by Avery Aster
“Oh, but it is. I have been remiss in introducing myself. I am—”
“There’s no need,” I interrupt. “I know who you are.”
One eyebrow reaches for his hairline. “Oh? And here I thought you didn’t remember me.”
“Remember you? We haven’t met.”
“No?” His eyes twinkle with some secret. What the hell is it?
I clear my throat. “I have read about you. You’re the heir to the De Rossi fortune.” I just about mention the fact that he’s also the most eligible bachelor in Europe—at least according to Hello!—but I don’t feel like feeding his ego. We haven’t met but I certainly know his type. I glance around at the posh surroundings “Your family is part owner of this.”
“Then you know that as part owner of both the casino and of Le Hotel de Paris, it is my duty to keep valued guests happy.”
“I am happy. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I go to leave the salon but he steps in front of me.
“May I ask why you are determined to dislike me?”
“It could be your general inability to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
My comment does not make him step out of the way. Oh no. He moves closer. Much closer. Like brushing-my-leg-with-his closer. His nearness forces me to look up at him. Fuck, he’s tall.
And he smells sooo good.
“Is that all?”
“You’re arrogant.”
He touches my cheek with the back of his finger. Lightly. Softly. Barely.
Breath shudders in and out of my lungs.
“Anything else?” His voice is low and rumbling and my heart skitters around behind my ribs like Bambi on the ice. Trying to stay balanced. Failing miserably.
Placing trembling hands on my hips, I ask, “What do you want?’
“I think you know.”
I shake my head.
He captures my jaw and holds me still. His other hand finds its way to my waist, resting there lightly…possessively. “My wants are simple.”
“I doubt that.”
“I want you.”
“I’m not available.”
His hand slides around to my lower back. The other grazes the length of my neck. “You have the worst poker face I’ve ever encountered.”
“I’m not lying,” I insist.
“Mademoiselle Savage, let’s cut the bullshit. We both know you are not Talal’s…type.”
Shit fuck-a-shit!
Christophe must read the shock—the truth—in my reaction, for he ducks down and whispers softly in my ear, “I understand discretion.”
Pulling away—good God, I need some space from this man!—I wet my suddenly dry lips. “Regardless of what my relationship is with Tal. I’m not available….to you.”
“Make yourself available.”
“No.” I take another step back, breathing easier with each inch of separation between us.
“Don’t make the wrong decision for the wrong reason.”
Putting my hand on his sleeve—to hold him in place, not so that I can touch him, honest!—I step around him. “Who says it’s the wrong decision?”
I make it out of the salon—barely—and back into the Atrium. Surprisingly, Christophe does not follow. I know this because I check over my shoulder…twice.
I’m not disappointed. At all.
After checking one more time, just to make sure I’m not being stalked by the French billionaire, I start making my way down the length of the casino heading toward the famed Buddha Bar. It’s aptly named for the giant Buddha presiding over the exotic space all decorated in red velvet and gilded ceilings. Unfortunately, there’s a line up to get in and I’m just about to turn back—to go where? I don’t know. It’s not like I can go back to my room—when the host sees me and hurries over.
“Mademoiselle Savage?”
“Yes.”
“This way please.”
He guides me past the line up at the door, through the main bar area and up the stairs to a private room, reminiscent of an opium den, with incense, hypnotic music, intimate lighting and furnished in couches that look more appropriate to smoking opium or…umm…orgies than sitting and chatting.
Christophe is already inside, leaning casually against the wall.
How the hell?!
After asking the host to leave us, I stay firmly planted just outside the door. “Look Monsieur Chevalier. Let me be clear. I am not playing hard to get. I’m about as easy and straightforward as they come. In another time or place, I might be interested in whatever it is you think we’re going to do here.” I gesture to the comfortable sex-inspired seating. “But I’m in Monte Carlo as a favor to my friend. I’ve promised him that I will not get involved in any trysts.” I narrow my gaze. “With anyone.” Wagging my finger at him I say, “Particularly someone like you.”
“Ah. Honesty. Finally.” He moves away from the wall, approaching with slow, measured steps. “What if I were to promise to behave myself? What if I said I only wanted to get to know you better? In private. Without noise and distraction?”
“I’d say I don’t believe you.”
“You have very little faith in me, don’t you?” He tilts his head to one side. Fucking hot French gesture. “Why do you judge me before you know me? Aren’t you curious, even a little?”
Of course I’m curious, I want to shout, clenching my hands by my side because I’m overcome with the desire to undo that bowtie of his and divest him of his tux. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I glance back at the hall behind us. There is no one there. No one watching. No one spying. Thank God.
Taking a step into the room, I shut the door but keep my hand on the knob. “I made a promise to Prince Ahmed that I would not be seen with anyone else,” I hiss. “You are making it virtually impossible for me to keep that promise. You’re driving me crazy.”
“Did anyone see you come up here with me?”
“No.”
Walking around the table to the back of the room, Christophe unlatches a panel in the wall and slides it to one side, revealing a hidden door. “This will take you down to the lobby of the Sun Casino. It’s very private. I shall exit by the other door, leaving through the bar. As long as we are here, no one will see us together.”
I stay put for a few more minutes, considering what he’s saying.
“All I want to do is talk. Is that really too much to ask?”
“Well…”
Yep. I’m about to cave. The truth is I have no interest in going back to the casino and losing a bunch more of Tal’s money. It’s not exactly my idea of fun. What are my other options? I can’t go back to the room, not until I get a text from Tal.
Or…
I could spend the evening in a cool hidden room at the legendary Buddha Bar, getting to know a handsome French playboy a wee bit better…in private, without anyone seeing us together, thus keeping my promise to Tal.
Dammit!
Is there really a decision to be made?
“Fine.” I exhale deeply, stride further into the room and plop myself down on the couch. Yep. It’s fucking comfortable. A girl could lose herself—and her virtue—in a couch like this. Before Christophe can join me, I raise my finger in warning. “But…hands to yourself.”
“Of course,” he says, taking a seat across from me. “Regardless of the opinion you have of me, I am a gentleman.”
He ignores my snort and presses an inconspicuous button beneath the table. I wouldn’t have even known he’d done it except a voice comes from a hidden speaker, asking in French what we need.
“Le Macallan cinquante-cinq dans Lalique. Et deux verres de l’eau.”
He’s ordered scotch with water. This much I know. “Ice too, please.”
A small smile appears at the corners of Christophe’s mouth. “Et des glaçons.”
Within minutes there’s a knock on the door and a man enters, followed by three others carrying silver trays. One has a tray with tulip-shaped crystal glasses that he set
s on the table in front of us, two empty, two with water and two glasses with ice. He carefully places utensils on the table, lining them up just so. Another server places a board of charcuterie—meat, cheeses and fresh fruit—on the table before joining his colleague by the door. It’s like a procession of mimes, all this careful, silent, exaggerated movement. The third server approaches Christophe with a box of Cuban cigars on his platter. He opens the box in front of Christophe who waves him away.
“Non, merci.”
The man glances in my direction and though I’m not a cigar smoker, I appreciate the consideration that I might be. I shake my head.
The three exit the room, leaving the man holding the leather box. He approaches Christophe and removes the lid of the box. Inside is what looks like an extra-large bottle of perfume on ivory satin. I read the label, THE MACALLAN Highland Single Malt Scotch Whiskey in Lalique.
“Très bon.”
The man sets the box down and lifts the bottle out of the satin lining like it’s the Hope Diamond. “Puis-je vous servir?”
May I serve you?
“Non, merci.”
The man carefully sets the bottle down, bows and leaves.
I touch the beautiful crystal bottle. “I take it this is expensive.”
“Yes.” He removes the ornate topper and then twists off the cap. “It is also rare. But more special because it is the marrying of two beautiful but very different traditions: an aged, full-bodied, woodsy spirit of the highlands housed inside the delicate artistry of French crystal. It is masculine and feminine in perfect harmony.”
What is it about Christophe that makes everything he says sound suggestive? I’m thinking it’s his accent. I am partial to accents. Mostly because my naughty mind hears his voice and imagines him talking dirty in that delicious accent. My full-bodied cock housed perfectly in your delicate vagina. It is masculine and feminine in perfect harmony.
Yep. Now, that’d be the perfect pairing.
I swallow. With difficulty. “Sounds lovely.” Hoping to cover up my naughty thoughts, I reach for the ice tongs and place three cubes in my glass. “However I’m afraid the subtleties will be lost on me.”
He eyes my glass of ice with disdain before pouring. Then he pours himself a glass and sets the bottle aside. “I see you drink scotch like you play poker.”
“What do you mean?”
“With very little thought or consideration.”
“If by that you mean with very little pretention, then yes, I’m not the best of friends with arrogance.” I lift my glass—meaningfully—to Christophe and then take a big gulp.
Wow. Strong!
I fight the urge to cough but have no control over my watering eyes.
When I manage to regain focus, Christophe is watching me with an expression that is somewhere between amusement and horror.
As I raise my glass to my lips again, he reaches for my arm and gently forces me to lower my hand and glass back to the table. “You are going to kill me if you drink the Macallan like that.”
“Why? I enjoy it like this.”
The twist of his lips is scornful. “Then you have never drunk it properly. Would you like to learn how?”
His entitled, contemptuous behavior reminds me of Tal and I’m tempted to gulp the rest of the scotch in my glass, just to aggravate him. But the irreverent challenge in his cobalt gaze stops me, warming the bare skin of my arms and stirring up longing in the pit of my stomach. Good lord, when’s the last time I’ve felt this way about a man?
It’s been a while—I’ve been nursing a broken heart after a certain biker rode out of my life. Hopefully not forever…
But it feels as if Christophe has awakened my senses and my body is raring to go again.
I know I should tread carefully around someone like him but it’s hard because his words are a challenge and I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. That, coupled with his much too sexy for words persona, puts me at a disadvantage because he tempts me. Oh, how he tempts me.
“I am always open to trying new things.”
Even though he doesn’t articulate his thoughts, it’s like I can hear him in my head saying, Yes, I can see that about you.
“You barely know me,” I blurt out.
“Excuse me?”
Stupid outside voice expressing my innermost thoughts.
At least he has the good grace to ignore my outburst and carry on with his lesson on drinking scotch. Though if I’m not mistaken, his expression seems to say he knows me much better than I think.
“This scotch has been casked for over half a century. It deserves respect.” He lifts the glass high, observing the color through the clear glass. He swirls the amber liquid and shows me. “You see, it coats the crystal when I do this. This allows it to breathe so that all of its intricacies can be released. Much like a fine wine.”
Bringing the glass to just beneath his nose, he breathes in deeply, eyes closed, then slowly exhales as he draws the glass away. He holds it beneath my nose. “Tell me, what do you smell?”
I breathe in deeply and the alcohol burns my nostrils. “Smells like booze.”
He takes the glass away, watching me, making me squirm, then brings it close. “Try again. Close your eyes this time.”
Obeying, I close my eyes and breathe in, slowly and deeply. This time my nose doesn’t feel singed by alcohol. In fact, I smell…something.
“What do you detect?”
“I don’t know. Smoke, maybe.” I breathe in again. “Um, lemon or…grapefruit. Something citrusy.”
“Very good.”
When I open my eyes, Christophe is holding the glass below his nose and breathing in deeply. “Currants.” He breathes in like he’s drinking. “The smoke is peat smoke.”
With his eyes still closed, he takes a small sip. Barely a taste. His facial expression is…intense. I don’t know how else to describe it. I thought he was being pretentious but he’s not. There are real lines of concentration and pleasure etched across his face as he moves his jaw, not like he’s tasting alcohol, like he’s tasting something else.
Like he’s tasting me.
Chapter Four
I can picture exactly how he’d look, propped between my parted legs, his dark hair brushing my thighs, his tongue making a thorough pass before he raises his head to gaze at me, his handsome face serious, his nostrils slightly flared as he licks his lips.
Oh God. He’d be magnificent in the oral sex department. The image is so vivid in my mind, I’m sure he must see what I’m thinking because when he opens his eyes, they are on fire and I am consumed by their blue flames.
Holding my gaze, he raises the glass to my lips and my hands cup his. Together we tilt it and I take barely a mouthful. The alcohol is thicker, more dense than I remember from my early gulps. It coats my tongue and mouth, not burning this time, but with spice and zest.
“Open, let air mingle inside your mouth.” Christophe’s hand is on my face, his thumb lightly parting my lips. My tongue touches just the pad of his thumb and then retreats back into the smoky cavern of my mouth.
My mouth feels soft. Warm. Alive. I taste the citrus again, mixed with…is that raisins? There’s the smoke again. Yes, it’s not wood smoke. I thought Christophe was making that shit up about the peat, but he was right. The smoky flavor is earthy. I take another breath. It’s salty too. Like the sea.
Or…that could be Christophe’s thumb. I seem to have sucked it into my mouth.
I open my eyes, slowly, like coming out of a deep sleep, pulling my head back, withdrawing his thumb. Unbeknownst to me, my other hand is on his knee, caressing. I’ve totally leaned into him while I was concentrating on the scotch and the result is I look (and feel) like I’m about to jump him.
He regards me with half-lidded amusement and with a whole lot of desire flickering in those gorgeous eyes.
“You know,” he says, stroking my cheek, his fingers lingering for a second along my jaw before sitting back. “Enjoying sc
otch like you just did is actually Tantric.”
“Tantric?” The word releases me from whatever spell the scotch and Christophe have put me under. There was an article I read recently in Cosmo on crazy Tantric positions, and they had silly names for them too, the wicked wheelbarrow, the pleasure pretzel, shit like that. “How on earth is this related to sexual positions?”
“Tantra is not just about sex. It’s a philosophy combining spiritual, emotional and physical desires. It is about living in the moment. It is exercising our senses, enjoying where we are. Right here. Right now.” He lifts his hand as if about to touch me again but instead retrieves the glass from the table and studies it. “I drink scotch because I enjoy it. But my enjoyment is tenfold when I take my time and experience it with every one of my senses.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and sips.
This sip should not look masculine.
But the look of near ecstasy on his handsome features does. Frustratingly masculine.
I am so grudgingly drawn to him that I think I hate him a little bit.
When he opens his eyes, his gaze has that hazy, lusty look I’ve seen on the face of plenty of lovers. Suddenly—in my mind—I am naked, legs spread and he is braced above me, looking at me with that hazy, lusty expression.
“I want to experience you. Completely.” He thrusts and I feel him in the deepest, most private part of me.
A small sigh slips past my lips.
“Tell me, honestly. Which glass of scotch did you enjoy more?”
His words jolt me back to real time. I may have been reluctant to be honest earlier, but I’m past that now. There’s no point. The man can see right through me. “Okay, okay. It’s much better your way.”
He nods. “Now…imagine—if you can—something as sensual as making love.” He wets his lips, knowing full well the effect it has on me. “Imagine experiencing one another in the same way; slowly, thoroughly, with all your senses. That is Tantric.”
Oh God. I’ve already been imagining it.
I clear my throat. “If you are suggesting I don’t enjoy my sex life, you couldn’t be further from the truth.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pours my watered down, icy scotch into one of the other glasses and then pours me a new glass.
