by JJ Knight
“My parents leave tonight, but I don’t need them,” I say. “And I wasn’t exactly helping at the deli.”
He squeezes my leg and lets go, adding a poached egg to his plate. “Then it’s settled. Should we see if we can stay here tonight? We’ll need a different room, since both our suites are emptying. Or return to Paris?”
All the options are delicious. “I would love to see something new. Do you have a favorite place?”
“There are some beautiful sights along the French Riviera. We could base out of Saint-Tropez easily and see abbeys and find secluded places to boat or splash around.”
My vision swims. I could never have even imagined such a vacation. “It’s Sunday. So we have four days?”
He nods. “Four days. Or more, if I push aside some work.”
I want him to. I want him to never return. For us never to go back.
“I say let’s go.”
“Absolutely. I’ll make some calls after breakfast.”
The decision made, we return to the food with new fervor. Our bird friend comes back, and we name him Mack after the sound he makes, demanding more apple.
We linger as long as possible, until Diya texts that the baby is hungry, and Mom texts saying they are packing the room. And Dell texts Donovan asking when he’ll want the plane and where so he can prep the pilot.
And the real world invades again.
24
Donovan
I don’t miss the look in Havannah’s father’s eye when I arrive to collect her and the baby with a porter for her bags.
But he says nothing, stepping aside as she makes sure everything is packed, then hugs her mom and sister and sends her dad a warning look I believe means, “Don’t say a word.”
Then we’re driving through the countryside, the baby between us in the back seat. And loading another train, then getting in another car.
But the time we arrive at a hotel suite in Saint-Tropez, Havannah is drooping. We had a late night and a lot of travel, and Rebel’s been upset about all the change.
When the bellboy leaves our bags, I send Havannah straight to the oval tub for a long bath while I hang out with Rebel. Today he will only settle if he’s swaddled in a soft blanket with a pacifier, on your shoulder, while you walk. He’s had enough of car seats and straps.
So I do, pulling aside the floor-to-ceiling curtains so I can look out on the port, the boats lighting up the docks along the coastline. Far out in the water, ocean liners blink with red lights, and beyond that, the darkening sky melts with the water.
Rebel falls asleep, but I know better than to put him down. When I hear Havannah splashing as if she’ll leave the bath quickly, I move to the door. “Take your time. He’s asleep.”
I catch her standing near the edge of the sunken tub, water dripping down her body. Her hands are on her head, trying to tuck strands back into the knot of golden hair that slips to one side.
She immediately sinks back down, seeming shy, but the clear water of the oversized tub hides nothing, the image of her beautiful skin undulating in the shift of its surface.
I sit on the edge and turn on the jets.
Havannah lets out an “Oh!” and shifts to the side. “There’s one down low!”
“Some people like to avail themselves of that,” I tell her with a wink. “He’s sleeping. Take your time.”
Her mouth falls open, but her eyes cast back down to the water. Rebel shifts on my shoulder, so I stand back up before he can fuss.
I pause by the door and turn the knob to lower the lights. When I glance at her before closing the door, she’s pressing her hand to the bottom jet. I hold my smile until I’m back out in the living room.
Since we’ll be here a few days, I call down to the concierge asking how we can procure a baby swing or some other similar device. Within an hour, a young woman in a gray uniform has arrived with a strange oval seat with a toy hanging over it.
I let her in, and she asks where to place it. I suggest near the end of the sofa, and she snakes the power cord to an outlet.
“There’s an LCD screen here,” she says. “It controls the speed and motions of the chair.” She pushes on it, and the cushioned oval begins to gyrate in smooth circles. “You’ll have to experiment with what he likes, but I’ll set it up in the most common configuration. It feels like a car ride.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
She smiles. “It usually is.” She holds out her arms. “I’ll show you how to strap him in.”
Rebel stirs, his pacifier falling out. He opens his mouth as if to yell, but the woman draws him into her arms. “Quiet, little one,” she says.
She slides him into the seat, but before he can cry out, she quickly pushes on the screen, starting the motion. His eyes fly open. He’s startled to feel such a thing. The machine shifts ever so slightly to the left and right, as if a car is maneuvering on the road.
His eyes close, then his mouth goes slack.
“Where has this thing been all my life?” I ask.
She smiles. “They are a wonder.”
“Thank you so much,” I say.
She stands. “My pleasure. We do have a nanny service should you need it. All vetted and with wonderful references.”
I know Havannah will never do that, but I thank the woman again.
By the time Havannah has come out in a thick cotton robe, towel-drying her hair, I have a glass of wine and a small plate of cheese and bread for her.
“You got a Mamaroo!”
“I called around.”
She kneels in front of it. “They’re so expensive!”
“I think I rented it, but I’m happy to buy you one.”
“I have a swing at home.” She runs her hands along the side. “This is a pricey thing.”
“Anything for Rebel.”
“Hard to travel with it.” She bumps the toys atop the device. “If it proves invaluable, I’ll get one stateside.”
“So how was your bath?”
“Good.” Her cheeks go pink.
Aha. My groin tightens at the thought of her in the jet stream. “Mmm hmm.” I lift her to standing.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “You have good ideas.”
“I have plenty more.”
“I bet.” Her eyes brighten with amusement.
I lower my head to press a kiss on her soft mouth. All of her is warm from the bath, the hair at her nape still damp.
She molds her body to mine. The heat of her penetrates my clothes. I can’t resist her, not in any form, any state of dress.
I tease the robe away from her neck, moving my lips along her skin. She’s mine, her head falling back. We’re back in the heat of last night in the castle. The two of us, we work.
I untie the front of the robe, the long sash falling away. I reveal her inch by inch, shoulders, arms, and heavy, luscious breasts. I’m beginning to learn all their states, full and round, soft and pliant.
The robe catches on her elbows, then slips to the floor. It’s delicious, Havannah naked in this living room, the bay stretching beyond the windows.
My fingers stroke her skin, releasing the light scent of soap like spring air. I’ve become familiar with the curve of her hip, the indention of her belly button. My hand slides down, parting her thighs. I lift one of her legs to rest her foot on the sofa.
My touch moves inside, making her gasp and clutch my shoulders. I watch her face, her eyes closed, cheeks rosy from the bath. I curl my finger up, remembering everything from last night, and she sucks in a breath. “Donovan, yes.”
I work her body, her muscles warming up, a leg quivering. When her grip is wildly tight, her breathing broken and ragged, I whip her around, pushing her over the back of the pillowed sofa.
I’ve released my pants in an instant, slipping inside her from behind. She grasps the sofa, pressing back against me. I hold her hips, rocking her body into mine with quick, rapid jerks.
She whimpers, moving us even faster. Her hair tumbles from
its precarious knot, the long gold strands falling over the cushions.
“Donovan,” she says. “Make it hard. Make it so hard.”
I am nothing but obedient on matters like these. We crash into each other, my muscles warming up. Our bodies find their rhythm, the intensity of the friction growing as she tightens around me.
I reach around, finding her swollen clit and working it in a hard, merciless tug.
Havannah cries out, then presses her arm to her mouth to avoid waking the baby. She begins to shudder, jerking, pulsing in my arms. I push even harder, faster, frantic, the world dissolving into only her body and mine, slamming into each other like waves on a beach.
Then my own release comes, sudden, intense. I lean over her, my mouth on her shoulder. It’s like a storm, flashing like lighting, crashing in the aftermath with thunder.
I sink my teeth lightly into her skin, and the bite renews the tremors in her body. She fails to stifle her cry. “Oh my God!”
I hold her tight in my hand, the quivering muscles fluttering against my palm. She buries her face into the cushion, bent in half. She shivers for long moments, her breathing fast, until at least her upper body relaxes in one big sigh.
For a moment, I think she might be crying again, but then she laughs. “We woke him.”
I glance over at the baby swing. Rebel’s eyes are open, staring up at the light in the ceiling as if he has to avert his gaze.
I press a kiss to Havannah’s shoulder. “He was kind enough to let us finish.”
“Poor kid is going to get scarred.” She turns around in my arms. “I’m really into sex, and an exhibitionist to boot.” She aims a thumb at the open windows. “I know it’s a bay and no one can see us, but it’s so hot.”
She turns in circles as she heads for the window, and I’m at half-mast just watching her. Fuck. She’s something.
She leans her back against the window. “The glass is cold,” she says, then cups her own nipples, watching them pucker.
Forget half-mast. I’m recycling like a seventeen-year-old boy.
I glance back down at the baby. His eyes are closed. He must have woken up to the sound, then settled again.
I press Havannah into the window, my body tight against her. “You want it here? Where some dirty sailor is watching from his boat with a telescope?”
Her head falls back on the window. “I was hoping to hide my kinks until you knew I was a nice girl.”
“Fuck the nice girl,” I growl.
“Please do.”
I reach behind her for the latch to the window. It glides open, the salty sea air entering on the breeze. Her hair flutters along her shoulders, teasing her nipples.
“On the balcony,” I say.
Her eyelids flutter. “Yes, sir.”
I leave the glass door open an inch so we can hear Rebel if he wakes. The wind whips Havannah’s hair. We’re on the top floor on the corner of the hotel jutting over the bay. Beneath us are a hundred yachts and catamarans, a few people walking along the docks, small and indistinct.
We look down, the moon reflecting on the water, and I draw Havannah close to me. “This is sexy as hell,” she says. “I’m stupidly wet being out here like this.”
“Good.”
I draw her to me and kiss her, collecting her hair in my fist. I pull down, drawing her chin up and forcing her back, so her breasts are an easy feast.
I lick my way around them, watching them tighten and pucker in the cool air. I press my hand inside her again, pushing her legs apart.
“They’re all watching you, Havannah,” I say against her skin. “Wishing they were me.”
Her body pulses against my hand. She wasn’t lying about the exhibitionist thrill in her.
I release her hair, scoop her in my arms, and deposit her on the cushioned chaise near the rail. I kiss all along her body, lifting each leg, making my way down her thigh and spreading her wide. “Show them all of you, Havannah.”
She moans. “You have no idea how hot this makes me.”
But I do. I press my hand to her again. She’s practically throbbing.
I drop a knee to the cushion and pull her legs up, bracing her body as I lift her to me. “I won’t hide an inch of your luscious skin while I fuck you this time. Let them see.”
In truth, there isn’t a single person who can see us, but Havannah is rapt with the whole idea. I imagine the clubs I could take her to if she wants this fantasy for real. But for now, I plunge into her, resting her ankles on my shoulders.
She holds on to the sides of the lounger.
“Arch your back, baby,” I say. “Give them a good view.”
She does as I say, already trembling. I pump into her, ready to go forever this time. I squeeze her ass, working her in and out, occasionally reaching up to cup a breast.
“Fuck, Donovan, shit!” She tightens around me, her body contracting then releasing. Her long groan goes on and on, her face tight.
I lift her, easily reversing our positions so she’s on top of me.
“Show them what you’ve got,” I say.
She rocks on top of me, lifting her hair away. Her skin gleams in the moonlight, and she’s so into it, all of it. She’s a wonder.
She undulates, her eyes closed. Then she releases her hair, cupping herself, working her hips.
“I love it,” I say. “Next time I’ll record it.”
She sucks in, her eyes wide. “Will you do the finish like the movies?”
I know what she wants. “Anything you want.”
She pulls her hair back. “Tell me when.”
She rocks against me, and I picture what she’s after, the pressure growing. “Now,” I tell her, and she slides off me, down my thighs.
I unleash on her, across her breasts, sliding down her dewy skin.
She looks down, shuddering, and I slide a hand inside her.
“Fuck,” she says, leaning over me, her body convulsing the moment I find her clit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She grinds against me, her arms starting to shake as she holds herself over my body.
At least she collapses on top of me, her hair spilling over us. Her face is planted on my chest. “Jesus, Donovan. You’ve been such a gentleman. Where did this come from?”
I can’t help but laugh. I collect her hair and slide it away from her face. “Even a gentleman knows when to turn into a rogue.”
We lie together in the night air, the night settling into quiet, until the only sound we hear is the crash of waves against the dock and the faint wafting of a slow song coming from a boat below.
We’re in paradise.
25
Havannah
Donovan and I walk the beach the next morning, Rebel snug in his sling. The hope that my life will be the dream I once envisioned roars back. That vision has been gone too long, ever since my meltdown a year ago, the ensuing dick-fest, and getting pregnant.
Then finding out about the father.
Dark days.
Despite everything, here I am in one of the most glamorous cities in the world, home to celebrities and designers and glitterati. We’ve already spotted two actresses and the aging Giorgio Armani, who calls Saint-Tropez home much of each summer.
The breeze whips at my sheer skirt, drying my suit from our quick dip a bit ago. Rebel wasn’t having it, not the bright sun or the cold water. He only likes the sling.
Donovan holds my hand, his hair a wreck of sand and ocean water, curling over his ears. He’s perfect.
“Do you have a boat?” I ask him as we approach another series of docks.
“I don’t, actually,” he says. “Should I make that a future purchase?” He grins at me, and I melt even more than I already have over the past few days.
“I guess it isn’t a useful purchase in Manhattan.”
He adjusts the diaper bag on his shoulder. He hasn’t complained about it one bit. “I could dock it somewhere. I don’t usually spend much time at the beach.”
The area gets busy, more commerci
al and crowded. We turn around to head back to the secluded area we’ve been walking.
Donovan pauses and stoops to pick up a shell. “Nice one,” he says, holding it out to me.
It’s a perfect conch, long and smooth, white with rows of brown dots. “Pretty,” I say. I tuck it in one of the outer pockets of the bag.
We resume walking. “It’s a great day,” he says. “There’s a service where you can have a picnic delivered on the beach if you like.”
I glance down at the baby. He’s stirring. He might be gritty. “We should probably get him in a bath and air conditioning for the hottest part of the day.”
“Room service it is.” Donovan’s fingers find my hand, and we take our time retracing our steps.
We’ve made it about halfway back when his phone buzzes. He’s been ignoring it for days, but this morning he spent a couple of hours talking while I fed the baby, pumped, and packed for the day.
He pulls out his phone and frowns. “I’m going to have to take this,” he says.
“Sure.” I let go of his hand.
His voice is clipped and curt when he answers. “Donovan.”
We keep walking while he listens. I peep in at Rebel, who shifts back and forth, a little fussy. “Almost home,” I whisper to him, then realize what I’ve said. Home. Right. Home is a cheap apartment I share with my sister back in Boulder. Not a luxury suite on the French Riviera.
When Donovan speaks again, it’s the toughest I’ve ever heard him sound. “That is not the deal, Baker. We have already been through legal with this.” His jaw is set tight. “We’re way past the stage for that.”
Rebel shifts again, his eyes open. I lean down to peek, but my movement gives him a blast of sun. He squeezes his eyes tight, and the pacifier pops out. His first cry is a short bleat of displeasure, but there will be more.
I lean over so my hat shades him and tug the sling around so his tender skin isn’t exposed. “Shh, shh, baby.”
Donovan stops in his tracks. “Baker, we’re not doing this. Brant Industries will pull out.”