Chapter 34
BIX
Istare at the door Slayer just slammed, speechless with disbelief. How dare he burst in on my private conversation and drag me away like some possessive caveman?
I storm to my bedroom, heart still racing from our confrontation. As I walk toward the closet, I try to tell myself that even though he acted like a jerk, maybe Slayer had the right intentions.
He’s correct that I wasn’t doing a very good job of playing his sweet girlfriend—though I’m not sure when he had time to notice, with all the attention he’s been paying Valentina.
And even though I know my conversation with Carlos by the pool was completely innocent, who knows what the gossiping folks lounging on their designer towels would think about it.
I’ve only been at the hotel a short time, but it’s long enough to realize that half the reason people pay these exorbitant rates is for front-row seats to international gossip.
Right now, they might very well be whispering about how I’m throwing over a world-famous rock star for an equally powerful record producer.
But they’re wrong. Carlos is handsome in a conventional sense, but he’s not my type. Not the way Slayer is.
Slayer.
The way his dark eyes flashed when he saw me with Carlos. The way he put his hand so possessively on my shoulder. Like he really wanted me.
Like he cared.
This morning on the hill, watching him in the golden light with Oscar the turtle, I was hoping for more than sharing a croissant.
With the sun warm overhead and the intoxicating scent of mountain herbs all around us, I was waiting for him to make his move.
The move he started but never finished that first night.
But no. “Professional,” he’d said. Just for the weekend.
The spark between my legs that he ignited has been smoldering for hours now, turning to a persistent ache after seeing his jealousy on full display.
I feel what can only be called a longing—wanting Slayer to take me in his arms and claim me, show me I’m his.
Because despite this fake arrangement, despite the contract, I’d really like to be. Not because he’s a rock star, but because underneath all the Slayer trappings, he’s Sam, a talented, creative musician and kind, intriguing soul.
But I’m not sure anything I want matters. For now, I try to focus on selecting the perfect outfit for the press conference. Antoine left detailed instructions about which pieces to pair.
But my mind keeps drifting to Slayer—Sam. To his hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me in his apartment before everything went wrong.
The elegant bathroom beckons, and I step into the shower, letting the multi-jet system massage away some tension.
As I lather myself with lavender-scented body gel, my hands glide over my breasts. I imagine they’re being caressed by Slayer, strong yet gentle.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in one of the hotel’s plush white robes, the Egyptian cotton soft against my sensitized skin. I apply the matching lavender body lotion, my skin drinking in its rich moisture, leaving a subtle sheen.
As I tighten the robe’s belt, a decision forms. I need release before facing the press—before facing him again. I check the drapes. Closed. The door? Locked.
I strip off the robe and slip between the sheets, still feeling the soft drag of lotion on my skin. The thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton slides cool and smooth against my naked body.
I take a long breath, then another as I try to imagine what sex with Slayer would be like.
It’s not typical of me to pleasure myself, especially during the day. But I need this. Especially after our charged moment on the hill, after seeing the raw possession in his eyes by the pool.
I’m now certain he’s as wild for me as I am for him. Why else would he be so jealous of Carlos?
I reach up. My breasts are still warm and slick from the body gel and lotion I smoothed on. I cup them gently, teasing my nipples until they stand erect, sensitive points of pleasure.
One hand lingers at my chest while the other drifts lower, tracing the inner edge of my thigh as I think about Slayer.
In my imagination, he’s touching me now. His hands stroke my shoulders, trail down along the curve of my spine.
My back arches at the phantom touch.
His forefinger drifts from my ribs to my belly, then lower to my inner thigh. I feel a crackle—a live wire—just under the surface.
“Now,” I whisper to the empty room. I touch myself—lightly, carefully. Not directly on my clit. Not yet.
I want to make this last, savor the anticipation that’s been building since the moment our eyes met at that noodle shop.
My fingers move faster now. I picture him above me, his dark eyes intense with desire—eyes that see the real me, not Sterling’s creation. My body responds instantly, growing slick with anticipation.
I’m almost there.
The pulsing grows stronger inside me. I imagine him grabbing my hips, his lips pressing against mine, tasting like morning croissants and mountain air.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Yes.”
Careful with my clit, my hand hovers close, not touching. Not yet.
In my fantasy, the head of Slayer’s cock presses against me. His breath is hot in my ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it.
His voice is ragged, whispering my name the way he did on the hillside.
Not Ms. Bismark. Not Sterling’s creation. Just Bix.
I move my fingers again. A little faster.
He flips me over—face down, bare, willing. He grinds against me. The length of him so full, so ready.
He nudges my thighs apart. The blunt head of his cock is right there, right where I need him.
“Yes,” I whisper again. “Slayer. Yes.”
And that’s it.
Suddenly, I’m cresting, burying my face in the pillow to muffle my cries. My body arches with the delirium of release, every nerve ending alive with sensation.
The orgasm swells to something beyond me—like my body has shot into outer space, beyond Saint-Tropez, beyond contracts and jealousy and the complications of the real world.
It takes minutes to come back to Earth. My heart hammers in the quiet. My hand rests between my legs, aftershocks pulsing through me.
And then...
A knock on my door.
“It’s time,” Slayer says, his voice muffled through the wood.
Time for the press conference. Time to play our parts in Sterling’s carefully orchestrated performance.
I rise on shaky legs to dress, still wondering if Slayer’s jealousy means that beneath all the pretense, there’s something real between us after all.