The Last Week In Paris (Passport Stamps & Forbidden Nights #1)

Prologue

Serena

The kitchen is quiet in the way professional kitchens go quiet after service — a specific, weighted stillness that still carries the ghost of everything that happened in it for the last four hours.

Every surface is clean. Every pan is where it belongs.

The pass lights are still on, burning warm and low over the stainless steel, and I'm sitting on the prep counter because I know I'm not supposed to, but I do it anyway.

That's the least reckless thing I've done tonight.

Damien is across the kitchen.

He's been watching me for the last ten minutes — not performing it, not making it obvious. Just watching. It’s the way he does everything: completely, and with his full attention, like I'm something worth understanding.

I've been aware of it the entire time, although I've been pretending I'm not — because pretending felt safer than acknowledging what's been building in this room for longer than either of us has been willing to name

The plate between us is empty. The wine is almost gone. Paris waits beyond the high windows, dark and glittering, its rooftops shadowed beneath a blue-black sky.

He straightens from where he’s been leaning against the opposite counter.

The distance between us isn’t much, but the way he strides across the space makes the kitchen feel smaller with every step.

He’s deliberate and certain—in the way a man is certain when he’s already made the decision and doesn’t need to wrestle with it anymore.

I keep my hands on the edge of the counter, fingers curled over cool steel, and watch him come toward me as my pulse begins to beat in places it has no business being.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him without touching.

His hands find my jaw first, both of them warm and certain, tilting my face up toward his.

His thumbs rest at the edges of my cheekbones, and he looks at me for one suspended moment in the gold spill of the counter lights.

There’s no charm in his expression. No practiced seduction.

He looks like a man who has run out of reasons to resist what he wants, and the honesty of that look makes my breath catch before his mouth ever reaches mine.

Then he kisses me. It isn’t soft. It isn’t tentative or polite or careful in the way a first kiss is supposed to be. It’s immediate, certain, and consuming. His lips part mine, and the sound I make against his tongue is low, involuntary, and completely honest.

My hands find his chest. His shirt is linen, warm from his body, and beneath it he is solid in a way that makes my palms flatten against him on instinct.

I feel the strength of him through the fabric, the controlled density of a man who has spent years commanding his body, his kitchen, his world.

I pull him closer because there’s no part of me that wants distance.

He steps in, and my spine meets the wall beside the counter.

I don’t resist it. His body presses into mine, and I feel his hard cock against me.

His kiss becomes more urgent, as his hands slide from my jaw into my hair.

He’s careful for half a second, his fingers moving through the strands with restraint that lasts only long enough for him to decide against it.

One pin slips free. Then another. My hair loosens over his hands, and when the last pin hits the counter with a soft metallic sound, he makes a low noise against my mouth that travels through every nerve ending I own.

Damien pulls back just enough to look at me. The pass lights burn behind him, and his blue eyes stay on my face while his hands remain tangled in my hair. The way he looks at me strips away every careful excuse, and every version of this moment where either of us pretends it’s still harmless.

He kisses me again, and this time, I stop trying to keep any part of myself separate from it.

My hands slide to the back of his neck, holding on as his body presses fully into mine.

The wall is solid at my back. His hands leave my hair and move down my neck, my shoulders, my waist, learning the shape of me through the fabric of my dress.

He lifts me in one smooth movement. His hands grip my thighs and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me through the kitchen with effortless strength.

His mouth is still on mine, as we move past the pass lights and toward the long chef’s table at the far end of the room where the remaining light spills over the worn wood.

He sets me on the edge of the table. His mouth moves down my throat and he kisses my neck with a deliberation that feels like selection, as if every place his lips touch is chosen and not stumbled upon.

His mouth moves to my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, the soft place below my ear.

I hold the edge of the table with both hands.

Slowly, he reaches down and gathers the fabric of the hem of my dress as he pulls it upward over my thighs, and the patience of it becomes its own kind of pressure.

The anticipation does as much to me as the touch itself.

His mouth returns to mine for one deep, certain kiss before he moves lower, dropping to his knees in front of me.

The sight of him there: tall, broad-shouldered, hypnotic eyes looking up at me from the kitchen floor, short-circuits every coherent thought I have left.

He spreads my thighs as his mouth goes to the inside of my knee first, then moves higher. My hands slide into his hair, and I grip him as his lips brush across my panties.

His fingers move the fabric aside, and the air touches my exposed pussy all at once. I watch him as he drags his mouth slowly over my entrance, tasting my arousal.

His tongue spreads my folds, and when he finds my clit with devastating accuracy, my hips push toward him before I can stop them.

He closes his mouth over the hardened bud as he sucks hard.

I lean back on one hand and use the other to hold the back of his head because I need him exactly where he is.

My body makes that requirement known in ways that don’t need translation.

He then pushes two fingers inside me. He finds the angle with a precision so sharp it sends pleasure straight through my spine, and somewhere in the wreckage of my thoughts, I understand that this is what Damien does; he pays attention.

He gets things right. His fingers move in a slow, curling rhythm that reaches places I’ve forgotten exist, and his mouth stays on my clit until every defense, and every polished version of myself falls away.

The sensation builds low in my stomach, slow at first, then faster, then all at once.

My thighs clamp around his shoulders. My grip tightens in his hair.

I come in a long, shuddering wave that moves through me from the inside out, and he doesn’t pull away.

He stays exactly where he is, lapping up my juices as his fingers are still working inside me, his mouth still present and thorough until every aftershock passes and I’m breathless, flushed, and gripping the table with one white-knuckled hand.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes on mine. I’m still coming down from the force of it when he steps closer and presses his groin against my hip. I feel exactly how badly he wants me.

My hands go to his shirt. I work the buttons with far less patience than I usually apply to anything, freeing two before losing track of restraint completely.

My palms land on his chest, bare and warm beneath the open fabric, and I slide my fingers over muscle that shifts beneath my touch.

My hands move lower, over his stomach, and I reach for his belt.

He reaches for the strap of my dress at the same time.

His fingers slide it from my shoulder, then the other.

He works the zip at my back with controlled efficiency, and the dress loosens around me.

He eases it down and off, and it falls somewhere to the kitchen floor that I have no interest in finding.

He looks at me. Not quickly. Not in passing. He looks at me fully, without performance, and his eyes move over me in the warm pass light with such complete attention that I feel the look everywhere. I’m not embarrassed by it. I want every second.

His hands find my shoulders and slide down my arms before he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with one hand. He draws it away, and his eyes lower. The expression on his face, raw and unguarded for the first time tonight, is the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in weeks.

His mouth comes down on my breast. His lips close over my nipple, warm and certain, and the pressure sends a direct line of sensation straight through me.

His other hand cups my other breast, his thumb moving in slow circles, and I lean back on the table because there’s nothing in me that wants to do anything except let him.

Damien takes his time. His mouth moves between my breasts slowly. He licks, sucks, and traces with the same precision he brings to everything, and I sink my fingers into his hair while the sounds leaving me become less controlled with every pass of his tongue.

He straightens, and his eyes find mine as he reaches for the hem of his own shirt. He pulls it over his head, and I allow myself the full, unqualified pleasure of looking at him. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. Strength held in warm light and controlled breath. My mouth parts before I can stop it.

I reach for him. My hands find his chest again and slide down over his stomach, and I watch my fingers move over him because I want to remember the warmth of his skin, the way his muscle tightens beneath my touch, the sharp breath he takes when I reach for his belt.

I get the buckle undone, get his zipper down, and reach inside.

When my hand closes around his hard cock, I understand immediately why every part of my body has been operating at this frequency all night.

I stroke him slowly as he makes a sound low in his throat. My fingers smear the pre-cum off his tip, as his hips press forward into my hand. His eyes are locked on mine.

His hands grip my hips as he brings me to the very edge of the table.

He steps between my thighs, and pulls me toward him.

He kisses me harder, as he brings the tip of his cock to my entrance.

He pauses there for one breath, both of us completely still.

His forehead drops to mine, and we breathe the same air beneath the gold kitchen lights.

He pushes inside me. The fullness of his thick cock moves and stretches through me completely.

I hear myself, loud and unguarded, and I don’t care.

His groan against my throat is low and rough.

His hands grip my hips as he holds himself still, buried entirely, both of us adjusting to the feel of each other.

I tighten my legs around him, press my forehead to his jaw, and breathe.

His thrusts are slow at first, long, rolling, deliberate. I match the rhythm with my hips, grip his shoulders, and lose the ability to think in anything but sensation. His hands move from my hips to my lower back, pulling me closer into each stroke, and his mouth works along my throat.

Neither of us is thinking about Paris. Neither of us is thinking about anything beyond the wet, intimate sound of our bodies slapping against one another.

The pace shifts gradually as the careful rhythm gives way to something harder and less controlled. His breathing changes against my skin. Mine breaks against his jaw. The sounds we make together in this kitchen are the most honest conversation we’ve had since we met.

I hold on to him with everything I have.

The sensation builds from somewhere deep and undeniable, and when I press my mouth to his shoulder, he responds to that too, gripping me tighter, driving deeper, taking the last of my composure with every thrust. I stop trying to be quiet.

I stop trying to be anything except his in this moment, open beneath his hands, wrapped around his body, taking everything he gives me.

My orgasm is complete and unguarded. Every nerve, every muscle, every part of me that has been holding anything back releases at once. I tighten around him, shaking through it, and he follows moments later as he grips my flesh.

He stills himself and I feel him pulse deep inside me–his cum filling my pussy to the brim. I feel the weight of what passes between us, and I hold his shoulders without moving.

We stay exactly as we are. The kitchen is quiet again.

The pass lights are still on. After a long moment, Damien lifts his head and looks at me fully, without anything left to hide, and I look back at him the same way because I’ve stopped trying to fight against it.

Neither of us says anything. There is nothing to say that the last hour hasn’t already said more accurately.

I reach up and touch his jaw. He turns his face slightly into my hand, a small, quiet motion that feels more unguarded than anything else he has done tonight.

Outside of the high windows, Paris continues beyond the rooftops, indifferent and beautiful, holding its shape around whatever happens inside it. The city doesn’t care about any of this. We are the only two people who do.

I don’t think I'm going to recover from tonight—from him. But then again, I don’t particularly want to.