by Pamela Ann
Approaching my mother’s tombstone, I took a moment to appreciate the smell that permeated the air around her, resting with her forever. My mother had loved pink roses, you see, so my father had planted them around her grave with his bare hands. Back then, I was confused and couldn’t understand why he would choose to do it himself when he could have hired someone else to do it.
Dwelling on that memory now, I understood that it was his way of mourning her and showing his love for her, that it was endless with each blooming bud that blossomed. Despite our absence at the chateau, my father still persisted that it be lavished with her roses that were freshly cut from the rose garden next to her grave. He had mentioned once that carrying on the tradition in Chateau Rose, rightfully named after the chosen flower and the beloved wife, was his way of making sure her beloved home was being taken care of.
“Maman,” I woefully whispered. “I’m quite a mess as of late …” I then proceeded to tell her about the sad tale that was my life.
A man like myself shouldn’t be engaged in such petty issues such as love, but here I was, so troubled that I was seeking some form of solace from my mother. For some unknown reason, it gave me comfort, and for a while, I felt somewhat at peace. She was here; I felt it. All I had to do was talk to her, and I could almost instantly feel her presence surrounding me. She never failed to deliver some tranquility whenever I needed it.
Still overwrought, I stayed for quite some time, appreciating the quiet solitude before I retreated back to my car and eventually drove back to the chateau. Seeing her again was the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t stay away. As much as I loathed admitting it, I was still drawn to her, wanting to be close to her.
It was discombobulating how powerful love could be. It surpassed the common sense of any man, whether one was of intelligence or not. It surely didn’t care to discriminate, because once it got you, you were in its grip, and it persistently controlled you. Regardless if you approved of it or detested it, it didn’t matter. Such was life.
So here I was again, back to where I would tiptoe around my kryptonite, my beautiful nightmare. I knew I would have to accept it; there was no other way. If the circumstances were different, if I were a free man, I wouldn’t hesitate to come between them and halt this talk of matrimony. However, I wasn’t a man who had the freedom to command such a thing. If I truly loved her, I simply had to let her be, let her go and live her life, Loving her from afar should suffice, although everything inside of me resisted the thought of her being with Julien, or any man for that matter. Alas, I had to come to terms with it now and part with her in a civilized manner. I was better than this. I could let her go and wish her happiness while I privately mourned her loss.
As for my relationship with Julien … Well, I wasn’t brave enough of a man to pretend I could be all right seeing him having a life and future with the woman I loved, thinking it should have been me in his place had my cards been dealt right. Even I had a limit.
It was already two in the morning when I parked in one of the garages. As soon as she was awake, I would have Benoît drive her back to Julien.
I pulled my phone out and sent a message to the head of my security to come down here. Knowing how he would react to not having a security detail follow me tonight, I didn’t want to hear his spiel of how dangerous it could be. I understood these matters, and it normally never bothered me, but tonight, I had wanted to be alone with Isobel, even if it was stolen time. I wanted privacy with her to hash things out. And since that had already happened, I would wish her well and be gone with it.
The moment she left, I would also head out and fly out of the country. I didn’t want to risk another momentary lapse of judgment and seek her out again. Besides, distance was a cure for everything. I hoped that, as time went on, I could think of her without this wretched ache in my heart and that I would remember her fondly, reminiscing about her tenacity and beauty. Yes, her beauty and those eyes, those beautiful, bluish-purple eyes that would continually fucking hunt me in my dreams.
“Merde.” (Shit.)
If I didn’t stop, I would very well go mental. I was already treading on a very fine line. Pondering about her goddamn looks would not help my cause. I was a sad, pathetic bastard. It was rather laughable. If only Chantel or Sherry could see me, they would be truly baffled.
I had kept the women around as always, but I hadn’t touched one since that night at the hotel’s penthouse with Isobel. Was I consistently thinking of fucking? Hell bloody yes. What man wouldn’t when he was surrounded by willing and beddable women? But it hadn’t happened, and it wasn’t due to lack of trying on my part. I had tried. Fuck, it was such a conflicting experience, but in the end, none of it worked. I was plagued by thoughts of Isobel’s lovely face, seemingly fragile as she held her tears at bay, the very same look she had given me in that godforsaken elevator.
Something had changed in me that night. Maybe it was because I had pushed her away even though, deep down, I knew I was falling in love with her.
Whether it was the past, present, or the future, she didn’t have a place in any of them. Not her. Never her.
It was detrimental to keep it as such.
If I had my way, I would choose to stay in the garage, still seated in the car and sleep it off here. However, I knew I had to get inside because I had left her long enough. And even though I wouldn’t be seeing her any longer, I simply had to know that she was in her bed, sleeping and safe.
Besides, a bottle or two of my favorite cognac was in order. I had something to celebrate—that life had fucked me even before I’d had the chance to live it.
Grudgingly, I pulled the keys out of the ignition as I strode towards the front door solemnly. Upon entering the vast foyer, I saw the house was still as I made my way towards the kitchen. It was just as I had left it, but with no Isobel in sight. It was just as well. It was late, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that she had gone to bed.
Retracing my steps back to the hallway, I immediately sought the bar and plucked out a bottle of cognac and a glass before going outside to the patio. I situated myself on one of the cushioned seats then set the bottle and glass down on the table before twisting the bottle cap open and pouring myself a double shot. Then I poured another and another… The bottle was halfway through before I took a deep breath and rested my head against the cushions, blindly staring at the stars above. It felt good to be numb, to feel light inside amidst the heavy ache that lingered behind the temporary mask of alcohol.
There was something to be said about a man drowning in his sorrows. It was demoralizing being handicapped, not having the choice or the chance to even fight for her. I would if I could. I wouldn’t bat an eyelid before stealing her back from Julien. But I could only envisage it. It was the most degrading thing to be placed in such a dispiriting position.
It was my love for her that kept me here, grounded and inactive, instead of taking two steps at a time, running up the stairs and seeking her bedroom, waking her up with me thrusting into her tight body.
The very image of her aroused as she moaned my name while I throbbed between her legs made my cock spring to life.
“Merde!” I muttered under my breath, leaning towards the table and pouring myself another misery-laden double shot.
“You’re back.”
Upon hearing her voice, I cocked my head to the side, looking at her like a man in love, a man who was in deep agony, and like a man who only had eyes for her as he became overwhelmed by visceral yearning to possess her in body, mind, heart, and soul. I was all of that and more.
Her hair was disheveled with her robe loosely hanging off her frame. Her stunning eyes were red, as if she had spent the time crying while I was away. She seemed fragile, beguiling, and I had never felt more in love with her than right at this very moment. She was simply beautiful. Whether she had makeup on or was free of it, whether she was tenacious or weak, stubborn or pliant, smiling or in tears … Whatever state she was in, I loved them all, al
l shades of her: the beautiful, ugly, and damaged. She owned my heart. She owned me. Yet she hadn’t a clue just how much she meant to me. Looking at her, even from a distance, was too painful to bear.
“Go back to bed, Isobel. Benoît will be here first thing in the morning to take you back to … to Julien.” Finishing that sentence almost did me in. Fuck. Fuck it all.
It was too painful to even connect my gaze with hers. The ache was so overbearingly intense that I had to look away, and I opted to chug the bottle instead of the already filled glass in my other hand.
“Can we discuss this? I won’t be able to sleep if we don’t,” she said as she gradually advanced.
She was a few steps away from reaching the sofa when I stopped her in her tracks, throwing her a slashing look. “Take one more step closer to me, Isobel, and I will be tempted to fuck you on this sofa.”
Any sensible woman would step away. I wasn’t toying with her. However, the woman was made stubborn, and she had proved that time and time again. This moment was no different as she stepped closer to me with a combination of determination and worry.
“We’re going to talk, Hugo. Threaten me all you like, but we need to do this. It hurts to see you with such scorn in your eyes.”
She had been forewarned. She had heard it, but instead of paying heed, she had chosen to ignore. Was that a form of invitation or … I couldn’t be sure yet. Although there was no doubt where my thoughts were going, had I been sober, it would have been easier to block out her appeal. Still looking like a goddess, her appeal was effortless. The same went for her beauty and uniqueness.
The robed siren chose to sit right next to me with her brows furrowed and her lip swollen as if she had been biting it from being anxious.
Studying her through my hooded gaze, I wondered how this night would end.
Chapter Seventeen
Hugo
“Don’t you see? The last thing I want is to talk, Isobel.” I tried to ignore the throbbing in my cock as I looked away and made myself another shot.
Fuck, how hard was it to stay the fuck away from me? She had to know the affect she had, but she didn’t care if I suffered. She never had.
“I know this came as a shock to you, but I don’t want you to disregard your friendship with Julien—”
“Julien? You care about my friendship with Julien?” I mocked, sneering at her. “If you cared so much, then you should’ve thought about it before spreading your legs and welcoming his dick. No fucking wonder the bastard wants to marry you—your cunt is doing all the bloody magical work!”
Flustered and furious, she swiftly smacked my cheek. “That’s twice in less than twelve hours. The next time you do that, you will regret it.”
I made a hissing sound as I touched the warmth of my cheek where she had blessed it with her hand. “Go to sleep, Isobel. I’ve had enough. I’ve really had enough.”
Her chest heaved as she stood up, hovering before me, and when I saw her lean forward, I immediately stilled as her smell infiltrated my nostrils. Then I felt her lips kiss my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered before kissing the side of my cheek. “You’re a good man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” she spoke into my ear, lingering.
“Tell me this after—” I paused as I reached out my hand to cup the back of her neck and brought her lips crashing into mine.
Out of my mind, I couldn’t get enough of her—the taste of her and the simple feel of holding her this way. There was no doubt that I was drunk. I was beyond inebriated.
Her lips were a little hesitant, but when I coaxed her lips to open with my tongue, she eventually gave in without a hint of resistance. I kissed her like a man dying from thirst and she was my only source of life.
My pain magnified with each kiss, with each breath I took, but the amount of pain was overridden by the ecstasy that washed over me, blessing me with unparalleled euphoria.
When I hastily pulled her towards me, she sat on my lap, clinging on to me as my hand roamed and hurriedly untied the robe then it slid off her shoulders. Without parting from her lips, I palmed both breasts and toyed with a nipple, slightly tugging it every few seconds or so. Her breasts felt fuller, heavier somehow, and I couldn’t get enough of them.
“Let me in … just for tonight. Give me another taste to remember you by…” I begged, slipping past my ego and pride. “I’m desperate for you, Isobel,” I whispered against her swollen lips. It was selfish of me to want her knowing that she wasn’t mine, but I didn’t care. Right at this moment, she was mine, in my arms, on my lips, on my tongue.
When my mouth captured one pebbled nipple and tugged it, she moaned my name. It was all I needed to hear, knowing her well enough to understand she was too aroused to stop me.
I kept on with my ministrations, solely focused on her breasts, purposely neglecting her pussy. I wanted her to be over-stimulated before I did so.
Isobel took notice, releasing a frustrated sigh before her hips began gyrating on my thighs. Her hips were persistent as she slowly slid forward until her arousal felt the evident hardness of my manhood.
“Mon amour,” I groaned at the feeling of her heat. The impact, the sensation of it was unimaginable.
We weren’t even past foreplay, and I could feel my aching cock release a bead of moisture as Isobel accelerated her speed, gasping as she threw her head back while my mouth busied itself on her bosom. She was a sight to see, so enchanting as she panted, her cheeks all flushed as she continued trying to reach a release. When she was about to come, my thumb touched the soaked thong and rubbed my thumb against her clit, tipping her to the throes of her orgasm.
Hastily unzipping my trousers to free my cock, I couldn’t be bothered to take them off. I was desperate to be inside of her moistened heat.
She was still dazed and out of sorts from her coming, so it barely dawned on her that I was pushing her knickers to the side. The mushroomed tip of my head grazed her wet slit, but before I managed to slip inside her pussy, I brought her lips against mine, frenziedly kissing her.
“Take my pain away …” I rasped out, aching. “Love me like you used to, Isobel,” I said, gripping her hips, pushing her down on my cock.
Her vaginal muscles tightened their grip around my girth, choking my cock as I pumped it harder, harsher, and she repeatedly moaned my name in ecstasy as she rode me.
“Agápi mou,” she said breathlessly before yelping a string of words in Greek as her breasts bounced in front of my face. Then she screamed in pleasure, coming apart as she orgasmed hard.
Since she had little energy left, I grabbed her hips, mercilessly fucking her as hard as I could before reaching my own peak. My cock combusted in her pussy, exploding ropey strings of my semen inside of her. I came so much I felt all of my energy drain out of me. We were both spent as she sagged against me with our foreheads touching, her eyes closed as we breathed each other in.
I was so overcome with happiness that I could literally die a happy man without complaint after experiencing such profound intensity.
“Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime.” (I love you. I love you. I love you.)
She unmanned me. Even though this was momentary, my love was unconditional. I could have continued to hate her, bash her for her choices, but I didn’t. I had tried and failed miserably. Even after all of that, I would want her in a heartbeat. She was my absolute, my beginning and my ending.
I fought my battles wisely, and she was a losing one. There was no point in trying to fight it.
I loved her.
Simply her.
My Isobel. Forever. Again and again.
Chapter Eighteen
Isobel
He loves me, and he didn’t even care to hide it anymore. The confession was bittersweet, for I had longed to hear those words from his lips. I had dreamt it for so long that, when it became a reality, I was left in tears. A mixture of happiness and melancholy washed over me while I silently wept before falling asleep surrounded b
y his hands, his body, his warmth. I thought it was the closest thing to tasting heaven.
A few hours later, I woke up with my back against his chest, his hand secured across my abdomen. Shutting my eyes, I took a moment to remember this—the blissful feeling of waking up in his arms—saving it in my memory bank, knowing I would be leaving soon. I savored each passing second of his delicious warmth.
“Run away with me,” he croaked out against the side of my neck, making me momentarily still.
“I didn’t realize you were already up,” I shyly responded without turning back.
His fingers toyed around my stomach, teasing the skin with the pads of his fingers as he made aimless circles. I was ticklish, and his playful ministrations were setting my body on fire.
“I’ve been up. How can I fathom sleep when I could simply stare at you all night?” he whispered against my ear.
A shiver ran down my spine as I tried to comprehend his words, my wanton body already gleefully reacting to him.
“Hugo, I don’t know what you’re saying, so stop it,” I half groaned and moaned at the same time.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was he doing to me?
“I can’t think when you touch me like that.”
His husky laugh made me tingle in all the right places as he tightened his grip around me. “Isobel…” he drawled out as he slowly nipped my earlobe, “I’m serious … when I say run away with me.”
He wasn’t going to let that idea go.
Biting my lip, I gradually shifted to face him. The moment our eyes connected as the soft glow of the first morning rays of sunshine filtered through the French windows, I took a second to appreciate his dark features with his lazy hair, the half-smile, and the way he looked at me.
“You’re beautiful, Hugo,” I whispered. “But we can’t do that, and you know why … even though I don’t really know what happened in Paris.”