[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon

by Daire StDenis

  We start by exploring together, but when we get to a narrow open hatch and Christophe indicates we go down with the motion of his hand, I shake my head. Then I give him the thumbs down signal. He points to himself, asking if it’s okay if he goes. I hesitate before giving him the thumbs up and after a burst of bubbles, he disappears headfirst down the hatch.

  I swim close to the point where he disappeared, not wanting to stray too far, knowing how easy it is to get disorientated underwater. The surface of the boat is covered in coral and barnacles but there are a few parts that give some indication of what this boat must have looked like in its day. I touch the deck rail, no longer iron, pretty much completely coral and I wonder what happened on that fateful voyage. Did the ship get lost? Were they on their way to Eden? Did anyone die?

  At that thought, I turn around slowly, feeling suddenly extremely cold. While the water near the beach is warm, at this depth it’s cold and even though I’m wearing a wetsuit, I shiver. The silence seems deafening now, or maybe that’s the pressure building in my ears. I check my underwater watch and notice that Christophe has been gone for fifteen minutes. Our tanks are only good for about forty-five, so given it took us ten minutes to descend, we’ve been down here close to half an hour and should be heading back up soon.

  I swim over to the hatch and stop, looking around. Did I miss Christophe? Is he right now looking for me? I consider swimming around to see if I can see him or his light, but then decide that we’re like two needles in a haystack looking for one another. The other possibility is that he came up, missed me and started to ascend, thinking I’d gone up to the top.

  Stay together. That’s the name of the game down below, Irish had said. We didn’t listen very well, did we?

  I wait, checking my watch every twenty seconds. They seem like hours.

  Of course the other possibility is that something happened to Christophe.

  Shit.

  Now that the thought has crossed my mind, I can’t get it out of my head. The problem is, if I resurface without him and he’s not up top, he’s screwed. It’ll take twenty minutes for me or anyone else to get back down. So, after a few deep breaths and a little mantra to reassure myself, I hover above the hatch and adjust my BCD so that I can descend into the belly of the ship. If I thought the hull and outside of the boat was creepy, the inside is ten times creepier. It’s dark and narrow and large fish swim by creating weird shadows beyond my light.

  I do not like it. I do not like it one bit. A phrase from a favorite childhood story rings between my ears, I do not like it Sam I am. I do not like green eggs and ham. I know I’m on the verge of panic when weird, random shit like that pops into my head and I’m tempted to turn right back around and head straight for the surface.

  Five minutes, Tess. Look around for five minutes, then go up.

  So that’s what I do, cursing Christophe the entire time. Why did I let him talk me into this dive? I like bright fish and fancy coral. Not weird, scary skeletal ships that might still house dead bodies.

  Fuck! Why did I have to think about dead bodies? The mere thought puts me on the verge of hyperventilation. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  You can’t do that down here. Slow your breathing. You’re okay.

  I cuss out the calm voice in my head and in the process of getting annoyed with myself I actually find myself calming down.

  That’s when I see Christophe.

  He isn’t moving. His body is limp and swaying with the gentle underwater current.

  No. No, no, no, no!

  I swim up to him and see that his tank is caught on some chain and it looks like his regulator tube is pinched. I try to unhook it quickly but it’s stuck.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!!!

  Moving around to the front of Christophe, I can see his eyes are rolled back. I take the regulator out of his mouth and I shove mine into his.

  Breathe, dammit. Breathe!

  At first nothing happens and I have to snatch it out of his mouth so that I can suck air into my lungs. I try it again and this time, I think I see his eyes flutter.

  Oh God. Please, please let him be alive. Please, please, please!

  His body moves, his hand comes up to the regulator and bubbles appear around him as he takes the regulator from his mouth and passes it back to me.

  Thank God!

  We share air for a couple of minutes until I know that he’s okay. Then I point to his back, indicating where he’s stuck. He nods, gives me the thumbs up and hands me the regulator. I try to move quickly and calmly. I don’t know how much air is left but it can’t be much. This time when I check him out, I can see where the tank is caught. I lift the heavy debris off his tank while pushing him down and past the obstruction. The second I do this, the regulator hose becomes clear and Christophe’s air begins to flow again, bubbles masking his face.

  He takes my hand and squeezes it before leading me back up the hatch. The ascent seems to take so long that by the time we reach the boat and climb aboard, I’m fighting hyperventilation. I struggle to get my gear off, feeling claustrophobic. It’s not until I’ve peeled my wetsuit off my torso that I can breathe again.

  Christophe takes my hand and pulls me into his arms, holding me gently as I take long swallows of air. “I have no words.”

  “I am just so thankful you’re alive.”

  He pulls back, looks me square in the eyes and says, “The sentiment is shared. I owe you my life.”

  ***

  That night we order room service and have a delicious dinner on the veranda, though neither of us have much appetite. The air temperature is perfect with a light breeze blowing in off the water, yet I go inside to grab a sweater because I’m feeling chilled. I find one in my suitcase and am slipping it on when I turn and find Christophe at the door. He’s watching me in a way that reminds me of something or someone but I can’t quite place who or what it is.

  “Did I ever tell you about the woman who taught me about Tantra?”

  “No,” I say softly, standing where I am, not moving.

  “I was at a point in my life where nothing mattered.” He goes to the desk, finds matches and starts lighting the various candles spread around the room. “I had everything I could ever want. Wealth. Women. A family name.” With his back to me he continues. “I had just won my third Formula One championship race. I had it all.” He blows out the match after lighting the last candle and turns to me. “Yet I still wanted more. Still found myself searching.”

  “For what?”

  “Happiness. Fulfillment. I don’t think I even knew.” He holds out his hands and I walk slowly to him, taking his outstretched hands.

  I listen without any desire to tease or joke. Not now. Not today. He is sharing a rare gift with me, maybe this is his way of thanking me, by baring his soul to me.

  “What was she like?”

  His gaze softens as he looks down at me. “She was amazing. We were very much alike, though we grew up in completely different worlds.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Here. On Eden. Theo introduced us.”

  “Wow. He really is a matchmaker, isn’t he?”

  “He has a way...of knowing.” Christophe leads me to the bed and we sit together, side by side, hands clasped. "Ever since he bought this island he has become...I don’t know how to describe it. A bigger man.”

  “I see.” Though really, I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not Theo I’m interested in. “So tell me more about this woman.”

  He does that French head tilt thing I’m beginning to love though have given up copying. “Are you jealous?”

  I pat his hand. “No.”

  “Then why do you want to hear about her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just enjoy hearing stories about other people’s lives, who they’ve loved and why. It’s fascinating to think about all of the experiences and people who helped to shape you into the man you are today.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first, just watch
es me carefully, his facial expression changing and his mouth moving like he wants to say something but can’t. Or, at the very least, can’t decide whether he should say it or not.

  “What is it?”

  “You are remarkable.”

  I smile because those are words he used to describe me before, but tonight they carry so much more weight. He releases my hand so that he can touch my face, gently smoothing my hair off my forehead and around the side of my ear. His hand is so large and capable yet can be so amazingly soft and tender.

  “You are so very much like her.”

  “Really?”

  “More than you know.”

  As he caresses my cheek and jaw, I watch his eyes, the way they soften, the way he watches his hand move across my skin like I’m a rare jewel, a priceless piece of art, a marvel. His touch spreads warmth from my face down my neck to my chest and while I stare into his eyes, I press my hand against his pec, not knowing why at first until I feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my hand.

  He almost died today.

  The fact his heart is beating right now is a miracle. How many more minutes could he have lasted down there? Two? Three? The thought of how close this fiercely beating organ came to never beating again...ever...takes my breath away.

  Christophe’s breath responds accordingly. Like his heart, his lungs are in sync with mine. He slides his hand from my cheek to cover the hand I’ve got pressed against his heart. I don’t know how long we sit, feeling his heartbeat together. Seconds? Minutes? It doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning as we listen to each other breathe while we stare into each other’s eyes. There is no awkwardness, no shyness. It is so natural. There is nowhere else I’d rather be except gazing into Christophe Chevalier’s magnetic blue eyes and feeling his heart continue to pump blood to his body.

  After a time—I have no idea how long—Christophe takes my free hand and places it against my chest, against my heart. Unless it’s an illusion of touch, our hearts beat in unison, like a duet, our voices matched perfectly.

  Ba-bum...ba-bum...ba-bum.

  “So,” I whisper, breaking the silence, not because it’s awkward but because I want to hear Christophe’s voice. I want to hear his story. “Tell me how she taught you.”

  “We started very much like this.” He lifts my hand from his chest and kisses my palm. His eyes shut for just a second as he breathes against my hand, then he opens them. “The first time, I reacted in much the same way you did.”

  “How’s that?” I breathe the words rather than saying them.

  “Impatiently.” He kisses me and smiles. “Fighting against the idea of relaxation. Wanting to get her naked as quickly as possible so I could fuck her and make her come. Make myself come.”

  “How did she stop you?”

  “She didn’t give up on me. She was persistent.”

  I cup his cheek, loving the growth along his jaw, the roughness, it awakens all the nerve endings in my fingertips. “I think I like her. Tell me more.”

  “How about I show you instead?”

  Chapter Twenty - Christophe

  His hand slides from my chest to my lap to where the hem of my dress is nestled. “I’m going to take this off of you now.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. I smile because there are still the domineering, bossy parts of Christophe that will never be Tantra-sized out of him. It’s who he is. Personally? I wouldn’t have him any other way.

  I help him lift my dress up and over my head.

  “You are so beautiful, Tessa.” His voice is thick with meaning as he gazes at my naked chest.

  “Touch me,” I say.

  Unlike last night, he complies, running his hands over my breasts, playing my nipples with his thumbs, caressing, squeezing—lightly to start.

  “So very beautiful,” he murmurs as he pushes me gently down onto the bed and then moves on top of me. His mouth descends and he takes my nipple inside, rolling it gently between his teeth, sucking lightly.

  “I like it a little bit harder,” I say. Incredibly, I am not forcing my chest into his face like usual. I lie there, watching him, awed by the way he touches me, thankful that he’s here at all to touch me. The sensation of his mouth and hands on me has arousal simmering beneath the surface but not scorching me, just warming me with contentment and gratefulness.

  Christophe glances up, smiles and then moves to my other nipple, sucking harder this time, teeth clamping, grinding my sensitive bud in a way that is completely pleasurable.

  The second I arch, he stops and moves up beside me on the bed.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “The biting was making you tense. Your body went rigid.” He traces my lower lip with his thumb. “When you can learn to relax into it, I’ll do it again. You’ll enjoy it so much more.”

  “Really?” My ‘really’ is genuine this time and has none of the snark attached to it like it had yesterday.

  “Yes.” He slides his thumb into my mouth. “Do you trust me?”

  I nod first and then suck, closing my eyes to feel the texture of his thumb in my mouth, the pad, the length, the smoothness of his fingernail. When I open my eyes, Christophe is staring at me with wanton lust and I take his thumb out of my mouth. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.” He chuckles deep in his throat.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want your hand on my cock.”

  “What about my mouth?”

  “I enjoy your mouth very much but I would much rather be buried inside your pussy.”

  His words add a log to the growing flames behind my breastbone and my hand snakes down between us, sliding along his torso until I reach the delicious ridge of him. I cup him through his pants, rubbing until his eyes roll back. That’s when I remember his words from yesterday.

  I’m going to show you how to touch me.

  Yesterday I found the statement insulting. Today, I hear him—in my head—in a whole new way. Why shouldn’t he tell me how to touch him? Don’t I enjoy telling my partners how to touch me?

  So, instead of rubbing, I rest my hand against him and concentrate on the sensations in my hand; the heat from his flesh that miraculously permeates the cotton of his trousers. The width of him. The length. As I concentrate on the sensation, his cock twitches beneath my hand as if it is its own being, communicating with my hand in a language only they are privy to.

  I sit up and stare at my hand as if it belongs to someone else, as if I’m seeing it for the first time. My gaze focuses past my hand to the man lying beside me. Why is he still dressed? That seems completely unacceptable.

  I begin undoing the buttons on his shirt. When I’m done that, I loosen the ties of his trousers. “Take them off,” I say. Then as an afterthought, I add, “Please.”

  “My pleasure.” Christophe sits up and removes his shirt, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time.

  I, however, drop my gaze because...God help me, the man is gorgeous. The simple act of shrugging off his shirt results in a subtle dance of muscles across his arms and chest. I want to meet each and every one of those muscles. I want to get to know them personally. Touch them. Taste them. Test their strength and texture.

  So I do.

  “Lie down,” I say. “Lie still.” There are elements of the old Tessa in my words but there is something new as well, and Christophe’s intense gaze tells me he sees this and likes it. There’s something else in his gaze. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I don’t worry about it because I’m too busy putting my fingers on other parts of him.

  The candles closest to the bed flicker across his golden flesh and I trace the light and shadow, delighting in the exquisite landscape that is Christophe’s body. I’ve always known he would be well put together but tonight he is something more than a well-built man. He is a phenomenon. A miracle. A being I’ve never encountered before.

  And yet, and yet...

  As my fingers travel across the remarkable terrain of his chest and abdomen, edging closer
and closer to the slack waistband of his trousers, a strange tingling infuses my fingers, hands, and arms. Not only that, I feel as if I’ve visited this part of him before. Like the trio of moles he has just above his right hip bone—I connect the dots—I’m sure I’ve seen these before, and yet I know in the last couple of days I’ve been too distracted to notice. The feeling of familiarity is there and then it’s gone.

  I glance up into Christophe’s unwavering gaze, questioning him silently.

  He smiles. It is soft and warm and completely sphinx-like. He’s a god in a feline’s body, lying there, inert, presiding over the bed with a sense of silent knowing.

  Time to change that.

  I tug on the waistband of his trousers and pull them down so that I can easily reach inside.

  He curses softly in French. I like the sound. I like knowing that even a soft stroke of his erection elicits such a response. But tonight, instead of taunting him and doing my best to drive him to distraction, I go slow. I concentrate on the texture of his beautifully erect cock.

  “Take off my trousers.”

  I’m so enamored with the feel of his silky skin gliding over the steely strength of his erection that I don’t process his words right away.

  “Tess. Take them off. Take everything off.”

  He raises his hips so I can pull his pants and shorts over his ass and down his legs. I kneel between his parted legs and lean down so I can touch him with both hands, sliding up his inner thighs until my hands meet beneath his heavy sac. I hear his voice in my head, telling me how to touch him.

  The root of me is held in that spot right between my legs. That’s where there are bundles of nerves, muscle and tissue. That’s where men hold their tension. Their anger and aggression.