37
Sage
What’s truly unfair is this.
This decadent French toast. With cinnamon swirls, strawberries, raspberries.
And whipped cream. The kind a chef from Paris makes. Not the kind from a can.
Plus, coffee so rich it could have its own casino.
I roll my eyes in pleasure as I take a forkful of breakfast the next morning, grumbling that his room service is this delicious.
But there’s not much to grumble about as I drink in the morning after. Well, I grumble a little over the soreness. Sitting isn’t the easiest it’s ever been, but I can handle it, especially with this view.
All of Vegas unfurls before us, the soft glow of dawn painting the city as it wakes up, stretches its arms, and gets ready for another day of sin and glory.
I savor the sight across the table from me too, here on the balcony on the forty-fifth floor of the hotel. The man who belongs to me. My rival. My lover. My partner.
His dark hair is a sleep-rumpled mess. Stubble covers his jaw, and his dark eyes glint with obvious satisfaction as he takes a bite of the dessert-like breakfast, and watches me enjoying mine.
After he chews, he says, “Go ahead. Say it.”
I growl.
Laughing, he sets down his fork, leans across the table, and dusts a kiss to my lips.
“Fine,” I admit. “The room service is good here too.”
An eyebrow lifts. “Good? Just good?”
“It’s very good.”
Another laugh comes my way as he picks up his cup, takes a long drink, and puts it down. “The best, you mean?”
I shoot daggers at him as I take another bite. And, embarrassingly, I moan around the food.
Cole cracks up. “Like I’ve said, you’re the most orgasmic woman I know.”
“And you love that about me,” I say, raising my chin.
He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I love everything about you. Because I love you.”
I sigh, soft and gentle, as warmth blooms in my chest. “I love you, Cole Donovan.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, his fingertips tracing lines across my palm. Then his eyes twinkle with mischief as he says, “And my room service? You love my room service, don’t you?”
I narrow my eyes and toss my napkin at him. He catches it easily with his free hand. Then he beckons me to him. “Come here.”
“On your lap?”
“Yes. You’re done with the food orgasm, aren’t you? You cleaned your plate,” he says, his eyes drifting down to my empty dish.
“Like I said, it was good.”
“It was the best. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.’” I roll my eyes as he wraps his strong arms around me, then kisses my neck, my ear, my cheek. “So, what will it be for you next, Sage?”
“Well, lunch comes after breakfast. But don’t forget we have an Oscar Wilde book club, you and me. We can discuss this quote: ‘Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.’”
He hums, like he’s considering that thought. “And do you believe that?”
“I do believe sex is about power.”
“And is that what you want it to be about?”
That’s an excellent question, but the answer is easy. Now that I’ve explored it. Now that I’ve moved in it, through it, under it. Now that I know. “I think it’s about power, but for both of us. It’s a good kind of power when it’s used and exercised in the right way. When we pursue what we want in bed, that’s powerful. When we ask for our desires, that’s a wonderful sort of power.”
I flash back to Eliza’s wise words from the other day, and I share them with Cole. “Desire is desire. Love is love. Sex is sex. People like it different ways.”
“They do,” he says, like he’s musing on that notion.
“And when we know what we like and can ask for it, that’s powerful,” I say, playing with his hair as I talk, as I sort through these ideas that once felt tangled, possibly shameful. Now they’re nothing of the sort. They’re simply . . . me.
They’re who I am.
True and honest and without shame.
He drags a finger down my arm. “You are powerful. I love that about you. I admire that about you.”
“And knowing yourself, knowing your wants—that’s powerful in all the best ways.”
He sighs deeply, then nods. “So, I ask again, what’s next?”
Nerves flutter through me. I know what he’s asking. But I think I know the answer too. “Are you asking if I want more threesomes?”
And my equally direct man answers back with a “Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”
I shrug, but then shake my head. “I don’t think so. I won’t close the door, but I think opening the door was all I needed. Once you and Daniel introduced me to double the pleasure, I knew I had to kick the door open and go all the way in. Taste it, feel it, be it. And I loved every second of last night, and our other nights together. But I don’t know that I need to live in that opium den.”
He laughs as he touches me. “‘Opium den’ is a good way to put it.”
“What about you though? Do you want it again? Need it again?”
He nuzzles my neck, kisses my earlobe, then pulls back to meet my eyes. “Pleasure is my goal. Pleasing you is my passion. That’s what I want to do, and I am cocky enough to know I can do it on my own. And humble enough to say we can do it however you want. With toys. Or with words. Or with whatever new kinks we discover together.” He takes a moment to look into my eyes. “All I ask is that you discover them with me.”
His voice is so vulnerable, his tone so giving that it makes me want to give him everything—all of my heart, all of my body, all of my love.
I run my fingers across his jaw, loving the feel of him. “You can have that. You can absolutely have that with me. Because that’s what I want too.”
He hauls me closer, kissing me deeply, passionately as the sun rises higher over our city.
When the kiss breaks, something still nags at me. “What about Daniel?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean is he heartbroken over me. I know that was never the case with him. But something happened to him. Maybe a long time ago? He flits through life, happy, carefree. Except it’s a mask. His heart is clearly hurting, and it’s also as cold as ice at the same time.”
Cole sighs, running his fingers through my hair. “That’s a fair assessment.”
“Why?”
He’s quiet again. “That’s not my story to tell. All I can say is he knows hell. And someday I hope he’ll know what it’s like to feel this,” he says, then whispers a kiss onto my lips. “What we have, my gorgeous, brilliant rival.”
I laugh lightly, sweeping away thoughts of any other man as I savor the power and grace of this newfound love.
Later that day, I meet Eliza for wine.
She’s tapping her fingers on the bar, as if she’s waiting for me to tell her everything.
But the look in her eyes says she has something to share too.
And I’m ready to listen. As I join her at Speakeasy in The Extravagant, I order drinks, then say, “And now it’s time for you to tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Her grin is naughty. “Where do I even begin?”
“How about at the beginning? And then finish up with what you were doing last night at the party with that guy who you finally confessed is Xavier’s best friend.”
And so she does.
Because it turns out the guy she was meeting at the other parties is indeed helping her with a project. The Xavier one. And she’s got her hopes set on seeing Xavier at a masquerade in a few weeks.
“Anything can happen at a masquerade,” I say.
Don’t I ever know that…
Daniel’s Epilogue
Daniel
* * *
A Little Later
* * *
; I catch sight of her legs first.
They come into view as I turn the corner on Rue Saint-Dominique.
Long, lean, and sexy as sin.
Scarlett kicks one high-heeled foot back and forth, laughing lightly. The sound of her laughter floats down the street and briefly, ever so briefly, warms my cold heart.
What is she laughing at? A friend on the phone? Something the waiter said? A book?
I haven’t seen her in nearly two months. I spent four weeks in Vegas, then the last four in London. Now I’m in Paris again, and it’s time to catch up.
When I reach her, I tilt my head to the side. “What’s making a woman like you laugh like that?”
A bright and sensual smile from my business partner comes my way. “The waiter.”
“Ohh,” I say, curious. “Was he funny? Did he entertain you as well as I can?”
She pats the red wicker chair at the outside café, pouting her lips. “No one entertains me the way you do, Daniel. Now join me.”
“That’s not how you greet someone you haven’t seen in what feels like a decade, love.”
“Oh, excusez moi. Do it properly, then, mister.”
I bend to her, bring my face close, and dust a soft, barely-there kiss across her cheek. Then the other.
Her breath catches the slightest bit, then she seems to collect herself as I join her, taking the seat right by her side.
This is Paris, so we are packed in. She’d be in my lap if she moved another inch or so, and honestly, I would not object to this brunette beauty sitting on me.
But there are lines.
Lines you cross.
Lines you don’t cross.
And you don’t cross them with business partners.
This kind of business partner, that is—a beautiful, daring, clever woman. A woman whose body you want to explore.
A woman whose mind you admire.
And a woman whose heart might be as damaged as yours.
“What made the waiter so hilarious?” I ask, pressing.
She gives me a coy look as evening crowds stroll by, chattering in French, talking about the Metro, their days, the things they’re doing tonight. “He wanted to know if my husband was joining me.”
I shoot her an unamused look. “Presumptuous of him.”
“Indeed it was, and he apologized immediately. We had a laugh. And then we laughed again when I assured him that the man I was meeting had no heart to ever be a husband.”
I clasp my hand to my chest. “You cast aspersions on me when I can’t defend myself.”
“I’m so terribly cruel.”
“You are. I’m wounded. But I’ll let you buy my drink.”
She pats my hand, her index finger briefly traveling along the jagged scar. She stops her journey, meeting my gaze. “I do love this scar. It’s so very you. So handsome.”
“Thank you,” I say, not wanting to discuss it more, but somehow glad she’s lured by this mark that says so much more than any other cut could.
“Now, let’s get you that drink, and tell me everything about your time in Sin City,” she says, then calls the man over and orders a bourbon for me and another wine for herself.
I spend the next hour entertaining Scarlett with tales of business and debauchery.
She seems to revel in both, and I revel in telling her them. They make everything else disappear for a while, except the sound of her voice and her laughter.
Cole’s Epilogue
Cole
* * *
The next several months pass in the blink of an eye.
First, my mother comes to visit, and I take her and Sage out to dinner. At The Invitation, of course. My hotel does have the finest restaurants in the city.
The three of us enjoy the view of Vegas from a spot on the top-floor restaurant, overlooking the city.
“Can’t beat the view, can you?” I ask my two favorite women.
My mother lifts her glass of wine, takes a sip, and casts her gaze to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Then she grins, catching Sage’s eye. “I don’t know. I heard the view from The Extravagant is just a little bit better.”
Sage smiles. “It is, and our spa is incredible. Why don’t you let me treat you to a spa day, and I can take you shopping after too?”
“I’d love that,” my mother says, then winks at me. “She’s a keeper.”
“I know. I absolutely know.”
A few weeks later, Stone’s concert kicks off, and Sage invites me to opening night. “You’re truly embracing this whole ‘being public’ thing, aren’t you?” I say when I pick her up.
She wiggles a brow. “Or maybe I simply want all the photos everyone will snap of you partaking in my hotel’s terrific entertainment. ‘Experience Vegas’ and all.”
I squeeze her ass, yank her close, and thread my fingers through her hair. I tug on those strands. “That’ll earn you a night on your hands and knees.”
“Good. That’s what I want.”
As we head through her hotel to the concert, I whisper all my dirty plans in her ear. By the time the show begins, she’s buzzing on the prospect of the kind of sex, the kind of intimacy I plan to deliver.
The music seems to turn her on even more as the charismatic rocker makes his way through an epic repertoire of songs of love, songs of sex, and songs of heartache. As he sings, I stand behind her, my chest to her back, my arm wrapped around her waist, then going lower, and lower still. My fingers tease at the hem of her skirt, playing with the soft flesh of her thighs.
Making her hotter.
Making her want me.
When the show ends, she’s ready to pounce, but business is business, and she needs to pay tribute to her star. We visit Stone backstage in his dressing room.
“You were amazing. I am in love with every single song,” she says.
He flashes her a huge grin. “Can I play all my shows here forever then?”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t taunt me with something like that. I would sign you up for the rest of your life.”
“I’d do it. I love it here. But mostly I’m just glad you liked it,” he says, then Sage introduces me to the Grammy-winning musician.
“Great songs. Terrific show,” I say after we shake hands. “I have to say my favorite tune is Bedroom Eyes.”
Stone’s gaze swings to the big man in the corner of the dressing room. “Isn’t that your favorite number too, J?”
“Yes. It’s the most-played song on my playlist,” the guy says, thoroughly deadpan.
Stone returns his focus to Sage. “He’s fucking with me, Sage. Don’t you think?”
My woman bobs a shoulder, gives a who knows shrug, then leans in close to Stone. “You should find out.”
He drops his voice. “Maybe I will.”
“Go for it,” she says, then waves goodbye, spinning on her heel.
Before we leave, she swivels back, calls to the Thor-look-alike. “Hey Jackson?”
The bodyguard lifts his chin. “Yes?”
She points to the musician. “Look out for this guy.”
Jackson’s lips twitch like he’s hiding a grin. Or failing to. “I will.”
When we walk away, Sage whispers in my ear, “I think they have a thing for each other.”
I take one last look at them. Energy crackles between them, a sizzling kind of chemistry. “I’d have to say you’re right. And it sounds like you were trying to do your part to push them closer together.”
“I think they want to be closer together.”
When we go back to her suite, all thoughts of others tumble out of my head as I put my woman on her hands and knees.
Exactly where she likes to be.
Among so many other places, so many other positions, so many other nights.
A few months later, The Exquisite Show opens, and Sage joins me, along with Eliza and Xavier. I insist on meeting Sage in front of my hotel, as photographers snap photos of The Extravagant’s owner joining The Invitation’s owner for the much-anticipat
ed opening night.
Sage is resplendent in a black dress that clings to her gorgeous figure. Her hair falls soft and lush down her shoulders. I bring her close and plant a possessive kiss on her lips, then I reach for her hand, taking it in mine, and we walk through my hotel together, with her friend and the new starting quarterback for Wilder’s team by Eliza’s side.
Sage is next to me during the show, and once the performance ends, we both stand and shout, “Bravo!”
It feels good to have her with me.
It feels right.
It feels like all my wanting, all my ambitions, and all my need to prove myself have led me here—to her.
To all this love and trust with her.
A year after I met her at a masquerade, I take her someplace else.
Someplace off the beaten path. Away from the Strip. Far from photographers and the public. There are no slot machines, no card tables, no thousands upon thousands of dollars changing hands here in the park near the home where she grew up.
There is only the green bench where her parents used to read to her and where she read to them.
We sit on a Sunday morning with our paperbacks of Edith Wharton.
We read. For a bit.
When she seems particularly engrossed, I seize my chance.
I’m not nervous. I’m only hopeful as I move off the bench, drop down to one knee, and take her hand in mine.
The book falls from her hands, landing on the ground with a thud.
She blinks, eyes widening. “Cole . . .”
I clasp her hands in mine. “A year ago, I told you I want everything you could give to me. And I’ve loved every moment with you. Every night, every morning, every show, every challenge, every competition, every dinner, every room-service breakfast, every time. I love when you win business from me and when I win business from you. And most of all, I love you, no matter what games we play.” I reach into my pocket, drawing a deep, fortifying breath. “And I want you to be mine always. Will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”
One Exquisite Touch: Book One in The Extravagant Series Page 21