If it could always be this grand with him, I’d consider giving him another chance. Making it work. Seeing where this might lead. But the fact of the matter is, when we take the chemistry and the happenstance out of the equation, we’re just a couple of lost souls floating in two entirely different directions.
This time next week, I’ll be moving to California to start my teaching career, and he’ll be . . . well, he’ll be anywhere he chooses to be.
He’s an adventurous soul. And I can’t take that away from him. I can’t clip his wings.
Cristiano slips his hand in mine, leading me to the bar where he orders us two piping hot drinks, and then we find a place by the fire, a cozy little loveseat. We remove our jackets and shoes, placing them by the glowing flames in hopes they’ll be a little drier by the time the rain dies down and we have to prepare ourselves for the walk back to my hotel.
The sound of crackling wood and a rustic, smoky scent reminds me of home, of camping at our lake house as a young girl, and I find myself briefly fantasizing about what it would be like to bring him home and introduce him to my family. They’d love him, that much I know. He’s charismatic and friendly. Wordly and interesting.
But I force myself to snap out of it. The present moment is where I need to be because there is no future for us.
And there could never be.
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Cold Hearted Page 45
