He begins to move—long, smooth strokes that grow in urgency, his body pressing me deeper into the mattress, his lips crashing into mine as if he’s afraid we’ll lose this if he lets go.
His gaze never leaves mine.
And in it, I see something that steals the air from my lungs.
Want. Wonder. Maybe even something close to awe.
We move in perfect sync, as if this rhythm were always waiting in our bones.
No words.
Just the quiet cadence of our bodies moving as one, skin on skin, wet heat of breath.
I don’t call his name. I don’t speak.
But my body gives me away.
And when I finally let go—when the wave crests and crashes over—it’s not quiet.
My cries of pleasure fill the room - raw, hungry, unguarded. And somehow, they harmonize perfectly with his.
FOUR
SPENCER
I wake slowly, aware first of the light filtering through the massive hotel windows, then of the distinct emptiness beside me.
Rhea’s gone.
I blink fully awake and sit up, already knowing I won’t find her in the bathroom or curled on the couch.
My mind flashes to last night.
The way she moved beneath me—confident, responsive, like our bodies already knew each other.
But also, the way she looked at me—not at my name, or my net worth, but at some part of me I sometimes forget even exists.
There’s a note. Folded once, resting neatly on the nightstand.
Spencer,
Thank you for the unforgettable evening—and for believing in our project. I still can’t quite believe I get to bring it to life.
If you ever feel like sharing little-known France traveltips, I’m all ears. And of course, if I ever need a book recommendation, I’ve got your number.
Avec toute ma reconnaissance,
Rhea
Short.Polite. Just enough warmth to keep me wondering if she felt what I did.
No number. Still, I know exactly where she works—thanks to the grant application.
I’m confident I can find her.
Which I plan to do.
And come to think of it, shedoeshave my number.
