She shrugs, stepping out of the dress, folding it carefully over a chair. "That's the point. When you own the room, there's no scandal. Just success."
I stand up, cross the room in two steps, and kiss her hard enough to cut off whatever she was going to say next.
No more talking. No more strategy. No more parade.
Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against mine like a challenge. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against the wall, the silk wallpaper cool against her bare shoulders.
"Fuck the party," I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the pulse beating there. Salt and perfume and her. "Fuck owning the room."
Her laugh is breathless, wicked. "Then ownme."
I rip open my shirt—buttons ping off the marble floor. Her bra joins the pile next, lace tearing under my fingers. I shove her thighs apart with my knee, cup her through the panties, and she's soaked already, hips bucking against my hand.
"Look at you," I mutter, circling her clit slow and firm until she whimpers. "All polished princess out there. Wet little mess for me now."
"Nico—" Her voice cracks, hands clawing at my belt.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding inside her panties, two fingers thrusting deep. She's tight, clenching around me, dripping down my hand. "Not yet. You don't get to come until you beg for it."
She moans, head falling back against the wall, hips grinding shamelessly against my fingers. "Please. Nico,please—"
I curl my fingers, hit that spot inside her that makes her shake, and slow my rhythm until she's panting, desperate. "Louder."
"Fuck me," she gasps, eyes glazed, body trembling.
And I do. But when it’s over, she doesn’t curl onto my chest whispering soft things about the bubble. The tenderness, the closeness from Hinterstoder is gone. It’s like the polished party with all its ministers and sponsors took it away from us.
No, I took it away from us.
And all that remained was lust and passion. I wonder if her soulless, glittery world would ever let us be anything else.
Chapter 11
Schladming Collapse
Playlist:
The Killers: Runaways
Queen: I Want To Break Free
Salzburg, Austria, January 27
ÉLISE
The drive back from Kitzbühel should feel triumphant. It doesn’t. I hijacked the story at that party, tried to write over the tabloids with my own plot, but it feels like I came in two headlines too late.
My social media is still buzzing, every post swollen with comments I don’t dare open. The few I read over breakfast made even the glazed croissant taste bitter. I can get away with power -couple photos on a red carpet. Not with cheap pubs and off--key singing pressed against drunk fans.
The party worked. That's the worst part.
