Chapter Four
Brooke
By the time we get back to the hotel, the sky has turned black and Paris is wrapped in that soft kind of nighttime glow, streetlamps spilling gold across the cobblestones, restaurant lights flickering behind fogged windows.
And I am dead on my feet. My legs ache, my back aches, even my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
All I want is to sink into a hot bath and then sleep until the shuttle drags me back to Charles de Gaulle for my flight to New York tomorrow.
“When do you go back?” I ask Matthew as we wait for the elevator, shifting my weight from one sore foot to the other.
“Next Monday,” he says, rolling his sleeves up a little. “I’ve got a few meetings here.” His eyes flick to mine.
“What about you?”
“Tomorrow,” I reply. “Direct to New York.”
There’s a beat of silence before he asks, “Can you stay?”
The question hits me harder than it should. For a second, I let myself think about it, what it would be like to stay. To spend a week in the city of love with Matthew, to walk more cobbled streets, to laugh over more meals, to maybe fall asleep next to him instead of a cold hotel pillow.
The elevator dings and opens before I can answer, and we step inside. I shake my head. “I can’t. I just came back from PTO, and we’re already short-staffed.”
He exhales through his nose, a quiet sigh, then reaches out and rests a hand gently on my waist. The touch is light, hesitant, but it makes my pulse stumble anyway. “I wish you could,” he murmurs.
I turn to face him, my back pressing softly against the wall of the elevator. The space feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. His eyes find mine and hold them, and in that charged silence, I see every glance, every almost-touch, every unspoken word from the past few hours hanging between us.
He glances down at my lips, once, twice and then, slowly, like he’s giving me every chance to stop him, he leans in and brushes his mouth against mine.
The kiss is soft. Barely there. A question, not an answer.
I freeze for a heartbeat, my brain scrambling to catch up with my heart. And then I decide I’m done overthinking.
Sliding my hand up the back of his neck, I tug him toward me and kiss him again, deeper this time, with all the pent-up wanting and what ifs that have been simmering for two years.
Matthew's arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The kiss deepens, turns hungry. He bites my lip; I gasp and his tongue slides in.
I make a soft sound in the back of my throat that would embarrass me if I could think straight.
But I can't think at all with his hands skimming up my sides, with the way he tastes like wine and possibility.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
We don't stop. His mouth is still on mine, demanding and gentle all at once. I vaguely register that we should move, that we're probably giving someone a show, but then Matthew plasters his body against mine, his fingers threading through my hair, and I forget to care.
Someone clears their throat. Matthew pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, "We should probably..."
"Probably," I agree, but I'm already kissing him again.
The doors start to close, and I snap back to reality just enough to thrust my hand out, catching them before they shut. We break apart, both breathing hard. My lipstick is probably smeared beyond repair. I don't care.
I look up into Matthew's dark eyes, and take his hand.
We make our way past a bellman, who barely conceals his knowing smirk as we stumble past, fingers intertwined, my cheeks flushed.
I tug Matthew down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step.
When we reach my door, I fumble in my purse, digging through receipts and loose coins, suddenly all thumbs.
Matthew steps behind me, his breath hot on my skin as he brushes my hair aside. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. A shiver runs through me.
"Key, Brooke," he whispers, his voice rough.
I finally locate the keycard, pulling it out with trembling fingers. The little green light blinks on the first try, a small miracle considering how much my hand is shaking. We tumble inside, and Matthew kicks the door shut behind us.
The room is dark except for the glow of Paris streaming through the window.
I turn to face him, and for one suspended moment, we just look at each other.
Then I'm reaching for his shirt buttons, my fingers working quickly down the front.
One, two, three buttons open, revealing warm skin and the dark trail of hair running down his abdomen.
He trembles slightly under my touch as I explore the smooth planes of his chest. His fingers rise up, taking the edge of my shirt with them, grazing my skin with a touch so light I almost wonder if I've imagined it.
"May I?" he whispers, his voice husky.
I nod, lifting my arms as he pulls the fabric over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my shoulders and back. For a second, he just stares at my face, breathing heavily, the tension between us thick enough to cut.
Then Matthew reaches for me, his palm warm against my cheek. "You're beautiful," he says, and something in his eyes makes me believe him. Not just the words, but the way he looks at me, like I'm something precious, something worth savouring.
I lean forward, pressing my lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and something uniquely him. His breath catches, fingers tangling in my hair as I work my way up his neck, leaving a trail of kisses that make him shiver.
We stumble toward the bed, our hands fumbling with belts, zippers, fabric. My pants drop to the floor, pooling at my feet. Matthew's follow, then his boxers, my underwear. Every touch ignites my skin, every brush of his fingertips leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
I tug at his shirt, still half-buttoned, and he shrugs it off, letting it fall somewhere behind us. His chest presses against mine, skin to skin except for my bra, the last barrier between us.
Matthew's fingers trace the strap, following it around to the clasp. With one deft movement, it comes undone, and I let it slip down my arms, tossing it across the room.
The way he looks at me, his eyes wide, lips parted, makes me pause. There's something almost worshipful in his gaze as it travels over my body.
"They're just boobs," I say with a small laugh, trying to sound casual despite the heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm sure you've seen them before."
He looks at me like he's seeing something extraordinary, not just my naked chest.
"Not just boobs," he murmurs, his voice rough with want. "Your boobs."
My heart skips as his hand reaches out, cupping one breast with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. His palm is slightly rough against my sensitive skin, and I fight the urge to close my eyes at the sensation.
"God, Brooke," he whispers, leaning down.
His lips brush the soft skin around my nipple, feather-light kisses that make me shiver. Then his mouth closes over the nipple, warm and wet, and he sucks, hard.
The pleasure hits me like electricity. My back arches off the bed involuntarily, a gasp tearing from my throat. My fingers find the back of his head, threading through his hair, holding him against me as he moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention.
"Matthew," I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.
He hums against my skin, the vibration sending another wave of sensation through me.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, gripping my thigh as he continues to tease me with his hot mouth.
My breath catches as he traces a path up my collar bone to my shoulder with featherlight kisses.
The anticipation is almost unbearable, my body arching toward him, seeking more.
With one arm around my back, he suddenly flips us over in one smooth motion. I gasp at the sudden shift, my hair spreading around the pillow as I find myself under him. His eyes are dark with desire as he looks down at me, his hands next to my head.
Matthew
I can't believe this is happening. Brooke is beneath me, her hair spread across the pillow like dark silk, her eyes reflecting the dim lights streaming through the window. I hover over her, my breath coming fast and shallow, my heart threatening to burst through my chest.
All those years, believing I wasn’t good enough for her.
And now here we are.
I lower my head to capture her lips again, savouring the soft moan that escapes her. Her skin is impossibly soft under my fingertips as I trace the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip. I can feel her heartbeat fluttering against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
"Brooke," I whisper against her mouth, unable to form more coherent thoughts. Her name has become a prayer, a plea, the only word that matters.
Her hands slide up my back, nails lightly scraping my skin in a way that makes me shudder. When she arches against me, the friction nearly undoes me completely.
"Wait," I manage to say, pulling back just enough to catch my breath. My dick is so hard it hurts, pressing against her thigh. "Are you sure?" I ask, holding onto my last thread of control.
She whispers "I'm sure," grinding against my hard cock. All eight inches. When I had that late growth spurt, more than my height grew.
Fuck. The feel of her soft skin against mine is driving me insane. I literally can't think straight with all my blood rushing south, leaving my brain useless.
I reach down between us, finding her wet and ready. She gasps when I slide my fingers against her, her hips bucking up. I'm not gentle about it. Don't need to be. She's soaking, her body telling me everything her mouth already confirmed.
"Condom," I grunt, reluctantly pulling my hand away.
I reach down to grab the condom from my pants, but Brooke locks her legs around my waist, pinning me against her. Fuck, the feel of her wet pussy against my cock nearly makes me lose it right there.