Chapter 9 #3
By the time we're back at the table, she's already looking around differently. Not searching for threats. Just looking.
Lukas shoves another beer into her hand, and this time she drinks it.
Martin cracks some joke about the Swiss and she laughs, actually laughs, bright and unguarded.
The music shifts to something with a heavy beat, and I watch her foot start tapping under the table. She's humming along, just barely, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her shoulders loosen, swaying slightly to the rhythm.
A song comes on, something ridiculous and old, and Martin grabs her wrist and pulls her onto the bench.
"Sing with me!" he shouts.
She hesitates for maybe half a second, then climbs up, laughing, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and belts out words she clearly doesn't know.
She looks more alive than I've ever seen her.
I lean back against the wall, beer in hand, just watching.
There's this flash, just for a second, where I remember the first time I dragged her somewhere like this.
The way her spine went rigid, the way she held her champagne glass like a shield between her and the noise.
How her eyes kept darting to the exits while I grinned, knowing I'd pulled her out of her perfect marble world and dropped her into mine.
I used to love that look on her face.
But she's not wearing it now.
Her coat's draped over someone's chair. Her hair's falling out of its pins, loose strands sticking to her neck. She sways to the music, humming under her breath, fingers tapping the rim of her glass.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Thomas drops into the seat beside me, Katharina tucked under his arm, her fingers laced through his. They're both watching me.
"Don't," I say.
"Didn't say anything," Thomas says.
"You're thinking it."
I look at him, then at her, and I can see the worry behind the smiles. But I can also see the way Thomas's thumb is stroking slow circles on Katharina's shoulder, the way she's leaning into him like he's the only solid thing in the room.
"Are you going to lecture me?" I ask.
Thomas glances at Katharina. She shakes her head, smiling.
"Not today," Thomas says.
Katharina squeezes his hand. "But maybe tomorrow."
I snort and look back at élise.
She's off the bench now, steering one of the younger techs toward a chair because he's swaying on his feet. She's laughing at something Lukas said, head tipped back, completely unguarded.
She doesn't look like the girl in the VIP box. She doesn't look like the heiress who scanned the room for threats.
She looks free.
And I know, watching her, that she's not drunk on the beer.
She's drunk on not being seen. On not being Moreau. On being just élise.
It thrills me that I brought her here. That she's part of this. That she's laughing with my teammates and singing stupid songs and holding someone's jacket without even thinking about it.
But it also scares the hell out of me.
Because this kind of high doesn't last.
Eventually, we leave. Eventually, she goes back to Salzburg and her father and the cage she lives in.
She catches me staring and grins, raising her beer.
I raise mine back.
She looks like she finally escaped.
And I have no idea how to keep her free.
***
The hotel room is hers, and I can tell the second I step inside.
Not because it's fancy. It's not. It's small and ordinary, the kind of place most people book without thinking twice. Clean white walls, a double bed with a plain duvet, a desk by the window, radiator ticking quietly in the corner.
But her coat is draped over the chair. Her bag sits on the desk, perfectly placed. There's a faint trace of her perfume in the air, warm and expensive, cutting through the generic hotel smell of laundry detergent and carpet cleaner.
She watches me from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, like she's waiting to see what I'll say.
I look around, taking it in. The unmade bed where she must've sat earlier. The half-open curtain. The fact that she chose this place, this room, and invited me here.
"It's..." I start, then stop, because I don't know what she wants to hear.
She shifts her weight, just slightly. "I did not know what kind of room to choose. I didn’t want it to be too fancy, but…”
"It's perfect," I cut in.
She blinks.
"Really?"
"Yeah." I step further inside and close the door behind me. "It's quiet. It's yours. It feels real."
Her shoulders drop a fraction, like she was bracing for something else. A joke, maybe. Or judgment.
"I wasn't sure," she says quietly. "If this was... right."
"What do you mean?"
She glances around the room, then back at me. "I'm used to things being a certain way. Hotels with perfect bathrooms and staff who remember your name. This is just... normal."
"And that bothers you?"
"No." She shakes her head quickly. "That's the thing. It doesn't. I just wasn't sure if you'd—" She stops herself, lips pressing together.
"If I'd what?"
"If you'd still want me in a place like this."
I close the distance between us, hands finding her waist.
"I think," I say slowly, "that you choosing this means more than you know."
Her eyes search mine, and I can see the uncertainty there, the way she's still not sure if she's doing this right.
That's when I notice the champagne.
It's sitting on the desk, beaded with condensation, next to a small plate of strawberries. Someone from the team must've sent it up. Probably Katharina.
élise sees me looking and laughs, soft and a little embarrassed.
"They were here when I got back," she says. "I think someone on your team might be a romantic."
"Champagne again," I say, already reaching for it.
"Apparently we have a theme."
“Definitely not good enough for you…” I smirk.
“Probably,” she answers, but her eyes have a mischievous smile.
I work the cork loose, and it pops with a satisfying sound that fills the small room.
"Last time we had champagne together," she says, picking up a strawberry, "you taught me what 'no more games' might feel like."
I pour two glasses, bubbles fizzing loudly in the quiet.
"Did I?" I ask, handing her one.
"You did." She takes a sip, eyes on mine over the rim. "I didn't believe you at first."
"And now?"
She doesn't answer right away. Just holds the glass, strawberry in her other hand, looking at me like she's trying to decide something.
"Now," she says finally, "I'm still figuring it out."
I clink my glass against hers. "Fair enough."
We drink in silence for a moment, passing the strawberries back and forth. It's quieter than I expected. Almost shy. Like we're both waiting for the other person to make the first move and neither of us knows what that move should be.
She sets her glass down and looks at me, and the mood shifts, darkens.
I step closer, and she doesn't step back.
My hands find her waist, fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt, and I go slower than I usually do. Checking. Watching her face.
She lifts her arms, and I pull the shirt over her head, careful not to catch her hair.
My fingers fumble with the clasp of her bra, and she laughs, breathless.
"You're nervous," she says.
"Maybe."
"You're never nervous."
"Maybe I am tonight."
The bra comes off, and I drop it somewhere behind me. My hands skim up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, and she inhales sharply.
I lean in, mouth finding the curve of her neck, and I almost say it. Almost slip into the old script.
Say it, princess. Tell me you want me to fuck you raw.
But I catch myself halfway, the words dying on my tongue.
"Tell me if you want me to slow down," I say instead, voice rough.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright and a little stunned.
"I don't want you to slow down," she whispers. "I just want you to be here."
"I'm here."
"Then prove it."
We stumble toward the bed, knocking into the nightstand hard enough that one of the water bottles tips over and rolls onto the floor with a thud.
She laughs, breathless and surprised, and I laugh with her, the sound rumbling low in my chest. We're still laughing when I ease her down onto the mattress, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me with her.
She rolls her hips up against mine, deliberate, and the friction makes me groan into her mouth.
Her hands slide into my hair, tugging lightly, nails scraping my scalp just hard enough to send sparks down my spine.
I kiss her slow, deep, tasting champagne and strawberries and the faint salt of her skin, something sweeter underneath that makes me want to drown in her.
I pull back, breaking the kiss, and she makes a small sound of protest. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and parted.
I yank my shirt over my head in one rough motion and toss it aside.
She watches me, gaze dragging slow and deliberate over my chest, lingering on the ridges of my stomach, dipping lower to where my pants are already too tight.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and the look she gives me is pure hunger.
"Fuck," I mutter, hands going to my zipper.
"You're very proud of your..." she starts, teasing, but then her voice softens. "You know what you're doing with that."
"Do I?"
"You always have."
I don't feel like I do. Not tonight.
Tonight feels different. Like if I move too fast or say the wrong word, this whole fragile balance between us will shatter.
I unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs, and she lifts her hips to help. Her underwear follows, lace pooling on the floor, and then she's naked under me and I can't breathe for a second.
I kiss her tenderly, hands mapping her body like I'm trying to memorize it. The curve of her hip. The dip of her waist. The soft skin of her inner thigh, already slick with her arousal, trembling under my touch.
She reaches for my wallet on the nightstand, fishing out a condom with a shaky laugh. "Not to break the spell," she murmurs, tearing it open. Her fingers wrap around me, stroking once, twice, firm, teasing, before rolling it on slowly, her eyes locked on mine, heat building between us.
When I push inside her, I go slow, inch by inch, savoring the tight, wet grip of her. Watching her face the whole time, lips parted, breath hitching as she adjusts to my thickness, filling her completely.
Her eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open in a soft moan, and I pause, just for a second, buried deep, feeling her pulse around me. Just to look at her, flushed and undone.
Her hand finds my face, palm warm against my jaw, and she pulls me down into a kiss that feels like an answer to a question I didn't know I was asking, tongues tangling slow and deep, her hips rocking up to take me deeper.
We find a rhythm, familiar but different. Not frantic. Not proving anything. Just us, long, tender thrusts that grind against her most sensitive spots, her slick walls clenching with every slide, building that sweet, aching pressure.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting skin, and I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, musk and salt, feeling her pulse hammering against my lips as I nip the tender skin there, drawing a whimper.
I shift my angle, hitting deeper, my hand slipping between us to circle her clit with my thumb, wet, slippery circles that make her gasp and arch, chasing the edge.
When she comes, it's quiet but intense, almost surprised, her body tightening like a vice around me, fluttering and pulsing, a rush of fresh wetness coating us as she gasps my name, trembling through it.
I follow a few thrusts later, groaning into her hair, spilling hard inside the condom with the aftershocks of her milking every last drop from me. Then we're both still, tangled together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
I roll onto my side, pulling her with me, and she curls into my chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, her heartbeat syncing with mine, soft sighs escaping as she nuzzles closer.
Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bright. She's still buzzing, I can feel it, the same high she had at the pub but deeper now, amplified, her thigh draped over mine, body humming with lazy afterglow.
This is the version of her I love most.
And the one I'm not sure I can keep.
She traces lazy patterns on my chest, fingertips light, and I watch her in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
I can win a downhill. I've proven that.
But I don't know how to keep a girl who only feels real when she's running.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, voice drowsy.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I kiss the top of her head instead of answering, and she doesn't push.
We lie there in the quiet, closer than we've ever been, and for the first time, sex feels like staying instead of escaping.
I just don't know if either of us knows how to stay.
Her breathing evens out, and I think she's fallen asleep when she murmurs, "This feels like a bubble."
"What?"
"Tonight," she says softly. "Beautiful and thin."
I tighten my arm around her, like I can hold the bubble in place if I just don't let go.
"Yeah," I whisper. "It does."
The circus will come for us in the morning.
But tonight, we're here. And that has to be enough.
Tomorrow the hill gets first claim on me again. Tonight she does.