Mason lies on his back, one arm behind his head and the other covering the crown jewels. His powerful body laid bare for my hungry eyes.
He couldn’t be gentle with me last night. As much as he would try, it always ended up the same way it started.
His need for me uncontrollable, but mine just as insatiable.
I’ve never had as many orgasms as I did last night, and I know I need more sleep after such a late night, but I can’t sleep when I’m this hungry.
I pull back the covers and tiptoe to the door, stepping out and into the suite. We are on the seventh floor of The Four Seasons Hotel, and after our less than classy entrance, I finally get to survey the beauty that is the Eiffel Tower suite.
Naive maybe, but I expected a room—just one—a bathroom and perhaps a pokey little window that I pictured hanging out of with Mason at my back. Cute, boutiquey, Paris kind of vibes.
This isn’t that.
Everything about it is luxurious with high ceilings, fresh white walls, and cream and soft beige furnishings. Everything complements something else in the room. Like the two windows that look out over the city, both wide and the size of the wall, yet dressed with thick velvet drapes, showcasing the stunning view. White flowers are placed in vases and cover nearly every surface, the smell caressing me like a fresh summer’s day.
I step past the sectional sofas and towards the bow window that looks over the terrace. It extends from the room, offering panoramic views over the iconic tower.
“Wow.”
This place is… incredible.
Too much? A little. But he is too much, and I only want more of him.
I search the suite for the room service menu, then fall back to the plush cream sofa. I don’t know much French so it’s hard to navigate what I’m reading, but I think I spot avocado, and I know crepes are pancakes, but I would be devastated right now if I didn’t like what I ordered.
I’m nervous when the dial tone starts.
“Bonjour, comment puis-je vous aider?”
Shit, I should’ve waited for Mase. “Uh Bonjour, roomy servicce?” I say in a French accent, my hand snapping up to my forehead.
This is mortifying.
“Of course, Madam. What can I get for you?”
“Uh, du croissant?” I squirm, wondering if I have gotten that right.
“Two croissants. Would you like any coffee?” she asks.
“Oui, merci. Uh, uno sugarr.” I don’t know if Mason will have sugar, but I should get some just in case.
He’d probably say something cocky like, ‘I have some sugar here for you, Pix.’
“There’s sugar in your room, Mrs Lowell. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No, uh, merci.” I frown, Mrs Lowell? “Wait. Are you English?”
Realisation dawns on me as I replay the conversation in my head.
She giggles into the phone. “Australian, you did great, by the way.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Oh, wow, how embarrassing.”
“Not at all, it’s refreshing that you gave it a shot. We get a lot of orders in many languages, and not many take the time to give the native language a go.”
“I didn’t even want a croissant. I just didn’t know how to ask for anything else.” I laugh.
“Well, that just won’t do. What is it you would like, Mrs Lowell?”
