The lock clicked. The door swung open, and suddenly they were tumbling into the room, the world tilting like a ship in a storm.
She didn’t bother with the light. As if it mattered whether he saw the plasticky bedspread or the crooked fruit painting. She kicked off her heels, one skidding left, the other vanishing somewhere to the right, before she was on him, fingers twisting in his jacket, her mouth crashing into his as if she meant to brand him.
They broke apart, gasping. She let him push her toward the bed. Let him shove her down onto the mattress. Good. She didn’t want sweet. She wanted this. The way he touched her like he was angry about it, like he’d been holding back for too long.
“Putain, tu es magnifique,” he growled, his accent wrapping around the words. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress to her waist before his fingers hooked into the lace of her panties. “Lift,” he ordered, and the second she obeyed, he tugged them down.
Then his mouth was there, his tongue parting her, and oh God—
Her back bowed off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair, her other hand slapping over her own mouth to stifle a moan. The room swam, lights bleeding into streaks of gold and shadow, but she couldn’t close her eyes. Wouldn’t. Because then she’d have to feel it, the way her thoughts were still heckling beneath the buzz.
Michel’s tongue flicked faster, his stubble burning against her inner thighs as she wound tight. Her teeth clenched. Every muscle locked, every nerve screaming.
And then she broke.
“Ngh!” The orgasm hit like a blade between her ribs, stealing her breath. A ragged sob tore from her chest as the tension unraveled, leaving her trembling, her mind blessedly, beautifully blank for one stolen second. Then the world came rushing back.
Allegra hauled herself up on her elbows. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, yanking it free with a snap that echoed through the room like a starting pistol. Michel didn’t waste a second. Trousers and boxers hit the floor in a pooled heap, shoes kicked aside.
“Condom,” she barked.
He fished one from his wallet, and she snatched it from his hand. The wrapper tore between her teeth, her hands shaking as she rolled it on. Michel watched, lips curled in a smirk. “Impatient,ma belle?”
“Shut up,” she snapped, yanking him down on top of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails sinking into his back. “Fuck me. Hard.”
And he did.
It was a mess. Her dress still hitched around her hips, his shirt half-trapped behind his head, the bed frame slamming into the wall so violently the fruit painting slid sideways. So what if the whole hotel heard? So what if the front desk called to complain?
Michel’s hands seized her wrists, pinning them above her head as he surged into her—again and again—his breath hot and uneven against her ear. “Like this,chérie?” he rasped, his voice thick with effort, his control fraying at the edges.
“Yes—like that,” she breathed, her body arching into his, muscles coiled so tight she was practically vibrating.
His rhythm hitched, his grip on her wrists turning iron-clad as his body locked up, buried deep inside her. A hoarse, guttural groan tore from his throat, his forehead dropping to hershoulder as he came with a shudder that reverberated through them both. Then he collapsed beside her, chest heaving as if he’d just sprinted up a mountain. Allegra’s gaze fixed on the ceiling, her breath still coming in uneven gasps.
Michel shifted onto his side, his thumb drawing slow, absent circles on her hip. “That was amazing, uh?”
She didn’t answer.
Because the moment the euphoria drained away and her skin stopped singing, reality rushed back in.
She didn’t feel sated.
Or even regret.
Just… nothing.
Chapter Twelve
Click.Click-click.
Nate jabbed the top of the pen with growing frustration, as if somewhere inside its translucent barrel there might be a hidden lever labeledUndo, You Moron.
Click-click-click.
Finally, he lost it, hurling the pen at the desk. It bounced, skidded, and clattered to the floor. He pivoted and resumed pacing the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the window, muttering under his breath.
Okay, fine. Maybe he’d gone scorched earth when a strategic retreat would have sufficed. He could have walked Ella to her door, smiled, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and said goodnight with his dignity intact.
