Chapter 16 The Easy No
THE EASY NO
DAMON
Isla entered my Paris apartment carrying her own coat and no reason to stay until morning.
The distinction followed me through the door.
I lived three blocks from the gallery in a second-floor apartment above a bookseller who closed early and disliked hotel guests.
No resident staff waited inside it. No executive security desk logged arrivals.
The building had one old lift, one stubborn front lock, and a courtyard that amplified every footstep after midnight.
I used the apartment six weeks a year and told no one except security when I slept there.
Isla stood in the entrance beneath a brass light and looked past me into the salon.
"This is smaller than I expected."
"It has three bedrooms."
"Exactly. You own hotels. I assumed the private version of you required a ballroom."
"The ballroom version is rarely private."
I locked the door and placed the key on the narrow table where she could see it.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
The apartment had pale wood floors, low bookshelves, and windows facing a courtyard planted with one pear tree. Nothing carried a Carrington monogram. My father had purchased the rooms before the hotel group could afford Paris and refused every suggestion that we replace the uneven floors.
The empty wall waited above the fireplace.
Isla crossed to it.
"The portrait," she said.
"If I decide to bring it out of storage."
"You already decided where it would go."
"That is not the same as deciding who can see it."
She turned toward me. "Who comes here?"
"My father did. Gideon once. Conrad during an acquisition he pretends was not a crisis. A housekeeper comes on Thursdays when I am in Paris."
"Women?"
Jealousy would have been flattering if the answer had not mattered to her.
"Not since I began using the agreements."
Her brows drew together. "Why?"
"Carrington residences were available benefits in the arrangements. This apartment was not listed."
"You kept one room outside the contracts."
"Apparently I wanted proof the system did not include everything."
"And you brought me here."
"Yes."
The word left no cover.
Isla walked back toward me.
"No staff knows I am here?"
"Security knows you entered the building because I will not create a safety risk to manufacture secrecy. They do not know which apartment is mine from the operational log. The officer across the street is instructed not to photograph, report, or enter unless called."
"No campaign team?"
"No."
"No schedule?"
"My hotel meeting begins at nine thirty. Yours begins at ten. Nothing before it belongs to anyone."
She stopped close enough to place both hands on my coat.
"Good," she said.
Then she pushed it from my shoulders.
The wool hit the floor.
I looked down at it.
"That coat was made by a man who believes hangers are part of civilization."
"He will recover."
She removed her own coat with deliberate care and hung it on the peg beside the door.
"Hostile inconsistency," I said.
"Different price point."
I laughed.
Isla touched the open collar of my shirt where the gallery sink had darkened the cotton.
"You are still wet."
"Your concern is moving."
"It was an observation."
"You have been told those can become intimate."
Her mouth curved. "Take it off."
I watched her for one beat.
The order was light. The desire beneath it was not.
"We should make one thing clear before I do," I said.
Her expression sharpened.
"If you want anything changed, tell me once. You will not need to protect my feelings, explain the change, or repeat yourself. Until then, I intend to believe the choices you make."
She held my gaze while the meaning settled between us.
"That is clear," she said.
"Good."
I unbuttoned the shirt.
Her gaze followed my hands. The playful line of her mouth disappeared by the third button. When I pulled the fabric free and let it join the coat, she looked at my chest as if professional restraint had become a poor use of time.
"Come here," I said.
The command changed her breathing.
She came.
I put one hand at the back of her neck and kissed her slowly enough to make ten days of distance measurable. Her mouth opened beneath mine. I tasted wine, pear, and the final cold trace of rain. Her hands moved over my shoulders, exploring without the urgency of Paris breakfast.
There was time tonight.
The knowledge made hunger more dangerous, not less.
I moved my mouth along her jaw. She tipped her head, giving me the line of her throat. The red sweater was soft beneath my palms, warmer where it held her body. I slid my hands under the hem and touched bare skin.
She inhaled.
"Cold?" I asked.
"Do not become pleased with yourself."
"That was not an answer."
"Your hands are cold. Your effect is not."
"A distinction I can use."
I drew the sweater over her head.
Her hair lifted with it and fell around her shoulders. She wore a black lace bra and an expression that challenged me to make charm useful now.
I threw the sweater toward the chair.
It missed.
Isla looked at the red fabric on the floor.
"The man who selected your coat hanger will be devastated."
"He has never seen that sweater."
"You have. For a year, apparently."
"I have thought about removing it with more skill."
"Your performance was disappointing."
I caught her waist and lifted her onto the edge of the console table.
Her laugh ended against my mouth.
There was the sound.
I kissed it from her, then kissed her again until humor dissolved into heat. Her legs opened around me. My hand moved up her back, found the clasp, and waited there for half a breath.
"You said you would believe my choices," she whispered.
"I do."
"Then pay attention."
She arched toward me.
I opened the clasp.
The lace loosened. I drew it away and looked at her without pretending hunger could be made polite. Her nipples tightened in the cool room. I covered one breast with my palm and bent my mouth to the other.
Her fingers entered my hair.
The sound she made went through me with no camera, no hotel wall, and no strategic value beyond the fact that I wanted another.
I used my tongue slowly. She shifted against the table. The movement brought her closer to the hardness beneath my trousers, and control thinned to a line I no longer admired.
"Bedroom," I said.
"You have three."
"Only one contains my bed."
"An important operational distinction."
I lifted her.
She wrapped her legs around my waist as if she had expected the movement. I carried her down the short hall while she kissed the side of my neck and made navigation unnecessarily difficult.
"Second door," I said.
"You live here."
"I am losing blood from essential systems."
She laughed again.
I found the bedroom without injuring either of us.
The room faced the pear tree. Moonlight silvered the rumpled linen I had left that morning. No turndown. No flowers. No bottle waiting in ice. A book lay open facedown beside the bed, spine damaged by a habit the Carrington librarians considered immoral.
Isla noticed it when I set her on her feet.
"You break books," she said.
"Only mine."
"That is the defense of every irresponsible owner."
"You are half naked in my bedroom and evaluating library ethics."
"I contain multitudes."
"I intend to meet several."
I kissed her before she could improve the answer.
We undressed each other without the frantic pace of the first morning. Her trousers. My belt. Her fingers tracing the rib that had set wrong instead of finding it by accident.
"Skiing?" she asked.
"Service stairs. I was sixteen and believed marble respected haste."
She pressed her mouth to the ridge.
The tenderness nearly undid me.
I drew her back up and kissed her hard enough to change the meaning.
When we reached the bed, I guided her down against the pillows and followed more slowly. I wanted to see every moment she chose to remain. Not to collect it. To be changed by it while it happened.
My hand moved from her ankle to her knee, then along the inside of her thigh. Her body opened beneath the touch. I watched her face as my fingers found heat.
"Damon."
My name carried impatience.
"Yes?"
"You know what I want."
"I do."
I kissed the inside of her knee.
"You are not doing it."
"I am enjoying the absence of a deadline."
She lifted one foot and pressed it against my shoulder.
"Enjoy more efficiently."
I smiled against her skin.
Then I lowered my mouth.
Her teasing disappeared on the first stroke of my tongue.
I held her hips and learned the difference between the responses I remembered from Paris and the ones she gave me now. Slower. Less defended. Her hand moved into my hair, not to direct me at first, only to stay connected. When I changed pressure, her grip tightened.
I listened.
The room filled with breath, linen, the low sounds she stopped trying to contain. Pleasure gathered through her body in waves I could feel beneath my hands. She said my name once, then again with every polished edge removed.
I kept my mouth on her until she came, hard enough that her thighs tightened around my shoulders and the heel at my back pulled me closer.
When she finally released me, I moved up her body.
Her eyes were dark and unfocused.
"Efficient enough?" I asked.
"Your review remains active."
"Cruel."
She reached between us and wrapped her hand around me.
The answer left my body before language found it.
Her smile was slow.
"Now who has the deadline problem?"
"Isla."
"That sounded factual."
I kissed her and reached into the bedside drawer for protection. She took the packet from me, opened it, and rolled it on with a concentration that felt designed to end mine.
When she lay back, I remained above her for one breath.
Not asking again.
Remembering the choice she had made at every door.
She hooked her leg around my waist.
"Stop thinking," she said.
I entered her.
Slowly, because the night allowed it. Because I wanted to feel the way her body gave around mine without urgency deciding the rhythm. Because every inch made distance impossible to mistake for safety.
Her breath broke against my mouth.