Chapter 13
Tara
Ihear the knock—soft, deliberate, unavoidable.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the cage of my ribs.
I know it’s him.
I’ve been pacing my apartment, biting my nails raw, trying to pretend I’m not a wreck.
I’m aroused, excited, and…absolutely frightened.
I open the door. He looks like a wet dream in a tailored suit that costs more than my rent.
His hair’s slightly tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over. There’s something heady about him—cologne and temptation woven into the air between us—and heat coils low in my belly.
His eyes lock on mine with an intensity that weakens my knees.
“Bonjour, Tara.” His voice is dripping with arousal. It turns my insides to liquid.
“Hi,” I manage to stammer, sounding like a damn idiot.
He steps inside, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s memorizing every curve, every inch.
I changed after I came home and am in a simple black dress. But under his stare, it feels like I’m naked. He steps in, his body brushing against mine as he closes the door behind him.
“You’ve been thinking about me.” His lips graze my ear. It’s not a question.
“Maybe,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
What are you doing, Tara?
He chuckles—low, dark, almost predatory—and his fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head back so he can look at me.
His mouth descends on mine, and it’s like being electrocuted.
His lips are soft, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes me moan into his mouth.
His hands move restlessly over me—cupping my ass, kneading my breasts, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
I can feel his erection, hard against my belly, and the thought of it inside me sends a jolt of pure need straight to my core.
He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged, and pulls back to look at me.
“Bedroom,” he growls. It’s not a suggestion.
I’m trembling as I lead him down the hall, every step feeling like an eternity.
I ache for him.
My nipples are so hard they’re practically cutting through the fabric of my dress.
When we get to my room, he spins me around, his hands on my hips as he pushes me onto the bed.
I land on my back, my dress riding up my thighs, and he’s on me in an instant, his hands on my knees, spreading me wide.
He doesn’t waste time—he buries his face between my legs.
My hands tangle in his hair as he yanks my panties to the side and licks me. His tongue is relentless, flicking my clit, diving into my pussy, making me writhe and buck against his mouth.
He’s groaning like he’s the one getting off, and the sound of it pushes me closer to the edge.
“You are parfait*.”
He yanks my dress over my head and tosses it aside.
His eyes devour me—my tits, my hips, the wet mess he’s made between my legs.
I’ve never felt so exposed.
Owned.
He rises and strips out of his suit.
The sight of him naked is everything I want right now—what I’ve been dreaming about since that first night.
His abs are tight, defined, and his penis is thick and hard, curving slightly upward.
He strokes himself lazily as he looks at me.
Smiles.
I hold my hand out. “Come to me.”
He climbs onto the bed, pinning me down with his body.
His heat presses against me.
His cock slides between my thighs, teasing me, making me whimper with need.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is rough, his breath hot against my skin.
“You.” My voice breaks. “Just you.”
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pushes in slowly, inch by torturous inch, filling me in a way that makes my vision blur.
It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Dios mio.” My nails dig into his back as he bottoms out, his hips flush against mine. He’s so deep I can feel him in my soul.
He starts to move—slow at first, his thrusts deep and deliberate, but it’s not long before he’s pounding into me like a man possessed.
“You feel so good, chérie.”
His pace is relentless. He’s hitting that spot inside me that makes me see stars.
I’m spiraling, my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder.
“I’m—” My orgasm consumes me.
My body convulses around him as I scream his name.
He doesn’t stop—he thrusts faster, harder, until he’s groaning, his hips jerking as he spills inside me, filling me in a way that is primal.
We collapse together, a tangled mess of sweat.
He’s still inside me, still moving lazily like he can’t bear to pull out.
He kisses me—soft, tender—and I can feel the weight of everything we’ve been through in that touch.
He looks up, his eyes wide. “I forgot a condom, chérie. I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s okay.” I put my hand on his mouth. I can see regret in his eyes. This man carries too much on his shoulders, I think—so much responsibility.
“I’m protected. And clean. I promise.”
“I haven’t been with anyone but you for…over…half a year.”
I frown. “And here I thought you found me irresistible! Now I find out you were just horny.”
He looks surprised for a moment that I’m joking. Then, he cracks a laugh, kisses my nose. “You are special, mademoiselle.”
“So are you, le Comte.”
His eyes darken. “It’s sexy when you say that. Like I have droit du seigneur*.”
“That was only for ius primae noctis*,” I correct him. “A right for the first night only!”
He rolls onto his back and takes me with him. I lay atop him. His cum is leaking out of me. I guess I’ll have to change the sheets if he’s staying the night.
“Droit du seigneur was never legal or even real, you know, don’t you?” He strokes my back. “There is no credible historical evidence of it, and historians believe that it’s only a trope used in literature.”
“Wait! Are you saying Mozart made that up in The Marriage of Figaro?” I gasp, feigning outrage.
He laughs. “You’re a delight, you know that?”
I nuzzle against him. “That’s what they all say.”
He squeezes my hip. “Now may not be a good time to bring up your other lovers, chérie.”
I look up at him. “Are we a little jealous?”
“Not a little.”
I kiss him softly.
And then, maybe it’s the stress, the good loving or just feeling safe, that I find myself dozing off.
I wake up a little when he cleans me with a warm, wet towel, and settles me against him.
“Fais de beaux rêves, mon amour*,” his whispered words comfort me as I slide into a deep sleep.
The bedroom is hushed when I wake up.
I look at the clock. It’s four in the morning. No doubt I woke up because I have Gustave sprawled across my linen sheets, his dark hair rumpled, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
He looks younger in sleep, less guarded, like a man who doesn’t carry centuries on his shoulders.
I slip out quietly, putting my dress on as I pad barefoot through the apartment until I reach the living room.
I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of cold water. I drink it all, feeling parched.
I set the glass down and unplug my phone from where it’s charging on the island.
I take it with me when I push open the small balcony doors to step into the early morning air.
Paris is luminous at this time—streetlamps glowing, the faint hum of traffic, the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance.
Without letting myself think too hard, I hit Estrella Gayarre.
“Mija!” Mama answers on the second ring, her voice warm, familiar, grounding me instantly. “It’s early there. Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that.”
My mother has always been my closest confidante, the one person I could turn to no matter what.
Even as a teenager, whether it was boy troubles or a falling out with a girlfriend, I could go to her.
She never claimed to have all the answers, but somehow she always knew how to guide me toward finding them on my own.
Most importantly, Mama never judges.
“Mija?” Her voice is soft. She gives me an opening, holding space until I tell her what she knows I want to. Have to. Need to.
“I…met someone.”
“Okay.”
I lick my lips. “He’s…he’s from a different world. He’s a…Mama, he’s a freaking count.”
“A count? Like royalty?”
“Yeah, exactly like that. People call him le Comte.”
She laughs. “Sounds like an upgrade from that moron you were dating in Philly.”
I can’t help but see the humor in the situation. “Oh, yeah, a complete upgrade.” Both in and out of bed! Not that Mama needs to know that.
“What’s the problem?” Then I hear a gasp. “He isn’t married, is he?”
I groan. “Mama! No. He’s divorced. His ex is a piece of work.”
“Like in Rubí, La Usurpadora, Teresa?” she shoots back immediately.
She and I have watched enough telenovelas to recognize the type. In every one of those shows, there’s that woman—glamorous, ruthless, with flawless hair, and claws sharp enough to shred a man’s heart.
“Exactly like that.”
“So…this ex is giving you trouble?”
My throat tightens, and I stare at the glow of Paris. “He’s…ah…in the tabloids here. So, I’m only here for a few months and….” I exhale noisily. “Mama, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Is he good in bed?”
“Mama,” I protest, not exactly scandalized because Mama, to Papi’s chagrin, was always open about sex with Marisol and me.
“Is he?”
I can feel my face heat up. “Si. Good.”
“Are you in love with him?”
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t know.” But I’m afraid I may be.
“Do you enjoy his company?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Is he abusive?”
“No,” I exclaim. “He’s wonderful. Ah…he gets defensive about paparazzi and being in public, but that’s about it. His divorce was a big scandal. His son had photographers chasing him.”
“He has a son?”
“Eighteen. Ah…he’s older than me.”
“How much older?” Mama asks, curious.
“He’s forty-two.”
“Ah, that’s nothing.”
“Am I making a mistake, Mama?”
I hear some sounds on the other end of the line, and then Mama’s steady voice comes through, “Mistakes are part of life, mi corazón*. Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe it isn’t.
Who knows? Time will tell. What matters is that you live.
No hiding, no holding back, no compromising who you are.
You live your life, and you live it fully. ”
I close my eyes, letting her words sink in.
“But what if it hurts later?” I whisper.
“Then it hurts later,” she says flatly. “You deal with the bad when it comes. Don’t punish yourself before it even arrives. Don’t waste joy because you’re afraid of pain.”
I swallow hard, tears burning. “I wish you were here.”
“I’m always with you, mija.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “And I want you to remember something: regret is heavier than heartbreak.”
The line goes quiet, except for her steady breathing on the other end, anchoring me.
I glance back into the apartment, to the shadowed bedroom where Gustave sleeps. I feel both fear and hope—entwined together.
“I have to think about this, Mama.”
“If you must.” Mama chuckles. “But, can I tell you a secret?”
“Si.”
“You already know what you want to do.”
She’s not wrong.
We talk a little more about the new jewelry she’s designing, the boy that Marisol wants to date (but won’t because she only goes out with boys after finals), and how Papi is pulling his hair out (he doesn’t have a lot left) because his servers are getting pregnant one after the other.
“He says Mi Tierra is fertile,” she jokes.
Mi Tierra is Papi’s restaurant, and the people who work there have been with him through thick and thin. Even during the pandemic, Papi paid everyone from savings because “that’s what you do for family.”
After the call ends, I stand still, the phone warm in my hand, the air cool on my skin. Paris stretches around me, vast and shimmering, as if daring me to take her in.
Behind me, the door creaks. I turn.
Barefoot, tousle-haired, Gustave steps out onto the balcony.
He’s only wearing his boxers, and the sight of him—unarmored, drowsy-eyed—makes my heart race.
“You disappeared,” he murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.
“I needed a drink of water.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He studies me for a beat, then slides his arms around my waist from behind, pulling my back against his chest. His warmth seeps into me, grounding me more than the phone call, more than the city lights.
“Come back to bed, chérie,” he whispers into my hair.
Mama’s words echo. Live fully. No regrets.
I turn in his arms, press a hand to his jaw. “Yes.”
His answering smile is unguarded. It steals my breath.
He kisses me once, deeply, then leads me inside.
Back to bed. Back to him.
* Perfect (French)
* Right of the Lord (French)
* The first night’s right (French)
* Sweet dreams, my love (French)
* My heart (Spanish)