I freeze for a heartbeat, my brain scrambling to catch up with my heart. And then I decide I’m done overthinking.
Sliding my hand up the back of his neck, I tug him toward me and kiss him again, deeper this time, with all the pent-up wanting and what ifs that have been simmering for two years.
Matthew's arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. He bites my lip; I gasp and his tongue slides in. I make a soft sound in the back of my throat that would embarrass me if I could think straight. But I can't think at all with his hands skimming up my sides, with the way he tastes like wine and possibility.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
We don't stop. His mouth is still on mine, demanding and gentle all at once. I vaguely register that we should move, that we're probably giving someone a show, but then Matthew plasters his body against mine, his fingers threading through my hair, and I forget to care.
Someone clears their throat. Matthew pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, "We should probably..."
"Probably," I agree, but I'm already kissing him again.
The doors start to close, and I snap back to reality just enough to thrust my hand out, catching them before they shut. We break apart, both breathing hard. My lipstick is probably smeared beyond repair. I don't care.
I look up into Matthew's dark eyes, and take his hand.
We make our way past a bellman, who barely conceals his knowing smirk as we stumble past, fingers intertwined, my cheeks flushed. I tug Matthew down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step. When we reach my door, I fumble in my purse, digging through receipts and loose coins, suddenly all thumbs.
Matthew steps behind me, his breath hot on my skin as he brushes my hair aside. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. A shiver runs through me.
"Key, Brooke," he whispers, his voice rough.
I finally locate the keycard, pulling it out with trembling fingers. The little green light blinks on the first try, a small miracle considering how much my hand is shaking. We tumble inside, and Matthew kicks the door shut behind us.
The room is dark except for the glow of Paris streaming through the window. I turn to face him, and for one suspended moment, we just look at each other. Then I'm reaching for his shirt buttons, my fingers working quickly down the front. One, two, three buttons open, revealing warm skin and the dark trail of hair running down his abdomen. He trembles slightly under my touch as I explore the smooth planes of his chest. His fingers riseup, taking the edge of my shirt with them, grazing my skin with a touch so light I almost wonder if I've imagined it.
"May I?" he whispers, his voice husky.
I nod, lifting my arms as he pulls the fabric over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my shoulders and back. For a second, he just stares at my face, breathing heavily, the tension between us thick enough to cut.
Then Matthew reaches for me, his palm warm against my cheek. "You're beautiful," he says, and something in his eyes makes me believe him. Not just the words, but the way he looks at me, like I'm something precious, something worth savouring.
I lean forward, pressing my lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and something uniquely him. His breath catches, fingers tangling in my hair as I work my way up his neck, leaving a trail of kisses that make him shiver.
We stumble toward the bed, our hands fumbling with belts, zippers, fabric. My pants drop to the floor, pooling at my feet. Matthew's follow, then his boxers, my underwear. Every touch ignites my skin, every brush of his fingertips leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
I tug at his shirt, still half-buttoned, and he shrugs it off, letting it fall somewhere behind us. His chest presses against mine, skin to skin except for my bra, the last barrier between us.
Matthew's fingers trace the strap, following it around to the clasp. With one deft movement, it comes undone, and I let it slip down my arms, tossing it across the room.
The way he looks at me, his eyes wide, lips parted, makes me pause. There's something almost worshipful in his gaze as it travels over my body.
"They're just boobs," I say with a small laugh, trying to sound casual despite the heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm sure you've seen them before."
He looks at me like he's seeing something extraordinary, not just my naked chest.
"Not just boobs," he murmurs, his voice rough with want. "Your boobs."
My heart skips as his hand reaches out, cupping one breast with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. His palm is slightly rough against my sensitive skin, and I fight the urge to close my eyes at the sensation.
"God, Brooke," he whispers, leaning down.
His lips brush the soft skin around my nipple, feather-light kisses that make me shiver. Then his mouth closes over the nipple, warm and wet, and he sucks, hard.
The pleasure hits me like electricity. My back arches off the bed involuntarily, a gasp tearing from my throat. My fingers find the back of his head, threading through his hair, holding him against me as he moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention.
"Matthew," I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.
