Page 31 of On His Bride's Terms

Faye wasn’t sure how or when they were able to move, but somehow, at some point, Primo was lifting her to his chest and walking them through the suite into a bedroom.

He put her down on the end of the bed and said, ‘Wait there.’

Faye didn’t have the strength to tell him she wasn’t even sure if she could speak, never mind move. She was vaguely aware of her deshabille. Dress bunched up to her waist. Underwear gone. Breasts completely exposed. Hair down. Make-up...? Smeared into oblivion. But somehow she couldn’t care less. She’d never felt so relaxed with a lover. When she was with Primo like this, boundaries dissolved and melted into nothing.

He came back and she realised he’d taken off his rumpled clothes. He pulled her up and led her into the bathroom, which was already steaming up from the shower. He pulled her dress down and then brought her into the shower, where he proceeded to wash her with thorough efficiency.

Even though she could barely move, she could already feel the flickers of a resurgence of desire as his hands moved over her backside and around to the front, dipping down briefly to that tender spot between her legs.

Sleepily she protested, ‘I can wash myself...’

‘Done.’

He turned the water off and wrapped her in a big soft towel. He’d pulled her hair up, twisting it into a knot to keep it dry. He let it down now. He briskly dried himself and then led her into the bedroom, to the bed.

Faye crawled into it and landed on her back. Primo lay beside her. She turned her head to look at him and saw he was watching her. She opened her mouth to say something... But she was asleep before she could articulate anything, her last image of Primo’s bright blue eyes on her.

When Faye woke she felt so utterly heavy and at peace that she relished the feeling for a few moments—before snippets of the previous night came back to her. She was in Paris. As if to remind her of that, the very distinctive sound of a French police siren came faintly from the street far down below.

She opened her eyes. The bed beside her was rumpled, but empty. She breathed out. There were no sounds coming from the bathroom. Faye sat up and realised she was still in the towel from taking that shower. After the most torrid and urgent sex she could remember having.

She groaned. She was pretty sure Primo wasn’t used to waking up with lovers still wearing a towel and with their hair all over the place.

She went into the bathroom and pulled on a voluminous robe. She found copious lavish beauty products. And a new toothbrush still in its packaging. Faye freshened up and pulled her hair back, and steeled herself to see Primo.

On bare feet—because of course she had nothing of her own with her in his suite—she padded through the generous rooms until she came to the main reception room. The French doors were open onto the terrace and curtains moved softly in the spring breeze. Faye heard deep voices and then a man appeared in a hotel uniform.

He bowed towards her. ‘Good morning, Mrs Holt. Breakfast is served on the terrace.’

Faye mumbled something in return and went out to find Primo sitting at a laid table, dressed and shaved and not looking as if he’d unravelled her completely last night. She felt exposed.

He looked at her, an expression of something close to amusement on his face which didn’t help her mood.

‘Good morning. Don’t worry—it’s still early. You won’t have missed your appointment.’

The appointment!

She’d forgotten. Not like her at all. The man was scrambling her brain. She felt on edge and prickly.

She sat down on the opposite side of the table. Coffee. She needed coffee.

As if reading her mind—because why not? He could read her body better than she could—Primo picked up the pot.

‘Coffee?’

Faye held out her cup. She knew she was being ridiculous, but this was exactly why she’d pushed so hard to have boundaries between her and Primo—to avoid this kind of cosy domestic scene. For her it brought back too many painful memories of breakfasting on her own once her previous husband had decided she was no longer a viable wife.

‘Thank you,’ she said, as graciously as she could, and took a sip of the strong hot drink.

‘Not a morning person?’

She looked at him and felt her irritation sapping away. Shewasbeing ridiculous. ‘I guess I’m just used to my own space.’

‘You don’t like to hang out with lovers the morning after?’

Faye shuddered lightly. ‘Not generally, no.’ She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘You?’

His mouth firmed a little. ‘I’ve tended to avoid it, as it can signify a desire for an intimacy that I’m not interested in.’

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