“You want to make me come in my trousers?” He lifts a brow.
“Yes,” I murmur without hesitation.
“This suit is worth over fifteen thousand dollars,” he informs me.
I smile. I can’t help myself. This is better, us communicating sexually. I don’t want to hear a bunch of nonsense. A bunch of meaningless words that he won’t stand by. He lies. He changes his mind quickly, leaving me helpless. Defenseless. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t have let him have me at the restaurant, and I shouldn’t be toying with him now in the back of this car, but it’s like I can’t help myself.
That’s no excuse, but it’s the truth.
“More reason to make you come in them.” I say with a light laugh.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, reverence filling his tone as he studies me.
My laughter dies, pure joy coursing through my veins. My gaze never leaves his, my fingers still curved around his dick. We’re lost in each other, the air growing heavier between us with every second that ticks by.
The car stops and the driver speaks in French, letting us know we’ve arrived at the hotel. Whit pulls away from me gently, my hand falling away and the next thing I know, we’re leaving the car, Whit escorting me into the hotel lobby, my fur draped over my shoulders once more, covering me completely.
The building is gorgeous, numerous glittering chandeliers hanging above us, large flower arrangements filling the space with their sweet fragrance. It’s not as elegant as The Ritz, but it’s spectacular, though I expect nothing less for a Lancaster.
We enter the elevator alone, Whit hitting the button for the very top floor.
“Penthouse suite?” I ask.
“Close enough,” he drawls, his gaze trailing the length of my body, where my coat gapes open. “That dress is indecent.”
“I told Monty that. He insisted I get it,” I say.
“He did that for me.” His gaze sears into me. “I told him to find the dress that would show off your body the best.”
I glare at him. “Prostituting me still?”
“Never. I wanted to see you. All of you. Just for me. I wanted you to tease me without saying a word or sending me a look. That dress is a work of art, but it is nothing compared to you. Your body is perfection.”
I gape at him, shocked by the lavish compliments. This is not like the Whit I knew back at Lancaster Prep.
Not even close.
The elevator comes to a stop, the doors sliding open with a quiet swoosh and Whit settles his hand on the small of my back as he steers me out into the short hallway, stopping in front of a pair of imposing double doors. He pulls a key card out, opening the door with a wave of his hand and I hear the distinct sound of a lock turning.
We’re inside the room in seconds, the hushed quietness of it deceptively calm. I’m not even close to calm. I’m a riotous mess, inside and out. My heart rattles. My breaths are coming rapid fire, catching in my throat and my hands visibly shake.
The door slams shut, shrouding us in darkness and he grabs one of my shaking hands, leading me deeper into the room.
“Come see the view,” he says, his deep voice washing over me, reminding me that yes, I’m really here, and yes, we’re actually together. In this hotel room in the middle of Paris on a cold early spring night.
This isn’t a dream. Or a nightmare.
He brings me to the window and shoves it open with a simple push of his hand, a rush of cold air hitting me, making my already hard nipples ache. I follow him, sticking my head out the window, noting the stellar view. The city spread out before us like a blanket, the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance, still putting on its glittery light show. I watch in fascination, letting myself get caught up in the romanticism of the moment. Whit behind me, his hands drifting. Drifting. Pushing the coat away from my neck, down my arms, until it falls in a soft heap at my feet. He presses his firm, warm body behind me, holding me up, and I can’t stop shaking. Because of the cold.
Because of him.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I murmur.
“It is real,” he says against my neck, winding his arms around my center, resting his hands on my stomach. “I’ve finally found you, Savage. And I’m not going to let you go.”
His words, the way he says them, haven’t changed. They sound like a promise.
A threat.
I’m happy with both.
With him.
Despite everything that’s happened and what he’s doing to me, I’m happy.
So happy.
Forty-Eight
Summer
I wake up in a daze, confusion swarming my brain at first as I try to bring the room into focus. I push my hair out of my face, squinting into the darkness, barely able to see anything, even with my vision adjusting. I can hear the traffic coming from somewhere down below, heavy and insistent, with the occasional frantic siren. The impatient honking of a horn.
A shift in the bed, the mattress dipping. A warm body rolling toward me, strong arms clamping around me from behind. His large body nestled close, muscled arms holding me tightly, his hot mouth on my neck, his seeking fingers testing me between my legs.
I moan when he touches me there, but it’s not the kind of moan he wants to hear. “No more,” I whisper in agony, and he laughs, the sadistic bastard.
“I wore you out.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I don’t think I could take another orgasm,” I tell him truthfully. I lost count of how many times I came last night. Too many to mention. Until I was pushing him away, my clit on fire, my body and my mind completely exhausted.
“I told you I’d fuck that pretty little pussy raw.” He kisses the side of my neck hungrily, thrusting his hips. His erection slips between my ass cheeks, heavy and insistent, and I close my eyes, bracing myself.
If he fucks me back there again, I don’t know if I can take it.
“Go back to sleep my sweet little whore,” he croons in my ear, his fingers drifting across my cheek. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
I fall back into a deep sleep within minutes, and don’t wake up for a long time.
I don’t dream either.
It’s blissful.
The next time I wake up, the curtains are pulled back, letting in plenty of warm light. I see an elegantly set table at the foot of the bed, two dishes covered in silver domes. Cutlery and glassware, a basket overflowing with a variety of breads, a dish full of creamy pats of butter. There’s a bottle on ice in a stand next to the table, and I can only assume it’s champagne.
A celebratory meal? My hopes are too high. There’s nothing to celebrate between us, unless he views us slipping back into our old roles a cause for celebration.
“You’re awake.”
I turn toward the sound of his voice to see him standing in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the frame. He’s got his hands in his pockets, his pale blue button down completely open, revealing his smooth, muscular chest. His hair is damp, as if he just got out of the shower and oh my God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so delicious. So relaxed.
So heartbreakingly handsome.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice scratchy.