Chapter Ten
Sterling
“Pompous jerk,” I muttered, entering my apartment and kicking off my shoes. “How dare he tell me I only care about appearances?”
I undressed and showered, then covered my face with a thin layer of antiwrinkle cream and moisturizer, taking care to check for age spots. A few more silver hairs had shown through, and I debated a second trip to the hairdresser or buying a kit—online, of course—and touching them up myself.
I pulled on a pair of sleep pants and settled on the couch for the late news. Another national scandal, protests, more singers behaving badly.
“Same shit, different day.” I got up to make a cup of tea, when the buzzer rang. “Who the fuck is here at midnight?” I picked up the wall phone. “Zayn? Is there a problem?”
“No, Mr. Forest. But you have a guest. It’s Denis Bouvier. The hockey player?”
Cold washed over me, followed by heat. I didn’t miss the excitement in Zayn’s voice, but the last thing I needed right now was a confrontation. “Please tell him it’s late and I’m going to bed. Thanks.”
I didn’t wait for an answer and hung up. The worst mistake I’d ever made was allowing that man into my apartment the first time. I wasn’t about to be that foolish a second time.
My bell rang, and my heart kicked up. I strode to the door, first peering through the peephole, but Denis was so tall, all I got was his chin, so I opened it a crack. “What the hell are you doing up here? Why did Zayn let you up? He knows better.”
“Don’t blame the poor guy. I made it impossible for him.”
“Why am I not surprised? Anyway, go away. It’s late.”
“We’re not finished with the conversation from dinner.”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah we are. Good night.” I closed the door, but he began to relentlessly ring my bell.
I ignored him, but he began to knock and call my name.
Bastard. I stomped across the floor and flung the door open.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, unwilling to have a public scene. “I have neighbors.”
“I said I wanted to talk to you,” he stated, that deep, husky voice raising goose bumps up and down my arms.
“I already told you, it’s late and I have nothing to say.”
He leaned on the doorframe, gazing at me.
I hated that he was so tall and had that advantage over me.
“But maybe I have something to say to you.” That wicked grin I hated because it made it hard for me to breathe curved his lips.
Once again I found myself unable to resist. He moved closer, and because I stepped aside, he took that as an invitation to enter.
“Fine. Now you’re here. What is it?” I stood my ground, waiting by the door so he wouldn’t think it would be a prolonged social visit.
“You’re a snob.” He pointed his finger at me.
That wasn’t what I expected, and my jaw dropped. “What?”
“You think you’re better than everyone else. It’s why you didn’t eat your food. It’s not from some fancy restaurant.”
“That’s not true,” I sputtered. “It was late, and I don’t like eating after six. It’s not good for digestion.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. Plus, your response about hockey players was bullshit. Merde. Scars, bruises…so what? We’re not pretty boys, dressed up for the camera, not a hair out of place. We’re men who play hard.”
Oh, I knew that. Denis’s golden hair lay in waves around his face, his cheeks shadowed with late-night stubble.
Thick biceps bulged against his dress shirt, and powerful thighs strained the fabric of his slacks.
My dick knew it too, as it was rock-hard.
I stayed quiet, letting him rant, hoping he’d run out of steam and leave.
“You think because we play sports, we’re all just dumb lunkheads who get off on beating each other up.”
“If the skates fit.”
“You think you’re funny.”
I lifted a shoulder, and my mild response only seemed to anger him further. His face grew dark, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a feral snarl. Maybe I wanted to see how far I could goad him because I was hoping for something more. I smiled up into his face.
“What should the public think when they see grown men punching each other because of some game? You’re not changing the world or—mmmh.”
My head bumped the door as he slammed his mouth on mine.
My hands clutched his shoulders, and I meant to push him off me.
And I would. In a minute. First I had to taste him.
Suck that thick, wet tongue in my mouth.
My fingers twisted the thin fabric as I pulled him closer, and I heard a tearing sound.
The overhead light faded as my vision blurred.
The press of his solid dick to mine nearly sent me to my knees.
An arm steadied my waist while his other hand held my face as his lips moved over mine.
Slow and intimate. Breath for breath. I burned and wondered how I wasn’t lying in a heap of ash at his feet.
So long. It had been so long…
“Mon cher. Je t’adore.”
His whispered endearments ghosted across my jaw as he continued to kiss me, and I clung to him. Denis palmed my ass, then slipped his hand inside my pants and briefs. My heart seized, and I froze as he slid his large, rough finger into my cleft.
“Je veux te baiser,” he almost growled, and I didn’t need to understand French to know what he meant.
How had I let this happen? I never lost control. My slowly melting brain kicked in, and I shoved him off me. “What the hell are you doing?”
Lips red and kiss-swollen, Denis brushed the hair off his face. Damn the man, but he was barely affected while I struggled to remain upright and draw air into my lungs.
“You have a problem recognizing the obvious. I was kissing you.”
“I never said you could.” I scowled and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and Denis’s eyes narrowed.
“Because you were too busy kissing me back.” He grinned and winced. “Can a tongue be dislocated? I think yes, with how hard you were sucking mine.”
I saw red. “You bastard. You didn’t ask or give me a chance to do anything.”
“What do you expect from a lunkhead hockey player?” Those clever eyes glittered, and I itched to smack that beautiful face. “Besides, you were talking nonsense, and I needed to shut you up. My mouth on yours seemed the best way.”
“Get out. Now.” I opened the door, and the fucker was laughing as he passed by me.
“You ripped my shirt. You know, because you didn’t want me to kiss you.”
Frustrated and embarrassed, I slammed the door and locked it quickly, afraid I’d open it and ask him to come finish what he started. Because if I switched off my brain that was exactly what I’d do. Thank God I wasn’t ruled by emotions.
It took three cups of chamomile tea to settle my racing nerves before I could go to bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, and I could relax and forget all about Denis Bouvier.
**
The morning dawned fair but not hot, and I completed my first lap, this time choosing the reservoir as my route.
I released a sigh of relief. I had some crazy notion that Denis would be waiting for me outside my apartment or in the same spot in the park where he’d met me last time, so I changed my routine.
My sneakers pounded the cement path, and with each yard I advanced, I imagined Denis’s face underfoot, me squashing him like a bug.
I’d lain awake half the night, angry at my inability to forget about the kiss. Each time I recalled how needy I’d been, how I’d wanted to climb him like a fucking tree and wrap myself around him, the burn of my humiliation scalded my blood.
The worst part was, I’d acted as if I’d never been kissed.
I was no virgin. I’d had sex in college and enjoyed it, but I’d never made demands for a relationship.
I couldn’t take the chance of anyone finding out who I really was, so I’d go to parties and find someone.
Some kissing and touching, followed by sex, and it was finished.
A towel for the wet spot. Rarely any conversation or even much talking beyond, On all fours or on your back?
Yeah, right there. Showers and good-byes.
No numbers exchanged, no expectations. Nice and uncomplicated.
Never any thrusting tongues or ragged breaths.
No ripped shirts and a desperate longing to be dragged and thrown on the bed. No wanting to give up control.
Denis had unleashed something primitive in me, and I didn’t like it.
I couldn’t allow it to happen again. I slowed my pace for a cooldown and drank deeply from my water bottle.
I checked my watch and saw with satisfaction I’d beaten my best time by a full three seconds.
I exited the park and walked home, planning a day of skin-and-hair treatments after my shower.
I needed to rest and rejuvenate to look good for the week ahead.
Denis Bouvier was clueless. He could get hit in the face, and the fans would cheer every bruise and scar he carried, but not me.
He thought I was shallow, but his job didn’t require him to look forever young while under harsh, unforgiving lights.
I knew what the camera picked up, every line in high definition, and I had to appear as if I was aging in reverse.
I entered my lobby and stood for a moment, my eyes closed to enjoy the cool air flowing over my warm skin. The first thing I planned to do upstairs was to peel off these sticky clothes and get into a cool shower.
“Bonjour, mon cher. How was your run?”
My eyes flew open, and my stomach bottomed out. “Wh-what’re you doing here?” I struggled to maintain my composure. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him. I took a step away.
“I brought breakfast.” He held up a bag.
“I told you. I don’t eat bagels.”
“I know.” He fluttered his lashes. “I am here to make peace. Une trêve.”
“It’s fine. I forgive you. Now go away.”
“Forgive me? For what?”