Page 182 of Sinful Desires
After the hospital, we had pulled an all-nighter. I slept straight through the day and had woken up only when Nicholasreturned from set. He took me out for dinner in Saint-Tropez. Chartered a helicopter, and twenty minutes later, we were drowning in paparazzi and loud music, surrounded by celebrities I hadn’t seen in years.
Actors who had once kissed me for the camera. Singers who’d written songs about me and then denied it.
We weren’t alone either. The film’s private security trailed behind, staying close.
I had asked Théo to take the night off, figuring he needed time to clear his head, to be alone. He’d actually agreed, which shocked the hell out of me.
But not before he’d turned to the three security guys assigned to follow me around and said, calm as anything, that if the wind so much as laid a finger on me, he would take their eyes out one by one and snap off every finger they had. I had never seen three men turn that pale that fast.
We came back just before dawn.
The next day, Nicholas had the day off.
We stayed by the water. Liya, Pierre, Nicholas and I swam for hours, collapsed in the sand, played volleyball with too much competitiveness, and built castles that never stood a chance against the tide. By nightfall, we lit another bonfire.
But Théo never joined us.
He sat alone, a silhouette against the night, body buried in the shadows of a deck chair. He didn’t move. His gaze only drifted between us and the sky, pausing on the constellations like he was trying to read something written there.
We worship the stars, but forget it’s the darkness that makes them shine.
Only you, Scarlett, could fall in love with a man whose life is darker than yours.
I stood up, brushed the sand from my shorts, grabbed my flip-flops and notebook, and headed inside just as the sun began to drop behind the hills.
Nicholas told me this morning they were shooting one of the final scenes on the cliffs of Èze, right by the old church. Something about a climactic moment where the lovers find their way back to each other. He wouldn’t be back before dawn.
Perfect.
The villa was silent. The private chef had left hours ago, and the maid too.
I had a mission tonight—a beautiful view, a fast car, and Théo’s cock buried so deeply I’d feel it in my chest.
I didn’t want romance. I wanted to choke on him until my mascara ran. I wanted to ride him in the front seat with the windows down and my tits out, legs shaking while he held my hips and told me to take it.
I wanted to make a mess. Of him. Of me. Of the night.
It wasn’t about sex. It was about giving him everything. My mouth, my body, my soul.
A thank you. A prayer. A filthy little offering to the man I loved more than I could ever fucking say out loud.
No one else got to touch me, fuck me, or pull my hair while I came screaming for more.
That was all I needed tonight. Nothing else even fucking existed.
I stepped into the living room through the wall of windows and found him at the kitchen bar, hunched over a laptop, eyes locked on the screen, that familiar frown etched deeply between his brows.
He didn’t look up.
“Someone broke into your condo two days ago,” he said. “I sent men to check it. Nothing was touched, nothing stolen.I think it’s the same asshole who tried hacking your security system last year.”
I hummed, too numb to care.
So many people had tried over the years to hurt me, steal from me, become me.
I’d stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
I grabbed a glass, then went to the fridge and poured myself some apple juice.
