Chapter 36
June
Oh my god, his words are so filthy. And I should be disgusted.
And I’m not. Since hearing them, my body seems to be running a fever.
The wetness between my legs hasn’t decreased at all.
I soak in the tub of the massive bathroom that opens onto the equally beautiful room of the hotel we checked into.
It’s a suite on the top floor of a beautiful heritage building from which I spotted the Eiffel Tower.
My husband showed me the closet, stocked with everything I'd need.
Apparently, he chose everything and ordered it while we were in the air.
I'll never know how they were able to deliver everything so quickly.
He ordered me to settle in and said he was heading to the gym.
I checked my phone, but for once, my inbox was empty. Seems Mary already forwarded the emails from my inbox to hers. I snapped a picture of the Eiffel Tower and messaged it to Zoey and Irene to let them know I was okay.
Then, I separately messaged Harper and Grace, bringing them up to date with what had happened in my life—specifically, my newly married status. My phone instantly started buzzing with messages and questions from both of them, but I tossed my phone aside and decided to take a bath.
After soaking for almost an hour, I dry myself, then step into the closet to pull on the lacy lingerie I find there.
The silk chafes against my bottom, and a frisson of heat squeezes my belly.
I turn around and take in the reddened fingerprints on my sore butt.
My chest grows hot. My scalp tingles. That mark of ownership from him means so much to me.
And when I look at the ring he placed on my finger, I feel complete.
My life finally has meaning. I was kidding myself by thinking I could take a stab at independence. It means nothing. It doesn’t satisfy me the way serving at my master’s pleasure does. The realization sends a burst of anticipation up my spine.
I reach for a lacy robe, then change my mind; the array of dresses is too tempting. Also, while I do want my husband to make love to me on my wedding night, perhaps changing into a robe so early in the evening seems presumptuous?
I step into a blue dress that reminds me of his eyes.
It’s simple, yet expensively cut, with a sweetheart neckline.
The lacy sleeves that clasp at my wrists remind me of my wedding dress.
It highlights my curves, so when I look at myself in the mirror, I almost blush at how it cinches my waist and accentuates my hips.
But as he’s told me, he likes the width of my hips and my hourglass figure.
The dress hugs my throbbing arse cheeks, and I welcome the pain.
It reminds me of the touch of his hands on my butt.
I shiver. I can’t wait to find out what he does to me tonight.
It’s my wedding night. My first night with my husband, and I’m in Paris. Whoa, is this really happening to me?
I walk over to the window and, once more, look out on the Eiffel Tower.
The sun had set by the time we arrived in Paris, and it’s all lit up and looks incredibly romantic.
Exhaustion courses through me. Must be the result of the bath, which relaxed me to the point that I now feel sleepy.
I settle on the chaise lounge by the window and lean back against the cushions.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted and carried. I crack my eyelids open and glimpse his stern jaw. I’m held against his broad chest, and he feels so solid, so strong. I use the excuse of being half-asleep to cuddle into him. His arms tighten around me, and I sigh. "What time is it?"
"Eight p.m. You’ve been asleep for almost two hours." Then his forehead crinkles. “Are your eyes okay?”
“Huh?” I look at him questioningly.
“You’re blinking your eyelids,” he points out.
“I fell asleep wearing my contact lenses. I shouldn’t have done that.” I half laugh.
“Why do you wear contact lenses, when you can wear glasses?”
His tone is curious, a genuine question in his eyes.
I shrug. "I’ve always tended toward being heavy.
And then I got teased for wearing glasses in high school.
Once I started working and could afford to buy them, I switched to contact lenses.
” And then I discovered how expensive they are, so I only wear them on special occasions, like tonight.
I wanted to look pretty for him tonight.
“Hmm”—he studies my face—“I prefer it when you wear your glasses.”
I blink slowly. “You prefer that I wear my out-of-style glasses?”
“It’s sexy.” His lips quirk. “I find you sexy in whatever you wear, but especially with glasses on.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “You find my wearing glasses sexy?”
“Would you be more comfortable wearing them now?” He comes to a stop. ”You would be more comfortable wearing them.” It’s a statement, not a question anymore.
“I guess you’re right,” I concede.
“Then you should swap out of your contact lenses.” He walks into the ensuite, then sets me down on the counter next to the sink where I placed my contact lens supplies and eyeglasses. He watches me as I slide my contact lenses back in their case, then slip on my spectacles.
He scoops me up in his arms again.
I squeak, "Where are we going?"
"I ordered dinner, unless you’d prefer to go directly to bed?"
That sounds good, but before I can reply, my stomach growls loudly.
His lips twitch. "Dinner then."
He carries me out through the double doors near the window and onto a balcony, which has been set up with a table and two chairs.
The table is set for dinner, complete with flowers and candles.
There are also outdoor heaters, so the chill of the evening is minimized.
He places me in one of the chairs and pushes it in.
When he’s satisfied, I’m comfortable, he walks around and sits in his chair.
I notice the damp hair that he’s combed back and realize he showered.
His chin is shadowed, the way it often is when he works late into the night in the office.
I know a lot about this man and yet, very little.
He’s also wearing a black T-shirt which stretches across his chest and jeans which cling to his powerful thighs in a way that makes my pulse race.
"I like you in casual clothes," I murmur.
He pulls a phone from his pocket, and his fingers dance across the screen before he pockets it again. "And I like watching you sleep."
"Oh,"—I swallow—"how long did you—"
"For a few minutes. Not that I haven’t stalked you before."
My jaw drops. I suspected he watched me around the office but to hear him confess that is… Whoa. "What’s brought about this bout of honesty?" I frown.
"Figured since we’re here and married, and since I aim to stay married to you, it’s time for me to be upfront.”
I try to understand what he’s implying, but the conclusion I draw doesn’t make any sense. "You mean—"
"I don’t believe in divorce, July."
I blow out a breath, "You mean, we’re going to stay married, no matter what happens?"
If I’m being honest, it’s a relief that he doesn’t believe in divorce. It means... One way or another, he’ll always be in my life. Goosebumps pop on my skin. My chest feels lighter, and I don’t dare examine these sensations too closely.
He regards me closely. "I wanted to keep my distance from you, but it seems that’s out of the question."
"What are you saying?"
The door to the suite opens; a uniformed member of the staff leads another, who rolls in a cart. He sets a dome-covered plate in front of each of us. Then whisks off the covers, one at a time.
"For madam, there’s coconut ceviche with passion fruit caviar and avocado mousse." He turns to Knox. "Duck à l’Orange for you, Mr. Davenport. Enjoy." He bows, then leaves with the other guy who wheels out the cart with him.
The tropical scent of the coconut, accompanied by the sweeter notes of the passion fruit, teases my nostrils.
I’m suddenly very hungry. I dig in and the sweet, delicate flavor is tinged with a subtle nuttiness that causes me to groan with a mouthgasm.
I take another mouthful, and another. I’m halfway through the food before I look up and catch him watching me.
"What?"
"You have—" He reaches over, scoops some of the food from the corner of my mouth and brings it to his. He sucks on his thumb, and my entire body feels like it’s about to burst into flames. I take another few mouthfuls, and with each, his blue eyes turn a shade of indigo that’s almost black.
Our gazes meet, and the desire I see in them sparks a heavy pulse between my legs.
I point my fork in the direction of his plate. "You’re not eating."
"I’m hungry for something else."
There’s no mistaking what he’s alluding to. An answering emptiness, having nothing to do with food, gnaws at my belly. Heat streaks through my veins. I’m so turned on, I might melt into a puddle right now. I place my fork down and swallow.
"What… What are you hungry for?" I’m proud that my voice comes out sounding steady; my insides are churning like I’ve swallowed a washing machine.
"What are you willing to offer me?"
I try to read his expression, but it’s closed, except for his eyes.
His attention is locked on me, reminiscent of a panther stalking through the undergrowth.
Another shiver grips me. My panties are so wet, they stick to the insides of my thighs.
Once again, it feels like I’m drawn into the vortex of his attention, like I’m being absorbed into him.
I rise to my feet as if in a dream. Then walk around to stand next to him.
He pushes his chair back, and as if we’ve practiced this move, I step into the space between his massive thighs.
With him seated, I’m a little above eye-level with him.
It’s how tall he is. His shoulders overwhelm the chair, and his arms dwarf those of the chair.