I open the door.
She takes in the room, her expression softening.“You remembered everything.”
“I remember you,” I say simply.
I trace the line of her neck with my thumb, feeling her pulse against my skin.
Her fingers trail over a small refrigerated drawer—discreet, elegant—and when she opens it, she finds what I requested: champagne truffles, fresh berries, and a silver bowl of ice.
“Not your typical hotel amenities,” she murmurs.
“The Sanctuary doesn’t do typical.”
I’ve been thinking about this for weeks—planning every detail, imagining her response.The way she’d look in this light.The sounds she’d make.How it would feel to have her here, in a space that belongs to both of us now.
Outside, the bells of Notre-Dame chime the hour, faint but clear through the open window.The city feels suspended in time, as if Paris itself is holding its breath.
“This room isn’t like the others in New York.”
“No.The Paris location offers a wider array of suites.”
“Ah.”She drags a finger across the marble top of a dresser.“Is this your favorite?”
“I wouldn’t yet know.”
Her lips curve into a tease.“Don’t play innocent.”
“Me?Never.”There are no mirrors, but I’m quite certain I’ve failed at controlling my smirk.
“Tommy did once share that in your heyday you didn’t make wide use of the rooms.”
“I wasn’t ready for anything that stayed,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because back then it was about convenience, perhaps even control, not desire.At least, nothing more than fleeting lust.”I move toward her.
She turns to face me fully.“And now?”
“Now I want more, I choose more.”I reach for her, slowly.“There’s no part of me that misses those days.You believe that, right?That’s not why I brought you here.”
Her hands find my shoulders, pulling me closer.
I stop close enough to feel the warmth of her, the question hanging between us.When she tilts her head up, I finally close the distance.Her breath stutters against my mouth, and that small sound undoes whatever control I thought I possessed.
My hands find the zipper at her back.The silk whispers as I drag it down slowly, feeling her shiver beneath my palms.When the dress pools at her feet, she steps out of it gracefully, and I step back—just for a moment—to look at her.
Black lace.Barely there.Her skin glows in the amber light, and I’m struck by how different this feels from those early days—the nights when I’d bring someone here for novelty, for distraction.This isn’t distraction.This is devotion.
“Adrien.”My name is a question and a demand.
I shrug out of my jacket, then work my shirt buttons, letting her watch.Her gaze tracks every movement—hungry, appreciative—and the heat in her eyes makes my pulse kick harder.When the shirt falls away, I reach for my belt.
She steps forward, her hands covering mine.“Let me.”
Her fingers work the buckle with practiced ease, then the button, the zipper.My trousers fall and I step out of them, standing before her in just my briefs, already straining against the fabric.
She palms me through the thin material and I hiss.Her touch—confident, knowing exactly what I need—nearly undoes me.
