Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Laurel
I wake to the soft, rhythmic clack of a keyboard.
My eyes flutter open. Morning light spills through the tall windows, gilding the room in pale gold.
Leonid sits beside me in bed, shirtless, laptop balanced on his lap. The sheets are pooled around his waist; his broad back and tattooed arms flex subtly with each keystroke. He turns his head and catches me watching, and a slow, warm smile curves his mouth.
“Hey,” I whisper, voice still thick with sleep.
“Hey.” He leans down and kisses me, deep, lazy, and slow. His lips taste faintly of coffee. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah.” I stretch a little, feeling the pleasant ache between my legs. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A little.” He closes the laptop and sets it on the bedside table. “Around midnight, my assistant messaged about something that needed my attention. I’ve been working since.”
Before I can respond, he captures my mouth again. This kiss is deeper, hungrier, his tongue stroking mine in a rhythm that makes me whimper into him. My body responds instantly, heat pooling low, thighs pressing together.
His hand slips beneath the sheet, sliding between my legs. Fingers brush my wet entrance, teasing, circling.
“How sore are you?” he murmurs against my lips.
“A little,” I gasp, hips bucking up into his touch. “But… don’t stop.”
He chuckles, then withdraws his hand completely. I almost cry out in protest.
“You need to eat first.”
He slides out of bed, stands, and stretches a hand toward me. He’s only in black briefs now; I can’t help staring. Every line of him is sculpted, broad shoulders, ridged abs, the deep V disappearing beneath the waistband, cock straining through the briefs even at rest. My mouth goes dry.
I sit up. The sheet falls to my waist, baring my breasts. His gaze darkens instantly, heated, possessive. I feel my nipples tighten under the weight of his stare, a flush spreading across my chest.
He looks like he wants to devour me all over again.
I get out of bed and reach for the shirt he wore last night, discarded on the floor, and pull it on. It swallows me whole, sleeves dangling past my fingertips, hem brushing mid-thigh.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You look good in my shirt.”
I smile, warmth blooming in my chest. He takes my hand, lacing our fingers, and leads me out of the bedroom into the suite’s living area.
Breakfast is already laid out on the dining table, but that’s not what stops me cold.
On the couch sit two glossy shopping bags, black with gold inscriptions on the ribbon, and beside them, a massive bouquet of red roses. Two small velvet boxes rest next to the flowers.
I turn to him, confused. “Leonid…?”
He reaches for the bouquet, hands it to me with a small, almost shy smile.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I blink. “What? Why?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he says simply, as though it’s obvious. “Every woman deserves flowers. And a little gift.”
My fingers tighten around the stems. The roses smell sweet and heady. A small, stupid part of me deflates. What was I expecting? A declaration? A confession? That he bought them because he’s falling for me? We had sex one night. That’s all.
I inhale the roses deeply. The scent is sweet and heady, and I smile up at him. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
He nods once, eyes warm. “Open the boxes.”
I set the bouquet carefully on the coffee table and reach for the first small velvet case.
When I flip the lid, my breath catches. Inside lies a delicate necklace: a fine gold chain with a single teardrop pendant of deep emerald, the stone catching the morning light and throwing green fire across the room.
The second box holds a matching bracelet, thin gold links with tiny emerald accents.
I stare, speechless, then move to the shopping bags. Inside the first one is a vintage silk scarf, cream with delicate hand-painted roses in soft pinks and greens, the kind of piece you see in old French films. The second bag holds a bottle of expensive designer perfume.
I turn to him, overwhelmed. “Leonid… this is a lot.”
He steps close, hands settling on my hips, pulling me gently against him. “No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”
Then he kisses me, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck while the other presses me flush to his body. I melt into it, fingers curling into his bare shoulders.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. “Thank you,” I whisper again.
He kisses me once more, lighter this time. “You’re welcome.”
He nods toward the dining table. “We should eat.”
We walk over together. The breakfast spread is pure Paris perfection: warm buttery croissants, pain au chocolat, a bowl of fresh strawberries and raspberries, yogurt drizzled with golden honey, a basket of miniature pains aux raisins, a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two steaming pots of coffee.
We sit. I reach for a croissant; he pours coffee into my cup.
As we eat, I glance at him over the rim of my cup. “When did you get the gifts? Was it while you were out yesterday?”
He takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes meeting mine. “The moment you agreed to come on the trip, I made a call. Had everything picked up yesterday while you were out with Louis.”
I blink. “You… planned this before we even left New York?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted you to have a good day.”
My heart flutters, aches a little. Why? Why go to this effort? Why flowers and gifts that probably cost more than my yearly salary?
He tilts his head, studying me. “Your head is spinning. What are you thinking?”
I force a small smile. “Just… surprised. That’s all. Thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” he says softly, a faint smile in his voice.
I look down at my croissant, picking at the flaky layers. “You have a meeting later?”
“Yes. Should be done by early afternoon. Then we can have lunch after.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’d like that.”
We finish breakfast in a comfortable silence. Afterward, he stands and offers his hand.
“Shower?”
I take it.
His bathroom is all marble, just like the one in my room. He turns on the rainfall shower, and we step under together. His hands are everywhere, soaping my back, my breasts, between my legs. I press against him, and soon he’s lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist.
He fucks me against the tiled wall, slow at first, then harder, deeper, water pounding around us. I cling to his shoulders, moaning his name, coming apart again with his mouth on my throat and his cock buried inside me.
After we get out of the shower, I watch from the bed, now wrapped in one of Leonid’s fresh shirts, legs tucked under me, watching him get ready for his meeting.
He slips into a fresh charcoal shirt and suit jacket, looking every inch the untouchable billionaire again.
“Back by early afternoon,” he promises, leaning down and brushing his thumb across my cheek. “We’ll have lunch. Be ready.”
I nod, my heart doing that stupid flutter thing again. “Okay.”
He leaves with one last heated look that makes my skin tingle.
The door clicks shut, silence settles over the suite, and suddenly it feels too big without him in it. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and call Tasha.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey girl,” she answers sleepily.
I keep forgetting about the time difference. “Oh, did I wake you? I can call back later.”
Tasha quickly sits up. “Don’t you dare. I’m living vicariously through you. So spill, how is Paris? How are things between you and Mr. Nine inches?”
I laugh. “You have to stop calling him that.”
“Whatever. Happy Valentine’s Day. How is it going?”
I let out a deep breath. “Well, I woke up to flowers. Roses. And gifts from Leonid.”
Tasha screams so loud that I start laughing.
“YES! YES YES YES! He likes you! He freaking likes you, Laurel! Valentine’s gifts? Shopping spree on his card? That man isn’t playing at being professional; he wants to fuck you!”
She snorts. “No strings, my ass. That’s boyfriend behavior, babe. Or at least ‘I want to fuck you and maybe more’ behavior.”
I bite my lip, cheeks heating. “We… kinda already did.”
Silence. Then Tasha screams again, this time so loud I’m sure her neighbors can hear.
“WHAT?! And you’re just now telling me?! You hoarded this information from me! Details. Now. Every. Single. One.”
I laugh, burying my face in the pillow for a second before I give in and tell her everything.
When I finish, Tasha lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “I knew it. I knew he’d be good in the sack. Men like that fuck like they do business: ruthlessly, thoroughly, and leave you ruined for anyone else.”
I groan. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” I don’t know how I’m supposed to have sex with another guy after that.
“You look like you’re having flashbacks. Are you falling for him?”
“It’s just sex, Tasha.”
“Just sex with a gorgeous billionaire who flew you to Paris on his private jet. Babe. Take what you can get. I’m proud of you. You finally let go of that V-card, and you did it right.”
We talk for an hour, her gushing, and eventually she yawns. “I have to crash, girl. Early shift tomorrow. But promise me you’ll enjoy Paris. And enjoy him. You deserve it.”
“I’ll try,” I say softly.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, set the phone down, and crawl under the covers. Exhaustion hits hard. I barely slept last night, between Leonid’s hands and mouth and the way he kept waking me up for more. I drift off almost instantly, his scent still clinging to the pillow.
When I wake again, the room is brighter, afternoon sun streaming through the curtains. My phone buzzes on the nightstand: Leonid.
I answer, voice still thick with sleep. “Hey.”
“Hey. Just finished the meeting,” he says, voice low and warm. “On my way back. Get ready.”
“Okay.” I smile even though he can’t see it.
I jump up, heart already racing. I wash my face, curl my hair into loose waves, swipe on mascara and a soft pink lip gloss, then slip into the dress I bought yesterday, a simple but elegant midi in soft powder blue, cinched at the waist, with straps and a flowy skirt that hits mid-calf.
I’m slipping on low heels when my bedroom door opens. Leonid steps in, suit jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His eyes find me instantly and darken, hungry, raking from my hair down to my bare legs and back up.
He crosses the room in three strides. Before I can speak, his hand cups my face and he kisses me, deep, possessive, tasting faintly of mint and coffee. My knees weaken; I clutch his shirt for balance.
When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “If we don’t leave now, we won’t make it to lunch.”
I giggle, giddy. “Then we should go.”
He groans softly, presses one more quick kiss to my lips, then takes my hand.
Lunch is impossibly romantic. We share plates of escargot swimming in garlic-parsley butter, and a perfect coq au vin with tender chicken falling off the bone.
We talk easily. He tells me he’s in Paris to look at properties he’s considering for investment, boutique hotels mostly. I listen, fascinated, asking questions about architecture and restoration that make him smile in that quiet way of his.
After lunch, we walk, our fingers laced together. Paris in the afternoon feels alive but gentle, and then we take a private boat along the river. The boat is small, open-air, just us and the captain.
We sit close on the cushioned bench, Leonid’s arm around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest.
By evening, we’re back on dry land for dinner at a candlelit restaurant overlooking the Jardin des Tuileries.
We talk about nothing and everything: my favorite students, his earliest memories of Moscow winters, the way Paris smells different at night.
His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist the entire time.
After dinner, we walk toward the Eiffel Tower.
It’s fully dark now, the tower already sparkling, thousands of tiny lights flickering like captured stars.
A street violinist plays nearby, slow and achingly beautiful, the notes floating over the crowd of lovers holding hands, kissing, laughing softly.
Couples sway together under the glow; a young man goes down on one knee a few yards away, ring box open, and his girlfriend bursts into happy tears.
When we finally return to the suite, I turn to him in the foyer. “I had a great time today,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
I start to turn toward my bedroom. His hand catches my wrist, pulling me back to him. “And where are you going?”
Before I can answer, he seals his mouth over mine in a kiss that steals every thought from my head.
It’s deep, possessive, tasting of wine and want.
His hands slide to my hips, lifting me off the floor.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct; I feel the hard length of him pressing against me through our clothes.
We don’t make it to the bedroom.
He backs me toward the living-area couch, never breaking the kiss. My back hits the cushions; he follows me down, settling his weight between my thighs. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point while his hands shove my dress up around my hips.
“Fuck, Laurel,” he growls against my skin. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
I moan, fingers tearing at his shirt buttons. “Me too.”
He yanks my panties to the side, fingers finding me already slick and swollen. He groans when he feels how ready I am, then frees himself with one rough tug. No condom this time; we’re both too far gone to care about anything but the need.
He notches himself at my entrance, pauses just long enough to look into my eyes, then he thrusts in, deep, hard, filling me in one smooth stroke.
I cry out, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop. He fucks me with long, powerful strokes, hips snapping, each thrust driving him deeper until I’m trembling, gasping, lost in the rhythm of him inside me.
The couch creaks beneath us. His mouth finds mine again in a messy, desperate kiss, and I come undone around him, walls fluttering, crying his name into his kiss.
He follows moments later, growling my name against my throat, hips grinding deep as he pulls out and spills on my stomach.
We collapse together, breathing hard, sweat-slick, tangled. His lips brush my temple, soft now.
“You’re sleeping in my bed,” he murmurs.
I nod, too wrecked to speak.