The Devil In the South Of France: An Enemies To Lovers Romance

by Sage Rae

  The woman escorted them to the hotel bar while they prepared the room. Peter watched, feeling smug, as several white-wearing hotel staff darted up the steps, assuredly to ensure that their penthouse was suited to his demands. Having money had been his life’s dream, his raison d’etre. And now that he had it, he felt on top of the world.

  Charlotte seated herself at the edge of her chair, making her legs crank back and forth. it was clear she was anxious, feeling, perhaps, more like her childhood self than she normally did at whatever school she went to. Manu had told him. The Sorbonne, maybe? Some kind of art? He imagined that brain unfolding for him, letting out its darkest, hidden secrets. Allowing him to see into that sexual, beating heart.

  The suites were three bedrooms, a large living space with a balcony that opened out over a courtyard, with a view of the now-sparkling Eiffel Tower in the distance. It was just past nine in the evening, and Peter could all-but feel the parties, brimming up, preparing. But with another glance toward Charlotte, he sensed that, tonight, he had other plans.

  Manu strutted toward the balcony with a champagne bottle in hand, flashing his eyes back toward his sister. “You ready for this, Lottie?” he asked her.

  “You’re just going to pop it over the balcony?” Charlotte asked, again sounding youthful, fresh. “What if it hits someone?”

  “Better them than us,” Manu scoffed. He yanked at the cork, then watched it explode into the air above them, taking with it a streak of foam. Charlotte clapped her hands, forming her lips into a round O. Peter watched on, amused.

  Manu poured their glasses and they held a toast for their successful trip to London, with Peter adding a “congratulations” for Charlotte’s end of exams. Charlotte beamed at him, before ducking her head back and sipping. Peter watched her little Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her porcelain throat. His lips were hungry to dribble along that skin. He so wanted to inhale her perfume.

  “Manu, I’ve been thinking,” he said, turning his head. “You mentioned you knew of a party up in the 17th, correct?”

  “Sure thing,” Manu said. He coughed once. The bubbles had gotten to his throat.

  “Well, I’m feeling kind of tired, is the thing,” Peter said. “And I might want to hang around here. Maybe go for a walk. Get some delicious Parisian food. Maybe I’ll leave the partying to another night.”

  With that, he turned his eyes, making direct connection with Charlotte. Hers burned with desire back at him, almost incredulous. He knew, with every tick of the clock, that they drew closer to stripping themselves bare. They just had to rid themselves of Manu.

  “Oh yeah? Fuck, man. That’s unlike you,” Manu said. “Well, whatever. There will be plenty more parties over the weekend. I can make a connection or two up there. Find you a lady. Whatever.”

  “You do whatever you think is best. I know you look out for me,” Peter said, winking. He smacked his hand on Manu’s back. He shook at the impact. Manu was a great deal smaller than Peter, thinner in waist. Almost skeletal. Over the previous few weeks, Peter had grown very aware of the smallness of Manu’s body. As if that, by association, that made Peter weak.

  But Peter forced those thoughts from his head again. He couldn’t dwell on the ways Manu disappointed him. Not now that they were poised to take over the world, together.

  Manu dressed in another suit, one he’d had fitted to his bone-frame in London, and slicked back his hair. Charlotte remained unspeaking at the edge of a chair, a half-drunk glass of champagne in her hand. She clicked her nails against the glass, shivering. The tension in the room was palpable, although, Peter knew, Manu was too obvious to catch it. Peter brought a sturdy hand into the air as Manu strutted for the door, casting eyes once more to Charlotte.

  “You sure you don’t want to go, peanut?” he asked her. “You gotta celebrate the end of exams somehow.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” Charlotte sighed, giving him a slight shrug. “I’m like Peter right now. I”m just exhausted. I’m ready to sleep on a mattress that doesn’t have a dent in it. Ha!”

  Manu snapped his fingers, pointed, like a cartoon-version of a rich person. “We’ll get that mattress worked out for you, sis. My riches are your riches. And you can count on that.”

  Manu snipped the door closed behind him, leaving Peter and Charlotte in the trenches of sexual chemistry and desire. Peter walked across the room toward the half-drunk second bottle of champagne and poured himself another glass, conscious of Charlotte’s eyes on his back. He knew he had to be the one to make the first move, to say the first words. He was the dominant one. The one in control.

  “Charlotte. It’s funny seeing you this way,” Peter said. He turned back, the bubbles in his champagne glass making crinkling sounds. Charlotte’s eyes were bright and pointed, like a rabbit, being hunted. “All grown up, I mean. Living in Paris. A city I don’t know two things about.”

  Charlotte unlaced her legs, then brought the opposite over the top of her knee. The light caught against it, highlighting the slenderness of the muscle, the porcelain skin. Peter’s fingers itched to draw lines across them, feel the tenderness of her. How soft all women were! He marveled. Especially Charlotte. So virginal. So frightened of him.

  So eager.

  “Did you really not want to go to that party?” Charlotte asked, swallowing hard. “I would have thought that you’d be all over this city, ready to make your mark. Especially with the business and all…”

  “Like I told Manu. There will be other nights,” Peter said. “But I very much felt that, from the moment I laid eyes on you, I didn’t want to let you go. And I knew we would lose each other at a party like that.”

  Charlotte drew her fingers through her hair, tugging at it. Then, she whipped up from her chair, sauntering toward the balcony.

  “Have I said too much?” Peter asked, his voice still firm.

  “No,” Charlotte murmured. She still wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes were cast toward the horizon line, over the tops of the grey Paris rooftops. “In fact, I want you to keep talking like that, if you can. If you want to.”

  Peter cut his teeth over his lower lip. He loved this game. He followed her lead toward the balcony, drawing his body over her back, pressing his stomach against her. Immediately, she grew tense. Her chin dropped down, and she closed her eyes, allowing her eyelashes to flutter along her cheeks. Peter brought his hand to her forehead, then wrapped a strand of hair around her ear. He’d never touched Charlotte this much, had never cradled her so close. Why did it feel like the most natural thing in the world? Was it because he’d always known her?

  “Don’t be nervous,” he whispered. “It’s just me. It’s just your old friend, Peter.”

  Charlotte quivered and spun into him, placing the flat of her palms across his chest. The Eiffel Tower flashed its light across them, like a search light, hunting for them. Her eyes searched his in much the same way—digging into him, trying to read his thoughts. But Peter’s thoughts were swirling, lined with adrenaline and sexual desire. When she snuck her teeth out of her lips, lined them on the bright red pout of her lower one, he knew he’d won.

  Without asking—for men like him didn’t ask—Peter surged forward, kissing her. A soft moan escaped her as her lips parted, allowing his tongue to snake along hers, across the smoothness of her white teeth, tasting her. He was surprised to find that his eyes were closed, as well. His heart pumped in his chest, harder and deeper than it normally did when he kissed anyone else. He couldn’t be certain of why. He’d kissed perhaps a hundred girls, throughout high school, college, and his early adulthood. Now, at 24 years old, he was more experienced than men twice his age.

  But there was something different about this girl.

  Charlotte’s thin arms snaked around his neck, gripping him closer to her. Her fingers toyed with his hair, tugging at it. Peter’s cock was heavy and firm against his pants, digging into her belly. He bucked back mid-way through the kiss, his eyes bright, staring down at her. Her fingers traced do
wn his six-pack, toward that bulge in his pants. It was clear she’d never done anything like this before; that she was playing a game with rules she didn’t quite understand. But their bodies were so electric and in-tune with one another, that they couldn’t stop. It would be devastating.

  Peter wrapped his hands around Charlotte’s tight ass, lifting her into him. She wrapped her legs around him, and he led her toward the hotel bed—splaying her out on the top of the gleaming white duvet. In her little dress, with those thin shoulders, she looked much smaller on the bed than she had standing up. She brought her legs out far on either side, then bent her knees, so that he caught the bright green of her panties.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked him. But her eyes were bright and wet, as if she was ready to cry at any moment.

  Peter wanted to hear it from her lips. He wanted to know for sure. He kicked off his shoes, removed his pants with a flourish—smacking the belt onto the top of the duvet cover, just to the left of her. He pressed his knees into the duvet and leaned into her, so that he inhaled the full brunt of her perfume. With his lips just seconds from hers, he whispered, “You’ve never done this before. Have you?”

  And Charlotte gave him exactly what he was looking for. She shook her head slowly, knocking her nose into him. “But I always imagined you would be my first.”

  “When did you first know?” he asked, wanting to demand more information. He wanted her to label every time she’d been turned on by him. Every detail. If she’d ever masturbated to the memory of him.

  But it wasn’t time. Charlotte surged forward, kissing him, and bringing his body over hers. He swallowed over her, making her disappear over his much larger form. Her hands gripped his cock, beneath his boxers, and he ripped the fabric below his knees before tossing it to the floor. As she kissed him, her lips hungry, she undid the buttons on his shirt. The shirt had cost him five hundred dollars—probably more than her rent, if he had to guess. But within seconds, it, too, was across the floor. Her fingers traced along the coarse hair of his chest, making circles around his nipples.

  “You want me to fuck you, Charlotte?” His words were gruff. He wanted her to call out for him.

  “Peter, I’ve wanted you to fuck me for years,” Charlotte whispered back.

  Peter thrust his hand under her dress, tugging at the panties and tossing them toward the balcony doors. He ripped the dress from her shoulders, so that her naked frame was before him: her tits, perky and white, her belly, mostly flat, with the tiniest little bit of fat at the very bottom (adorable, he thought), and her pussy, almost all shaved, with a bit of hair at the very base. In Peter’s eyes, she was everything a woman was meant to be.

  He reached down to touch her, wanting to warm her. And his fingers found her pussy to be fully wet, open for him. He drew back his hand and smell the wetness of her. She watched him, clearly fascinated. She’d never been touched in this way. Her lips parted, making an O when his fingers found her clit and began to rub slowly, circling it. Her head drew back against the duvet, and her eyes closed.

  “What are you doing to me?” she murmured, drawing her hands along her tits and rubbing at her nipples. “I might lose my mind…”

  But Peter didn’t want her to cum, not yet. Not until he could feel that pussy against his cock, until he could move up against her, so that he was filling her completely.

  Peter placed his cock at the opening of her pussy, moving into her slowly so that he didn’t hurt her. He watched her eyes change as he did it. At first, they were bright and anxious, filled with panic. But then, they drew a line toward his, connecting with him. She bit her lip, nodding faster and faster, letting him know he could begin. And he did: thrusting once, twice, three times, feeling her body shift beneath him. Her tits bounced against his chest, their nipples rock-hard.

  They made love for the next hour, after that: exchanging positions, with Peter helping Charlotte through them, instructing her, watching as she fell against the duvet and wailed his name, coming against his cock as he fucked her from behind. When he did finally cum, he shot the white liquid across the flat of her stomach, so that it stirred in her belly button, dripping along the center, toward her pussy. Her fingers played with the white stuff, twirling it against her skin, as he fell to the side, dropping his head to the mattress.

  For a long moment, Peter blinked, seeing black and white spots. He almost lost consciousness, then turned his head toward Charlotte, cackling. He snuck his lips against the top of her chest, dotting little kisses toward her tits. They were both sweaty rats, their limbs coiled around one another. And they fell into an easy banter, one that showed just how long they’d known one another. This wasn’t a one-night stand. This had dimension to it.

  “Let me take you to dinner, now,” Peter said, digging his nose into her shoulder.

  Charlotte giggled, drawing her arms around him. “Why?”

  “Because I want to show you off to the world, of course,” Peter shrugged. “You’re an absolute gorgeous woman, Charlotte.”

  “I’m one of millions of French women in this city,” Charlotte sighed. “You could run out and get another model any time you like.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Peter said. He leaped up from the bed, reaching for his boxers. “I want to walk with you along the river, and sit with you at a fancy restaurant, and speak to you about all the thoughts you’ve had since I last saw you, back in New York. I know you’re smarter than your brother, that you’re more creative than me. Forgive me, but I’m demanding more of you.”

  Peter knew that he’d said the right things. Charlotte beamed. She leaped from bed, drawing her dress over her shoulders. Every motion was angelic, graceful. Their bodies created a kind of dance alongside one another, seemingly in-sync, despite never having fucked before this night. It was like this was something they’d always been meant to do, Peter thought. Why had he never thought of it before?

  Something Like Love

  Peter and Manu remained in Paris for a little less than a week. But to Charlotte, it felt more like a lifetime. She and Peter kept their affair a relative secret from Manu—each time refusing him when he decided to go out to a party, or out with a girl he’d met. Peter feigned fatigue, telling Manu that he was exhausted from all the meetings they’d been through in London. And Charlotte told Manu that she wanted to stick in the hotel, as she was growing tired of Paris, of its parties and its people. “It’s always the same,” she told him. “I miss New York.”

  But the moment Manu disappeared, Charlotte and Peter would make love, they would dive from one conversation to the next, almost free-associating, speaking in the way of young lovers. Charlotte had never fallen so head-over-heels before, had never even thought it was “allowed.” Generally, when she’d read about such love stories, she hadn’t been able to associate the depth of feeling with the stories. She’d envisioned something “like love,” but now that she was actually experiencing it, she realized it was so much deeper, so much more nourishing than anything else.

  She’d been a foolish girl before, projecting ideas of love. Now, she was actually experiencing it.

  But Manu and Peter had to move on. It was a fact that Charlotte and Peter didn’t discuss. In Charlotte’s mind, it was too difficult to verbalize. And plus, she didn’t want Peter to say anything like, “Stupid girl. This was always only just a fling.” She had to return to school in a month, and had a vacation planned with a few girlfriends to Italy prior to that. And Manu and Peter had a series of meetings lined up in New York for the rest of the summer. Meetings that, according to Peter, would solidify their stance as the youngest millionaires in Greenwich. At least, self-made.

  After Peter left (wow, what a devastating loss that felt like, Charlotte marveled), they kept up almost constant communication. Texts. Emails. Charlotte even penned him a letter (which she decided not to send, as it was rather childish to do something like that, wasn’t it?). Regardless of their ways of communication, Peter was consistently on her mind, the im
age of him just a few blinks away if she wanted to draw it up. She ached to hear her name on his tongue; yearned for him to tug her close against him, to kiss her. It took her nearly a week to wash the shirt she’d been wearing the last time she’d seen him, as it still contained just a hint of his smell. It made her wet in an instant.

  And sometimes, Peter found his way back to her. Mid-way through August, he arranged a meeting with a prospective client based in Paris—keeping Manu at home for another round of meetings back in Manhattan. Peter brought her into his hotel with him, kept her up till all hours of the night, before leaving her cuddled up in his bed until his return around lunch time (when they would do it again). A similar thing happened in September, then early October. But after that, Peter seemed more-or-less bogged down with his career—his texts coming less and less frequently.

  The fact of this made Charlotte’s heart drip into her stomach. She began to lose sight of her vision for her life and career—spending long hours staring out the window, forgetting to eat, her stomach eating at itself, at the lining, and making her weak-kneed and foggy-brained.

  Was Peter Bramwell forgetting about her, just as she’d suspected he would?

  Around the beginning of December, Charlotte crafted a plan. She knew she had to take action, if she was going to get back on track. Her grades were slippery, sliding all the way down to the B-range. But her heart told her that she’d never be a great architect if she couldn’t have the love she so craved.

  In fact: as she purchased the ticket to return to the states to tell Peter her true feelings (those of complete and unadulterated love), she reasoned she might never return to France long-term. Certainly, there would be an option of having a house there, or several, after Peter and Manu continued their trajectory of wealth. But for Charlotte, she would probably need to enroll in a New York-based architecture and art program, hustle alongside fast-talking New Yorkers, learn to build a more American brand. But she was willing to do that for Peter.