Page 191 of Sinful Desires
I reached for the bowl and stuffed a few kernels into my mouth. Victoria was still in full stylist mode, folding gowns like she was defusing bombs.
My cheeks flushed.
Oh, I didn’t know. Maybe it had something to do with a certain French bodyguard sneaking into my room every night and absolutely wrecking me.
Eleven nights straight. I hadn’t slept.
I’d just been face down, drooling, legs shaking, pussy raw from getting used until I cried.
“I’ve been rewatchingOutlander. You know how I get when Jamie Fraser shows up. I lose hours. It’s unhealthy.”
Afterthatnight on the cliff, after the striptease and Théo making love to me under the stars, the next four days had blurred into this rhythm of pretending.
During the day, we kept our distance. I swam, I wrote, I painted.
Meanwhile, he worked out shirtless for hours, glared at his laptop like it had insulted me, and left every afternoon to visit his father.
That part made me happy in a way I hadn’t expected.
And then there were the nights.
When the villa went quiet, when the air turned thick and still. When Liya and Pierre were tucked away in the guest rooms and Nicholas was asleep across the hall.
I’d lie in the dark waiting, already aching, already wet, already wired for him.
Then I’d hear it. His door creaking open. Then mine.
He never knocked. He didn’t need to.
He’d slip inside. I’d already be on my knees on the bed, arms stretched around his neck before he even reached me. He’d lift me, kiss me, and pin me to the mattress like he couldn’t breathe unless he was buried inside me.
Then he’d fuck me. Hard. Slowly.Deeply. His mouth hot at my neck, his hands bruising my hips.
And when I got too loud, when I couldn’t help the whimpers and moans slipping past my lips, he’d shove his hand over my mouth and keep going, his rhythm never breaking. His eyes locked on mine while my screams turned to muffled cries under his palm, my whole body trembling as I came around him.
Sometimes it was sweet. Mostly it wasn’t.
Sometimes he’d leave marks. Sometimes I begged him to.
I lovedthe weight of him.
The way he whispered filth in French against my throat. The way he used me like he was trying to erase every man who had ever touched me before him.
The way we both knew it had to stay secret. Quiet. Untouched by daylight.
He never stayed the night, always gone before sunrise.
Gone before Nicholas knocked on my door with fresh orange juice and a smile, like nothing unholy had happened just hours earlier.
I’d sit at breakfast, pretending I wasn’t still full of him.
Before we left France, I visited his mother one last time. She hugged me so tightly it nearly cracked my ribs. She thanked me foremployingher son, kissed both my cheeks, and handed me a tiny, heart-shaped keychain with an inscription—À bientôt.
Then she’d said something I hadn’t been able to forget.
“Thank you for helping my son find his way back to his father. You’ll never know what that means to me, Scarlett. I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t seen in years. You gave that back to him. You gave him back to us.”
And somehow, that made me happier than anything else.
