Chapter 14
Lucia
The next morning, I woke to the sound of quiet breathing that wasn’t my own.
The sheets were tangled around my legs—dark red, creased, carrying the faint scent of sweat and something else. Him. Us.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Every inch of me ached, like I’d run a marathon in a dream I wasn’t sure I’d agreed to. My muscles protested as I shifted, and the dull throb between my thighs reminded me of everything that had happened.
Everything I’d done.
He’d met every defiant word with a darker smile. Every attempt to fight back with something that left me gasping, clawing for control I didn’t have.
I hated the way my body remembered him. The way it still pulsed with echoes I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I turned my head. The other side of the bed was empty—Laurent’s side.
Of course it was.
I stared up at the ceiling, swallowing against the dryness in my throat, trying to piece together the night.
The flashes came too easily—his voice, low and certain; my own, broken in ways I didn’t recognise.
And the worst part?
Some traitorous part of me wanted to hear him say my name again.
I rolled over, squinting at the bedside table. A folded note sat there like a calling card, taunting me with its thick, expensive paper and elegant handwriting.
Of course he’d write like someone who’d send a cease and desist for sport.
I sat up and opened it.
I’ll be back soon from the Furutachi meeting. I didn’t want to disturb you.
Don’t get any ideas.
I have your passport.
—Laurent, your baby daddy.
I stared at the final line, blinking.
Your. Baby. Daddy.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, tossing the note back down like it might burn through the mattress.
The worst part? It wasn’t a joke. Not with him. Not after last night.
Heat flushed my cheeks, and I dragged myself out of bed.
My neck was stiff. I hesitated, then touched the place where he’d bitten me.
Heat began to pool between my legs.
I padded toward the en-suite, muttering threats under my breath. Ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel with damp hair clinging to my back, I crossed into the adjoining room.
I dressed quickly—jeans, boots, a cream top—and shoved euros into my bag before slipping out of the suite.
The Paris air was crisp, cool, and free.
I headed straight for the nearest café, ordered a strong coffee, and made a list on my phone:
·Return to London with my passport intact.
·Pick up Eiffel Tower souvenirs for Evelyn and Allison.
·Try not to kill Laurent when I see him again.
Small victories.
Tiny rebellions.
It was all I had left—for now.
?? ?? ??
I didn’t even get the key card fully into the door before it flung open.
Not from the outside—from the adjoining room.
He’d stepped in like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did.
Laurent.
Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear, expression thunderous. “She’s back,” he said curtly, not even looking at me yet. “You can stop searching.”
Searching?
He snapped the phone shut, finally letting his dark gaze rake over me from head to toe. Not a word. Just… that look.
I clutched my little gift bag tighter, like it could defend me from whatever tirade was about to erupt.
His eyes dropped to the bag.
“What’s that?” he asked, stepping closer. Each click of his shoes against the floor echoed louder than it should have. “Souvenirs?”
I nodded, cautiously. “Just—trinkets. For Allison and Evelyn.”
His jaw flexed. “And you didn’t think to leave a note?”
My mouth fell open. “You stole my passport!”
“You had money.” He shrugged, like that was a perfectly reasonable trade-off. “Besides, it wasn’t about the note. It’s the disappearance I take issue with.”
“I was gone an hour or two—well maybe three,” I snapped.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice.
He just looked at me like I’d shattered a fragile, unwritten law.
“You don’t vanish from me, Lucia,” he said softly. “Not in Paris. Not anywhere.”
His hand rose—slow, deliberate—and took the gift bag from mine.
He looked inside, brows twitching ever so slightly at the tiny Eiffel Tower keyrings. Then he looked back at me. Unreadable.
“I should be furious,” he muttered, placing the bag gently on the desk.
“Then be furious,” I bit back.
His eyes met mine again. No mask this time. Just fire.
“I was,” he said, stepping in close, “until I saw you.”
I swallowed and tried not to step back.
“How was the meeting?” I asked, hoping to redirect him like he was some large, dangerous ship and I’d just found a tiny paddle.
“Boring,” he replied bluntly, already tugging the strap of my purse over my head in one smooth motion. “I’d rather have been here with you, ensuring the continuation of the human race.”
I blinked. “I’m sure the human race will survive.”
His fingers closed around the purse as I tried to pull it back. “Not the point.”
“What is the point, Laurent?”
“That you don’t disappear on me again,” he said simply, eyes flicking to my mouth. “That you stay where you belong.”
“Let me guess,” I said, yanking on the purse again. “At your side like a broodmare?”
He grinned. Full teeth. Zero shame.
“I was going to say bed, but we can start with your attitude if you prefer.”
I stared at him. “You’re serious.”
He stepped closer, still holding my purse hostage. “Lucia, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Next, you’ll be chipping me like a dog.”
His grin widened. “No need. You come when I call.”
My jaw dropped, as did my purse.
He leaned down and kissed my cheek—infuriatingly gentle—and whispered:
“Welcome back, my little whore.”
I growled and tried to push him away, but he chuckled, locking his arms around me.
“You come so hard when I call you the nastiest of names, Lucia,” he murmured, his hands wandering over my jeans.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him he was insane.
But my body had its own language—one that didn’t listen to logic.
“I could scream.”
“You did last night.” His lips brushed my ear.
Heat scorched my face as his hand slid lower, possessive, like he already owned me. Maybe he did. Maybe I’d signed it all away with my body, with every cry of his name against those damn sheets.
“I hate you,” I snapped, breath catching when he pressed against me.
“You hate how much you need me,” he corrected, dragging his mouth along my jaw, voice smug. “And that’s why you’ll obey.”
His thumb pressed against the button of my jeans.
“Laurent—”
“I said welcome back, Lucia. I suggest you say thank you—unless you’d rather do that on your knees.”
On my knees?
Somehow, the thought of me undoing him felt empowering. I pushed his hands away from my waistband and reached for his belt, tugging on the black leather.
He stilled.
For half a second, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe—just stared down at me with something volatile burning in his eyes. Not surprise. Not satisfaction. Something darker.
I didn’t break the stare as I dragged the belt free of the loops, the leather hissing like a warning.
“Is this what you wanted?” I asked, low and steady, fingers brushing the buckle.
His smile wasn’t kind. It was razor-sharp.
“No,” he said, voice like velvet drawn over steel. “It’s what you want.”
I hated that he might be right. I hated that my hands didn’t tremble. That my mouth watered.
That I couldn’t pretend this wasn’t deliberate.
I popped the button on his trousers.
He exhaled harshly.
“Good girl,” he muttered. “Now thank me properly.”
I tugged on the small black zipper, eying the bulge beneath the soft material. He slid his jacket off, tossing it toward the bed. It hit the edge before slowly sliding off and crumpling on the ground.
Not so perfect after all, Mr Dickhead.
While he worked on unbuttoning his shirt, I eased him out.
His hiss was sharp and the sound almost made me smile.