Chapter thirty-eight
Rylee
Who did this to you?
M y eyes flutter open to soft lighting and a steady rise-and-fall movement beneath me. Warm. Solid. My body feels weightless and grounded all at once.
I lift my gaze, my breath hitching when I see his peaceful face. His sharp jawline looks more relaxed, lips slightly parted. He’s so unfairly beautiful, and the sight makes my heart beat a little faster.
How is this man even real?
“Morning.” His deep, gravelly sounds startle me.
And then I feel it.
Oh my God.
He’s still inside me. It must have been a couple hours since he kept me up almost all night. Heat rushes to my face, and I push against his chest to move, but his arm locks me in place.
“Did we… Did we seriously sleep like this?” The question comes out breathless and higher-pitched than I’d like.
His lips curl into a lazy grin, his eyes barely open. “Well,” he drawls, “after we ate and drank some wine, we went for round two, then we were supposed to go for round three, maybe five.”
I gasp.
“But you fell asleep,” he continues, his smirk deepening. “Then straddled me and put my dick inside you. I got excited—thought we were going for round three.” His grin turns pure mischief. “Then you passed out.”
I blink at him. “Wait, what? I don’t remember doing that.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbles through his chest. “You did. Mumbled something about wanting to sleep like that. I wasn’t about to complain.”
I groan and bury my face against his chest. “Oh my God, that’s mortifying.”
Before I can say anything else, he shifts, flipping us over in one smooth motion. The movement makes him slide deeper inside me, and a soft moan slips past my lips before I can stop it. My cheeks burn hotter as I glare up at him.
His smirk is wicked, his face hovering inches above mine as his hand braces against the mattress beside my head. “Have you done this before with other guys?” His lips brush the corner of my mouth.
“No!” I snap at him. “I don’t go around sleeping with men’s dicks inside me!”
“Well.” His grin softens as his eyes search mine. “I thought it was sweet.”
I manage to glare up at him through the haze of embarrassment. “Sweet? Seriously?”
“I can’t blame you, though. My wand is magical.”
I blink. “Your what now?”
“My wand,” he repeats, looking far too proud of himself.
I shake my head, laughter spilling over. “Okay, Harry Potter. Your ‘wand’ might need a better name.”
He laughs, too, his forehead brushing against mine. “Fine. But it’s still magical. And if you don’t remember from last night, I can show you again.”
“Who are you right now?” I’m so caught up in the moment, I don’t notice when his lips start trailing lower, brushing soft, featherlight kisses until it's too late.
“Luc, wait—”
His whole body goes still as he stares between my thighs. At the marks.
“Baby?” His eyes lift to meet mine.
I move back against the headboard, pulling the sheets around me as if they can shield me from his gaze. “It’s nothing,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. Before he can say anything, I jump off the bed and run into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
I press my back against the cool wood, my chest heaving as I try to steady my breath.
“Rylee.” His voice comes from the other side, quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “Open up, please.”
“Go away, Luc.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you open the door, Mon Trésor.”
“No soy el tesoro de nadie (I’m no one’s treasure),” I say, knowing he won’t understand.
“Eres mucho más que eso (You’re so much more than that).”
I freeze before grabbing a robe from the bathroom. I wrap it around me before unlocking the door. I open it just enough to see his face, narrowing my eyes at him. “Did you just speak Spanish?”
He nods, his gaze is softer now.
Just great. My mind spins, recalling all the times I’ve embarrassed myself in front of him.
He steps inside the bathroom and closes the door behind him. His hand reaches for mine as he lowers us to the floor and pulls me into his laps. His back resting against the door as he wraps his arms around me as if to hold me together.
After a long pause, his fingers tilt my chin upward, his eyes searching mine. “Qui t’a fait cas? (Who did this to you?)”
The question breaks something loose inside me. The tears sting, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
“Mon Trésor,” he murmurs, breaking just enough to make my chest ache. “Parle-moi, s’il te pla?t. (Talk to me. Please.)”
Maybe it’s the French, because I love it when he speaks to me in his language, or the pleads in his tone. Either way, his words tug at something fragile inside me, still I force myself to stay calm. “I did.”
“What do you mean?”
The softness in his gaze, the lack of judgment, pulls the truth from me like a thread unraveling.
“I… I burn myself sometimes.”
The sharp intake of his breath is subtle, but I feel it. His hand moves to cup my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek.
“Why?” The question isn’t accusing. It’s careful, like he’s not sure if he should ask or not.
I swallow hard as I try to explain something I barely understand myself. “I don’t know. I guess… it’s the only way to make it stop. The aches, the noises, the longing.”
He pulls me closer until my cheek rests against his chest. The beating of his heart is steady beneath my ear, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.
“I’m so sorry, baby girl,” he says softly, his words rough but filled with warmth.
I close my eyes, taking a shaky breath. “It’s okay. I haven’t done it in a while. I was going to therapy back in New York, and it helped.”
But I don’t tell him the truth.
The last time I did it was after I left Paris.
The memory crashes over me vividly. He wasn’t mine to miss, but I did. I missed that night—the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me, the way his touch made me feel like maybe I wasn’t so broken after all.
And his words.
“I really like you, Rylee. Like, a lot, in case you haven’t noticed. I know you’re going back to New York, but can I still call you? Not as friends.”
I’d felt the weight of hope then, fragile, and how easily it could shatter me. I knew how dangerous it would be to let myself feel it. Because women in my family don’t get fairy tales, and Luc could never love me back.
I did what I always do best—I ran.
Shoving the memory down, I lock it away with everything else I can’t afford to feel.