Chapter 26
Theo
If Nora Wilder thinks I’m letting her out of my sight for even a second today, she’s a lot less smart than I thought.
Because that stuff, in our suite, was so far off the orgasm charts that I’m amazed I’m functioning.
The first time, I came so hard, my vision went black.
The second time was slower, lazier, but hot as fuck. For me, anyway.
From the second she threw that towel at me, I was a goner. I can’t believe any of it just happened.
That fuck me look in her eyes when she said I give up.
My first glimpse when I untied that robe and saw her body.
The memory of her, sitting on that bench, legs spread just for me, beautiful pussy waiting, letting me hose her down. Get her off with the spray. Her head thrown back. It was the fantasy I wasn’t smart enough to dream up before. But it’s my new favourite fantasy.
The taste of her when I finally got to lick her. To suck her.
And then, the moment that blew it all away: shooting my load inside her while she writhed and shuddered and cried out right there in front of me.
I knew it.
I fucking knew she was wilder at heart than she’d ever let anyone believe.
Than she’d ever let herself believe.
But I had no clue she’d be that hungry. Needy. And so bloody responsive. Allowing me to play her body like that. To feast on it. To coax three orgasms out of her.
So, no. Nora Wilder does not get to move today.
Because I’m addicted.
At least I’m not the only one acting like I’ve been clubbed over the head.
We’re both grinning like idiots when we finally surface.
When we make it to breakfast, the communal table is already full.
Even Margot and Stephen beat us to it, though the hangdog look on my brother’s face as he shovels croissants and cold meats into his mouth tells me he won’t be the life and soul today.
I slap him on the shoulder as we round the table. ‘Happy with your life choices, mate?’
‘Fuck off, you smug twat,’ he mutters as he grabs his cup of coffee.
I’m starving, and massively dehydrated. A run and two rounds of sex will do that for you. The shady terrace where we’re having breakfast smells like amazing: that unmistakable French smell of coffee and pastries and flowers and soil and skinny French cigarettes.
I pull out a chair for Nora and sink down into mine, scooting it as close to hers as possible, wrapping my arm around her and grazing her temple with my lips as she sinks lazily against me, her hand caressing my thigh.
I can’t get enough of her smell. Her skin.
When I look up, Miles is staring at me weirdly.
‘You all right, mate?’
‘Never better. Nora and I had a nice, long sleep. Didn’t we, sweetheart?’
Nora’s fingers dig into my thigh. She’s probably mortified, but this is very standard brotherly banter.
Miles and Saoirse exchange glances.
‘I can tell.’ He pops a piece of fruit in his mouth and raises his eyebrows at me.
‘Plan for today?’ I enquire perkily. I’m in such a good mood that if they told me we’d be spending the day chasing escapee sheep in the sweltering midday sun, I’d be down with it.
Nora clears her throat. ‘There’s a walk around the old town this morning for whoever wants to join. The plan is to check out the Cocteau frescoes and soak up the atmosphere.’
That sounds boring as fuck. I think I’ll just hang here with her and sleep off our fuck-fest, and maybe—
‘I can’t wait to see them,’ she says. ‘They’re supposed to be stunning.’
FFS. Suppose I’m going to soak up some culture, then.
‘Then lunch at Paloma Beach, and we’ll spend the afternoon there,’ Saoirse offers.
A cheer goes up from the Montague and Percival men. Paloma’s an old haunt of ours. Great location with free-flowing, very cold rosé and fresh-as-fuck seafood. What more could a guy want, aside from a beautiful woman by his side to enjoy it all with? I really am a lucky fucker.
Like a needy puppy who worships its owner because she is the source of all treats, and spends all its time trying to please her (again, because she is the source of all treats), I spend the day ingratiating myself with Nora.
It’s not that I hope she’ll suddenly drag me into an alleyway and give me a blow job (though I could roll with that, and blow jobs definitely work far better to incentivise me than bones or doggie biscuits).
No.
It’s a little more complicated than that.
Because it seems my stupid puppy brain is fairly easily pleased.
Now I know what it’s like to make her happy, to have her trust me, to have her smile her most open smile and scream my name and to see those gorgeous, hypnotic Disney eyes go glassy on me, I just want another fix.
Everything I do is to get even a fraction of the dopamine hits she’s been shooting into my bloodstream all morning.
So, before we head into town, I beg a guidebook from the hotel’s receptionist and regale the group with Jean Cocteau trivia on the stroll.
And when we get to the Villa Santo Sospir, I’m able to tell Nora that Cocteau described his frescoes on these walls as ‘tattoos’.
They are genuinely pretty cool—like fancy graffiti.
It turns out Cocteau was quite good fun—he and his boyfriend ended up shacking up with the villa’s female owner and not really leaving for twelve years, during which period they shared their little menage with houseguests from the Picassos to Yves Saint Laurent.
Sounds a bit more sophisticated than the version of a threesome I managed.
‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it?’ Nora says. ‘They led such a glamorous life. You can tell this was a house for fun.’ She’s right. The stories these ‘tattooed’ walls could tell. And knowing the backstory means the villa makes far more of an impression on me than it would have if I’d sauntered in blind.
Damn her.
Still, my fake-girlfriend-with-uber-real-benefits has a dreamy smile on her face as she wanders around that I recognise as inspiration.
This part of the world always inspires me.
Mainly to make more money, because everyone’s so dripping in it.
But it’s not hard to be moved by a place so beautiful, with such a perfect climate, the best of nature’s bounty, and an inimitable style.
We so should buy a hotel here.
What makes me really happy, though, is that it’s not just my attempts to play ball on the cultural front that seem to do the trick with Nora.
My admittedly constant PDA finds a much warmer reception today than usual.
Not a huge surprise, given she let me put my cock inside her earlier.
But when I hold her hand, hug her, kiss her, whether in front of the others or in a quiet corner, she not only takes it, but she smiles and flops against me and looks at me with memory in her eyes and even initiates contact.
She kisses me. Grabs my hand. Leans into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I’ll take that. All of it, thank you.
The scene at Paloma is as cracking as ever.
We’ve been coming here for years, partying until the early hours with gorgeous European heiresses and socialites and models.
These boards that straddle the stony beach could tell some tales.
But it turns out, this visit is right up there with the best of them.
The Cote d’Azur does early summer well. A characteristic light breeze is blowing.
The sky is its trademark azure. And the rosé begins to flow as soon as we arrive.
The owners welcome us with hugs and double kisses, and coo over Saoirse, leggy and gorgeous in a white mini dress.
The smile on my brother’s face is so wide he may pull some cheek muscles, and for the millionth time I give silent thanks to his fiancée for transforming this grumpy fucker into someone more amenable.
Lunch, at a long, white-clothed table overlooking the sea, is a feast. Snapper and langoustines, grilled to perfection, the simplest and tastiest tomato salad, and obscene amounts of deep-fried, ricotta-stuffed courgette flowers, washed down by plenty of Rock Angel.
It’s a tradition that gives me great pleasure, but the kick I get from knowing Nora is experiencing all this for the first time is something else.
The arm I’ve draped lazily over the back of her chair lifts so I can brush her shoulder through the gauzy white cover-up she’s wearing for lunch.
‘How’s the food?’
‘Incredible.’ She brushes the hairs on my thigh with her free hand. ‘I can’t believe how fresh this snapper is. It’s melting in my mouth.’
‘It’s insane, isn’t it? And these courgette flowers are dangerous.’
‘Absolutely lethal. How many times have you been here?’
I think. ‘North of fifteen, probably.’
She raises her eyebrows in amusement. ‘It must be tough being you, Theo.’
It’s a fair dig. Yeah, my family pisses me off, and they don’t take me seriously enough. But come on. They’re all first world problems. Because I live a charmed life.’
Instead of laughing it off, I say, ‘I do appreciate it, you know. Not sure how I got so lucky. Do you know this neck of the woods well?’
‘Cap Ferrat? No. Elle’s taken me to the south of France for a couple of mini breaks before, over the years.
She’s so sweet and generous. But we usually hole up in some crazily expensive and discreet hotel.
Which is amazing, obviously. But the beach club thing hasn’t been an option for her for quite a while. I love the vibe here.’
‘It’s so special, isn’t it?’ I look around, seeing it through her eyes.
The sheltered cove. The large, smooth pebbles making up the beach.
The rows of sun loungers interspersed with crude wooden walkways.
The simple white parasols. The light. The intoxicating scent of seafood and sun cream.
The tinkle of laughter and the music of rapid French being spoken.
‘I always try to analyse what makes it work so well, what the secret formula is.’
She twists around in her chair to survey the scene better. ‘It’s weird, because it’s a very aspirational place, but in a low-key way. It’s like everyone’s stinking rich, but they flock here for great, simple food and wine that they can eat in their swimming trunks with a t-shirt chucked on top.’
‘That’s the endless irony of wealth,’ I tell her. ‘You make billions and buy a yacht so you can come and eat snapper barefoot and enjoy the so-called simple life, and pay hundreds of euros for the privilege. It’s what resorts like this, and the Amalfi Coast and St Barths, are built on.’
She sighs. ‘Exactly. And it confuses me. Because I don’t know if it makes me want to succeed, or jack it all in and buy a beach hut.’
I tighten my arm around her. ‘I suspect some combination of the two is ideal. You and I would get bored doing this every day, sweetheart.’
‘Yeah.’ She smiles up into my face. ‘I suppose I’ll just enjoy it while I’m here.’
From the chats we’ve had over our laptops in my flat at night, I know Nora doesn’t make a huge amount from her wedding planning business.
It’s growing, and she has a small, flexible team, and Miles and Saoirse’s wedding should open the door to more big-budget opportunities, but she won’t be retiring to Cap Ferrat any time soon.
Her sole focus is putting money aside for a deposit on a flat.
Her light-hearted dig about my charmed life comes back to me.
It’s not fair. She works harder than me, but she wasn’t born with my silver spoon.
From the colour she’s given me on her upbringing, it’s clear she’s had far less of a head start than me.
She’s done amazingly well, but she has her eye on the prize, and that’s home ownership, and she doesn’t get to fritter money away on overpriced beach clubs.
Not like me, Miles, Stephen and the Percivals.
While we’re sitting here, in this magical bubble, our skin touching, it’s easy to forget that what we have is just as temporary as this beach holiday is. Which is why I have to make a real effort to swallow what I want to say to her and keep it locked inside me instead.
Don’t worry, baby. I’ll bring you back here sometime soon.