As we are heading back to the dock, Damien receives a text, and since he has ordered strict silence except in emergencies, he glances at the screen. I watch him, dividing my attention between my husband and the Parisian skyline.
The muscle in his cheek tightens, so I know it is not good news, and he taps out a reply quickly, his fingers practically attacking the screen. But when he turns back to me, the frustration is gone and he is simply Damien again, a man sharing champagne with his wife on their honeymoon.
“How do you do that?” I ask. “You must have a million things going on and a trillion fires to put out, and yet you can just shut it all down. Turn it all off.” I wish that I could do the same. Because although I have reveled in every moment of this day, the truth is that the threat of that damn lawsuit has been lying under the surface, clinging to my enjoyment like tar.
“I don’t know,” he says, brushing my cheek. “I simply will it away. It isn’t gone. Only shelved.”
“I can’t even manage that.” I press against him, sighing as his arms go around me. He smells of fresh air and grass from the garden, and his body is hard and hot against mine. “Make it go away,” I murmur as I feel the need rise within me. “For just a little while, make me forget everything but you.”
I lean back just enough so that I can tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are like molten steel, and I quiver simply from the thought of his touch.
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.” I hear the strain in his voice, as if he is fighting back the urge to touch me. The boat has reached the dock, and he leads me off, then pauses on the quai to study me. “I wasn’t sure, but, Nikki—yes. Come on.”
I’m not at all sure what he has in mind, but I go willingly. Eagerly, actually.
On the street level, we catch a taxi and Damien instructs the driver to take us to à la Lune in the Quartier Pigalle. I note the way the driver glances back, his expression almost a leer, and I raise my brows. Damien only shrugs. “Think red light district.”
“Oh,” I say, and then settle back in the upholstered seat. I have no idea what Damien has planned, but I’m completely confident I will enjoy it.
It’s not a long drive, and soon we are in a neighborhood that reminds a little bit of Bourbon Street and a little bit of Times Square. On one corner, I see a red door and a small neon sign for à la Lune. The driver lets us out without a word, but when Damien pays him, his eyes stay on our faces for just a bit longer than I’d like. I tell myself it’s nothing. If he’d recognized us—if he cared—he’d have pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. As it is, he drives away.
Damien takes my hand and leads me toward the red door, but stops a few feet away on a section of the sidewalk submerged in shadows. “I meant what I said before, about Paris being a city of romance and wanting to share that with you on our honeymoon. But it also has a libertine side. A bit wild. A bit decadent.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I tease, easing up against him, so close I can feel his erection. He cups my ass and pulls me closer.
“It is,” he says, with more seriousness than I anticipated. “Do you remember what you said back in Malibu the other day? We were eating breakfast.”
I grin, certain I finally see where this is going. “I said it felt very domestic. That I liked that.” I ease closer, then grind my pelvis against his. “What’s the matter? Already feeling shackled by matrimony?”
“Shackled wouldn’t be a problem,” he says, “though I’d prefer it was you and not me. And no. But I don’t ever want us to become … settled.” As he speaks, he steps back so that he can run his finger down my dress. He eases the skirt up, then growls low in his throat when he finds that I’m not wearing underwear.
“I don’t want to be settled, either,” I say huskily.