I begin to move, drawing it out, savoring each thrust. She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails digging into my back.
"Harder," she demands, lifting her hips. "I need more. I've missed you."
I hook my arms under her knees, changing the angle, driving deeper. Her second orgasm builds quickly, her inner walls clenching around me.
"Come with me," she gasps, her body tightening. "Please."
My control snaps. I thrust hard and deep, my release crashing through me as she climaxes again.
My forehead stays pressed to hers while our breathing slows, the space between us close enough that every exhale crosses the same small distance. Her eyes stay on mine, steady and unguarded, and I do not look away.
My hand remains at the back of her head when my thumb traces the line of her jaw once, then stills.
Her breath brushes my throat, uneven at first, then settles. Mine follows a moment later as the room returns to me gradually. The low hum of the city seeps through the window, the sheet twisted tight around my wrist, the weight of her body pressed into mine.
I lie awake for I don’t know how long, holding her, smelling her, letting myself savor her skin against mine. Goddamn, I’ve missed her.
At some point, she shifts, reaching for the edge of the sheet, tugging it up without thinking. The motion is small. Domestic. Ordinary, even.
I notice it, but I don’t speak, for fear of breaking this.
She rests her head against my shoulder, not asking, not negotiating. Choosing.
When I finally move, it isn’t to leave. It’s to reach for my buzzing phone on the floor and turn it off. I don’t even look to see who it is.
Epilogue
Masquerade Balls:Introduced by French settlers, became a hallmark of New Orleans’Mardi Gras celebrations, blending elegance with mystery. Masks allowed partygoers to transcend social boundaries, adding an air of intrigue to Carnival season. Today, these lavish events are still hosted by Mardi Gras krewes, preserving the city’s tradition of opulent revelry.
The last guestsclear out just after midnight.
It’s a smaller event than the one a year ago. Twelve people instead of twenty-four. No press. No spectacle. The wine list is tighter, the food quieter, the room less interested in impressing anyone. Exactly the way I wanted it.
I stand near the service station while the staff resets the room, glassware clinking softly as it’s gathered and boxed. Someone asks me where the extra Burgundy should go. I tell them to label it and lock it in the cellar. Another asks if we’re keeping the remaining bottles open for tomorrow’s pairing. I shake my head and say we’ll rest them instead.
When the questions stop, I realize my shoulders are still relaxed.
That’s new.
I check my phone. Two missed texts from Delphine. One photo from my assistant of tomorrow’s delivery schedule. Nothing urgent, so I slide the phone back into my pocket without answering yet.
Ridge waits near the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass he hasn’t touched in a while. He isn’t hovering. He never does. He knows I’ll come to him when I’m done.
The restaurant manager thanks me again and tells me the clients were already asking about the next tasting. I tell him we’ll talk numbers next week. He nods, satisfied, and heads toward the office.
When the room finally belongs to us again, I cross the floor and stop in front of Ridge.
“Sorry,” I say. “That ran long.”
He shakes his head. “I could watch you all night.”
There’s no edge in it or pressure that my job isn't important. He watched the room the way he always does when I’m in it, not as a guard, but as someone paying attention.
I gesture toward his glass. “You didn’t like the Cabernet?”
“I liked it, a lot,” he says. “This is my third glass.”
I lean in and kiss him. He still makes me tingle all over, just like he did over two years ago when we met.
