Chapter 28 Spencer
TWENTY-EIGHT
SPENCER
The air is cool, still holding the last shimmer of spring sun. And from the moment Rhea steps off the jet, she’s glowing.
I don’t rush her.
We linger at the edge of the tarmac while she takes it all in—the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the hum of the city just beyond the private terminal.
When our car arrives, I hold the door and tell her, “The night’s still young. I hope you packed your sense of wonder.”
She laughs, low and nervous, “I don’t think that’s ever left my bag.”
By 10:15, we’re at our first stop: the Trocadéro. It's one of the best views in the world. Definitely the best night view of the tower.
And right on cue, the Eiffel Tower begins its hourly shimmer, and Rhea gasps—actually gasps—as if someone just lit the stars on fire.
“So damn beautiful,” she says, voice a whisper.
“Yes, you are,” I whisper back. Kissing the top of her head.
We take a photo. I swear she glows brighter than the tower.
The next stop - I’ll admit- I had to have Gina pull a few strings for.
It’s a rooftop terrace atop a restored 19th-century hotel in the Marais. Normally it’s reserved for exclusive fashion events, but tonight, it’s ours. Blankets. Candles. A violinist. A view of the whole damn city.
We’re served a late dinner—bubbly, light bites, macarons, and strawberries dipped in ganache.
She takes a bite of the duck confit, lets out a soft moan, and presses a hand to her chest.
“Oh my god,” she says. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
But even as she lifts another forkful, her eyes drift again, drawn like a magnet to the glittering skyline beyond the glass.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say, watching her with a grin.
She swallows, dabs her lip with the corner of her napkin. “I don’t want to miss a single second of it. The light, the rooftops, the sound of the city—I want to eat it all.”
It’s past midnight when we’re wandering on foot through the cobbled streets of Montmartre, the shops closed, the streets hushed.
We turn a corner and there it is—one of the old carousels still turning, just for us.
“Are you kidding me?” she breathes, half-laughing. “It’s actually running?”
“I may have… made a call.”
She stares up at the glowing horses. “Do grown women still ride carousels?”
I take her hand and lead her up the steps. “Only under just the right circumstances..”
The music starts. We ride. She laughs—deep, unabashed joy—and I memorize the sound.
By 1:15 a.m., a private boat waits at the base of Pont Neuf. Champagne already chilled.
The captain welcomes us, and we glide along the water, Paris twinkling on both sides.
She’s tucked against my side, heels off, one hand in mine.
We pass Notre Dame, lit like a cathedral from a dream, its Gothic spires gilded by moonlight.
She turns toward me, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.
“I used to reread A Moveable Feast in college,” she says. “I’d sit in the campus café pretending I was here, drinking espresso, writing something that mattered. I wanted to be that girl. The one who carried worn paperbacks in her coat pocket and quoted Rilke without sounding pretentious.”
She laughs softly. “I never thought I’d actually get here.”
I watch her, the way the lights from the river ripple across her face, and I swear, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget this image.
“I think you’re still that girl,” I say. “The one with the paperbacks in her coat pocket.”
She looks over at me, skeptical.
“Maybe not openly quoting Rilke,” I add, “but I’ve seen you whisper lines from something under your breath when you think no one’s listening.”
She laughs, “I have been known to talk to myself.”
She falls quiet, her fingers tightening around mine. The boat slides under a bridge, the soft golden glow overhead painting patterns on the deck around us.
“I used to think romance was for other people,” she says after a long moment.
And that’s when I have to kiss her before I say, “Well, you were wrong about that.”
Around 2:30 a.m., we arrive at the hotel, an unassuming building from the outside. But inside, it’s a penthouse suite with 180-degree views, rose petals scattered across the bed, and floor-to-ceiling windows opening to the glowing skyline.
Rhea steps inside and stares. Then she turns to me, eyes glassy. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Just take it in.”
She reaches for me, slow and sweet, and I pull her close for a kiss.
Then she slips off her shoes and sinks onto the bed, still smiling.
By the time I step out of the bathroom ten minutes later, she’s sound asleep, curled beneath the sheet, face turned toward the open window and the Paris lights beyond.
I climb in beside her as quietly as I can and put my arm around her, clothes and all.
And I drift off with a feeling I haven’t known in years.
Peace.
When I wake, it’s to the slow, erotic pleasure of her touch—her body spooned against mine in the morning light. Her hand already wrapped around me, stroking me gently through my half-sleep.
I let out a soft, appreciative groan and reach down, placing my hand over hers, guiding the rhythm. Telling her—without words—how good it feels. How much I want this. Want her.
But as I slowly wake, I remember. This time, it’s my turn to give.
I shift onto my back, then over to face her, brushing her hair from her forehead, looking at her—really looking.
I’m wondering what ache she’s been carrying beneath those bright eyes, what unspoken desire I might have the chance to ease.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed of.”
She smiles—slow, sleepy—and tips her head to the side. “This part of the France itinerary? I didn’t ever imagine.”
I chuckle against her skin, then dip down, tracing lazy circles around one nipple, then the other, letting my fingers brush across each tight peak until she lets out the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
She breathes, arching her back. “I’ve never dared to dream of this.”
Her hand is still on me—sometimes soft, sometimes firmer—and every stroke sends fire through my veins. I answer with movement of my own, shifting downward, kissing the curve of her breast, then lower still, letting my mouth worship her belly, her hips, every inch of her warm, waiting body.
When I part her thighs and settle between them, she opens to me without hesitation. Her hands find my hair, holding me there as I taste her, slow and patient, tongue and lips working in perfect rhythm, letting her know—this isn’t just desire. This is reverence.
She doesn’t say “Don’t stop.” She doesn’t have to. Her hands say it for me, holding me in place, trembling slightly with each rising wave.
“Oh god… Spencer…” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I—I’m so close… so soon. Please—I need you inside me.”
Only then do I lift my head. Only then do I shift forward and enter her slowly—carefully—watching her face as her eyelids shut and her lips part in a breathless sigh.
Her hands slide to my hips now, pulling me deeper, anchoring me to her. And it’s not just our bodies—it’s our souls, falling into step, into song.
“Yes,” she whispers. Then louder—“Yes. Yes… oh god, yes. This is my dream.”
And when she cries out my name, when her body arches and shudders beneath mine, there’s nothing I can do but follow, joining her in the only place I ever want to be.
“Rhea,” I gasp, every muscle drawn tight. “Oh, Rhea. I love you.”