40. Primrose
PRIMROSE
Morning has transformed Luc’s bedroom.
Last night, the room was shadows and urgency, the dark gleam of wood and the pale spill of moonlight. Just fragments of a room that I glimpsed between kisses and bliss.
Now sunlight pours in through the tall windows, turning everything quietly golden. The room has traditional Mallorcan bones with honey-limewashed walls and pale ancient oak beams in a gently vaulted ceiling. But everything else is Luc to a T. Restrained, stylish, and absolutely expensive.
His bed is vast, the linens in shades of white.
Or they were white. Now they’re stained with various substances and ridiculously crumpled.
A charcoal cashmere throw hangs from a distressed leather chair, with a scarred metal barrel table beside it piled with books.
The floors are wooden, the rugs plush, and nothing matches too perfectly, giving the room an elegant, lived-in feel.
I turn my head to the tall glass doors where gauzy curtains breathe inward with the warm breeze. Beyond is a private terrace that’s tiny and brightly tiled and hemmed in by lacy wrought iron railings.
And the view? By far the best in the house.
From the bed, a person can see all the way out to the brilliance of the Mediterranean.
And if I move my head ever so slightly, I can see the mountain range rising hazily to the other side.
The peaks were a hazy blue-gray in the early light, though now glow gold in the sun.
I’ve been awake an age, just lying here, watching the morning light chase the shadows across the walls. I haven’t been in bed the whole time, because no girl wants to get caught looking like a bushy-haired trash panda after a night of passion.
I’d brushed my teeth with my finger, not knowing how he’d feel about me using his toothbrush (weird, I know), finger combed my hair, and cleaned away all traces of morning after makeup.
Then, wrapped in the soft throw, I’d crept around his room (on sea legs because the man shivered my timbers so good) picking up books and personal effects to see what I could learn from them.
Learn about him. I’d picked up an old silver watch from his dresser engraved with something I couldn’t make out, then sniffed a bottle of cologne with a name I’ve never heard of.
Looks like his signature scent was created by a personal perfumier.
Imagine that being your job: What do you do for a living? I sniff rich people.
It’s a crazy world.
I even had a little sneaky peek in his huge closet, which is bigger than my bedroom at home.
Paintings hang on the walls. A large abstract piece, modern and bold. A faded seascape and another of olive trees, both in antique frames. But the one thing there isn’t is a picture of his late wife. Is it wrong that I’m glad?
But the most interesting aspect of the room is the man himself. Bronzed skin and dark hair. I allow myself to drink him in as he sleeps.
One arm flung above his head, the linens are tangled low around his hips providing just a hint of that delicious V as sunlight warms his skin.
His chest rises and falls steadily. His shoulder still marked faintly by the press of my teeth.
I ignore the thud of a pulse between my legs at that, my eyes moving instead to all those glorious muscles.
Biceps, abs, deltoids, and more, pliant now with sleep.
But I know how each ripples with pleasure in response to the trail of my fingers. And the flick of a tongue.
He looks as unguarded as I’ve ever seen him, sleep stripping away his worries and responsibilities. How beautiful he is without his armour. The thought catches somewhere behind my ribs. But not my heart. Not my heart.
His leg twitches, then his hand, the linens sighing softly as he stretches his arms above his head.
He rouses slowly (rouses and arouses, I’d say by the look of the sheets), consciousness pulling gently at him.
Muscles shift beneath his skin, chest and abs and arms, as he arches from the bed with the kind of groan that makes my insides twist pleasurably.
I’m shamelessly riveted by every stretch and flex before his body sinks back to the mattress.
I feel my mouth pull in one corner. I mean, would it have killed the universe to make him wake like a normal person?
His hair standing up but only on one side of his head, his pillow damp with drool?
Or for him to stretch luxuriously and accidentally squeeze out a tiny fart.
My shoulders begin to shake at the thought, and I snort audibly. Thanks, karma!
His eyes suddenly open with a flash of blue, and for a moment, he just stares at me, sleep-soft and bristled cheeks giving him the air of a pirate. A distinguished pirate, his stubble longer and more salt and pepper than usual.
“Sorry,” I say. Totally not sorry for waking you. I try to temper my smile but give in as his own lips curve. My chest floods with a warmth. The space between my legs also.
Down girl. We need a little recovery time.
“Bonjour.” His voice is sleep-rusty and all kinds of sexy.
“Hey, sleepy head.”
“Is it so late?”
“After seven,” I whisper.
Surprise reacts on his face, and as he holds out his hand, I take it.
“Hey!” I complain as I’m unceremoniously dragged across the bed. His arm hooks around my waist until my back is fitted to his chest.
“There’s a strange woman in my bed.” His hand spreads over my stomach as though to prevent an escape.
“Less of the strange.” I give a pat to the back of his big hand, then link my fingers over his thick wrist.
“How did she get here, I wonder?”
“I seem to recall you promised snacks.”
“That would explain the crumbs,” he half complains, shifting in the bed.
“You also promised you wouldn’t kick me out for eating crackers.”
“I preferred the grapes,” his low voice rumbles. Moving my hair, his lips swipe across the nape of my neck.
I give in to a little shiver as my skin remembers the cool slide of their red skin across my nipple.
“And the wine.” His hand glides lower, and I moan softly, still sensitive.
“Maria’s going to freak over the state of the sheets.” I put my hand over his. Yes, no? I can’t decide, though I keep my thighs clamped together.
“I told you, the Spanish think spilling wine is a good omen.” A symbol of abundance and prosperity, he’d said as his soft laughter had drifted out into the warm night.
“I’m not sure she’d agree it should be spilled in bed.”
“You shouldn’t have wriggled then.”
Hard not to when the stuff is cascading down your chest, pooling in your belly button and… other places.
The sheets are whipped from my skin quite suddenly.
“Luc!” I squeal, trying to grab them back, and attempting to roll myself into a human burrito. But he’s stronger than me. And he plays dirty as he pounces, caging me beneath his hard body as he sort of planks over me.
“You’re not nice.”
He stares down at me like I’m something special. And just like that, I stop caring about the covers.
“Nice is overrated.” His gaze slides over me making my skin tingle.
“Sounds like you’ve been talking to Lavender.” My sister insists that nice is the worst thing a woman can be. I can’t say I agree with her.
“Nice is what people ask of you when your refusal would inconvenience or disappoint.”
“Or maybe nice is what I choose to be because there are already enough horrible people in the world.”
“Kindness is admirable, Primrose. But kindness is something you give freely. Nice is what you become when you worry about saying no.”
Ouch.
“Knowing your own worth makes you harder to use.” His thumb traces my cheek. “Know your own worth, Primrose.” His gaze holds mine, fierce enough that I can’t hide.
I wonder if this is what a pinned butterfly feels like. “There’s nothing wrong with being nice sometimes,” I say, my words prickly.
“Being nice is what brought you here.”
“Quelle horreur,” I whisper with a comic widening of my eyes.
His own eyes tighten, a tiny row of creases fanning out in the corners. “Just how much French do you know?”
If I tell the truth now, the little insights into his heart, I mean, his thoughts, will stop.
Maybe everything will stop.
I give a tiny shrug. “I understand a bit. Mostly the stuff I learned in school,” I add. “Maybe a phrase or two I’ve picked up while visiting. Are you worried I might make sense of all the smutty things you’ve been whispering to me?” I put my hand to his cheek, and he pretends to bite my thumb.
“You could ask.” There’s a world of suggestion in his tone.
“Would you tell me?”
“Perhaps.” He lowers to his knees and elbows, and using both hands, gently strokes the hair from my brow. “Never make yourself smaller just to hear someone else call you nice,” he murmurs, returning to his previous thread. “You’re worth more than anyone’s approval. Please start believing that.”
The thought unsettles me. I do know my own worth, don’t I? Maybe I do too much sometimes, but I haven’t been nice to him. I roll my shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable, because I do sometimes find myself wishing, usually after the fact, that I could’ve said no.
His expression softens. But it’s the only thing soft about him as he lowers himself onto his forearm, leaving his other hand free to roam. “So, this sister of yours. What else does she have to say?”
I wriggle under his questing hands and feed my fingers through his. “She says you’ve met.” I chance a look at his expression. Barely an eyebrow raise. “At Art Basel,” I add, sort of wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. “She owns a gallery in Shoreditch. Maybe you’ve been? Whit & With?”
He gives a tiny shake of his head. “I don’t think I remember your sister.”
I doubt he’s been anywhere near her gallery, not with his expensive tastes, though I try to ignore the satisfaction I feel that he might not find Lavender memorable. “You’d remember her if you had met. Lavender leaves a lasting impression.” A bit like a hand put a cheek at high speed.
“Like her sister.” His lips brush my hair. It’s a good thing I’m lying down, or I might’ve melted off the bed. “So you’ve spoken to your sister about me?” There’s a note of teasing in his tone.
“Just in vague terms. She knows Emmy, and I suppose she must know she works for you.”
“Emmy never mentioned to you who she worked for?”
My shoulders lift higher up the bed. “Probably,” I admit with a slight twist to my lips. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I didn’t know who La Billionaire Bleu is.”
He groans at the tabloids’ moniker and drops his head to my shoulder. But then his head comes up fast and his gaze sharpens. “So that’s the name I see burning behind your lips sometimes.”
“What?” The word hits the air with such amusement.
“Admit it.”
“Blue-eyed billionaire?” I scoff. “That’s a pretty poor insult.”
“So you insult me?” he demands, delighted.
“Everyone has names for their boss!” I exclaim, laughter coloring my excuse.
“What did you call me?”
“None of your business.” Heat floods my face as I try to roll away, though Luc catches me, hauling me closer with his arms and his legs.
“Primevère,” he growls.
“Absolutely not!”
“Confess!” He pokes me in my ribs.
“Oi! The only thing I confess is I only use it when you deserve it.”
“So you insult me!” he exclaims to the tune of ah-ha!
“You bring it on yourself with your big—”
“I thought you like my big…” he purrs as he prods me again. Not with his finger this time.
“—brooding presence,” I end. “And your annoying ways.”
“What is it, this insult you have just for me?” His touch skates down my arm.
“I’m not tell—” My denials halt as he tickles my ribs. “Stop that!” I exclaim, pushing at his arm.
“Tell me.”
“Never!” I turn to jelly as he tickles and tickles me again.
“You will confess.”
“Monsieur… monsieur…” I’m laughing so hard, thrashing this way and that to the point I can barely get the words out.
“Monsieur what, Primrose? Monsieur I’m sorry? Monsieur let me make it up to you?”
“Monsieur LDH,” I wheeze. “That’s what I call you. Please!”
“What is the meaning?” His thumb swipes at my tears.
“Oh my days,” I rasp. My stomach hurts from laughing too hard. And from being sexed within an inch of my life.
Luc’s warning comes in the form of another pinch.
“No, please. Stop!”
“Monsieur Lethally, Devastatingly Handsome?”
“Good guess, but no,” I splutter.
“Monsieur… Likes Disobeying His Nanny? Leaves Doctors Hot?”
“Nope and no. But also yes,” I add. “On both counts.”
“Monsieur Le Diable Himself?”
“Well, I have called you the devil a time or two.” I put my hand to his face. “And you do seem to possess the devil’s tongue.”
“Tell me,” he purrs dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”
“Oh, no.” I give my best ‘damsel in distress’ gasp.
“I will tie you to the bed,” he warns, dragging my hand from my body and lifting it to the pillows. “And have my wicked way with you again and again.”
“Where’s the threat?”
He grabs my other hand, both wrists easily held in one of his hands. Then he twists to reach the nightstand behind him and oh, what a joy. Muscles twist and flex, nature’s machinery at its best. “How do you feel about amateur photography?”
I stare at the phone in his hand. “How…” What?
“Comment dit-on ca en anglaise,” he says, affecting confusion as he taps his phone ponderously to his chin.
“Very funny. You already said photography.”
“Ah!” He makes a gesture like eureka! “Désolé,” he says with great exaggeration. “Not photography. How do you feel about amateur pornography?”
Oh no.