Chapter 36
BIX
Ifeel a huge sense of relief as I slip out of the press conference lunch early.
But even though the afternoon was stressful, I can’t wait to see Zaza’s and Keesha’s faces as they read about me and Slayer in Vanessa Sinclair’s column.
I stop in the village to buy the pastries I promised myself—and a dog cookie for Toto. At the cash register, I notice a plush turtle looking up at me from behind the croissant display. It looks exactly like the turtle Slayer and I saw crossing the trail in the hills. Oscar.
“I’ll take him,” I say, smiling as the clerk puts Oscar in my shopping bag.
Once I arrive at the hotel, Toto shoots out to greet me with a friendly yap.
“Bet you smell that cookie, right?” I ruffle his fur.
He accompanies me, still yipping, as I approach the front desk.
“Maurice, do you think there’s any chance of a massage today?” I ask. “I’m totally stressed.”
“Let me call down and see.” He speaks into the phone, and a moment later, he nods. “Yes. The spa is delighted to accommodate you.”
I thank him, dashing upstairs quickly to drop off my things.
“Ah, Ms. Bismark,” says a girl in a crisp white uniform as I enter the spa.
She’s beautiful in that effortless French way. Her hair is up in an elegant chignon, her white uniform perfectly tailored, and her makeup absolute perfection.
And she doesn’t even have an Antoine as her stylist. Damn these French girls and their natural beauty.
“Let me show you to the locker room where you can relax before your appointment.” She gestures down the hallway.
Just as I turn to follow her, the door bursts open and Slayer enters the room—a heavy, dark force in this delicately perfumed, airy space.
“Bix. What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Trying to relax,” I say pointedly. “I booked a massage.”
“So have I,” he says, looking at the attendant.
“Yes, Mr. Slayer. We tried to call to confirm several times today. But as we hadn’t heard from you, we assumed you weren’t coming.”
“You’re hearing from me now.”
“Yes. But we gave the appointment to this young lady. And there’s only one per massage room.”
“Is there another masseuse on duty?”
“I can check, but—”
“We’ll share a room, won’t we, Bix?” he says. “This beauty is my girlfriend.”
I manage a smile and a nod.
The attendant looks between us for a moment. “Ah. Well then. Let me show Ms. Bismark to the locker room, and I’ll come back to check you in, sir.”
Decorated in white and gold, the locker area resembles a private club designed by Marie Antoinette.
The attendant shows me my locker, which curiously smells of toasted wood, while the thick, fluffy robe inside it smells fresh from the dryer.
“Down there you’ll find spa shoes,” she says. “The steam room is that way. Its walls are covered in amethyst.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Healing energy. Our guests love it. They feel energized after the sauna.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll try it.”
Left to undress, I carefully remove the sundress Antoine purchased for me. Here’s hoping I can keep all Antoine’s goodies when I’m back in NYC.
I regard my nude figure critically in the mirror. A nice, sturdy, petite frame. Everything in proportion.
For a moment, I wish I had the voluptuous figure of Valentina. Giant orbs for breasts that rival Sophia Loren’s. Curvy hips. And another foot of height.
I seem scrawny by comparison, but I remind myself not to judge so harshly.
Until I set eyes on Valentina, I’d never wanted to be taller. Never wanted massive boobs or hips like Kim Kardashian’s.
But perhaps Slayer prefers women like her. And why not? She matches him quite well—tall, broad-shouldered. Both have dark, lustrous hair and flashing black eyes. Twins.
I wrap the towel around my body and step into the steam room. The sound of water hissing on hot stones and aroma of eucalyptus greets me. And amethyst sparkles everywhere in the dim light.
When the door creaks open again, I pull my towel tighter.
It’s Slayer, wearing a very small towel slung so low on his hips I can see the tantalizing V-shaped indention on his abs.
Combine that with his broad shoulders and gladiator-style pecs, and I melt despite myself.
“Well. We meet again,” I say, determined to break the stone-cold tension between us. I hold my breath, waiting.
He sits down beside me and takes my hand. “I want to apologize,” he begins.
I shake my head. “Let’s forget it. It’s over. From now on, I’m playing the role of supportive girlfriend. Supporting my man.”
“You’ve done a good job with that so far—even when I haven’t been the best boyfriend. Though Sterling warned I’d have to keep you in line.”
“Oh, did he now?”
Slayer leans in for a kiss. His lips are soft, tasting like spice and leather, the way his skin always smells.
I don’t consider myself that kind of girl, but nonetheless I trace the inside of his thigh with my finger, moving slowly toward his groin. There’s no press here, so I know this has to be just for me.
And he’s already hard.
Aroused.
Not by Valentina.
By me.
“Oh, Slayer,” I murmur, turning toward him and pressing myself against his chest. My towel drops. My bare skin flushes against his.
Our kissing intensifies. He’s cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples.
A hot bolt sparks through me like a live circuit.
I twist myself on top of him, grinding against him, our slick bodies sliding together in the steam.
Slayer groans and clutches me tighter.
The head of his cock presses against my entrance. I feel it. Want it.
“Slayer,” I whisper, ready.
But he stops.
“No,” he says. “Not like this. You deserve more.”
I let out a low laugh. “On the contrary. What I deserve is satisfaction,” I say with a teasing edge, lifting my mouth to his.
He kisses me. Then pulls back. “No. Not this way.”
“Yes, this way.” I turn toward him again, making sure I touch him in a way he can’t ignore.
But I freeze at the sound of a discreet knock on the steam room door.
“Your masseuse is waiting for you,” a voice calls.