“Eliza knows that.” A pause. “A few people have also called me one of the best footballers in the world.”
Lots of people have called him that. Including me. Still, his arrogance is irritating. Enticing too. Confidence is contagious.
I take a deep breath. Unfortunately, it smells like him. “Does it have to be tomorrow?”
“Do you have a conflict?” The question sounds like a challenge. His gaze flicks to a spot behind me. To the table I left, maybe.
“It’s late notice. What if we hadn’t run into each other tonight?”
“We did,” he counters. “Is ten too early?”
Another challenge.
I cross my arms. His eyes dip a second time, and I’m awash with heat all over again.
“I—that’s—ten is fine.”
I’m flustered and frazzled and it’s entirely his fault. Or mine, for allowing him to have such an effect on me. Problem is, that effect has never felt like a choice.
“See you then.” Otto turns and strides toward his table, leaving me staring after him.
Confused.
Annoyed.
And…excited.
21
OTTO
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
Ican’t stop kissing her.
We stumble into one of Hôtel de Lumière’s suites, nearly upending the vase filled with fresh flowers set on a side table. Distantly, I hear the door click shut, distracted by Claire’s hands sliding down my chest and slipping under my shirt. We’re stepping out of our shoes, colliding with a wall. I’ve never been this hard, the ache almost intolerable. I could come from this, her needy whimpers and eager lips and how she grinds against my hand when it slips between her thighs. Her lacy underwear is soaked.
My name is a frustrated exhale when my mouth moves to her neck, her head pressing against the wall right next to a framed painting that could be in the museum we visited earlier.
I swipe my tongue over her pulse point, then sink to my knees.
“Why—what are you doing?” Claire asks, confusion creeping into her voice.
Enough to tell me she hasn’t done this before, and that’s accompanied by a burst of satisfaction.
“Is this okay?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Yes. But you don’t…have to.”
“I want to. You are wet.”
“I know,” she says, a trace of embarrassment in her tone.
I hitch her knee over my shoulder. Trail my fingers up along her inner thigh, until my hand is just below the crease of her hip. “You could be wetter.”
Claire swears softly as I hook her underwear, pulling it aside and exposing her pink pussy. I swipe her seam with my tongue, then suck on her clit.
