CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SYLVIE
The most moving pieces of art are those that shape us or reflect us.
A chisel or a pond.
Throw in a little distortion, an unexpected angle, a shadow that is haunting, or boldness that spears, and depth replaces simplicity.
We become the masterpiece, and it becomes us.
My art appreciation began with Highlights Hidden Pictures.
I was three, so not quite a critic. But I was fascinated by the melding of images to create one large illustration.
And enchanted that when I turned it upside down, thereby releasing my vision of the big picture, the distinction of all that had been concealed was clear.
Three-year-old me would be so disappointed that as an adult, I’ve come to drool over canvases and sculptures, but abandoned that fundamental lesson. If only I’d knocked a few real-life moments on their heads.
Cash guides me, hand in hand, through the casino to the tune of chinks and bells. All eyes track us. High rollers toss their chips into the pot or glance up from their cards, noting that the most notorious Noire playboy has a woman attached to him. And pride fills me.
The root of this parade through La Lune Noire is to be certain we’ve been spotted together before Minds of Our Time.
All week, we’ve been strategically placing ourselves near members we believe may be in attendance there.
But I won’t let that swallow how he holds me close or grins at me in adoration.
I haven’t seen Danny, and I’m guessing that’s by design.
There’s a part of me that would enjoy him witnessing how happy I am with Cash and how protective Cash is over me.
It probably wouldn’t hurt our mission for him to bitch about it to Peter either, but I’m not going to request that.
Someone here has likely shared it, and I wouldn’t want Cash to perceive it as me using him.
Once we’re past the gambling ruckus and cruising by the hoopla from the bars and restaurants, I finally inquire about our destination. “Where are we headed?”
He smirks as we turn to stroll through the hall with the shops. “We leave tomorrow, and you haven’t cashed in on your massage yet.”
“True,” I utter with skepticism because I’m certain I didn’t misread his I-will-murder-any-masseuse-who-touches-you vibe when Bernard offered it to me.
It’s over the top, but it reminds me that I’m cherished, so I don’t hate it.
I would assume he was going to do the honors, but he’s leading me to the spa.
The girls and I got our nails done here on my birthday.
Like everything in this resort, it’s lavish and refined—elegance found in vintage Art Deco luxury.
He ushers me inside and checks in with the fifty-something woman at the desk. “Hi, Wendy. Could you get my beautiful girl set up?”
“My pleasure, darlin’.” She beams at him, like a doting aunt.
Maybe the most impressive part of La Lune Noire is how possessive the employees are over the owners. They don’t just respect them. They care about them.
When Cash pulls me aside and kisses me goodbye—unhurried and passionate—I’m baffled.
With a swoop of my stomach, I open my eyes to latch to ocean blues. “You’re okay with letting me get a massage?”
“There’s nothing more important to me than taking care of you.” He palms my head and nips my lower lip. “You’ve been working so hard. You deserve to feel pampered and relaxed.”
“Thanks. You could get a massage with me.” I slant my head with that suggestion, trying to pluck out the missing piece here. Sweet or not, there’s more to this. “You’re going back to the penthouse to unpack my bikinis, aren’t you?”
We’re leaving in twelve hours, and we have countless concerns to focus on, but he mean-mugged my orange knit swimsuit when I stuck it in my suitcase and then groused when I added two others, muttering something about fucking floss.
“Yes.” His dimple boasts about his plans. “Before I burn them.”
Maybe it’s the scent of white tea and eucalyptus calming my nerves, but the notion of him setting my clothing on fire does nothing to rile me. It also doesn’t stop my mouth.
“So, no one can see me in a perfectly acceptable bathing suit, but someone can rub me down?” I don’t know why I poke bears, but we all have our fatal flaws. This is simply one of mine.
His Adam’s apple bobs on a thick swallow. “Don’t overthink it, Sly. You’d better get in there before I burst inside to massage a much different part of you and the whole goddamn place hears you beg me for more.”
I bite my lip and flutter my lashes. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“I know.” He clutches the sides of my face, intensity rolling off him. “You’re more than a fantasy, Sylvie.” His mouth presses to mine for a final kiss. “You’re my future.”
Every time I think he’s reached his peak for swoonworthy moments, he tops them all.
My heart thumps against my sternum. Thank God he refused to let me dismiss him in our first encounters because Cash Noire is a jaw-dropping vision with depth that gets lost in his beauty. I don’t even want to imagine how tragic it would’ve been if I hadn’t been introduced to his profound angles.
He strides out of the spa, and I turn to find the receptionist patiently waiting for me to follow her into the room. It’s tranquil with bamboo and gold and a creamy color palette. The lighting is dim, and candles are already lit.
“I have to tell you,” Wendy begins in a soft voice, “it is good to see him so smitten.”
“Well”—I laugh—“he’s not the only one.”
She squeezes my arm before gesturing to the closet and other essentials throughout the room. “You can undress to your comfort level and slip under the blanket. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to press the call button for me or let your masseuse know.”
She turns a water feature on, which blends with a noise machine and chiming ambient instrumental music to create a soothing rhythm, and she taps a sign on her way out.
Please remember that the rooms are not soundproof.
Do not discuss anything confidential with your masseuse.
Based on the nature of the resort, I guess that is an important reminder. I wonder if the employees are ever afraid. It might even be a safety precaution for them.
Five minutes later, I’m lying face down under the blanket, allowing myself to melt into the hypnotic babbling-brook melody when I hear a knock on the door. My eyes pop open, but all I see is the floor through the hole in the table.
“Are you good to get started?” a syrupy voice asks.
“I’m good,” I reply. “Thank you.”
Blocking out noises is a difficult feat, considering my profession.
I’m so accustomed to discerning what every click, clack, or footfall could reveal that the water feature and white-noise machine fade away, and the hushed sounds from the movement of bottles and shoes and doors, muted giggles in the hallway, and an echoing conversation from the room beside me take up residence in my mind.
But when the blanket is folded down and hot stones are laid along my spine, I rest my eyes and bask in the relief to my muscles.
Somehow, my golden Noire king penetrates my reprieve, even here. He’s always with me now. So much so that citrus and suede invade my senses, and when oiled hands smooth over my skin, I imagine they’re his.
After several blissful minutes of pampering—on my arms and legs and neck and shoulders—the stones are moved away, my hair is swept aside, and a rumble of glorious thunder finds my ear. “Tell me what you need, baby.”
I knew he’d come for me.
A smile crests my cheeks, and I roll to wrap my arms around Cash’s neck, happier than I can explain about my ruined massage and finding this Adonis naked. “You.”
“Good girl,” he breathes, removing both the blanket and my panties with one deft swipe.
He warms oil between his hands, and I was mistaken.
My massage isn’t ruined. It’s upgraded. He starts at my shoulders, traveling down each arm and moving to my breasts, where he spends an ample amount of time until my nipples are peaked and sensitive and pleading.
Then he sails between my ribs to my lower abs and briefly over my pussy.
When my hips buck, his lips curve with impish delight. He’s keen to torture, and yet I feel adored.
Doting decimation.
He works his way down my legs to my feet, kneading until sore transforms to serenity. It’s similar to the full-body attention he granted me when the stones were doing their thing, except now, no matter where his hands are, his eyes lock on mine.
And the world tilts on its axis.
I’m owned and liberated. Elevated and cherished.
Starving and nourished and fortified by a duplicitous monarch.
Every swipe over my slick skin sends me reeling.
I’m so turned on that I might lose my mind if he keeps touching me everywhere but where I need him.
But he’s devoted to the task of spoiling me, so I don’t interrupt.
Instead, I enjoy the view. The candlelight flickers in his dark blond hair.
The shimmer of migrating oil glistens on his striking ink.
His rigid muscles flex as he unwinds mine.
And a bead of sweat trickles down his neck, dripping to his broad shoulder and proclaiming the agony of this erotic rubdown.
Like me, he’s had all the teasing he can take. He grips my ankles and drags me down the table, swiping the head of his hard, pierced dick through my sopping heat with a silent request for permission.
A moan wafts out of me, and I bolt straight up, clasping his shoulders to gain leverage. Nails brand skin with a desperate demand. “Please,” I pant as a boisterous chuckle transcends the walls. It reminds me how public we are. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I just really need you inside me.”
“That’s my greedy girl.” He conquers my mouth with a feral devouring before he hikes up one of my legs so my knee kisses my shoulder, notches himself in my opening, and braces his hand on the table while slamming inside me.
Rough and relentless.