It doesn’t matter who I’ve been with before.
Sex with Fabien has ruined me for sex with anyone else literally ever again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fabien
Nicolette is absolutelyperfect for me. She’s absolutely perfect,period. I don’t care that she looks like she was painted into being by a master artist. It’s so much more than that.
I have held nothing back, and yet she has taken it all in stride like we were created for each other.
Our room is only paces from the closet, but she’s stark naked, her clothes in tatters on the floor.
“If only I had something to change into,” she says with a smile. “We will have to find something that actually makes me look like me.”
We decide on a robe and slippers. “We’re just coming back from the sauna,” I tell her.
“Can that be a real thing?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
So I find a robe, too, and we make our way down to the workout room and shower before we get in the sauna. This leads us to the massage room, and I have a lot of fun with hot oil.
“I like your mother, your brother, too. Your grandmother…”
“She’s a raptor.”
“You might say that,” she says with a wince. “Why is she so wound up?”
“She was the heiress to the largest inheritance in Parisian history. Her parents held her to high standards. They never expected anything short of perfection. That is no excuse, but that’s the reasoning. Tell me about your grandparents.”
I pour warmed oil into the palm of my hand and spread it across her lower back. She sighs in contentment. “My mother’s mother was a schoolteacher. She taught until she was seventy-five and retired kicking and screaming. My grandfather was the principal and retired the same year. They were the bedrock of their small town and major proponents of education. French immigrants.”
“Ah. Is that what brought you here?”
“Yes, partly.”
“And your sister?”
She smiles. I rub the warmed oil over her shoulders.
“Her name’s Savannah. She’s nerdy as hell and adorable, reads like a book a day and writes constantly. She started reading when she was four years old and never stopped.”
“Does she want to be a published author?”
“Someday, but she’s only nineteen and says she isn’t good enough yet. I’m honestly not sure if she’ll ever feel that she’s good enough.”
“I understand. Self-doubt is a vicious thing.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “It is. Now my turn.”
“Alright.” I assume she’s going to ask me a question, but instead she pushes herself up and tugs her robe on, stands, and pours warmed oil into her hand.
“Go on, then. Lay down, please.”
Well this is a first. I lay myself belly down on the table while she stands beside me.
The first feel of her small hands expertly massaging oil along my shoulders makes me groan in pleasure.
