ChapterFourteen
Brie
We pass the doorman and a group chatting in the lobby, my heels clicking on marble, our hands linked, skin flushed, our steps quick and deliberate.
When the doors close on his private penthouse elevator, he waits just long enough for the hum of cables to rise, for the air between us to grow taut—then he’s on me, pressing my back hard into the metal handrail, the jut of his arousal against my hip.Heat seeps down my spine and pools.
He breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale.His dark, glittering stare drops from my eyes to my lips and then lower to the place where my silk shirt opens at the collar, the buttons undone to my décolletage.
The doors chime and it’s as if we’re on air in a rush, my peripheral vision a blur, my singular focus him.No doorman.No witnesses.Just us and three years of wanting.We don’t make it past the living room.
In a flash, his hand is on the back of my neck, fingers tangled in my hair.His tongue slips between my lips, whispering over my teeth, stealing my breath.
A memory flashes—dawn light through yacht windows, his fingers tracing the pulse point at my wrist.“Your heartbeat gives you away,” he’d whispered.I’d told him something true then, something I’ve never repeated: “I’m tired of pretending.”His answer: “Then don’t pretend.”
I’m not pretending now.Because this time there’s no alias to hide behind.
The brush of the stubble on my cheek burns, and the taste of wine and a hint of mint blend, as though at some point he prepared for this very moment.
A slight whimper escapes from my throat.He pulls back a little, pausing—eyes scanning, careful, controlled.The way he reins himself in is almost as intoxicating as the way he grabs me.He’s waiting—watching for the smallest sign I want to stop.The restraint in him is a kind of control I can’t resist.
“Yes,” I say, answering the question I hope he’s asking.“Please.”I’m tired of waiting, of holding back, of denying myself.I want him, and I want him now.I want him so badly I risk combustion.
He acquiesces.His tongue slips over mine, then over my face, to my neck, pulling my earlobe into his mouth.More of his hands—one in my hair at the back of my head, one moving down to press the small of my back so that my body shifts closer to his.His breathing deepens, quickens, a low groan caught in his throat.
My fingers steal under his shirt.My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned.His skin is hot and his heady scent and heat envelop me.
His legs press against mine, his chest into my breasts.
“I need to get you upstairs.”But I’m feeling what I hear in his strangled words—it’s too far.
“Here.”I push his suit coat over his shoulders, attacking his buttons with shaking fingers.“Now.”
He makes a sound—half-laugh, half-groan—and suddenly I’m pinned against the cushions, his weight divine, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, my collarbone.His hands everywhere.
He has me pinned against the back cushions, and it’s enough—but my feet lift off the ground and he carries me across the room, setting me down on the other side.His eyes are dark, focused, and his breathing is no longer steady.
He tugs my skirt up—impatient, urgent—over my thighs, bunching it at my hips.When his fingers trail over the front of my vulva through thin silk, I buck against his hand.
It’s been so long since I’ve been touched there by someone other than me—but that’s not it.It’shim.His hands.His breath hot on my neck.The reality of Adrien d’Avricourt kneeling between my thighs, looking at me like I’m oxygen and he’s drowning.
His other hand yanks at my blouse buttons—too slow—so I reach up to help, fingers fumbling.The fabric parts and he doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease.He yanks the lace cups of my bra down, baring me, and his mouth closes over my nipple.
The sensation shoots straight to my core.I arch into him, fingers diving into his hair, holding him there.He sucks and licks like he’s starving, alternating between breasts, and when his teeth graze my nipple I gasp his name.
His legs shift, one knee pressing inside my thigh, opening me, then the other.He settles between my spread legs, and the weight of him, the pressure—I’m practically vibrating.
His fingers hook my panties, yanking them aside roughly, and then he’s touching me where I’m swollen and slick.So wet it’s almost embarrassing.
“Fuck, Brie.”His voice is gravel.“You’re soaked.”
The crude words should embarrass me.Instead, they make me wetter.
“Please,” I gasp, stretching for his waistband.My fingers find his belt buckle but I’m shaking too hard—from need, from the days of restraint finally breaking—and I can’t get it undone.“I just…need…now…please.”
Adrien understands.He has to be feeling it too—this desperation, this animal need that’s nothing like the controlled seduction on the yacht.This is messier.Rawer.Real.
He whips his belt through the loops, fumbles with his trousers.When he frees himself—thick and hard andright there—I reach for him without thinking.Hot silk over steel.He hisses, his hips jerking forward, and I wrap my fingers around his length.
