“Keep your helmet on,” Brandon says as he scoots off the bike. Balancing it, he gives a hard kick to the kickstand while I dismount.
It’s far from a graceful move, and I’m not standing steady. From squeezing the Ducati so hard, my legs are like Jell-O. And to top it off, my clit’s still throbbing. I’m not sure if I can walk. I take a step and I wobble. While I can’t see Brandon’s expression beneath his tinted helmet, I can feel his smirk on me. Cocky jerk!
A valet jogs up to us. Extending his thumb and forefinger, Brandon makes his signature Kurt Kussler finger gun gesture and aims it at the man. With a big smile, the uniformed attendant responds with recognition written on his face.
“Get eet. Got eet? Good…Bienvenue, Monsieur Taylor.”
“It’s good to be back, Alec,” replies Brandon, handing him a substantial tip in Euros. His memory has indeed come back.
Taking me by the crook of my arm, Brandon brushes past the smarmy paparazzi, who don’t recognize him, and escorts me into the bustling hotel lobby to check in. I take in my surroundings. There’s a large bar and a restaurant, decorated in opulent Belle époque furnishings and filled with beautiful bronzed movers and shakers. I recognize some stars from other TV shows, but none of them are as big as Brandon. The chic woman at the check-in counter also recognizes Brandon despite the fact he’s incognito and is equally happy to see him. I shudder thinking how close he came to not making it back here and wonder again if he’s recalled anything about his accident. I’m sure he’d tell me as well as Pops.
There’s no need to leave credit cards or passports as Conquest Broadcasting has handled everything. We’re told our bags are already in our rooms. My room is a single on the fifth floor while Brandon’s got one of the movie star penthouse suites two floors above me. The Sean Connery suite, named after Brandon’s idol because that’s where he’s often stayed. How fitting! Brandon drops me off at my room and flips me around before I can insert my key card. His hipbones dig into me, pressing me tight against the door. He’s dangerously close to me, his hardness grazing my middle.
He unfastens the buckle of my chinstrap, his fingers brushing the sensitive crook of my neck. It must be one of my erogenous zones because flutters go flying to my core, igniting a fire between my thighs.
Rather than taking off the helmet, he lifts up the tinted faceplate and then does the same with his. We’re a whisper away. His warm breath skims my exposed flesh. A hot tingle spirals through me like an uncoiled spring.
“Do you feel jet lagged?” he breathes into my parted lips.
“No, I feel great.” Is he kidding? I feel more than great. Totally exhilarated and turned on. Every cell in my body is buzzing with need and desire.
His smoldering violet eyes bore into me. They’re radiating heat on my cheeks. I feel myself flushing. Growing weak in the knees.
“Good. I want to take you out for dinner. I know a great little place in The Old Town overlooking Le Vieux Port that the paparazzi don’t know about. We can sneak out the back way.”
“Sure.” I can barely manage the word. “What should I wear?”
He smiles seductively. “Any dress that has a zipper.”
“Are we biking there?” I ask, running my memory through my new acquisitions for something that’ll let me straddle my legs. The pickings are slim. Most of my new Chaz wardrobe is skintight.
“I’m not sure.”
He releases me, and I turn to insert the card into the key slot. My fingers quivering, I have to slide it in and out several times before the door unlocks. I can feel his amused smirk on me.
“I’ll pick you up at eight thirty. Be ready.” His tone is bossy.
“I will be.” Without saying another word, I slam the door behind me and, after catching my breath, bang my helmeted head against the slab of wood. So hard I could have knocked myself out had it not been for the protective gear. I remain plastered against the door like a shell-shocked zombie. Holy shit! Did Brandon Taylor just ask me out on a date? My heart is about to beat out of my chest and ricochet straight through my leather bomber jacket. I try to contain and convince myself it’s just a business dinner to go over his MIP schedule, but it’s impossible.
The enchanting restaurant Brandon takes me to is located across from the water in Le Suquet, Cannes’s “Old Town.” To avoid paparazzi and fanfare, we rode the Ducati here though it’s just a short fifteen-minute walk from The Carlton. The spiffy bike is parked on the street just outside the restaurant.
It feels like a whole different world. Unlike the glitzy hotel-lined part of the Croisette, charming stone and stucco houses line the hillside terrain along with a towering medieval church. The restaurant overlooks the picturesque harbor. Soft laps of the Mediterranean sound in my ears and boat lights brighten the starry sky. There’s only one word for the setting—romantic.