By the time I step out of the bathroom ten minutes later, she’s sound asleep, curled beneath the sheet, face turned toward the open window and the Paris lights beyond.
I climb in beside her as quietly as I can and put my arm around her, clothes and all.
And I drift off with a feeling I haven’t known in years.
Peace.
When I wake, it’s to the slow, erotic pleasure of her touch—her body spooned against mine in the morning light. Her hand already wrapped around me, stroking me gently through my half-sleep.
I let out a soft, appreciative groan and reach down, placing my hand over hers, guiding the rhythm. Telling her—without words—how good it feels. How much I want this. Want her.
But as I slowly wake, I remember. This time, it’smyturn to give.
I shift onto my back, then over to face her, brushing her hair from her forehead, looking at her—really looking.
I’m wondering what ache she’s been carrying beneath those bright eyes, what unspoken desire I might have the chance to ease.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed of.”
She smiles—slow, sleepy—and tips her head to the side. “This part of the France itinerary? I didn’t ever imagine.”
I chuckle against her skin, then dip down, tracing lazy circles around one nipple, then the other, letting my fingers brush across each tight peak until she lets out the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
She breathes, arching her back. “I’ve never dared to dream of this.”
Her hand is still on me—sometimes soft, sometimes firmer—and every stroke sends fire through my veins. I answer with movement of my own, shifting downward, kissing the curve of her breast, then lower still, letting my mouth worship her belly, her hips, every inch of her warm, waiting body.
When I part her thighs and settle between them, she opens to me without hesitation. Her hands find my hair, holding me there as I taste her, slow and patient, tongue and lips working in perfect rhythm, letting her know—this isn’t just desire. This is reverence.
She doesn’t say “Don’t stop.” She doesn’t have to. Her hands say it for me, holding me in place, trembling slightly with each rising wave.
“Oh god… Spencer…” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I—I’m so close… so soon. Please—I need you inside me.”
Only then do I lift my head. Only then do I shiftforward and enter her slowly—carefully—watching her face as her eyelids shut and her lips part in a breathless sigh.
Her hands slide to my hips now, pulling me deeper, anchoring me to her. And it’s not just our bodies—it’s our souls, falling into step, into song.
“Yes,” she whispers. Then louder—“Yes. Yes… oh god, yes. This is my dream.”
And when she cries out my name, when her body arches and shudders beneath mine, there’s nothing I can do but follow, joining her in the only place I ever want to be.
“Rhea,” I gasp, every muscle drawn tight. “Oh, Rhea. I love you.”
TWENTY-NINE
RHEA
“Rhea, I love you.”
He says it just as we fall over the edge, every part of him tangled with every part of me.
Three words—soft, breathless, stunned into the dim silence of the morning light. Like he didn’t mean to say them out loud but couldn’t help himself.
As we collapse onto the bed, his arm and leg still around me, my mind is spinning.
I have no idea how to respond.
Not because I don’t feel something. God, I feel everything. But because I don’t know what the truth would look like if I said it back. Not with what I’m holding inside.
