Dry throat. Sweaty palms. Excitement runs rampant through my veins with each step I take. The room pulses with life and music and the buzz of conversation. The smell of flowers coats the air like a cocoon. Expensive champagne and wine fuel the licentious behavior of people around me. It’s all the more thrilling because I know he’s here and because I shouldn’t be.
I spot him standing by the bar surrounded by a group of people. Mesmerized, I pause to take him in. Sébastien. A thief amongst kings. And how he shines against a backdrop that is already blinding in its splendor. He’s laughing at something when his eyes connect with mine. Instantly, the room disappears, dissolving to dust, except for the two of us. He smiles a smile that could melt gold, one that I know is only for me. He slowly raises the flute in a silent toast before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip as he watches me over the rim of the glass. My ears begin to buzz. I lick my lips almost expecting to taste the champagne on mine—to taste him.
My feet begin to move of their own accord. As the space between us disappears, so does my guilt. Tomorrow when I’m no longer under his spell, when the truth is staring at me right in the face and I can’t deny it anymore, I’ll deal with the consequences.
But not tonight.
Without taking his eyes off of me, Sébastien excuses himself from the group as he signals me with a barely perceptible nod of his head to follow him. He walks toward an empty balcony to the left of the bar, far away from all the hubbub and the guests. While I silently trail after him, I observe both women and men hungrily watching his every step while moving to the side to let him through.
He reaches the balcony first. With less than five steps separating us, I pause to take a deep breath while gathering my courage, and step out into the night. Sébastien glances back, and our eyes lock until I come to stand next to him.
“I feel like I should say, ‘Surprise, I came!’ or something like that, but you always knew I’d come, didn’t you?”Sébastien turns his body toward mine, leans down and places a kiss on each of my cheeks. He’s deliberately slow, taking his time as his lips make contact with my skin, setting a massive amount of butterflies loose in my stomach. And they turn from butterflies to lions roaring inside me. “I didn’t, but I hoped you would.”
Dizzy, I place my hands on the iron railing for support. Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, I focus on the Eiffel Tower shining brightly and illuminating the night sky as its beam lights up the city. I try to make sense of the inner turmoil this maddening man causes inside me, but it’s of no use. There’s no logic to it. No reason. How can I put down into words what he awakens in me with his mere proximity when I can barely understand it?
“I love the way the Eiffel Tower sparkles.”
“They are golden lights that go on every night, every hour on the hour.”
“It’s beautiful. Makes me think that it’s covered in stars. Great party, by the way.”
“It is now.”
Blushing, I pretend I didn’t hear him even though my legs suddenly don’t feel strong enough. A smile crosses my lips as I trace the railing with my fingertip, secretly loving his words. How can Sébastien be so absurd and yet so endearing at the same time?
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Did I say something amusing?”
I shake my head, thinking that now would be the perfect time to change the subject. “How was your day?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile as though he knows what I just did and why. “Really, Valentina? You’re asking me about my day? Next, you’ll talk about the weather.”
I laugh. “Seemed the polite thing to do.”
A couple steps outside onto the balcony next to ours. She has blond hair and long red nails. I frown. Something about her seems familiar. The man and woman don’t waste any time, losing themselves in their embrace.
“So … Paris. How’s it treating you?” I hear Sébastien ask, drawing back my attention to him.
“Who’s being polite now?”
“Trying to behave here.”
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow, teasing him. “You? Behave? Do you ever?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like you’re doing right now?”
Spellbound, I watch Sébastien raise a hand to caress the arc of my cheek with the back of his fingers as a strand of hair falls across his forehead. His lips curve sinfully. His heavy-lidded eyes fall upon my mouth. “Oui, ma petite chouette, even though good behavior is the last thing on my mind at the moment.”
I laugh as his words send a current of excitement and shivers shooting right through me, coating my body in heat. I want him. I want him inside of me. I want to know the taste of his seed on my tongue. The force of his thrusts. And most of all, I want this. The laughter. The butterflies. Him. I stare at the skyline and its timeless architecture, taking a deep breath, trying to smother the hunger of my body and my heart. I clear my throat. “So. Paris. I was walking around the city the other day. Rediscovering it, really.”
“Funny that. I’d assumed this was your first time.”
“No.” I shake my head, meeting his gaze again. “My first on my own, though.”
“I see.” A shadow crosses over his face, darkening his eyes and dimming their light fleetingly. But he blinks, and it’s gone. “And has it changed since?”
“Not really. But the way I view it has. Ever watch Runaway Bride?”
“Can’t say that I have.” He pulls a packet of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his tuxedo, offers me one, but I politely decline. After a short nod, he lights one, takes a drag, blowing out the smoke through his mouth and nose. “Any good?”
As the smoke curls like a snake in the air, I’m tempted to ask him for a drag, just so I can place my lips where his have been …
Focus. Movie. Right.
“Well, I think so, but then again, romantic movies are right in my wheelhouse.” I throw him a conspiratorial glance, grinning. “Especially the cheesy holiday ones.”
He grins back. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Hallmark sucker, here. Anyway … Julia. Runaway Bride. There’s this scene in the movie where Richard Gere asks Julia’s character what kind of eggs she likes. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of, ‘Whatever you like or whatever you’re having.’ You see, she didn’t know how she liked her eggs because she always ate them the same way the man she happened to be with at the time preferred them.”
Cigarette back to his lips. Inhales. Exhales. “Sounds like she didn’t know her mind.”
“Exactly. So then, Gere’s character asks her, ‘No, what kind of eggs do you like?’” I pause, worrying my lip. God, I’d really kill for that cigarette now. “I’ve done a lot of thinking since I got here. Soul-searching, I guess. And like Julia’s character, I’ve realized I don’t know how I like my eggs either. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I forgot who I am, what I like and what I don’t. I’ve been so focused on pleasing my husband, fitting in his world, that I forgot about me.