by Alix Nichols
Suddenly, my front wheel meets an obstacle, and I fly off the bike and over the guardrail.
Fuck!
At least, I won’t drown, I tell myself as I fall.
Thump! Splash!
I don’t, but it isn’t thanks to my swimming skills.
It’s because my bum hits the sandy bottom of the ocean, and I topple over on my side.
The water is so shallow it barely covers me, even lying down.
I lever myself up to a sitting position and laugh, feeling both relieved and ridiculous for expecting a serious plunge.
When I push open the door of Louie’s Backyard, I’m soaked to my bones and sore in several places. Did I mention it’s nine?
I spot Sophie at a table by the window, with a well-groomed man in his early thirties. There are two empty dessert plates on the table, a check folder, and some change.
Fuck.
He must’ve proposed by now.
“Hi,” I say to both before training my gaze on Sophie. “Can we talk?”
“Noah!” She moves to stand up but then sinks back into her chair.
The man surveys me.
I stare at Sophie. Water drips from my hair and clothes, forming a puddle on the floor. All I can think of is whether I am too late or if there’s still time to talk Sophie out of marrying this guy.
He turns to her. “Who is this?”
“Someone I met in Paris,” she says, looking shaken.
He searches her face. “Should I ask him to leave?”
There’s a clear implication of potential violence in his tone, should I unwisely decline his request.
Dude, I may be drenched, but I’m still bigger than you.
My gaze is locked on Sophie’s mouth. Boy, how I’ve missed it!
I hope she says “don’t” to her beau. I pray she doesn’t say “get out!” to me.
Sophie gives him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Doug. There’s some unfinished business Noah and I need to discuss.”
She stands up.
Doug stands too. “Are you sure?”
She nods.
“Call me if he tries anything funny,” he says.
“I will.” She marches toward the exit.
I follow her. Once outside, she continues to walk briskly. I settle into a stride next to her. Ten minutes later, we’re on an empty beach.
Sitting down, she hugs her knees and looks up at me.
I slump to the sand by her side.
“Talk,” she says with her gaze on the water.
“Did you say yes to Doug?”
She keeps looking straight ahead. “What if I did?”
Fuck.
I drop my head into my hands.
“I said no,” she breathes out.
I turn to her.
She’s looking at me now, and even in the dark, I can see the turmoil she’s going through in her eyes.
“I’m stupid,” she says. “Doug is really a perfect catch.”
“Then why did you say no?”
“I can’t imagine… making love to him.”
On impulse, I grab her hand. “I love you, Sophie.”
She blinks. “What about your amazing Uma?”
“She’s still amazing and will always be.” I lift her hand to my lips. “But she has no effect on the pace of my heart or on the stiffness of my cock.”
I press my lips to the back of her hand, remembering her skin. Ooh, the bliss. Flipping her hand over, I kiss the inside of her palm, her wrist, her fingers.
“Shouldn’t you be in Strasbourg now?” she asks.
“I should—and yet I’m here.”
She frowns. “But it’s the finals, the chance to win that gold you’ve been dreaming about—”
“We have a substitute for each player, including me. No big deal.”
The crease between her eyebrows deepens.
I exhale a long breath. “OK, here’s the truth. They might lose. If they do, they’ll hate me. Actually, they hate me already. I hate myself for walking out on them like this.”
“You shouldn’t have!”
I stare into her expressive eyes. “I have no regrets, Sophie. If you’re willing to give me another chance, I’ll quit everything and move here.”
Her eyes widen. “You would?”
“In a heartbeat.”
She tilts her head to the side, her expression still concerned.
“Maybe I can find a water polo club to join here,” I say, winking. “Or a pizza joint in need of delivery men.”
She draws closer and peers into my eyes. “You’d really do that for a second chance with me?”
I nod.
Her lips part slightly.
I lean in and claim them. Soft, full, warm. Holding her face, I sweep my tongue over her lips. She parts them, letting me in. Sweet Jesus, that taste! I drink it in, pushing my tongue deeper. Can’t get enough of her. Fifty-seven days of craving this, of starving for her, of waking up with a hard-on, furious for being torn out of the dream where I could hold her.
I’m never going without Sophie that long again.
Ever.
When we break the kiss to catch our breaths, she leans her forehead against mine and murmurs, “I’ll go to France with you.”
I draw back and study her face, incredulous.
She smiles.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods. “I love you.”
I gather her to me and kiss her again, hungrily, thoroughly.
A few moments later, she draws back. There’s a mixture of surprise and elation in her beautiful eyes as she guides my hand under the hem of her dress.
I gloss my fingertips up her inner thigh until they meet the material of her panties. It’s moist. I apply more pressure, sliding my fingers a little farther.
The fabric isn’t just moist—it’s sopping wet.
If we weren’t on a public beach, I’d unzip my jeans, sit her astride my lap, and drive into her like a madman.
“Bébé,” I murmur, slipping a finger under the panties and into her hot slickness.
Her eyes roll in her head.
When she focuses on my face again, her expression is unexpectedly determined. “We need a room.”
“Will my hotel do?” I withdraw my finger.
“Yeah.” She reaches for her purse and stands. “Let’s go.”
I remain seated, waiting for my arousal to die down.
It takes time, what with Sophie’s eagerness messing with my willpower.
But that’s OK, because the urgency in her voice is a gratification in its own right. As for the hunger in her eyes, it’s worth the championship gold I forfeited by coming here.
It’s worth all the gold in the world.
TWENTY-SIX
SOPHIE
When we enter Noah’s room after a half-hour power hike, both of us need a shower.
So we take it together with a condom for company.
As soon as we’ve washed the sweat and sand off each other, Noah puts the condom on and backs me against the tiled wall. I moan from the joy of having his body pressed to mine. He kisses me gently, then harder, and then applies himself to getting me to the point of arousal I was at on the beach.
It doesn’t take long.
Truth is, I think I could get there just by looking at his wet muscled chest or peering into his blue eyes I could drown in—have drowned in.
I’m beyond salvation.
He murmurs my name as he fondles my breasts and sucks my stiff nipples. His hands roam my body, rubbing, gripping, squeezing.
When he bends his knees to hoist me high against him, I throw my arms around his neck and bracket his waist with my legs. My body tenses with need as he devours my mouth. All I can think of is the thickness at my opening and how much I want it. My core is heavy, aching, pulling, begging for the feel of it.
I’m ready.
So ready I’m on the verge of exploding.
And that’s exactly what I do, seconds after he buries h
imself in me hilt-deep.
The orgasm is shockingly, achingly sweet. It pushes everything else outside of the confines of my world. It connects my core with my mind in a profound, almost supernatural way, stealing my breath.
When it ebbs, leaving me both sated and hungry for more, I realize I’ve just experienced pleasure like nothing I’ve ever known before.
I want this again—I need this again—as many times and as often as Noah can handle.
“Did you just…?” he asks, not daring to utter the word.
I nod.
“Good girl.” His face expands into a smug grin.
I grin back. “Wouldn’t mind another one.”
He stops smiling and slams into me. This thrust is sharp and rough, unlike the long stroke he used to enter me, but it’s so exquisitely erotic I gasp.
He begins to hammer, and all I can do is grip his neck and cling to him, letting the pleasure build inside me. My fingers dig into his flesh as he pounds, fierce, abandoning himself to his own need. Our bodies strain together, muscles taut, blood rushing, hearts throbbing.
With every withdrawal, I feel emptier than before. With every push, I’m propelled closer to another climax.
When it ripples through me, making me cry out, Noah growls and lets himself come, too. Our voices mingle as our bodies quake with pleasure.
Afterward, we towel each other off and climb into the bed.
“Another one?” he asks, looking keen and awfully pleased with himself.
“Enough for tonight, I’m wasted.”
He cups my cheek. “Tomorrow morning, then.”
“First thing,” I promise.
He strokes my face, when I notice a small crease between his eyebrows. “Something wrong?”
“Your life plan.” He frowns. “What about your dream of becoming your dad’s associate and the biggest realtor in Florida?”
I touch the hollow above his collarbone and rest my hand on his strong neck. “Every good plan allows for adjustments. I’ll launch my conquest of the world from Paris.”
He stares into my eyes for a long moment. “How about launching it from Burgundy?”
“Are you asking me to run the estate so you can keep playing pro water polo?”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to,” I say, “but that would make you my boss, which would be—”
He presses a finger against my lips, shushing me. “I’m not asking you to run my estate as a manager. I’m asking if you’d do me the honor of running our estate, as my wife.”
EPILOGUE
Sophie
I look around the great hall of the Chateau d’Arcy, filled with music, light and people—just the way it was built to be—and grin, satisfied.
It’s been an eventful couple of months for Noah and me.
Zach had surpassed himself in Strasbourg, scoring like a madman. Not just Zach—every single player did his darnedest to help the club snag the gold medal. Problem was, they couldn’t be as focused on offense as in the previous games because the substitute goalie needed more help than Noah to block the opponent’s incessant attacks.
Strasbourg had won gold for three years straight for a reason.
At the end of the last quarter the score was tied, and the referee announced a penalty shootout.
Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been a perfect opportunity for Noah’s perfect saves. But he happened to be across the ocean at that moment, trying to make an entirely different kind of catch.
His club lost.
Back in Paris, Nageurs was still celebrated for the silver—a first for the city—but all the players could think of was how close they’d been to the gold.
Strasbourg’s coach retired in late January, just as he’d been planning to, and Lucas succeeded him as head coach for the national team.
The day after we landed at Charles de Gaulle, Noah showed up for the workout at the pool. He was fully prepared to be roasted by Lucas and his teammates and kicked out of the club.
He did get roasted, but in the end, Lucas chose to give him a second chance.
“If you pull another stunt like that on me,” Coach said, “you’re dead.”
Noah swore he wouldn’t.
Seeing as he had absolutely no intention of proposing again.
Seeing as his first proposal got accepted.
And that brings me to the reason why the great hall is bustling with smartly dressed people on this frosty late-February evening.
Noah and I are celebrating our engagement.
Everyone’s here.
My mom, looking young and flirty in her shimmery red dress.
My dad, tall and fit and all Denzel-y.
Marguerite, making eyes at him.
A bunch of philanthropists and high-level officials Marguerite has invited so she can tell them about the foundation.
Noah’s brothers Raphael and Sebastian, their wives Mia and Diane, babies Lily and Tanguy, and some of their in-laws.
Sue and two other friends of mine from back home.
Uma, dazzling in a gold and silver embroidered sari.
Jacqueline and the rest of the estate staff.
Noah’s entire team with their plus-ones.
The Derzians.
Oscar.
Jazzy music is playing in the background, and several couples are dancing.
Noah is talking with his brothers whom he’s been spending a lot of time with lately. Raphael says something funny or—judging by the mischievous expression on his face—naughty, and both Noah and Sebastian burst out laughing. It’s incredible how thick the three of them have grown over just a few months. Of course, the two older brothers had been close from the start, but Noah had barely spoken to either of them since Marguerite whisked him off to Nepal when he was eight.
I guess blood is thicker than water.
Their blossoming bromance aside, the trio is easy on the eyes, with Noah being the tallest, brawniest, and blondest of the lot.
I really should stop ogling my fiancé like that—there’ll be plenty of time for it when the guests are gone.
With an effort, I peel my eyes away from him and look for Diane’s sister, Chloe, who’s an architect and property flipper. I want to consult with her about the renovations we’re planning in the spring.
As I scan the crowd for a petite woman who meets her description, I catch sight of Marguerite sashaying toward Dad.
“Ludwig!” She touches his arm. “Finally, we can catch up.”
“How have you been?” he asks politely.
When I’d learned about Dad’s involvement in what Noah and I now refer to as the “Parents to the Rescue Conspiracy,” I cold-shouldered him for a week.
Then I forgave him.
He’s my dad.
I know he sent a fat check to Nepal last month, and Marguerite wrote back that she’d like to show him how grateful she was, when they met in person.
Ugh.
“I’ve been busy,” she says, “but also thrilled to launch all those new health, housing, and literacy programs with the money that came in over the last few months.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“Now, Ludwig,” she says in a husky voice. “About that promise I made in my letter—”
“Ah, there she is,” Dad interrupts her, waving to Mom. “Cat, over here!”
When she’s close enough, he grabs her hand and pulls her to him.
“Comment ça va, Marguerite?” Mom asks with a tight smile.
The other French woman’s smile is just as cursory. “Très bien, Catherine.”
“Cat is my girlfriend,” Dad says to Marguerite.
Oh. My. God.
I knew he’d taken Mom to dinner a few times, but him calling her his girlfriend means that the rekindled relationship has progressed to a whole new level.
A mischievous smile dances in Dad’s eyes.
Oh, how I love that smile.
Marguerite turns to Mom. “I thought you were divorced.”
/>
“We are,” Mom says.
Dad lifts her hand to his lips. “I hope we’ll put an end to that unfortunate situation soon.”
What?
I freeze.
Mom gasps.
“Am I a fool to hope for that?” Dad asks her.
She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
He nods.
She screws up her face. “What if we botch it again?”
“We won’t,” he says. “I promise. And just so you believe me, I’m no longer the manager of my agency. My new associate Doug Thompson will take care of the day-to-day business so I can spend at least half the year in France with my two beauties.”
This is too good to be true.
Mom’s face expands into a beaming grin. “Then it’s an oui.”
“Congratulations,” Marguerite mutters and retreats hurriedly.
“Whee!” someone squeaks in delight, clapping her hands.
It may or may not be me.
I dart to them and pull both into a big hug.
“Guys,” I say. “You just made my most cherished dream come true.”
Mom and Dad gaze at each other, eyes glistening.
I smooch each of them on the cheek. “Will you lovebirds excuse me for a moment? I need to share this scoop with my fiancé.”
As I make my way to Noah, who’s now discussing something with Zach, he turns to me and looks into my eyes.
A little miracle happens.
Despite all the laws of physics—quantum or otherwise—despite the distance between us, I feel him touch me in the deepest, most intimate way.
Soul to naked soul.
Author’s Note
Water Polo
One of the earliest Olympic sports, water polo is a national pastime in Hungary, Serbia and Montenegro, and is very popular in most of Europe. But it’s incomprehensibly underfunded in other parts of the world, including France and the United States. Things are changing in the US, though, where water polo is the fastest growing sport. No wonder, considering the achievements of the national men’s team (Olympic silver at Beijing) and, especially, women’s team (Olympic gold at both London and Rio).