58. Chapter 58
fifty-eight
I n the end, Chloé didn’t make it home early as planned. Monroe sat on the sofa, dressed to the nines— that dress, a full face of makeup, her favourite heels—glass of wine in hand, eyes flicking between the clock and her phone.
It was nearly eight. Not too late for dinner—people ate later in France—but Chloé still had to get home, get changed, and freshen up before they could head back into the city. Time was slipping.
Her text had been apologetic. Monroe didn’t doubt she meant it. But she couldn’t deny the quiet sting of disappointment. She’d been ready—not just for dinner, but for the moment. The flirtation. The fun. Tonight had felt like something special. And now, it just felt like something missed.
Her phone rang. She snatched it up, expecting Chloé, but it wasn’t. Still, her face lit up as she answered the video call and Kitty’s small face filled the screen.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, genuinely happy to see her.
“Hey…” Kitty started, then paused, studying Monroe for a second. “You look nice. Are you going out?”
“I’m going for dinner, yes,” Monroe replied. At least, she hoped so. “How are you? How’s school?”
“Oh, it’s okay. We’re learning about kings and queens—and gory stuff.”
“That sounds fun.” Monroe chuckled.
“Yeah, it is. Benji said to tell you his team is in the cup next week.”
“Fantastic. I bet he’s excited.”
“ He is… I have to go and watch,” Kitty added, clearly unenthused. “I’ll have to take a book.”
“You could just cheer him on.”
“Then he’d think I like him.”
“You do like him.”
“But he doesn’t need to know that.”
Monroe laughed, her heart tugging with a familiar ache, that pang of missing everything. Had she made a mistake moving here, away from all of them?
Kitty glanced off-screen. “Coming!” she shouted, then turned back to Monroe. “Gotta go. I’m supposed to be in the bath.” She blew a kiss. “Bye!”
And then she was gone. The screen went dark.
As Monroe swigged down the last mouthful of her wine, the front door burst open. Chloé rushed in, speaking rapid French under her breath—far too fast for Monroe to catch as she stood to greet her.
She dropped her bag by the door, shrugged off her coat in a flurry of movement, and finally looked up.
“ Je suis désolée ,” her words faltered, “I got held up with—” She stopped, eyes widening as she truly saw Monroe. “ Magnifique, ” she whispered, breathless. “Give me ten minutes—and I’m so sorry to have made you wait. I do not deserve such a goddess on my arm.”
Monroe arched an eyebrow, lips curving. “Well…if you manage to get us to the restaurant and feed me a very expensive dinner, I might consider forgiving you.”
Chloé leant in and kissed her, slow and full of apology. “I really do not deserve you.”
The restaurant was swish. Monroe was impressed—almost as impressed as she’d been with how quickly Chloé had changed into a rather exquisite white satin fitted suit.
Cinched at the waist, the jacket had a vibrant pink embroidered pattern, curling up one arm and sweeping over the shoulder and diagonally down her back.
It was paired perfectly with white wide-legged trousers.
Her nearly black hair was worn down; a striking contrast, despite the slight greying at the sides that somehow made her even more distinguished.
“You look hot,” Monroe said again as they were led to their table.
“Pfft.” Chloé waved her off with a smile. “Compared to you, I am a mere peasant.”
Monroe laughed softly. “Then I guess I’ve got a thing for charming, sexy peasants.”
Chloé raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? So that is your type?”
“Apparently so.” Monroe grinned, leaning in. “But only the ones with killer cheekbones and excellent taste in suits.”
The ma?tre d’ offered them a table and stepped back as Chloé pulled out a chair for Monroe. “ Pour madame .”
Monroe smiled, eyes gleaming. “I don’t think it will ever not turn me on, hearing you speak French to me.”
“ Ah, bien, ” Chloé said, letting her hand drag slowly across the back of Monroe’s shoulders. “Then when we get home, I will happily indulge your little fantasy.”
She didn’t even glance at the menu. As a waiter approached, Chloé leant slightly towards him and spoke quietly, her French fluid and melodic. The waiter nodded, smiling, and disappeared without a word.
“What did you ask for?” Monroe asked, curious.
Chloé reached out and took Monroe’s hand, her gaze soft but intense. “I asked for Champagne—the best they have. Because you deserve only the best.”
Monroe’s pulse fluttered. She leant closer, voice low and teasing. “You know, I already said you could ravish me later.”
Chloé’s smile turned wicked. “I plan to do far more than ravish. My mouth is already watering at the thought of taking you out of that dress…” She paused, eyes darkening. “But not before I’ve had you in it.”
“I’ve never been so turned on in my life,” Monroe murmured, eyes fluttering closed as Chloé’s palm slid onto her thigh, fingers inching high enough to draw a sharp, whispered gasp. “Don’t be cruel,” she breathed, though she made no move to stop the slow torment.
Chloé’s tone was breezy and utterly casual.
“Work was so exciting today. Things are really falling into place.” She spoke as if they were just two women catching up over dinner, nothing more.
No one could see her hand beneath the linen-draped table, slipping beneath the edge of Monroe’s dress, pushing lightly against the delicate barrier of her underwear.
She teased, nudging—slowly, deliberately—right against the hardening tip of Monroe’s clit.
“Chloé.” Monroe’s voice was a warning, thick with arousal.
“Yes, ma chérie ?” Chloé asked sweetly, barely glancing up from the menu she pretended to study. Her fingers moved again, this time just a little firmer, the movement subtle, devastating.
Monroe shifted slightly in her seat, swallowing a moan. “You’re going to kill me.”
Chloé smiled, calm and composed. “Not before dessert.”