Apparently not.
“Sir.” Creed touches my bicep, eyes narrowed, sensing my thoughts. “Don’t.”
I know it comes from a place of concern, whereas most people would accuse me of behaving like a spoiled rich kid. I can’t shake the feeling that my world is falling apart around me. If I can’t feel pleasure, I’d rather be numb.
“Fuck you.” I shrug him off, then storm toward the lounge.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nora
The sound of a slamming door stirs me from a restless sleep. As I blink my eyes open, I glance at Anderson’s side of the bed. Still empty.
Hearing a thump, followed by a curse, I sit upright, wrapping my silk robe tighter around me. Considering our suite is surrounded by a team of protection officers, there’s only one person it could be. And based on the fact it’s after two in the morning and he seems to be running into every piece of furniture, Anderson’s been drinking.
He finally manages to stumble into the bedroom, eyes slits, hair disheveled. The stench of alcohol is strong, even from a few feet away. I want to remind him of the negative effects drinking can have on his MS. I don’t want to spend the rest of our time in Paris fighting, though. Don’t want that to be the memory I take away from this magical place.
Not saying a word, he yanks his shirt over his head. When he attempts to kick off his shoes, he nearly topples over, grabbing onto the dresser. Steady once more, he refocuses on me. His lust-filled gaze causes an ache to stir deep within me. It shouldn’t. Not after the way we left things. But as he slides his jeans down his legs, revealing his rock-hard erection, my body betrays me, mouth growing dry, breathing becoming ragged.
I part my lips, words on the tip of my tongue. Words I can’t bear to say, especially when I recall the utter despair that covered every inch of him earlier.
He needs this. Needs to know he’s not the broken man he thinks he is.
And I need this, too. Need to know he won’t let this come between us.
I loosen the sash of my robe, allowing it to fall open in invitation. His eyes flame, the swirls of turquoise and sky blue becoming darker as he crawls onto the bed, spreading my legs. He brings his erection up to me, moving my slickness around before plunging inside.
I cry out at the invasion. I’d anticipated it, but didn’t expect it to be so…rough. So desperate. So anguished. There’s no other word to describe the way he buries his head in my neck and fucks me ruthlessly, each thrust more hopeless and frantic.
I should put a stop to this, make him talk to me about what’s going through his brain instead of fucking away his anger. But when he peers at me, his gaze begging me to take away the pain, I don’t have it in me.
I dig my hands through his hair, wrapping my legs around him, allowing him to take whatever he needs. I don’t know what else to do to fix this. I wish there were a magic pill that would make his body strong again. Reverse the deterioration I’ve already witnessed in just the past year. But there isn’t. I’ve seen him grow more tired and weary as he tries to balance the fate of the country on his shoulders against this debilitating disease that takes more and more from him with every breath.
His pace quickens, each thrust furious and brutal. I scrape my nails along his back, and he arches. His carnal gaze spears me as he drives into me even faster. This isn’t making love. This is fucking, pure and simple. He’s not interested in pleasure right now. Just to prove a point. Prove he can do this.
Sweat beads on my brow, my breathing labored as I attempt to keep pace with him. Finally, a roar slices through the room and he jerks, eyes scrunched closed, his orgasm coming hard and fast. He rides the waves until he physically can’t keep himself propped up any longer and collapses on top of me. His heart hammers against my chest, muscles trembling as he sucks in breath after breath.
I run a light hand up and down his sweaty back, hoping the calming motion will help him regain his faculties, snap him out of whatever trance he was in when he stepped into the hotel room.
Then a cry rips from his chest, tortured and afflicted. It stops me cold, clawing through my soul and shredding my heart.
Tears spill from my eyelids as I search for the words I need to tell him it will be okay. But I’ve come to realize we have two vastly different definitions of okay. His is being normal again. Mine is standing by his side no matter what.
Will that be enough for him?
Will I be enough for him?
In the past few hours, I’ve witnessed him go through nearly all the stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining. There’s no doubt he’s in depression right now.
All I can do is hope he makes an upward turn toward acceptance and doesn’t fall deeper.
Chapter Thirty
Nora
I stare at the Eiffel Tower as the sun heats my skin, the sounds and smells of Paris surrounding me. I hate to leave this place. Not just because I fell in love with this city, but because I fear what awaits us back home.
Since Friday night, Anderson hasn’t been the same. On the surface, he seems like the Anderson I remember from our early days. Flirtatious. Endearing. A bit cocky. But I can tell it’s all a way to make me think everything is the same.
Whenever he gazes at me, turmoil swirls in his blue eyes.
Whenever he kisses me, it’s restrained and lacking.
Whenever he tells me he loves me, the words are laden with reluctance.
As much as I want to bring up the other night, I don’t want to taint our time in Paris any more than it already has been.
Don’t want my memories of this city to be clouded with the fear that we’ve turned down a dark road neither of us will ever come back from.
Don’t want Paris to forever be associated with the beginning of our end.
Then again, I could be overreacting.
But every time I peer into Anderson’s eyes, all I see is that same remorse-filled expression he wore during our final days together on Route 66. He’d known those were our last hours together. Not because we were about to go our separate ways, but because he’d been keeping a secret from me. One that would shatter me into a million pieces.
I can’t help but feel like he’s doing the same here. Like he knows something horrible is about to happen and is protecting himself against the inevitable catastrophe.
“Are you ready?” Anderson peeks his head out of the balcony doors.
I take one last look at the Paris skyline, then nod, turning toward him. “Of course.”
He places his hand on the small of my back as I step into the suite. We don’t make it too far before the door flies open, Creed and Lieutenant Colonel Bridge hurrying inside, eyes wide with panic.
“What’s going on?” Anderson asks, his posture stiffening.
“Your Highness.” Bridge glances in my direction before returning his attention to Anderson. “Something’s happened.”
When he floats his gaze to mine yet again, I sense this has to do with me. But what could it be? I’ve done everything to follow the rules lately. The most risqué thing I’ve done has been stripping and encouraging Anderson to photograph me nude.
Oh god…
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Did somebody see me? Maybe a photographer at a nearby hotel while he was checking one of his zoom lenses? It’s a long shot, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that nothing is impossible, especially where the paparazzi is concerned.