A Second Chance at Paris

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A Second Chance at Paris Page 13

by Cole McCade


  Only this time he could see shades of Celeste in her, too. Her enchantment with the sky. The way she glowed, when she looked up at the heavens with her eyes full of stars.

  He strove to capture that with every word. But every word brought back other memories, of another girl long ago…and the invitation waiting like a coiled serpent ready to bite.

  Coming out of the book was like waking from a state of shock, when he reached the end of a chapter and realized he’d put out nearly twenty pages. Hours had passed; the sun hung high against the blue, a brassy golden coin casting reflections into his eyes. He raked his fingers through his hair, blinking numbly, trying to reorient himself to the real world while his stomach snarled and twisted and complained. He hadn’t written like that in ages—with such utter focus, not worrying about Drake or the market or his editor or the translation fiasco. It had been like that last night too, with Celeste a comfortable presence, quiet and unobtrusive, buoying him simply by being there.

  Celeste. He couldn’t stop his smile. She was probably giving another lecture, teaching people who understood what she was saying without an encyclopedia. He wasn’t stupid, but science wasn’t his forte. He supposed he loved words the way Celeste loved the stars, but lately—for all his obsession with his work—all he could think about was her.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and glanced at the text littering the screen in ordered blocks. He had work to do. Phone calls to make, people to intimidate. He wouldn’t let Drake do everything while Ion sat in his ivory tower and played the tortured writer. But it could wait, and he chuckled to himself as he got up to shower and dress. He wanted—no, needed to see her. The book would keep a little longer.

  He didn’t have her for long, and wanted to capture every moment while he could.

  * * *

  Right on time, Ion’s phone rang as he stepped out of the cab at the Cligancourt campus. He mounted the steps of the glassy building and, with a sigh, lifted his phone to his ear.

  “Drake, why do you always call when I’m five minutes from hanging up on you?”

  “I’m a whore for rejection. And you haven’t been answering my voicemails.”

  “Didn’t know I had voicemails.” Ion pulled his phone back and frowned at the notifications in the corner. Nine. “I’ve been busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Writing.”

  “Try that lie on someone who can’t read you.” Drake snorted. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Get your head on straight. We have a crisis on our hands, remember?”

  Ion leaned against the exterior stair rail. “‘Crisis’ may be exaggerating. I’ve been reading my email, if not checking my voicemail. The books have been recalled and are being stripped as we speak. I’ve got my eye on a reliable translator, and you’ve been wrangling the publisher. We have it under control.”

  “We have that under control,” Drake growled. “We don’t have that Madigan woman under control. She’s smearing you all over American media. Lawsuit-worthy stuff. Seriously, I could slap her for slander and libel and have a solid case.”

  “If none of it’s true, what does it matter?”

  “Bookscan’s showing a dip in sales.”

  “There’s always a dip between releases. You’re reading too much into it.” Ion slipped into the lobby and to a large display table, where two assistants handed out programs and day passes for the conference. He paid for another day pass, snagged another program, and scanned for Celeste’s name, then headed down the hall with an amused sense of déjà vu. Maybe this time wouldn’t end in an explosion. “It’ll blow over.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Your fan club got their teeth into it. They mean well, but now that it’s hit Twitter no one’s going to shut up any time soon.” Drake sighed. “Your silence isn’t helping.”

  “Neither will acknowledging it. That just gives her claims validity.”

  “Or turns you into a human being the public can sympathize with.”

  “That kind of manipulation is your tactic, not mine.” Ion paused outside an auditorium—different from yesterday’s, which had had yellow tape over the door when he’d passed. “Just trust me and let it go.”

  “Madigan isn’t letting it go.”

  “She’ll milk it dry, then move on.” Ion watched Celeste through the window inset into the door. She wore another of those damned pencil skirts and those glasses, with her hair twisted back in a severe knot that bared her enticingly pale throat. “Time’s up, Drake.”

  “Longer than I thought I’d get. This woman better be worth your reputation.”

  “Believe me,” Ion said. “She is.”

  He hung up and leaned against the wall to listen to Drake’s voicemails. No different from the emails, but with that special brand of high-energy urgency that was so particularly Drake Anderson. He’d been that way in university, too. Studying a month before finals and still convinced it wasn’t enough, though he aced it every time. One day life would take Drake out at the knees and force him to relax, if he wasn’t careful.

  Ion didn’t have long to wait before he heard the quiet stampede of people rising inside the auditorium. The door swung open; he remained behind it, concealed against the wall as the crowd streamed out, chattering to each other in an amalgam of languages like a merry flock of sparrows. The throng had petered out before he heard the singular soft click of heels on tile and Celeste stepped out, tucking a stack of papers into her bag.

  “Cel.” Ion stepped out from behind the door.

  She jumped with a gasp, papers flying from her fingers and scattering to the floor. She stared at him for a wide-eyed moment—then stomped one foot with a little clack, hands on her hips. “Ion Blackwell, I told you not to show up like this again.”

  He grinned. “Going to give me detention, Miss London?” He knelt to gather her papers. “Besides—last time I did what you said, you blew up the auditorium.”

  “…I’ll concede that point.”

  He shuffled the pages into a neat stack, then stood and offered them. “No explosions this time, then?”

  “No. In fact, without you around to distract me, I do pretty well in front of a crowd.” She kept a straight face, but her eyes lit with amusement as she took the papers and stuffed them into her bag. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  She eyed him. “You have something against phones, don’t you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to see you. To learn something,” he clarified. “For the book.”

  “…right.”

  “I had a good run on word count this morning.” He shrugged. “For some reason, that made me want to drag you into the nearest supply closet and ravish you.”

  She blinked, then looked away, clearing her throat. Dashes of pink arced across either cheekbone. “I thought riverboat tours cleared your head.”

  “Sex works better.”

  She stifled a laugh behind her hand. “You’re horrible.”

  “And you’re waiting for me to say something cheesy about being my muse.”

  “I’ll hurt you if you do that, too.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “So many promises, yet you never follow through.”

  “I’m not following through here.” She playfully shoved him, just enough to knock him off-kilter. “I don’t even know where the supply closets are.”

  He righted himself by looping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “There’s an empty auditorium right behind that door. I’m curious how sound carries.”

  She gasped. “Ion!”

  If she wasn’t careful, he’d say terrible things just to watch her blush; just to see the way her lashes swept to her cheeks. He leaned down to kiss her jaw, savoring the softness of her skin against his lips. “Call it a lesson,” he murmured, then nipped below her ear. “Something about…sound in a vacuum, or its velocity…”


  “The auditorium isn’t a vacuum, and we’re in public—oh God.” She leaned harder against him. Her breath escaped in a sighing sound. “Not here, Ion…”

  “Tell me where.”

  She glanced about, fretting at her lower lip, before twisting free, clasping his hand, and tugging him through the auditorium door. He followed like she had him on a leash. He’d only been half-serious, but the moment she’d quivered against him, he’d wanted her with a deep, hot burn.

  “Lock the door,” she whispered.

  He shoved the door closed, twisted the lock, and backed her against the wall. She retreated like a rabbit from a stalking wolf, yet it wasn’t fear dilating her eyes when she looked up at him with her lashes trembling and her lips parted and the severe twist of her hair begging to be ruined. Her shoulders hit the wall. He leaned over her, bracing one hand to the stucco, lifting the other to touch her neck.

  There. That flutter in the hollow of her throat, her warm pulse racing, fragile skin leaping under his fingers. He savored it, followed it, traced its flicker along the smooth slope, rising higher and higher as her breath caught and her head rolled to one side, baring her to his touch in clear invitation. He was tempted to taste, to bite, but one other temptation demanded satiation first.

  He buried his fingers in the slick of hair at her nape and tugged. The hairpins came loose; it tumbled over his hand like a sweep of black feathers, cool and soft and falling to frame her face.

  “Much better,” he murmured, and wrapped the dark locks around his hand as he drew her up to kiss her.

  They came together hard and fast and urgent, mouths linking and pulling apart only to crash into a wild, sweetly heated kiss. He had little time before the demands of everyday life took her away—but he lingered nonetheless. Every time he tasted her, she filled him in a way he couldn’t explain, pouring into him until there was no room for anything else.

  Not the memories he struggled to forget. Not the ghost of someone who wasn’t part of his life anymore. That didn’t matter when Celeste was here, real, fingers hot on his skin as she tugged his shirt up and slid her splayed fingers over his stomach and chest. He loved the way she touched him. Like she was shaping him, a sculptor molding the clay of him to her caress, and he shuddered as he leaned into her, tracing her lips with his tongue, biting down on the plush curve of the lower just hard enough to make her gasp.

  “Ion, please,” she sighed; he tasted the words on her breath.

  “Not just yet,” he whispered, and sank to his knees before her. He curled his hands against her thighs, coaxing them apart and dragging her skirt over her hips. Her pantyhose clung to her skin in a lickably sheer sheen—and they were in his damned way. He traced his fingers against the apex of her thighs, then gripped the nylon and ripped.

  Her eyes widened. “Ion!” Her gasp turned into a sweetly erotic cry when he tugged her panties aside and leaned close to taste her. A sheen of dampness turned her skin into a sweet sugar glaze; he licked that sweetness away, savoring the flutter and clench of her flesh, the tiny hitched sounds she made as she tried not to cry out, the way her hand clutched in his hair and grasped against his nape and held him to her as he explored her warm depths, sating his addiction with a hunger that dug hard and deep and refused to be denied. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the way her back arched into such a sharp curve, the way her stomach tightened, the way her lips fell slack and her head tossed against the wall.

  And when she found her pleasure, her nails dug into his scalp; her breath seized and her body locked in perfect trembling stillness, and he let his tongue follow the rhythm of the powerful wave fluxing through her as he savored every drop she had to give.

  As she sank against the wall, he rose, licking his lips, then kissed the lush pink sweetness of her mouth. “Turn around.”

  She hesitated, darkened eyes flicking over his face; he could almost read the doubts in their depths. We’re in public. People here are supposed to respect me. Someone might overhear.

  And the one that stung most of all, I’m still not sure I trust you.

  That doubt lasted a breath before she stretched up to kiss the point of his chin, then turned, her body brushing his with a thousand-volt sizzle. She leaned against the wall, bracing herself against folded arms. One smoky, silver-violet eye looked over her shoulder, sultry through the black lace veil of her lashes, and every hope he had of restraint died.

  He pressed into her, crushing her body against the wall, slender and soft against him, every gasping inch of her searing him. Breathing roughly, he nosed her hair aside to kiss and nip over her nape. His fingers raked up her thighs, nylon parting under his touch. He could barely stand the moment it took to prep himself before he dragged her panties aside and pressed to soft heat, her slickness gliding against his hard arousal. With a low groan, he buried himself in her—and lost himself in the torturously tight embrace of her, drowning as plush silkiness enveloped him.

  She pressed back toward him with a whimper. He clasped her close, fingers digging into her hips. “Ion,” she gasped, and the soft syllables of his name, falling from her lips with such breathless passion, snapped the last thin leash on his control. He pressed tight into her and rolled his hips, biting down on her throat and shoulder as wet, molten heat flowed over him with a stroking friction that set his nerves alight in vivid bursts that twisted all the way down to the pit of his stomach.

  He couldn’t hold back. Not when she clutched at him, fingers curling against his neck and nails biting in; not when she writhed as his grasping hands dragged over her body; not when she made those sounds, low and restrained and maddeningly sensual. She drove him beyond reason, beyond sense—and when her body arched and locked, when her nails dug in so hard his skin broke in stinging crescents, when the burning vise of her clenched around him until it hurt to surge into her again, he was consumed. Overwhelmed. And the tight, knotting pain of his release unraveled in a rush that left his knees weak, as he spent himself while she trembled and sighed against him.

  In silence he held her close, catching his breath while he languished in the dazed, boneless aftermath. The way she relaxed against him, her cheek pressed to his throat, made him exhale with pleasure. He still didn’t understand why, sometimes, she seemed so afraid—but still trusted him enough to let herself go with such lovely abandon, and to lean on him with such quiet acceptance after. He burned to ask why. Why she sometimes looked at him like he’d left a scar on her heart, and if it was related to those phone calls.

  But he’d said he wouldn’t pry, and he was a man of his word.

  With a contented sound, Celeste shifted against him. “They’re going to need this auditorium soon,” she murmured.

  “Mm. Indulge me a few more moments.” He nuzzled her jaw. “I love the way you smell right now.”

  “There you go with those writer word-tricks again.”

  “Just simple honesty.” He was more than satisfied to remain like this—pressed close, still intimately joined, tired and sated. “But if you want ‘writer word-tricks,’ there’s a terrible line about mixing business with pleasure here.”

  “Don’t say it. Just don’t.” With a breathless laugh, she pushed him. “Off, Casanova.”

  He groaned. “If you insist.”

  It almost pained him to separate, especially with how she hissed and caught her breath when he drew out. He stepped back to let her sort her clothing while he righted his. She tugged her skirt, then blinked and peered down at herself.

  “You ruined my pantyhose!” she choked.

  “Must have channeled my inner Neanderthal.” He laughed. “Pull your skirt down. No one will see.”

  “I’ve told you you’re horrible, right?”

  “Multiple times.”

  “Just making sure.”

  He watched with undeniable satisfaction while she adjusted her skirt to cover her torn pantyhose, settled the wrinkles he’d left in her blouse, brushed her hair from her face. As she started to fasten the buttons he’d po
pped, she glanced at him—then tensed, frowning.

  “You’re bleeding. I’m sorry, I—”

  He touched the mild sting on his neck; his fingers came away painted with ghostly streaks of red. She’d clawed him hard enough to draw blood.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He shrugged and wiped his hand on his jeans. “Just means you’re a woman of your word.”

  He unlocked the door, but stopped when she touched his arm.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked.

  “Need to write.” He nearly melted as he looked down at her, so disheveled no matter how she’d tried to right herself, with those wide, pale eyes so earnest. “Dinner tonight?”

  “Seriously,” she said dryly, “you could have called for that.”

  “Too impersonal.” He raked a glance over her just to see that blush again, and wasn’t disappointed. “I’d welcome suggestions for something we can eat without gagging.”

  “If you trust me in your kitchen and don’t mind doing a little grocery shopping…” Her lips twisted thoughtfully. “I might be able to fix that.”

  He grinned. “Text me your list.”

  “Okay,” she said with a shy smile. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

  He restrained the urge to kiss her again, pulled the door open, and stepped into the hall. She followed, still fussing at her clothing, and looked at him, lips parting—only to freeze, face paling, as a nervous-looking young woman with junior intern assistant written all over her hurried toward them.

  “Miss London?” the girl called, French accent thick but English clear. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. It’s time for your next—” She stiffened, eyes rounding as she looked between Celeste and Ion. “Oh. I’m sorry, I’m interrupting—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Celeste said with a hasty smile that might look professional to someone who didn’t know what she’d just been doing. “Mr. Blackwell is just a client, and we’re done with our business.”

 

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