“Cry me a river, baby. I’m Célian.” He offered me his hand.
His poise unnerved and fascinated me at the same time. He was carved like a god but looked vital and warm to the touch like a mortal. It clouded my judgment, messed with my senses, and made my stomach feel like hot tongues of lust licked it from within.
“Judith, but everyone calls me Jude.”
“I take it you’re a Beatles fan.”
“Presumptuous. Your list of negative traits is never-ending.”
“Not the only long thing about me. Eat, Judith.”
“Jude.”
“I’m not everyone.” He threw an impatient smile my way, looking like he was over our conversation.
Bossy bastard. I took another bite. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
I was pretty sure I was lying, but I was too emotionally exhausted to deny myself things tonight.
He leaned toward me, entering my personal space the way Napoleon blazed into Moscow, with the pride and discretion of a pagan warrior. He brushed his thumb along the column of my throat. A simple touch, and my entire body broke out in violent goosebumps. It was the combination of his feral, male ruggedness, his accent, and his sharp everything else—suit, scent, and features.
I was helpless.
I wanted to be helpless.
“The heart is a lonely hunter.” But my body needed company tonight.
He leaned forward, his lips close to my ear, and whispered, “Oh, but this does.”
“You’re not my type.” I grinned into the rest of the whiskey I downed.
“I’m everyone’s type,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I’ll make it good for you.”
“You don’t know what I like,” I shot back. Ping-ponging with him was fun. He was curt, sharp, and unaffected, but oddly, I didn’t find him rude.
“Bet you all the cash I have on me that I do.”
This is interesting.
“What if I fake it every time I have an orgasm and act like I don’t?” I tucked my iPod and earbuds into my bag. This conversation couldn’t possibly be weirder. He smiled a smile I’d never seen on a human face before—so predatory my insides clenched on nothing, my panties dampening between my thighs.
“Clearly you’ve never had a real orgasm. When I make you come, you’ll be lucky to keep your fucking kneecaps from snapping.”
“Self-endorsem—”
“Save me the sass, Spears.”
Ten minutes later, we were crossing the street on the way to his hotel. I tried hard not to lose my cool when we entered the glitzy lobby. The Laurent Towers Hotel stood across from the LBC skyscraper, home to one of the largest news channels in the world. The place was buzzing with people, but we were the only ones waiting for the elevator. We both stared at it silently while my heart screamed, nearly bursting from my chest. My knees shook under my cheap black dress. I was doing this. I was really having a one-night stand. Granted, I was twenty-three, newly single, and freshly vindictive. I knew there was nothing immoral about sleeping with him. But I also knew this was a one-off I would likely laugh about years from now.
“I don’t normally do this,” I said when the doors to the elevator slid open and we stepped inside.
Célian didn’t answer. When the doors glided shut, he stalked toward me, his eyes cool and detached, his mouth pursed. He cornered me against the wall, every step more voracious than the last. My pulse wrestled inside my throat. He considered me with those cocksure eyes, and I lifted my chin, feeling my nostrils flaring.
Célian cupped me through my skirt, and I whimpered, my body arching against the wall behind me. His thumb found my clit and dug its way through the fabric, pressing hard and massaging it in lazy circles.
“Don’t try to convince me you’re a good girl,” he hissed, his breath—mint and fresh coffee beans—skating along my throat. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“Your English is very good for a tourist,” I noted. His accent was thick, but he used words like a weapon. Strategic, sparse. Each syllable a vicious strike.
He took a step back, watching me through a curtain of indifference. “I’m quite good at a lot of things, as you’re about to find out.”
The elevator dinged, and he disconnected from me.
The doors opened and an elderly couple smiled at us, waiting for us to leave the elevator. Célian looped his arm in mine like we were a couple, and dropped it casually the minute they were out of sight.
The walk to his suite was silent, but I nearly drowned from the noise inside my head. I convinced myself this was the right thing. A nostrings-attached night of pleasure with an inhumanly beautiful tourist would take the pain away. I trailed behind him, watching his broad back and lean figure. He looked like he worked out for a living, but dressed like he had no time to hit the gym. His profession, however, would remain an unsolved mystery. He was flying back to France tomorrow, and whether he was a hot-shot lawyer or an assassin made no difference to me.
Once we were in his suite, he handed me a bottle of water.
“Drink.”
“Stop ordering me around.”
“Then stop staring at me, doe-eyed, waiting for instructions.”
He removed his blazer and kicked off his shoes. The suite was plush and tidy—too much so for an occupied room. It was huge, but I couldn’t detect any suitcases, phone chargers, a desolate shirt lying on the ground, or any other telltale objects.
On one hand, it looked suspicious. On the other, he looked exactly like the kind of psycho to not leave a trace behind. And I was in his room. Fantastic.
Note to self: After your actions today, try to base all your future decisions on fortune cookie advice. You’ll do better.
I drank the water he’d handed me without realizing I did so, then dropped the bottle in the trash like it was on fire, my rebellious soul dying a little.
It’s not too late to bail. Tell him you’re not feeling well and leave.
“I think I should—” I started, but I never got to complete the sentence.
He slammed me against the wall, his lips fusing to mine, shutting me up. My eyes rolled from the sudden pleasure and stars exploded behind my eyelids. I clutched the collar of his shirt as he hoisted me up in his arms and dug his fingers into my butt. My legs wrapped around his waist in no time. He gyrated against me, igniting lust in my lower belly, and when I moaned, he pinched the side of my thigh so hard I tried to fight him off, only to find sinking my claws into his skin felt a lot like drowning in an eternal kiss. His lips were crushed, hot velvet. His body stony marble, and hard everywhere.
Célian slid his tongue into my mouth, and I let him.
He rolled his hips, his hard—very hard—cock pressing against my slit, and again, I let him.
He bit my lower lip harder and growled, then sucked the pain away. I cried for more.
He slipped his hand between us, nudged my panties aside, and dipped two fingers into me.
I was embarrassingly soaked.
The sexy stranger tore his mouth from mine, staring me down. “Time to finish your sentence, Miss Spears.”
“I… I…” I blinked, flustered.
He began to thrust his fingers in and out of me—slow, so tauntingly slow—his face still dead serious.
Who was this guy? He looked so unaffected, even when an involuntary groan escaped my lips every time he dug deeper and deeper into me, his fingers curling and hitting my G-spot. His other hand traveled up to my breasts, twisting one nipple roughly.
“You said you should do something.” His hand left my sex momentarily to paint my lips with my desire for him, before returning to its new favorite place between my legs. He tasted me on my lips. “What was it, Judith?”
Judith. The way he rolled the J between his teeth made me want to die in his arms. His hot tongue was on my neck, chin, lips, and then between them again. We were tangled together like we needed each other to survive. I knew it was just one night, but it felt like so much more.
“I…eh…nothing,” I said, fumbling for his zipper between us. He pressed one of his hands over mine, pushing my palm against his huge hard-on. Now I had a whole different reason for panic. That thing could maybe fit in my gym bag. Not my vagina.