Bonus Epilogue
Adrien
One Year Later
The drive into Paris feels different. Maybe because I’m seeing the city through her eyes—the glass reflections of the Seine, the slow swirl of headlights around Place Vend?me, the promise of tonight waiting in the coming hour.
The Sanctuary glows against the skyline, a cathedral of light and shadow. Last week was the grand re-opening, and we greeted investors and members. Tonight isn’t about ownership or appearances—it’s about what I’ve wanted since the moment I asked her to marry me.
I’ve reserved the evening for the woman beside me, the woman who reigns over my thoughts, for the steady awareness of her body in my orbit, and the certainty that I’m already undone long before we step inside.
When the car slows outside of The Sanctuary, she narrows her knowing eyes. “You’ve planned something.”
“Opening night was chaotic. Performative. Tonight is for you.”
“For us,” she corrects with a tilt of her soft, plush lips.
As I come around the car, waving off Jacques, letting him know I’ll open my wife’s door, I scan the entrance, the steady flames housed in the gas lamps, and give a curt nod to the man waiting to let us in.
Tonight, it’s only us. Perks of ownership.
When I open her door, her smile curves as I offer my hand. “My lady.”
We enter The Sanctuary with her hand in mine, and I lead her straight to the elevator.
The city sprawls beneath us, lights glittering on the water as the glass elevator stops. She’s quiet. There are no questions, but perhaps she too shares the undercurrent of anticipation.
The doors open to silence.
Amber light pools in alcoves, the music reduced to a low pulse you feel more than hear. No members thread through the corridors. There’s no carefully orchestrated temptation. Just a corridor of suites, emptied of everyone but us.
She pauses, alert as ever, taking it all in.
“Strange,” she says. “How different it feels without the members.”
I move beside her. “That’s the point.”
She glances at me, one eyebrow lifting. “Closing the entire club? Staffing it for just us two. That’s excessive even for you.”
“I’m aware.” I catch her hand, turning her toward me. “But I wanted you to see it this way. Not as my wife under scrutiny.” I pause. “As my wife. In a space that belongs to us.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “Then show me what that means.”
At the door to the private suite, I stop.
She meets my eyes, and there’s a question there—not about permission, but about intention.
“Say the word and we walk away,” I tell her. “Nothing about this matters unless it’s what you want.”
“I know.” Her hand lifts to my chest. “But I want to see it. Not just the renovation—I’ve had a tour. I want the experience you’ve planned.”
I open the door.
She takes in the room, her expression softening. “You remembered everything.”
“I remember you,” I say simply.
I trace the line of her neck with my thumb, feeling her pulse against my skin.
Her fingers trail over a small refrigerated drawer—discreet, elegant—and when she opens it, she finds what I requested: champagne truffles, fresh berries, and a silver bowl of ice.
“Not your typical hotel amenities,” she murmurs.
“The Sanctuary doesn’t do typical.”
I’ve been thinking about this for weeks—planning every detail, imagining her response. The way she’d look in this light. The sounds she’d make. How it would feel to have her here, in a space that belongs to both of us now.
Outside, the bells of Notre-Dame chime the hour, faint but clear through the open window. The city feels suspended in time, as if Paris itself is holding its breath.
“This room isn’t like the others in New York.”
“No. The Paris location offers a wider array of suites.”
“Ah.” She drags a finger across the marble top of a dresser. “Is this your favorite?”
“I wouldn’t yet know.”
Her lips curve into a tease. “Don’t play innocent.”
“Me? Never.” There are no mirrors, but I’m quite certain I’ve failed at controlling my smirk.
“Tommy did once share that in your heyday you didn’t make wide use of the rooms.”
“I wasn’t ready for anything that stayed,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because back then it was about convenience, perhaps even control, not desire. At least, nothing more than fleeting lust.” I move toward her.
She turns to face me fully. “And now?”
“Now I want more, I choose more.” I reach for her, slowly. “There’s no part of me that misses those days. You believe that, right? That’s not why I brought you here.”
Her hands find my shoulders, pulling me closer.
I stop close enough to feel the warmth of her, the question hanging between us. When she tilts her head up, I finally close the distance. Her breath stutters against my mouth, and that small sound undoes whatever control I thought I possessed.
My hands find the zipper at her back. The silk whispers as I drag it down slowly, feeling her shiver beneath my palms. When the dress pools at her feet, she steps out of it gracefully, and I step back—just for a moment—to look at her.
Black lace. Barely there. Her skin glows in the amber light, and I’m struck by how different this feels from those early days—the nights when I’d bring someone here for novelty, for distraction. This isn’t distraction. This is devotion.
“Adrien.” My name is a question and a demand.
I shrug out of my jacket, then work my shirt buttons, letting her watch. Her gaze tracks every movement—hungry, appreciative—and the heat in her eyes makes my pulse kick harder. When the shirt falls away, I reach for my belt.
She steps forward, her hands covering mine. “Let me.”
Her fingers work the buckle with practiced ease, then the button, the zipper. My trousers fall and I step out of them, standing before her in just my briefs, already straining against the fabric.
She palms me through the thin material and I hiss. Her touch—confident, knowing exactly what I need—nearly undoes me.
When she reaches for the waistband of my briefs, I catch her hands. “Not yet.”
“No?” Challenge in her voice, that confidence I’ve always loved.
“I told you I wanted to show you this room.” I kiss her—hard enough to taste her lipstick, feel the edge of her teeth. “Let me.”
No performance. No witnesses. Just the two of us, learning each other again in a space built for play.
Before I guide her to the chaise, I press her back against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Paris glitters below us—distant, infinite, beautiful. But not as beautiful as her.
“Here first,” I murmur, dropping to my knees. “Take in the city while I worship you.”
She gasps as I kneel before her, spreading her legs, shifting the scrap of lace to the side. She’s stunning in the night light, one hand lifted to the glass behind her. The vulnerability of the position—standing, exposed, nothing but glass between her and Paris—makes my breath quicken.
I start without ceremony, my mouth finding her already wet center. She tastes the same—salt and heat and home—but standing like this, she’s different. More vocal. Less controlled. Her palms slide against the glass, leaving handprints that will fog and fade.
“Adrien—I can’t—my legs—”
“You can,” I murmur against her flesh, holding her thighs steady. “Hold on for me.”
I work her with tongue and fingers until she’s trembling, gasping my name, and when her knees finally buckle, I catch her weight and guide her to the chaise.
“Now,” I say, settling her against the leather. “Let me show you what I planned.”
I cross to the console, retrieving the silver bowl of ice water and the cognac. When I return and kneel between her legs again, her breathing has already changed—faster, shallower, anticipating.
I dip my fingers into the ice water, then trace a cold line from her collarbone down between her breasts. She gasps, arching up, and I follow the path with my mouth, warming every inch I’ve chilled.
“Adrien—”
“Patience, mon c?ur.”
Ice against her inner thigh, then the heat of my tongue. A frozen berry pressed to her nipple until she’s squirming. I sip the cognac, tip the glass and let it drip onto her stomach in amber drops before licking it clean.
Her hands reach for me, but I press them back gently. “Not yet. I’m not finished.”
I trail the ice lower, circling her clit with the cold, then replace it with my hot tongue. The contrast makes her cry out—not quiet, not restrained. Her hands fist in my hair as I work her with my mouth, holding an ice chip between my lips, letting it melt against her most sensitive flesh.
“Adrien, please—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” I add my fingers, curling inside her. “Come for me, love.”
She does—beautifully, without restraint—her back bowing off the chaise, my name breaking into pieces on her lips. Her thighs tremble against my shoulders as she pulses around my fingers.
She’s still trembling, oversensitized, when I rise. I cross to the warming drawer and retrieve massage oil—almond and vanilla, warmed to body temperature.
“Turn over for me,” I murmur.
She looks at me, dazed, but obeys—shifting to lie on her stomach along the chaise, cheek pressed to the leather.
I pour the warmed oil into my palms and work it into her shoulders, down her spine, over the curve of her ass. Not a full massage—just touch, worship, heating her skin further. When I spread her legs from behind and trail my oiled hands up her inner thighs, her breathing changes.
“Adrien—”
“I know what you need.”
I rid myself of my briefs finally, position myself behind her as she’s still on her stomach, and grip her hips. The oil makes her skin slick, and when I press the head of my cock against her entrance from behind, we both groan.
“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”
I push inside slowly—this angle impossibly tight, impossibly deep. She’s so wet from everything I’ve done to her, and the slide is perfect. When I’m fully seated, I have to pause, have to breathe, or I’ll lose control too soon.
“Brie—” Her name is prayer and promise.