“Mon Dieu,” I tell her, grinning, “if you’re still trying to learn the language.”
“Well, whatever you just did to me transcends any language, I’ll tell you that much,” she manages to say. “You have magic fingers, you know that? No, wait, you probably do.”
“You’re the one that’s magic,” I tell her as she reaches up and runs her fingers over my muscles. There’s a hunger still in her eyes, like that was only the beginning, and she’s just getting started.
She’s not had her fill. I know what she wants; I know what she needs.
I kiss her, her lips sweet and rich, and pull back enough to stare into her eyes, my hands trailing up and down the soft slopes of her body, my fingers tracing her as if it will help me remember her years later, just like this.
Her eyes hold mine, and I know that she has to feel the same way, that we’re going through this together, whatever this is.
All I know is that it’s good.
It’s very good.
Sadie murmurs something, then kisses me hard, wild and probing, and I move my body flush on top of hers. My fingers skip down her stomach and hips and settle in between her thighs. She is still wet and warm from her previous orgasm, and she feels like home to me, like this is a place I’ve been searching for, a place I’ve just found, a place I never want to leave.
I glide my fingers along her slickness and up inside her, thrusting deep and rubbing against her with even pressure.
I love the way her body gives in to my hands, like I can mold her into anything I want. Of course, all I want, all I need right now, is her.
Just like this.
She arches her back, knees coming up to give me better access, and I slip my fingers out and position my dick there instead.
I push in slowly, inch by inch, and let the sensation flood through me. Beautiful. Powerful. My eyes close, and when I go deep, as far as I can go inside of her, it feels like we are joined as one. We move as one, breathe as one. I’m sure our hearts might start to beat as one. There is energy here between us, crackling in the air, sizzling in waves between us.
“How does my cock feel?” I ask, my voice rough as I push in with each slow, wet thrust.
She gives me a lazy smile though her eyes are closed. “Like a god’s.”
The right thing to say.
“Your god?” I drive myself in deeper, and she lets out a moan.
“The only one.” She opens her lustful eyes to stare up at me, and for a moment I think she’s going to say something else. But then her head goes back into the pillow, and her eyes close, and she succumbs to the pleasure as I start to thrust in deeper, harder, like I can imprint myself on her this way.
Even as the pace of my hips quickens, I’m still in control, desperate to drive away the questions waiting for us on the other side. Beyond this hotel, beyond these sun-filled days with each other.
“Olivier,” she whispers roughly, lips at my ear. “I’m coming.”
A shudder rolls down my back, and I still myself, unable to keep going without losing it. Sweat pools between our overheated bodies, our hands gliding over each other, yearning to hold on. I am determined, but so is she.
I can’t hold back any longer.
I’m brought to the edge in an instant, and before I can even moan, I’m letting loose. I come so hard into her that the bed shakes and I lose all control. My world both widens into a million galaxies and shrinks until it’s only her. I’m calling her name, loud, grunting, letting loose powerful groans as this pleasure rips me apart. Her nails dig into my back, and she’s crying out breathlessly, swearing over and over. She pulses around me, and we both keep coming, like we’re unable or unwilling to stop.
But eventually our bodies can’t handle it. I collapse on top of her and bury my face in her neck, holding on to her limbs and trying to breathe, trying to keep her here in this bed with me, holding on to this moment until it turns into another moment and another moment.
Our lives are made up of nothing but moments.
But I want to live in every moment with her.
“Are you sure I can’t bring you back something?” I ask Sadie as I slip into my suit that Marcel has dropped off for me.
“What would you get me? I have everything,” she says lightly, gesturing to the room. She’s sitting on the rumpled bed in the fluffy, Egyptian cotton Dumont house robe that we supply all the guests (worth about $2,000, if you’re counting). Her foot is out in front of her on a pillow, though it’s no longer bandaged, and the swelling is almost completely gone. Is it wrong to mourn the moment when she’s fully healed, when she finds no reason to depend on me?
I’m being ridiculous, of course. Which, to be honest, is a new thing for me. I’ve gotten my dick sucked and come inside her more than enough times to consider her out of my system, but she’s only gotten more inside, slipped under my skin like some form of silk that bonds to your bones.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “I’ll bring you a surprise.”
She laughs, cocking a brow at me. “I don’t even know what that could mean coming from you.”
I leave her and head out of the villa toward the lobby to tell the front desk that I’ll be in Saint-Tropez if anyone calls. I wasn’t supposed to hang around in the area for more than a day, but, as luck has it, one of our investors is at his summer villa here and wants to meet. Saves him a trip up to Paris.
I’m striding through the tiled lobby, guests going to and fro and paying me no attention—probably because most of them are famous and don’t have a moment to think about anyone else—when suddenly I feel the air change.
It sounds fucking crazy. It always sounds fucking crazy, even when I try to explain it to myself, but that’s the truth.
The air becomes sharper, more acidic, as if an electrical storm is coming, the kind you know will ruin your bright and sunny day.
And there he is.
Without thinking I stop walking, pausing in the middle of the lobby, and my head swivels toward the corner near the elevators.
There he stands, in a rust red suit, white shirt unbuttoned, no tie, hair a mess, facial hair that could use a trim, especially above the lip.
My cousin Pascal Dumont.
His bright-blue eyes are fixed on me, like he’d been watching me for a while, maybe even as I left the villa—eyes that tell me they know everything, even the things about myself that I don’t know.
Eyes that aren’t kind.
They seem kind. They’re photogenic in their intensity and lapis color; they crinkle at the corners when he gives an easy smile; they’re often brimming with a million emotions, emotions you can take and make your own, turn into whatever makes you feel better about yourself.
But they aren’t kind.
He’s not kind.
And, of course, he’s not here by accident.
My throat already feels thick, wondering what the hell he could want.
The thing with Pascal is that he could want anything.
And for most of my life, I’ve been willing to give him anything.
To make up for the things that I’ve done.
The terrible things that I’ve done.
He gives me his crooked smile, no teeth, and nods, coming over in such a way that lets me know he’s been waiting a long time for this moment.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Maybe at the start of the summer at his mother’s birthday. I stopped by with Seraphine out of courtesy. Had some cake, and then we were gone.
We never stay long in that nest of vipers.
“Cousin,” Pascal says to me, stopping just a foot away. He has a way of making his words sound the way oil looks traveling through water, something snaking and insidious that permeates the good parts of you.
Then again, everyone on that side of the family is like that.
“What are you doing here?” I ask curtly, unable to fake any formalities.
Pascal feigns being shocked. “Why do you think I’m here? You kn
ow, Olivier—you’re not the only one who gets to jet off on vacations.”
“I’m not on vacation,” I tell him.
A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips, and he shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. You never take vacations. Still, I can’t help but wonder, since you should have been back in Paris the other day.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You have nothing else to do but keep track of where I am?”
His mouth spreads into his easy, lopsided grin. “Oh, we have other people do those things for me, but sometimes I prefer to watch firsthand. Always more fun that way. Call it a hobby. But listen, now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I can tell them to back off.”
“What do you want?” I ask tersely.
“Nothing. Well, other than being concerned about your whereabouts.”
“My whereabouts are none of your concern.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Hmm. Yes, but of course they are. You’ve been pretending for the last ten years, Olivier. Pretending that time isn’t running out for you, that you don’t have to make a decision. But you do. Very soon. And when you run off like this at the last minute, you can’t blame me or my father for thinking you’re trying to get out of it.”
I give him a steady look, refusing to be intimidated, even though the mention of the contract and the deadline makes my heart do double beats. “I didn’t run off anywhere. This is my hotel.”
“So it is. A great excuse. You know, it made me think maybe I should take a break from the business too. There is a lot on our plates with the upcoming season. My father still thinks this should be the time, the year, we announce our emergence into e-commerce. Join the rest of the fucking world. You know.”
“That’s nice,” I tell him. “Make sure to bring that up with him at the next Dumont meeting.”
I move to go past him, but Pascal reaches out and pushes my shoulder back with the heel of his hand. “You’re dismissing me so soon?”
I glance down at his hand and think about all the ways I could so easily break it. My eyes go across the room to the receptionist, who is both trying to check a couple in and glancing at me apologetically. She knows she is supposed to call me if anyone in my family ever shows up while I am here.
“Don’t be mad at her,” Pascal says softly, looking over at the same girl. “I told her to keep me a secret. I can be very persuasive, you know.”
I don’t even want to know what transpired there. All I know is that poor girl is now without a job. I can’t employ staff who aren’t loyal to me and would rather fuck or flirt with my cousin. Ever since my uncle made him the face of the Dumont “Red” cologne, and the ads were plastered all over the world, Pascal has become even more famous than he was before.
“I have a meeting to get to,” I tell him.
“Oh, so you are doing business here,” he says, removing his hand.
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe you were busy fucking some sweet little American thing.”
Everything inside me tenses like I’ve been shot with a dart.
American?
I breathe in sharply through my nose, trying to measure my next words. I can’t give this man any extra ammunition. “And you thought I had a type?”
Pascal stares at me for a long moment and then lets out a laugh. “A type? You? Well, I suppose all this time here I thought you preferred them French, easy, and . . . married.”
And there it is. Another passive reminder that Pascal knows.
That he has to know.
That ten years ago I had an affair with his then wife, Marine.
That ten years ago I made the biggest mistake of my life.
A mistake that will haunt me until the day I die.
Because of the promises I signed in my blood to my uncle.
Because of the promises I’ve had to live with and lie about and pretend don’t bother me.
I manage a sour smile. “You obviously know I have no need to be picky.”
“But that’s where you’re lying, cousin,” he says, slapping his hand on my back. “You have a reputation, just as I do. Perhaps not as bad as mine, since you’re the eternal bachelor, and I, well, I was married once. Remember that? Remember when I was married?”
Fuck.
I swallow thickly and meet his eyes, refusing to back down, refusing to let him see any shame in me. “I remember.”
“Good,” he says, smiling. “My father does too. So far, we’re the only ones. I’m not sure how much longer that will last.”
That’s a loaded sentence.
I keep staring at him. “Is that all?”
His eyes narrow momentarily. He hates being dismissed, especially by me.
“Do you remember when we were young, just stupid little children, spending that one summer by the beach in Tarragona? Our fathers were still in Paris, doing business, working all the livelong day, so it was just us, just the children and our mothers, wandering about without a care in the world?”
I have no idea why he’s bringing this up, and the memory itself is very vague. Every summer was pretty much as he described, albeit in different locations across Europe.
He goes on, though I see a flicker of anger in his eyes, like something just starting to simmer on low heat. “Remember one day, you and I were building sandcastles, trying to outdo each other. A contest. You would go higher; I would build mine higher. Up and up they went, until yours started to collapse. Your structure at the base wasn’t sound. Mine was. I knew I had beaten you, so I called our mothers to come by and judge us. Do you remember what happened then?”
I shake my head, even though I do. It’s all coming back to me, though I’m not sure why Pascal is talking about it now, of all times.
“I’m sure you do. It’s fine. The truth is, I knew I won and mine was better. But your mother insisted that we both won. She gave you pity points—said you won for creativity, while I won for engineering. But then my mother had to give her verdict. She said that mine lacked vision and my father would be displeased. I don’t know why it bothered me, since she was always like that, but it did. I guess it bothered me even more that your mother tried to make me feel better afterward. She insisted that I did a great job, that I was talented. Like your mother knew what my mother lacked. Compassion, I suppose. And it was then that I realized: you’ll always think you’re better than me.”
I stare at him openly. This admission has caught me off guard. Pascal has always been surprising and slightly unhinged, but this is something else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not, and I curse myself for saying it.
His gaze turns wicked; his posture stiffens. “There’s nothing to apologize for, cousin. My whole point is that you come from a mother who loves and believes not only in her own children, but in others as well. You come from a line of the kind and selfless and good. And yet you’re anything but. You pretend and pretend and pretend to be the good son, the one meant for greater things. But it’s just pretending. It’s all a lie. And, perhaps, the world will come to know the lie. Know who you really are and what you really did. And what it will cost your family.”
He’s not threatening me, is he?
Then he grins and slaps me on the shoulder.
“I’ll let you get to your meeting. Just so you know, I might still be here when you get back. I’ll be in the suite across from the villa.”
The way he says “villa” tells me everything I need to know.
The villa where Sadie is.
I can hardly get air into my lungs, and yet I have to act like everything is normal. If I say anything at all, if I even react the way I want to react—protectively—that will tell Pascal everything he needs to know.
It will tell Pascal to go there while I’m gone.
Even if I get Marcel stationed outside of her door, I can’t quite trust what might happen.
It sounds like my imagination is getting the best of me.
Who cares if my cousin knows I’m screwing Sadie?
But the thing is, he wouldn’t care if she was just one of the run-of-the-mill models that I normally fuck for a night.
He would care if she were something more than that.
That was part of the deal.
That was the thing that I didn’t even think about.
I have to play this so fucking right, or else I’m going to lose everything.
And until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much that is.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll see you then.”
Then I turn and walk off.
Out of the lobby and down the steps.
To my car waiting below.
The entire time, my heart is crawling up my throat with every single beat, but I’m keeping up the facade until I’ve pulled out of the hotel driveway and am headed toward the motorway.
I quickly call the direct line to the villa and hold my breath for the first few rings, even though I know Sadie couldn’t have gone anywhere.
“Bon . . . jour?” she answers, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Very good, you’re getting better all the time,” I tell her.
“Yeah right. So, uh, you just left. Checking on me already?”
I clear my throat, trying to figure out the best way to put this. “Call me paranoid, I just want to make sure you’re okay. Especially since the police haven’t caught the man who attacked you yet.”
A pause. “Gee, great, thanks for reminding me. Why did you leave again?”
“Duty calls,” I say. “Isn’t that what you say in America?”
“Mmm, in America we have a better saying. It goes, ‘Don’t leave a needy naked chick in your bed alone.’”
I laugh. “I like that saying. Pity you didn’t teach it to me earlier.”
“Oh no, this isn’t my fault.”
“Well, anyway. I’d feel better if you made sure that your doors are locked, the front and the deck. And don’t ever answer the door unless you look through the peephole first, even if you just called room service.”
Silence fills the air. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just care about my guests, and one in particular.”
“Do you normally get break-ins here?”
Discretion Page 9
