by Noree Kahika
“Whoa. Slow down for a second, Princess.” Roman grasped my shoulders and brought me flush to his chest.
“I can’t be late, Roman. I need to—” I didn’t get to finish my mini freak-out, because Roman’s lips slammed on mine, claiming my mouth; his tongue forced its way in and swept every thought I had far, far away. Releasing my tight grip on the sheet, I ran my fingers over his shoulders and up, threading through the wet strands of hair, and moaned at the fresh minty taste of his breath. His arms slid around my back and pulled me firmer against the solid wall of his chest; his hands roamed the naked skin of my back and I melted fully into him.
Breaking the kiss, Roman asked, “Feeling calmer?”
Breathing heavy, I squinted up at him, noting with some disgruntlement that, although his hands were still wrapped around me, he had put some distance between our bodies. “No. Not really.” I pouted and reclaimed the sheet, wrapping it firmly as I pulled away.
“Charli,” Roman called after me as I left his room for mine. “Everything is going to be fine, so don’t worry. We have plenty of time to get to the embassy, sort out this business with your passport and then you can enjoy the rest of the day sightseeing.”
I studied him for a moment—the softness around his lips, a quiet sincerity within his gaze—and I felt warmed by his assurance. I smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Princess.”
Dressed in the pair of faded denim jeans, pastel baby-blue buttoned-down shirt, tan leather belt, and beige ballet flats, I listened eagerly as Fabienne, my tour guide, escorted me through some of the most impressive, awe-inspiring treasures of the Louvre while educating me on its history. Seeing the Mona Lisa was by far and away the highlight of the tour; however, the other four Leonardo da Vinci paintings she’d shown me definitely ranked up there. All the great artists—Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Rubens—were represented in the Louvre. It was truly awe-inspiring.
When I first arrived at the regal museum, I had worried about being too underdressed, but after seeing how the majority of other tourists were clothed, I was immediately put at ease. After quickly showering, dressing, and briefly pausing to apply a light dusting of make-up to my face that morning, I hurried into the sitting room of the hotel suite, conscious that I had only half an hour to make it to the US Embassy on time. Immediately, I spotted Roman on the balcony, talking on his cell. He was dressed in another three-piece suit, similar to the one he had worn when I’d first met him, but this one was charcoal in color, paired with a white shirt and sage green tie. As cliché as it sounded, at that moment, Roman really did look the epitome of billionaire mogul as he stood there with the skyline of Paris as his backdrop. The suit fit him to perfection, as if it was tailor-made for his tall, imposing frame—which it most likely was. However, with his signature five o’clock shadow peppering his strong jaw and his artfully tousled black hair, he also looked like the quintessential bad boy.
Tearing my gaze away, I crossed to the dining room table where a selection of breakfast dishes, served on hotel-monogramed plates complete with silver matching domed lids placed beside each plate, laid. An assortment of pastries, waffles, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and sausage links wafted deliciously in the air. A crystal decanter filled with freshly squeezed orange juice and a silver pot of freshly brewed coffee completed the scrumptious buffet. My mouth watered at the sight.
After I poured myself a steaming hot cup of heavenly potion, I then reached for a sugar-dusted waffle, nibbling as Roman continued to pace the balcony, absorbed in his conversation. The man was beyond handsome—he was freaking gorgeous and when he wasn’t being an insufferable, arrogant jerk, he was amazingly thoughtful and even sweet at times. Not to mention his talented prowess in the bedroom bordered on the stuff legends were made of.
Just as I finished the last drop of my coffee, Roman appeared and announced that after he escorted me to the US Embassy and my replacement passport was sorted, he would be leaving me in the capable hands of Seth, who would serve as my chauffeur/chaperone for the remainder of the day. Apparently, Roman had a series of meetings to attend to and wouldn’t be back to the hotel until around dinnertime, which was fine with me because I was eager to explore the iconic city further. The only downside was Courtney wasn’t here to experience it with me.
The appointment with Matt Donavan, Roman’s friend at the embassy, went surprisingly smoothly, with Matt’s assurance that my new passport would be ready to pick up by four the following afternoon, which was a huge relief. I’d been worried since first discovering my passport stolen but up until that point, I didn’t realize just how stressed I was. It felt as though a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I could finally breathe freely.
As soon as the meeting concluded, Roman promptly left, leaving me with a stoic Seth. Roman kissed my cheek in a perfunctory manner, distractedly wished me a good day while he typed away on his cell and then slipped into his waiting Audi. Hearts, flowers, and declarations of affection wasn’t what I expected after one night together of mind-blowingly amazing sex, but his cursory gesture made me feel oddly bereft all the same. However, any thoughts I had regarding Roman’s earlier indifference was promptly squashed when Seth drove me around to a small private entrance of the Louvre Museum.
“Er…where are we?” I asked Seth hesitantly.
“The Louvre, Miss Gilmore.”
“Please call me Charli, and I can see that, but why?”
Seth switched off the ignition and turned around to face me. “Mr. Knight has arranged a private tour for you today…Charli.” His voice was all crisp professionalism, but the corners of his warm brown eyes crinkled. Seth, apparently, was a nice guy.
“Oh.” Belatedly, I noticed a tall brunette, impeccably dressed in a black pants suit, standing beside the hood of the car.
Seth got out and opened my door as the woman approached. A wide, friendly smile lit her features.
“You must be Mademoiselle Gilmore. Bonjour, I am Fabienne, your tour guide today. Welcome to the Louvre.” Her French accent had a melodious lilt. She thrust her hand forward for me to shake.
Returning her smile, I shook her hand.
“When you’re ready to leave, text me on this number and I’ll be here waiting, Charli.” Seth drew my attention back to him. He held out a small card with a phone number scribbled across it.
I slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Thank you, Seth.”
“You’re welcome. Take all the time you need and have fun.”
Oh boy, what fun I had. For the next six hours, Fabienne showed me around, generously imparting her invaluable knowledge regarding the history of the world-famous museum and the great treasures it held within.
Instead of a usual tour, where you’d expect up to twenty people in the group, being led around on a brisk circuit as the tour guide dutifully recited a history spiel, Roman had organized Fabienne to privately escort me around for the day. She was both delightfully animated and passionate about the museum and all its collections. Her insightful commentary made the whole experience uniquely memorable. We even had lunch at a bistro called Café Mollien, which was actually located inside the Louvre, and had the most spectacular views that overlooked the galleries of French paintings. The day was extraordinary, made all the more amazing when I received several text messages from Roman. * Enjoying yourself? *
I felt giddy when I saw his text on my phone.
* I’m speechless—it’s that good! Thank you for arranging the private tour. xxx *
His response came back in within seconds:
* You’re very welcome. Speechless huh? I now know firsthand other ways of making you speechless. *
Memories of last night assailed me and I blushed. Glancing around, I noticed Fabienne wasn’t back from the restroom yet, so I decided to flirt back with the cheeky Mr. Knight.
* Yes you do, Mr. Knight, but so do I…which I may have to see to now that your text has me so hot and bothered. Don’t you have meet
ings to attend to? *
His reply was instantaneous.
* You touch yourself without me, Princess, and I may have to punish you. *
* Ooh are you attempting to threaten me? What you don’t know…won’t hurt you. * I giggled like a schoolgirl as I pressed Send on my phone.
Not a full minute later, my cell pinged with another incoming message just as Fabienne returned, asking whether I was ready to go see the Greco-Roman exhibit. After I wiped my hands on a napkin, I gathered my bag and quickly read the new message on my phone.
* Charlotte—I don’t make idle threats. Be dressed & ready by 7pm. You’re all mine for the evening and you will be rendered speechless again…and again! *
Holy-mother-of …! The man certainly had a direct hotline to my nipples, pelvis, and beyond even via text messages.
Dusk had settled over the Parisian skyline as Seth drove me silently back to the hotel. He was back to being all taciturn, although I knew he found it initially surprising, and then somewhat amusing when I insisted riding up front with him instead of the backseat of the car. It felt too weird to be chauffeured around like some wealthy socialite—that was Roman’s world, not mine.
As I entered the hotel suite, I glanced at the ornate wall clock in the sitting room. I was surprised to see it was almost six in the evening—the day had just flown by in a whirl. Hurrying to my bedroom with the goal of showering and changing so I’d be ready by seven, as per Roman’s instructions, the suite felt eerily quiet and empty. Roman apparently wasn’t back from his meetings and I suspected the man was probably a workaholic. But then again, I guess you didn’t get to be a billionaire by just working a nine-to-five day. Once more, I idly found myself wondering whether he was self-made or had inherited most of his wealth. Either way, the man was obviously driven and dedicated.
The three elegantly gift-wrapped black boxes, two of which were individually tied with white satin ribbon and prominent camellias positioned on the edge of the bed, instantly derailed any thoughts I had. Immediately, I recognized the signature packaging from my day of shopping with Courtney on the Champs-Élysées. A mixture of intrigue and uneasiness hit me all at once. It was obvious the boxes were gifts from Roman; however, without even opening them, the packaging alone told me they would have been outrageously expensive.
Dropping my purse on the floor, I knelt to the floor beside the bed and trailed my fingers along the ribbon of the closest box, which also happened to be the largest. Carefully, I unwrapped the satin bow, delicately unfolded the black tissue paper and…my mouth fell open. There, nestled among the tissue paper, was a stunning halter-neck cocktail dress. As I gently pulled it from the box, I noticed it had a thin belt and the soft pastel blush of the material had a dream-like shine to its texture. The entire bodice was covered in what would have to be thousands of tiny blush-pink pearls. The hemline of the dress ended mid-thigh, and layers upon layers of wispy chiffon floated gracefully down from the waist. It was incredibly beautiful but must have cost a small fortune.
Next, I opened one of the smaller boxes and found a sexy pair of strappy five-inch heeled sandals in a similar blush tone to the fabric of the dress. The sandals had thin straps adorned with tiny little blush-rose pearls—exactly like the ones on the dress’s bodice—that tied around the ankles as well as a delicate strap that crossed along the toes. Courtney would have a heart attack if she laid eyes on them—the sandals were literally a work of art. For me, it was love at first sight!
Eagerly, I opened the last package, which was the only box that didn’t have the signature camellia bound with satin ribbon, but I did recognize the prominent branding of Agent Provocateur. A delicate oyster pink, French lace strapless bra with matching thong was neatly folded on top. Beneath was a negligée, also in oyster pink, and when I unfolded it, the length swept to the floor. The negligée had diamond-shaped windows of sheer scalloped lace held together by smooth swathes of oyster pink silk that crisscrossed over the entire body, creating a stunningly beautiful silhouette when I held it up against me.
Lastly, a thick cream-colored card with the Knight Industries logo embossed at the top sat at the very bottom of the box. I picked the card up and flipped it over. In black, bold handwriting were the words:
“Charlotte - The bra & panties are for your new dress. The negligée is for my dessert later this evening. R.”
I blinked several times at the card and then I swallowed. I decided to have a shower and not think about how much Roman had spent on buying me the outfit and lingerie.
Adding a spritz of perfume behind my ears, I smoothed over the bodice of the couture cocktail dress Roman had gifted me. Although I was still not sure how I really felt about his outrageously extravagant gesture, I decided to think about it later—much later.
Showered, make-up done, hair flat-ironed and pinned back in a low messy ponytail with a silver clip, I was ready to face Roman and our last night together—not only Paris but probably forever. As soon as I collected my passport the following day, the plan was to head directly to the airport and Roman’s private plane for the trip back home.
With Roman based in New York and me living on the West Coast for now, I highly doubted our paths would cross again. But hey, that was the nature of a spontaneous fling: by the definition, it was meant to be impulsive and fleeting.
“You look exquisitely beautiful, Charlotte.” The sound of Roman’s voice drew my gaze to him and I watched in satisfaction as he raked his gaze down my body. Even though I knew I wasn’t an ugly duckling by any means, tonight I felt positively glowing in this dress and for once, I was able to apply my make-up perfectly without Courtney’s help.
“Ditto, Mr. Knight.” I unashamedly raked his gorgeous body with my gaze. He obviously came home when I was in my room and changed from the charcoal three-piece suit into a black two-piece one. This evening, his shirt was a deep amethyst that only intensified the midnight-blue hue of his inky eyes. Sans a tie, the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the tanned, strong column of his throat. The image of me kissing, licking, biting that throat last night had me blushing.
“Are you ready?” He strode toward me. The small smirk that played around his mouth let me know he had noticed the blush.
“Uh huh.” I nodded. The man was so breathtakingly handsome he made my chest hurt.
Only stopping when his chest brushed against mine, he slowly lowered his head until his soft, full lips brushed against mine. “The dinner and show at the Moulin Rouge will be rather enjoyable, but I must confess, it’s the later portion of the evening I’m most looking forward to. Dessert was always my favorite part of the meal.”
“Uh huh.” Dazzled by all those damn alluring pheromones of his, my eyelids drooped to half-mast and my breaths quickened. He smelled so incredibly good. Surely it was illegal for any man to be that plain hot.
“Wait! What?” I shook my head in an attempt to clear my wayward thoughts and process what Roman had just said. “You’re taking me out to dinner and a show?”
He slid his arms around my waist, drawing me closer into his embrace. “I am.”
“To the Moulin Rouge?”
His lips curved into a panty-dropping smile. “The one and only.”
“Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” I chanted, squealing in excitement. “How did you know that the Moulin Rouge was the one place in Paris I most wanted to see? Courtney and I wanted to go, but they were completely booked out when we inquired.”
“Then apparently this is your lucky night, Princess.” He bent forward, captured my bottom lip and drew it slowly between his teeth. I think I might have moaned a little.
“Thank you, Roman.” My voice wavered from the surge of excitement I felt in the moment. I had three burning passions in life: teaching, performing on the aerial ribbon, and dance. The Moulin Rouge was a dancer’s Mecca.
Releasing me, he slapped me on my ass and I yelped in surprise. “You’re most welcome. Now come on, we don’t want to be late.”
Moulin
Rouge, the immortalized and legendary music hall of the French capital, was as I’d always dreamed: hypnotic, spellbinding, and sensational. Upon arrival, we were ushered into the restaurant and toward an intimate table for two at the very front and to the left of the stage. Once seated, the waiter handed us both a glass of champagne along with the menu.
Quintessential French cuisine was, of course, the theme for our dinner, with foie gras with jelly and Armagnac for starters, followed by Carré d’Agneau rôti à la fleur de thym (lamb roasted with thyme) and Nougat glacé au miel (iced nougat with honey) for dessert.
Although I struggled with the French pronunciation for each of the courses, Roman had no such difficultly rattling off each of our selections fluently in perfect French, earning himself a series of eye rolls from me. I was then rewarded with several eye rolls from him, when I insisted taking photos of each course so I could text them home to Courtney. It was a poor substitute, but I figured she would get a kick out of the photos despite her not being here and experiencing it together.
Shortly after we finished our meals and our champagne flutes were topped, the show began. In spectacular fashion, a chorus line of the world-famous French can-can dancers burst onto the stage in an eddy of lively music and dancing. Adorned in a flurry of feathers, rhinestones, and sequins, a line of most beautiful girls in the world sashayed, strutted, and shimmied across the platform in a lively celebration of dance and joviality. Their sheer exuberance and vivaciousness had me bouncing in my seat.
Just to think, for the past one hundred and ten years, the most legendary cabaret in the world had been welcoming millions of admirers to their renowned shows and tonight I was one of those lucky spectators. With my background in the performing arts and my passion for dance, it was truly an honor, a dream come true, just to be part of the audience. By the end of the evening, my jaw ached from smiling so much—I couldn’t remember when I had ever had so much fun. And, in that moment I knew, it wasn’t all due to being at the Moulin Rouge, how wonderful the food had been, or how spectacular the show was. It wasn’t how wearing the dress made me feel so incredibly beautiful, nor the heated looks Roman gave me throughout the evening. It was simply being there…with him.