“Hold on tight.” Brandon squeezes the throttle.
V-room! On my next breath, we’re zooming down the scenic N98 at over a hundred miles per hour. My heart’s racing at about the same speed. I try not to scream since he can hear me. Instead, I lean in and cling to him, so tightly I can feel the planes and angles of his taut six-pack beneath his sinfully sexy jacket.
The speed is not the only thing that’s driving me to squeal. The vibration of the roaring motor is stimulating my clit. And the glorious sensation between my thighs is compounded by the fact that my mound’s rubbing against his gorgeous ass. Wetness mixes with sparks of pure bliss.
“Are you enjoying the ride now?” I hear him ask.
“Oh yes!” I say breathlessly. The warm air whips under my clothes, and the delicious sensation between my legs permeates every cell. And the truth is I’m finally relaxed enough to soak in the orgasmic view.
I’m blown away by the scenery. It’s spectacular. On one side of the dusk-lit road, the cerulean Mediterranean laps the rock-filled shoreline while on the other, pastel-colored villas dot flowering hills. It kind of reminds me of Malibu, but it’s ten times more beautiful. For a brief minute, I work up the courage to lift my visor with one hand and inhale deeply through my nose. The air smells divine. A heady blend of lavender and the sea mixes with the intoxicating scent of Brandon’s leather jacket.
Brandon expertly maneuvers the sleek motorcycle as if he were born to ride it. He removes one of his hands from the handlebar and slips it under his helmet. A sudden blast of techno music fills my ears—stuff I would never listen to at home, but I like it. It feels right. Makes me exhilarated.
“Are you okay?” Brandon shouts above the thudding music.
“More than okay,” I shout back. I feel like I’m stoned. On a high. I truly can’t believe I’m here in the South of France with Brandon Taylor. The hottest man on the planet. Attending the gala world premiere of the season finale of Kurt Kussler. Pinch me again. No, don’t bother.
“Do you like this bike?”
“I love it! Does it shoot missiles and lasers?” Seriously, it’s the Aston Martin of motorcycles, and in my head, I imagine Brandon as James Bond driving a decked out one.
Brandon laughs. “No. But maybe the one I’m going to buy will. I need to protect you.”
A shudder runs through me. For the first time in days, I think about Donatelli. There’s no way he can be anywhere here in France. I quickly shove his ugly face to the back of mind and refocus my attention on Brandon.
“You’re really going to buy a Ducati?”
“Yup.”
“You’re going to have to annex your garage.”
“Nah. I’m going to get rid of the Lambo. Been there, done that.”
I wish he would dump the Hummer. The memory of driving the monster flashes into my head. Not. Good. I’ve lost count of how many times I crashed it. I sure as hell hope Brandon doesn’t make me drive this beast with him on the back seat.
As if reading my mind, he gives my thigh a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Zo. You’re never going to touch this baby.”
I mentally sigh with relief and go back to enjoying my Bond-girl ride. Along the way, Brandon points out several sights, including Nice’s iconic Negresco Hotel, and later on, Gregory Peck’s former majestic villa, and as we enter Cannes, a sign saying: “Cannes: Sister City to Beverly Hills.” There’s one just like it on Santa Monica Boulevard; I’ve passed it countless times.
“You remember being here before?” I ask him as we drive past the famous sign. He was actually here last Spring, a trip I helped plan.
“Yeah. Totally. I know this area like the back of my hand.”
Lately, he’s been having a lot of memory breakthroughs. I wonder if he’s remembered anything more about the day of his accident. I’m dying to ask him, but don’t want to break this euphoria with dark thoughts. Instead, I just let myself enjoy the scenery, the music, and my breathtaking companion. Timeless beauty comes in many forms—be it a magnificent landscape, a high-powered bike, or a panty-melting man.
The Carlton is Cannes’s grand dame of hotels. I’m in awe of it as we bypass a line of limos and pull up to the paparazzi-swarmed entrance. Built in 1911, it’s a sand-colored palace in the center of La Croisette, the busy palm tree-lined boulevard across from the Mediterranean. Its big claim to fame is that it was prominently featured in To Catch a Thief, starring Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, one of my favorite movies, and where the actress later met her future husband, Prince Rainier of Monaco.