When she reaches for the waistband of my briefs, I catch her hands.“Not yet.”
“No?”Challenge in her voice, that confidence I’ve always loved.
“I told you I wanted to show you this room.”I kiss her—hard enough to taste her lipstick, feel the edge of her teeth.“Let me.”
No performance.No witnesses.Just the two of us, learning each other again in a space built for play.
Before I guide her to the chaise, I press her back against the floor-to-ceiling windows.Paris glitters below us—distant, infinite, beautiful.But not as beautiful as her.
“Here first,” I murmur, dropping to my knees.“Take in the city while I worship you.”
She gasps as I kneel before her, spreading her legs, shifting the scrap of lace to the side.She’s stunning in the night light, one hand lifted to the glass behind her.The vulnerability of the position—standing, exposed, nothing but glass between her and Paris—makes my breath quicken.
I start without ceremony, my mouth finding her already wet center.She tastes the same—salt and heat and home—but standing like this, she’s different.More vocal.Less controlled.Her palms slide against the glass, leaving handprints that will fog and fade.
“Adrien—I can’t—my legs?—”
“You can,” I murmur against her flesh, holding her thighs steady.“Hold on for me.”
I work her with tongue and fingers until she’s trembling, gasping my name, and when her knees finally buckle, I catch her weight and guide her to the chaise.
“Now,” I say, settling her against the leather.“Let me show you what I planned.”
I cross to the console, retrieving the silver bowl of ice water and the cognac.When I return and kneel between her legs again, her breathing has already changed—faster, shallower, anticipating.
I dip my fingers into the ice water, then trace a cold line from her collarbone down between her breasts.She gasps, arching up, and I follow the path with my mouth, warming every inch I’ve chilled.
“Adrien—”
“Patience, mon cœur.”
Ice against her inner thigh, then the heat of my tongue.A frozen berry pressed to her nipple until she’s squirming.I sip the cognac, tip the glass and let it drip onto her stomach in amber drops before licking it clean.
Her hands reach for me, but I press them back gently.“Not yet.I’m not finished.”
I trail the ice lower, circling her clit with the cold, then replace it with my hot tongue.The contrast makes her cry out—not quiet, not restrained.Her hands fist in my hair as I work her with my mouth, holding an ice chip between my lips, letting it melt against her most sensitive flesh.
“Adrien, please—I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.”I add my fingers, curling inside her.“Come for me, love.”
She does—beautifully, without restraint—her back bowing off the chaise, my name breaking into pieces on her lips.Her thighs tremble against my shoulders as she pulses around my fingers.
She’s still trembling, oversensitized, when I rise.I cross to the warming drawer and retrieve massage oil—almond and vanilla, warmed to body temperature.
“Turn over for me,” I murmur.
She looks at me, dazed, but obeys—shifting to lie on her stomach along the chaise, cheek pressed to the leather.
I pour the warmed oil into my palms and work it into her shoulders, down her spine, over the curve of her ass.Not a full massage—just touch, worship, heating her skin further.When I spread her legs from behind and trail my oiled hands up her inner thighs, her breathing changes.
“Adrien—”
“I know what you need.”
I rid myself of my briefs finally, position myself behind her as she’s still on her stomach, and grip her hips.The oil makes her skin slick, and when I press the head of my cock against her entrance from behind, we both groan.
“Yes,” she breathes.“God, yes.”
