Chapter 17 #2
I can't answer, can only hold on, my arms locked around his neck and my legs wrapped tight around his waist as he fucks me against the wall. His rhythm is fast and rough, nothing gentle about it, all raw need and desperation.
One of his hands grips my ass, fingers digging in, spreading me wider so he can get deeper. The other is braced against the wall beside my head for leverage, his forearm flexing with each thrust, muscles shifting under his skin.
Every time he drives into me I can feel him hit something deep inside that makes sparks shoot through my entire body, makes my toes curl and my breath catch in my throat.
The angle is perfect, almost too perfect, the way he's hitting that spot inside me over and over, relentless and precise.
I'm making sounds I don't recognize, little gasps and whimpers that get louder with every thrust.
"Harder," I gasp out and he groans like the word physically hurt him, like I just asked him for something that might actually break him.
But his hips snap forward with more force, driving deeper, faster, harder, until I can hear the slap of skin on skin echoing in the small space, obscene and wet, can feel the wall shaking slightly behind me with the force of it, the picture frames rattling.
My head thuds back against the plaster and I don't even care, too lost in the feeling of him inside me, the stretch and drag and perfect pressure, the way he's fucking me like he owns me, like he can't get deep enough, like he wants to crawl inside my skin.
"Touch yourself," he says roughly, breaking on the last word.
I slide one hand down between us, finding my clit with shaking fingers. The position is awkward, my hand trapped between our bodies, but I manage to work my fingers in tight circles, the pressure building immediately.
He's watching where we're joined now, his gaze fixed on where my hand is moving, watching himself disappear inside me with each brutal thrust, and the look on his face is almost feral.
His jaw is clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his chest. Sweat beads at his temples, slides down the side of his face.
"That's it," he groans, his voice breaking. “Good, Isabelle. Good.”
The orgasm builds fast and hits me like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming. My whole body clenches around him, every muscle going tight, my inner walls fluttering and gripping his cock as I come.
I hear myself cry out his name and he fucks me through it, not slowing down, not giving me a second to catch my breath, just keeping that relentless pace as I fall apart. The pleasure rolls through me in waves, each one cresting higher than the last, and I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
"Where—" he starts, his voice strained, his rhythm getting erratic, losing that steady pace, his hips stuttering. "Isabelle, where do you want—fuck, I need to know—"
"Inside," I gasp, still trembling from the aftershocks, my body still clenching around him in little pulses, squeezing his cock. "Come inside me, I need to feel it, I need you to fill me up.”
He groans and slams into me one more time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and I feel him pulse inside me as he comes.
His whole body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight, his fingers digging into my ass and the wall, his face buried in the crook of my neck as he empties himself inside me with a sound that's half-groan, half-growl, raw and guttural and desperate.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other, his forehead pressed to my shoulder and my fingers buried in his hair, holding him close.
I can feel him softening inside me, feel the warm slide of his release starting to leak out where we're still joined, and I should probably care about the mess but I'm too satisfied to think about anything practical right now.
Slowly he lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are soft now, the intensity gone, replaced by something tender and wondering that makes my chest feel even tighter, like something is expanding inside me.
He kisses me, slow and deep and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and he wants to spend every second of it tasting me.
His tongue slides against mine, lazy and sweet, exploring my mouth like it's the first time, and I melt into it, into him, into this moment that feels somehow bigger than just sex, bigger than the physical release we just shared.
Then he carefully pulls out, the sensation making me gasp softly, and lowers my legs to the floor. He keeps one arm around my waist because my knees are shaking and I'm not entirely sure I can stand on my own, my thighs trembling so badly I'd probably collapse without his support.
"Come on," he says quietly, and guides me the few steps to the bed.
We collapse onto it together, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin.
He pulls me against his chest and I go willingly, curling into his warmth like I was made to fit there, my head tucked under his chin and my legs tangled with his.
He reaches down and pulls the blanket over us, tucking it around my shoulders carefully, adjusting it so I'm completely covered.
His hand starts tracing lazy, meandering patterns on my bare back, fingertips dragging softly over my spine in a way that makes me shiver and press closer.
"That was incredible," he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, his lips lingering there. "You're incredible."
"Yeah," I agree, my eyes already getting heavy. "It really was."
I should probably say something else, something about what this means or where we go from here or how we're going to navigate this with my father and the distance and all the complications looming on the horizon.
But I'm too satisfied and too comfortable and too content to think about any of that right now. So I just curl closer into his warmth, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in the scent of him—salt and sweat—and let myself drift.
I fall asleep in his arms, and for once I don't dream about kitchens or menus or my father's expectations. I just sleep, deep and dreamless and safe.
Two days later, Alex and I are alone in the kitchen before anyone else arrives, the sun barely creeping over the hills.
We've somehow managed to keep this thing between us a secret, easy enough since there's no staff currently staying in the guest cabins so we can slip between our two cottages unnoticed, spending each night with each other, completely insatiable.
Every waking second together really, working side by side during service and then falling into bed together after, and I genuinely can't get enough of him. It's becoming a problem, this addiction I'm developing.
"Tonight it's going to be Amélie," I say. "You may have a good general cinema knowledge, but it's severely lacking on the French cinema front. You'll like it. Though, I hope you don't complain about subtitles."
He's making our lattes at the espresso machine, the steam wand hissing, while I lean against the counter munching on a bit of cinnamon roll Alex pulled out of the warming drawer a few minutes ago.
Breakfast pastries for the staff that he prepped yesterday, with plenty extra, and I offered to sample them—for quality control purposes, of course. They're heavenly, buttery and sweet with just the right amount of cinnamon, and I close my eyes for a second at the bite, savoring it.
"I don't mind subtitles at all," he says, smiling at me over his shoulder before turning back to the latte. "And deal. Tonight we watch your French film, and tomorrow night it's my pick. I'm thinking In Bruges."
"Ooooh, yes, that's a good idea," I say enthusiastically.
In addition to our shared love of cooking, Alex and I are both movie buffs.
Last night we tried to binge the original Star Wars trilogy.
Well, most of it was spent making out on his couch and then having sex on said couch and then moving to the bed for round two. But still. An attempt was made.
He walks over and sets my latte on the counter beside me, then steps between my dangling legs, pressing up against me and pinning me there, his arms bracketing me on either side, hands flat on the counter.
I smile, blinking innocently even though my heart rate just ticked up. "But how am I supposed to drink my latte if you're blocking me in?"
He leans closer, inches from my face, his eyes dark and playful. "Well, I do require payment of some kind for services rendered. You know, for making you the perfect latte."
"Oh?" I say. "Well I don't know what I could possibly offer in exchange for—ah!"
He suddenly pinches my side, tickling me, and I squeal and jerk into him, laughing and trying to squirm away but there's nowhere to go.
He catches my jaw in his other hand, tilting my face up, and pulls me in for a kiss.
I melt completely against him, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, all thoughts of escape evaporating.
"You know…" I manage between kisses.
"Mmm?" He hums against my mouth, then starts to make his way down my neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my throat.
"We should really be more careful about not getting caught," I say, trying to suppress a moan as he bites my earlobe gently and my hands involuntarily pull him closer, feeling his body pressed against mine, solid and warm and perfect.
"Yes, definitely," he agrees, biting harder, and I do moan this time, unable to stop it. "First thing tomorrow, we'll be very careful. Exercise extreme caution."
I laugh breathlessly and pull him back up for another kiss, deep and hungry. We stay like that for a long minute, unable to keep our hands off each other, his hands sliding up my thighs, my fingers threading through his hair.
I'm getting so turned on that I could let him take me right here on this counter, health code violations be damned, and I'm usually an absolute stickler for food safety regulations. But there's something about Alex that makes me want to break all my rules.
A voice calling out from somewhere else in the building—maintenance maybe, coming from the supply closet down the hallway—startles us both out of it. We freeze, looking at each other for a moment, eyes wide, and then both start laughing quietly, trying to muffle the sound.
I reach for my latte and take a sip, trying to calm my racing heart.
It's perfect, of course. He's gotten terrifyingly good at knowing exactly how I like it.
He grabs his own latte, leaning back against the island counter directly across from me, putting a respectable amount of distance between us for the first time in ten minutes.
"We should talk about what to do about my father," I say, the thought sobering me quickly.
"I mean, it could really screw you over, Alex.
Destroy everything you've been working toward.
And I'd fight it, believe me I would fight it with everything I have, but considering he's never listened to me before, I seriously doubt he'd have an epiphany and start now. "
Alex shrugs, completely unconcerned in that maddening way of his. "If he finds out, I’ll figure out how to handle it. I know you'll think this is crazy, but I actually think I could get him to come around eventually."
I laugh. "You're confident, I'll give you that. But you don't know Jean-Pierre like I do. He's stubborn and controlling and absolutely convinced he knows what's best for everyone, especially me."
He smiles at me, soft and affectionate. "We'll see. In the meantime, I have to admit that a bit of forbidden romance, sneaking around, keeping it secret—it's pretty hot."
I smile at that, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't do something for me too, the thrill of it, the secrecy, keeping it hidden from everyone, the stolen moments and careful planning.
There's something exciting about it, even though I know it can't last forever.
At some point we'll have to deal with reality.
I push that thought away and consider something else.
"I might tell Margot though," I say, thinking out loud.
"She's suspicious already. She gave me this look yesterday that told me she knows something's up.
And I like her a lot. She's trustworthy, and honestly it would be nice to have someone to actually talk to about this, to process it with someone other than just you. "
Alex nods easily. "Yeah, Margot's great. She won't say anything. And in that case, if my brothers ask directly, I'll probably tell them too. I'm not good at lying to them."
I gulp, my stomach flipping nervously. "You sure? I mean, we've only been actually together for a few days now. This is still so new, what if it doesn't work out and then you've told everyone and—"
He smiles at me, cutting off my spiral. "I will if it comes up naturally, and I've been crushing on you for weeks now, so this feels like it's been a long time coming for me.
I had to wait for you to catch up and all, realize that you had feelings for me too, that you wanted me as much as I wanted—ow! "
He laughs as I smack his arm, hard, and then he catches my wrist and pulls me forward off the counter and into his arms, wrapping them around me tight. He smiles down at me, that devastating smile with the dimple that makes my knees weak.
"Am I wrong though?" he asks, his voice going soft. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I look up at him, at those brown eyes that see straight through every defense I've ever built, and sigh. "No, you bastard. I like you very much. More than I should, more than is probably smart, more than I've ever liked anyone."
He grins, triumphant and smug. "Told you so, Princess."
And then he kisses me again and everything else falls away—the kitchen around us, the complications waiting outside, the uncertain future, all of it. There's just this, just him, just us, and for now that's more than enough.