The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  Mila, with the covers half over her, a leg lazily hooked over the duvet, was asleep. The bedside lamp doused the room in a faint light, but she had her back turned to it as she slept on her side. Jane Eyre had slipped from her relaxed grip on his side of the bed. In her other hand, she held her glasses. She looked so at peace, angelic, sinless, having fallen asleep mid-reading. Ignoring the rise of his pulse, the slow heat that ran down his back to his balls, he edged closer on her side of the bed, wanting to switch off the lamp.

  He glanced up her body, her Hello Kitty nightshirt having scrunched up to her hip. His gaze jolted to a halt when he saw her butt peeking back at him.

  She had no underwear on. Fuck. He leaned closer as his already half-mast erection jerked to full salute, and he swallowed. Her leg was lifted just high enough for him to see how the lips of her sex grazed the duvet.

  He should have known. Hadn’t he told her no panties in his bed? He grinned, his pulse dancing. She had no idea that he would be there right now… If he hadn’t known that he would have thought his Sassy Miss Johnson was a cock tease.

  chapter 21

  Mila woke slowly, at first wanting to snuggle deeper into the covers as the air conditioning had cooled the room more than she could bear. And there was no James to keep her warm like he had the previous night. She stirred, stretching her arms, only to feel warm skin under her touch.

  She opened her eyes as her fingers unfurled only to be trapped in a gentle grip. James was on the other side of the bed, lying on his side, his arm reaching out and his pinky playing with hers, a minuscule connection of heat. She must be dreaming and stirred to wake up, but he caught her hand.

  There was nothing frightening about the situation, nothing strange, and she turned to him and smiled. “You’re here.”

  He wore a white T-shirt and boxer shorts; his hair was rumpled and a pillow wrinkle streaked down his cheek.

  “Hope you don’t mind.”

  He’d spoken, so it must be true that he was there, and inside her, a bubble of joy drifted up, just as the slow stir of lust woke in her belly. He hadn’t stayed away; maybe he couldn’t stay away. Or so she hoped.

  “What happened?” She figured he might just as well shatter her illusions now.

  “I’m not sure who else has access to the apartment. I—” He broke off, weaving his fingers with hers, letting her melt with the sweet gesture. “I didn’t want to leave you alone and exposed. Strangers bursting in on you…”

  She licked her lips, not sure what to make of his statement, but inside a slow grin was spreading. “Damien did knock, you know. He didn’t just let himself in.”

  His expression changed from sleepy-serious to guarded and she extracted her hand from his to rub her eyes. Did he really think she would have succumbed to Damien’s charms? Would have invited him in and let him have his way with her. God. Would she have? After a bottle of champagne? Skunk drunk, sleeping with a guy who trampled on other people’s relationships? Not that she would have known about that.

  He said nothing.

  “My parents did teach me not to open the door to strangers, James,” she whispered as she peered at him again. She wouldn’t have let Damien in, no matter what. She wouldn’t even have opened the door.

  For a moment it was quiet, James’s jaw ticking in the light that fell through the gap where she hadn’t closed the shutter.

  “Did you like him?”

  “Who? Damien?”

  He blinked with a groan. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked. “He’s good looking. Very French, I suppose,” she murmured, wanting to turn the conversation around, get that insecure look out of his gaze. Who would have thought that James Sinclair could feel insecure? But now that she knew about Marlène and Damien, she understood why that look was there. Who cheated on a man like James? He was handsome, clever, funny, engaging, caring… and a generous lover. Why would a woman cheat on a man like him?

  After last night’s episode, it had been clear that James wasn’t over Marlène and their breakup yet. It had stung because deep down Mila was falling deeper for him with every passing day. She blinked and forced herself to put her feelings aside and joke around to lighten the mood.

  “He’s way too scrawny for me. I can’t possibly date a guy whose butt is half the size of mine.” She suppressed a laugh. Damien’s ass had been tight, low-slung, with no muscles at all. The image of him rushing off was as clear in her mind as if he’d strode away a second ago.

  “Is that so?” He rose on his elbow, resting his head in his hand, studying her. “I didn’t know size mattered… in that department.” He chuckled then. “So you like a rugby body, as long as there is no actual rugby involved.”

  “I suppose so,” she said and bit her lip to keep herself from smiling. James was hot as hell, and feelings aside, she didn’t mind burning.

  “Dangerous ground, Miss Johnson.” His gaze traveled her face, paused at her lips and eased to her neck and breasts.

  Under his gaze, she became too hot, and an urgency to kick off the stifling covers swamped her. She shifted the duvet, hooking her leg over it, halting with surprise. The soft lick of silk on her sex reminded her that she wore no panties. Per his instruction, she had, with a bit of mischief, tossed them to the side when she’d gone to bed. If it weren’t for the air conditioning, she would have ditched the rest too. She inhaled a sharp breath with the realization that her nightshirt had scrunched up to her middle. The silk duvet cover was rubbing over her sex, delicious, teasing, and she froze when under his blazing gaze she wanted to roll her hips to get more friction.

  “No panties,” he murmured, his gaze shooting back to hers. “Good girl.”

  The way he said those last little words made her core pull tight, increasing the undercurrent of need that lingered. She was so not a good girl. Her body craved his touch, it was as simple as that. Her hand slipped forward and he shifted his so their fingertips caressed in small kisses, tip to tip, sending a tide of heat through her body.

  “What else did you do last night? After I left?” he asked softly. He stilled her with the slight pressure of his fingertips on hers and then traced a slow path down her forefinger with his own.

  “I—” she started, but caught her breath as his finger dipped to her thumb, taking a turn around the cuticle of her nail, then retracing its path. The caress was so soft, so subtle, but it sent a sensation down her hand, all the way to where her sex was heating up.

  “Were these fingers busy, Mila?” he asked, his voice deeper, quietly inquiring.

  “Busy?” she whispered.

  “Did you touch yourself?” His eyelids had dropped, hooding his gaze, which was no longer sleepy.

  The rush of heat was unmistakable as it drenched her cheeks. He was actually asking her if she’d masturbated.

  “Did you think of me as you got off?” he continued, his gentle tracing of her fingers still ongoing, unaffected by his own words. “Miss me?”

  Her breathing had paused, every cell in her body intent on his touch, while his soft murmurs were creating havoc in her lower belly.

  “Were you very wet?” he quizzed. Her body had molded into the mattress, weighed down with desire. A drop of liquid seeped between her thighs.

  “No,” she barely whispered, needing to break the intense look between them, which James was holding as if he had her hypnotized.

  “No?” He was shifting closer, trailing his hand up her arm to her shoulder, but slipping to her naked hip.

  Her nipples were hard and begging, the heat of his palm on the curve of her hip grounding her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.” Did she have to sound so helpless?

  “So it’s a yes?” he teased.

  She could reply but gnawed her bottom lip instead. This was only going to end one way. She should stop th
is, but he was mesmerizing her with his soothing voice and gentle hands.

  “Which is it, Mila?” he commanded quietly, his gaze fixing hers, willing her to spill the truth.

  “I’m soaked right now.”

  There was a barely perceptible lifting of his lips at the corners of his mouth. A somewhat triumphant gleam shone from his eyes.

  “But I—” She broke off, the words unwilling to slip from her tongue. That little voice cleared its throat.

  “But what?”

  “I don’t do that.” She dropped her gaze, too embarrassed to keep staring into his eyes, her ears burning, her whole body flushing.

  “And why not?” His hand, which had been stroking circles on her hip, stilled for a second before it slipped lower, to the apex of her thighs.

  She zoned in on his arm, then on his hand and fingers, which were putting pressure on her pubic bone, making her want to curve into him, give him access to her sex.

  “Because I’m a good girl.” Did she have to sound so apologetic? Did she have to feel so wanton, wanting to widen her legs, and let him finger her until she came?

  “That you are. No going solo in my bed, understood?” he said, his tone soft, yet firm. A finger slid to her swollen wet sex, feeling what his words had done to her. His finger grazed her pleading clit, stopping short of entering her, gliding back on its tracks. Once. Twice.

  She closed her eyes. The build-up was there, her pelvic floor clenching and moisture seeping from her. Her hips rolled, begging him not to stop.

  His breathing had become stilted, labored. She opened for him, but instead of stroking deeper, giving in to the friction her hips demanded, he extracted his hand and left her hanging on the edge.

  Unhinged, she opened her eyes. He stared at her, a somber light in his eyes, flushed, with lips pursed. He lifted his finger to his mouth, licking the taste of her from his fingers. She closed her eyes at the erotic image of his tongue and lips on his fingers, her pussy gushing more for him to taste, to lick and claim.

  “James,” she murmured helplessly, not sure why he’d stopped. She’d been so close.

  Please.

  She shouldn’t beg him, knowing how wrong it would be. Knowing that this was not their deal. They were just a casual coincidence. If there had been something deeper, maybe she would have let him play with her, and she would have played back. But right now, this type of game was wrong.

  Why would he want her when he could have any other woman out there? Serious, career-focused women who could meet him head-on in every aspect of his life and who had seen the world. Editors of Vogue magazine. Not an overprotected, religious girl who’d hardly left home and had never traveled beyond her own confined borders.

  Opening her eyes, she met his gaze head-on. His eyes had turned stark and sober.

  “I’m going to be late for work. And you’re going to be late for the Louvre,” he said as he turned around and put his feet on the floor. He tossed the duvet to the side and stalked to the bathroom.

  chapter 22

  Get a shower. Get to work. Get some distance.

  James turned his face to the beating onslaught of ice-cold water, letting it seep over his heated skin, willing his cock into submission. He was not going to jerk off at the thought of her, and leave a shower scented with his semen, only to tease her.

  Fuck. How much had he wanted to tease her?

  What had just happened had been too close and too wrong. Had he really lived under the illusion that he could be next to Mila and not touch her?

  The night before, instead of falling asleep as he’d hoped, he’d stared at her, had taken in every one of her fine-boned features and memorized them. She was a beauty with her dark hair and long lashes that threw curved shadows over her cheeks. Her full lips had lured him to kiss her. She was a contradiction to everything that usually attracted him. She was too young, too inexperienced; he’d always preferred older blondes, who talked business, whether normal or sexual, as smoothly as he did.

  Even in the art world, which he’d frequented as an investor, his acquaintances were into the money side of art and not the making of it. Yet her hands that had held a pencil and paintbrush like a magic quill had captivated him. She was talented, though he knew she didn’t believe in herself.

  He showered slowly, trying to get a grip on himself—a grip, which did not involve his dick—so he could actually figure out a plan B.

  Ten minutes later he hung his head over the hand basin, having washed the last of the shaving cream off his face. The situation was unbearable and the only solution was to get some distance between him and Mila.

  With cold resolve, he opened the door to the bedroom only to find it empty. He listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen and closed his eyes. There was nothing more dramatic than the happy gurgle of the coffee machine. Where had she gone?

  For a moment he panicked, then he forced himself to shrug the concern off. He dressed at speed in a tailored gray suit and white shirt and hooked an unfolded tie around his neck to deal with in the taxi on his way to work.

  When he stepped into the kitchen, Mila was there, no longer in her nightshirt, but in shorts and a tight tank top, clearly braless as she turned to him, slightly out of breath, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy.

  “I’m—” He paused. She looked orgasm-flushed. He clenched his jaw, knowing he hadn’t been involved in that one. Had she gone against his specific instructions? Something stirred in him and he pursed his lips. But then… he could hardly blame her, the way he had left her earlier on, but he forced himself not to give a damn.

  “I’m off to work. I have a business dinner tonight and won’t be here. I—” He conjured a grin as her gaze grew blank. “I won’t sleep here tonight, so…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He’d never felt such a coward, or so coldheartedly stupid in his life.

  “That’s fine.” Her voice was toneless. “Coffee? Before you go?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll grab some at the office.”

  “Croissant?”

  Too late he noticed the croissants from the bakery across the street. He dropped his gaze for a second. She must have run over to the boulangerie to buy croissants while he was showering. She hadn’t helped herself as he’d thought but instead had gone to reciprocate the breakfast he’d made for her the day before.

  Good girl.

  Bad boy. His stomach tightened and he clenched his jaw. He had to focus on distance. “No thanks. Take it for lunch. You’re going to get hungry.”

  He strode to the kitchen island and squatted to open the bottom drawer. He rummaged through a stack of leaflets until he found his well-worn map of Paris and a pen.

  He straightened with a fake smile. “This is a bit old but won’t be dated,” he said as he unfolded the map on the countertop. “Some of my favorite haunts are still around. Most of them are legendary.”

  He pored over the map while trying to avoid Mila, who’d leaned against the counter, her fingers inches from his, distracting as hell. “There’s a wine bar here called The Sommelier, a seventies disco-themed club here, and here you have an English pub.” He pinpointed the locations on the map. “All frequented by the expat crowd, English-speaking students. The lingo won’t be an issue for you.” He gazed up at her, but her eyes were downcast, following his ministrations on the map.

  “Go out tonight, meet some other people.” Get laid by someone normal, forget about me.

  She met his gaze. “Don’t you dare add ‘people my own age’.”

  “Okay, I won’t.” He blinked. “Go have some fun.”

  They were quiet, measuring each other up. She’d said she wasn’t the clubbing type. “There are also classical music concerts at Sainte-Chapelle, but I don’t have info on that.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Business dinner tonight?” she asked after an infinite minute, her hand
reaching towards him.

  He didn’t have it in him to move away, but she only took both ends of his tie and pulled him closer, the silk slipping between her fingers. She tied it quickly, expertly, whilst her gaze stayed on her hands. She lifted his collar, her knuckles grazing the sensitive skin along his hairline and his neck, sending sparks down his spine. He inhaled softly at the touch.

  “There,” she murmured. “Four brothers. If nothing else, I know how to tie a tie.”

  This was the moment where she would pull him closer, and he would lean in for a kiss. His mouth went dry, his lips whispering their willingness, eager for him to cave in and have her. She smelt of coffee and sleep and Mila, a heady mix of something he should never have inhaled in the first place.

  “Mila.” He groaned.

  She adjusted his collar, straightening his lapels, softly brushing her hands over his chest. “All good.” She stepped away and gave him a once-over. “Off you go.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out, grabbing his suitcase, which still stood at the front door where he’d left it the night before.

  As he got into the lift he paused. That had been wrong on so many levels. And exactly who had dismissed whom?

  chapter 23

  Mila stared at the two croissants on the table and sighed. It had been as if James couldn’t get out fast enough, and his random scribbles on the street map of Paris gave a clear message: This is it. From now on, you’re on your own, baby.

  He’d actually stopped calling her baby after the first night. With a groan, she gathered her hair over her shoulders. She was frustrated and confused because that morning had been a mess of mixed signals. Whilst they’d been in bed everything had slipped into something sensual and sexy, and yet he’d withdrawn from her, had gone cold, leaving her itching for release. And now her frustration was going to keep her edgy for the rest of the day.