The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)
Page 15
Her phone rang, pulling her out of her fog, and she scrambled for her bag to dig it out. James Sinclair. Did her heart have to skip a beat at seeing his name?
She hesitated, because hearing his voice right now, promising a myriad of things he would do to her, was not going to help her pull herself from the pit he’d left her in.
Act grown-up, dearest, she chided herself and pressed the answer button.
“Hi.”
“Listen, I just spoke to Clea. She’d rather meet you at the Porte de Lions entrance at twenty to nine.” His tone was all business.
“Okay.” She closed her eyes. Why did she hope for something more here?
“Do you know where that gate is?”
“No, but I’ll figure it out.” What was she waiting for? An apology? A promise? A rude wake-up call? That was what she needed.
“It will be on the map. Or Google it. It’s less busy than the pyramid entrance.”
“Sure.”
“You can’t miss Clea. She’s tall, has long blonde hair, and always wears a black suit to work.”
Ugh. She should have known about the tall and blonde part.
“I have a meeting at eight,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Stop worrying about me, James.” Did her voice have to catch on his name? She cleared her throat and took a sip of coffee, cold and bitter. “I’ll be fine.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the other side and then he said, “Enjoy the Louvre. I hope it is everything you’ve imagined it to be.”
“Thank you.”
He rang off and she clutched the phone in her hand. He’d dealt with everything so lightly. Did he even feel any of the confusion she felt now? He deserved to be feeling some of her pain. He was driving her mad, almost intentionally. She’d love to give him a bit of his own back.
For a moment she hesitated, then she opened the messages on her phone. She’d never been into sexting, never had anyone to sext with, but James had this one coming.
You, Sir, are a pussy tease.
She pressed send, closed her eyes, and exhaled some of the tension that had been sitting on her chest since he’d marched out earlier.
Minutes passed, and she decided to help herself to a fresh cup of coffee. When her phone beeped a message back, her stomach clutched tight.
I’m only a pussy tease to Good Girls.
She grinned as her pulse speed up. Her fingers flew over the keys.
Just my luck!
He messaged back after a few seconds.
This morning was not part of our deal, Mila.
She wanted to forget about the deal. She wanted to forget about the shadow of Marlène and Damien hanging over him and his anger the night before. She wanted to be with him, and be thoroughly fucked like he had fucked her the previous morning. She wanted that connection to him, but this time even deeper. They’d been sharing secrets, and she was feeling more connected with him than she’d ever felt with another human being.
Her fingers trembled; she had no witty reply ready for him.
Then her phone beeped.
Rub one out, I give you permission to do so and solemnly promise you won’t burn in hell for it. ;-)
Good Lord. Of course he’d recommend that. Hell and all.
I don’t believe in hell. You’re way too cocky for your own good. But I bet you know that.
She pressed send and put her phone down to take up a croissant and bite into it. Her phone beeped.
You have no idea how cocky I am right now. It’s hell, to be honest.
She smiled. She had him right where she’d wanted him. Served him right. She licked some crumbs off her lip. Could she really ask him… should she dare? She took another bite and tossed caution to the wind.
Are you going to be at the apartment tonight? After your business dinner?
There was no quick response and time ticked-ticked-ticked. She kept staring at her phone, holding her breath. When it finally beeped she inhaled sharply.
No.
Her heart dropped and her stomach tensed. That morning he’d told her he’d been worried about her being alone at the apartment, with French models like Damien knocking on the door, chilled champagne in their hands.
Did this mean he had somewhere else to sleep? With someone else?
Why did it have to feel so horrible? She closed her eyes trying to ignore the agonizing churn of half-chewed croissant in her stomach. It was time.
Ok. Bye James. xxxxxxxxx
She could send him as many kisses as she wanted over text, he wouldn’t care for one of them. She closed her eyes and prayed that he would be as horny as she was for the rest of the day.
And, dear Lord, let him think only of me.
chapter 24
James read through their conversation again. It was past six in the evening and his whole day had been a bloody waste of time. His ability to concentrate had reached sub-zero levels because all he could think about was Mila.
Sir. Pussy. Tease. He tossed his phone to the side.
Calling him Sir like a little submissive, luring him to her with that innocent question whether he’d be back at the apartment after his meeting.
The meeting got him thinking about the club and invariably his thoughts drifted to the issue of Marlène. There had been no more messages from her and he hadn’t bothered to contact her again. He had no desire to talk to her. What he wanted was for her to take her stuff and fuck off out of his apartment and his life.
And that thought brought him right back to the club. He didn’t want to go to the meeting, he didn’t want to see the place. He hadn’t wanted to go there for eight months. But now, the need for distance was even more intense, and for this, he could only blame Mila. Above everything else, he wanted to spend time with her. He didn’t want her to go out on her own in Paris, irrespective of the fine selection of innocent joints he’d jotted down for her earlier on.
Fuck it.
He picked up his phone and scrolled his contacts for Jean-Pierre Costeau. He dialed and raked through his hair while his phone rang.
“James,” Jean-Pierre answered. “Why do I know this is not good?”
“I won’t make the meeting tonight.” He almost groaned at the non-response on the other side. “Something’s come up at work.”
“Aha.” Jean-Pierre smirked. “What’s been crashing? Frankfurt? Paris? It’s too late for Tokyo. Don’t tell me I’ve already lost millions.”
“Nothing’s crashing,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Only an unforeseen… emergency.”
“I see.” Jean-Pierre was quiet for a second then he chuckled. “Cut to the chase, James. Who is she?”
He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, stopping the incredulous chuckle that wanted to break from his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Ha, I spoke to Etienne last night. He said you brought a charming girl with you for lunch at his place. He wanted to send some champagne over but—”
“Just a family friend,” he interrupted. Bloody hell.
“Hands-off territory?” Jean-Pierre mused.
He didn’t answer. Why was it so hard to talk around things with Jean-Pierre? Probably because they’d known each other for ages, were practically best friends in a way.
“You didn’t keep your hands to yourself, did you, James?” Jean-Pierre laughed. “I’ll drink to that! Why don’t you bring her to the club tonight? After the meeting, we can meet her.”
A fine spray of prickles rushed over his skin, from his forehead down to his abdomen. “No.”
There was no response. “Not sharing yet, are you?”
He wanted to curse but took a stiff breath. “I called to let you know I can’t make the meeting. I read through the agenda and there is nothing in there that requires me to be there.”
He rang off, a lightness settling over him as if his ball and chain had been separated and he could actually walk without dragging the load. As he packed up for the day he checked his watch. It was almost seven and with traffic, it would take him at least another twenty minutes to get home.
For a second he gathered his thoughts. It might be that he got to the apartment and she wouldn’t be there. Maybe she would have taken his instructions and gone out alone. Then he’d go stalk her down, but his hunt would start at the apartment.
Mila dropped her bag next to the wingback chair, flopped into it and kicked her shoes off. She rolled her neck and groaned as she pulled the side table in front of her legs and settled her feet on it. She sat for five minutes, digesting her day.
It had been wonderful but intensely emotional to see so many pieces of art that she’d studied for years. Her feet were killing her, but she’d stayed until the last minute, and already knew that she’d go back the next day. She had hardly scraped the surface of the Louvre, as James had predicted.
He’d been on her mind the whole day, and she’d found that she was having conversations with him about art as she’d moved from one painting to the next. She had missed his sharp comments.
She’d switched her phone to silent because she was in the museum, but also because she didn’t want to have moments of useless hope about any further messages from him.
She reached into her bag and took out her phone. Bar letting Ruben know she’d arrived in one piece she’d hardly used her phone. Her friends and family thought she was completely out of reach and she rather enjoyed the quiet reprieve her lies had bought her. There was going to be consequences… she’d deal with them later.
Only a few messages from Stacey stared at her from the screen.
How is Paris!?!?!?
Apartment all good???
My rewrite was horrible. Not sure why I’m bothering.
Was Damien there last night?
She took a deep breath at the onslaught and read through it again.
She had no idea how much she should reveal to Stacey. James’s private life was his to deal with and share, not hers. She’d had the whole day to dissect the situation and she’d come to the conclusion that Stacey had no idea about what had caused the break-up of James and Marlène.
Paris is beautiful. Thank you! Went to the Louvre today. My feet!!!!! Killing me!! Damien was here but didn’t stay long.
She bit her lip and inhaled. Would Stacey plague her now? She hadn’t mentioned James, but neither had Stacey. She was going to keep it like that for now.
Pressing send, she prayed that Stacey would have neither the time nor be in the mood to dig into why Damien had left so soon.
Minutes later her phone beeped.
Sounds fantastic. Apartment is cool, right? Louvre on his freaking doorstep and all.
His. James. It was the only reference Stacey had made to her brother. She swiftly replied that it was amaaaazing, hoping that Stacey would back off.
Then the message came through: Why didn’t Damien stay?
She sighed. The best would be to create a diversion. Because he wanted to see you and not me.
Stacey’s reply popped over in seconds. Awww… that’s sweet. I haven’t met him yet. I’m really pissed off at not being there right now.
He was Stacey’s type too, his looks, the clothes he’d worn, his easy manner, they all fitted right into Stacey’s usual tall, lanky but handsome agenda. You’d love him, but I really hope you don’t. She typed the words, but then deleted them. There was no way she was going to push Stacey in Damien’s direction. Maybe once she was in Paris they could go to Versailles for the weekend to make sure they missed Damien. From James’s reaction last night, he’d be furious if they went out with Damien and she wouldn’t blame him.
Next week you’ll be here! Now go study so that you can have a guiltless trip. She sent it off, knowing she sounded twice her age and that Stacey was going to have some snarky reply.
YES MOM. XXX
Mila grinned at the caps. She might be mothering Stacey, but someone had to.
She tossed her phone back into her bag, took her shoes and went to the bedroom. She needed to relax her tired legs and sore feet. A long warm bath would soothe her aches.
After soaking in the hot water for some time she washed her hair. When she got out of the bath she dressed in a loose-fitting diaphanous top and some panties. She padded barefoot to the kitchen for a glass of her red wine, which hadn’t tasted half as bad as the price had predicted.
Walking back into the lounge she looked out of the windows and took in the view of Paris. The light was right, as it was almost the same time as she’d painted on the evening of her arrival.
She returned to the kitchen and fetched some cups with water and kitchen towels. Back at the wingback, she settled her brushes and paint on the side table and got comfortable in the chair with James’s painting. She was committed to finishing it so she could leave it for him when she left. Even if she didn’t see him again, he would have this something of her, something that would remind him of more than just sex.
As she got busy she lost track of time. In Paris, summer afternoons oozed slowly into evening, and she figured she’d have at least an hour to paint before she’d need artificial lighting.
When metal sounded against metal as someone inserted a key into the front door, she frowned and looked up, startled and confused. Her shoulders cramped from where she’d bent over the pad to paint, her eyes tired of the intense concentration.
James appeared in the entrance hall and her heart skipped a beat at seeing him. He looked ruffled, his tie loose around his neck and his hair disheveled as if he’d dragged his fingers through it too many times.
She sat straighter, brushing the tendrils of hair from her face. “Hi.”
He dropped his laptop bag at the entrance and tossed his keys into the bowl at the front door. “Hi.” He closed in on her, and with each step he took, her heartbeat edged up a notch. By the time he stood at her feet and she had to lean back to see his face, her pulse was racing.
“Rough day at the office?” she breathed, their earlier sexting running on repeat in her mind.
“You could say that.”
She looked down so that he couldn’t see her grin, but her eyes came level with a budding bulge in his trousers and she had to look even lower. There was a rustle of fabric and with a sigh, he dropped his jacket to the floor. She looked up to see him tugging at his tie. He unknotted it slowly, intentionally, and her stomach did a slow turn at seeing his fingers, the memory of him licking her juices off them earlier as vivid as if he’d done so a second ago. The tie landed on top of his jacket.
“We have unfinished business.” He stared down at her as he started to roll up his sleeves.
She shifted in the chair, sudden heat crashing through her at the look in his eyes. Yes, we do.
“Your business dinner?” she whispered. She was in it deep this time.
He took his time to finish rolling up his sleeves. Every cell in her beat in a frantic tick-tock. She had no idea what he was getting up to, but within her, there was an unruly reawakening of this morning’s unfulfilled desire.
“Cancelled.” He placed his hands on the armrests and bent over her. She wanted to lean back, to get away from his gaze that didn’t break with hers, but she was trapped. His lips were inches from hers, and hers felt dry in anticipation that he might kiss her.
She ran her tongue across her lips, her breathing stalling as he bent over to run his lips across her temple. At any moment he could slip lower, to her lips.
But instead of searching for her mouth, he grazed her ear. “But that’s a good thing because now I can take care of other… issues.”<
br />
She closed her eyes as a heated wetness gushed between her legs. “What issues?”
“Someone called me a pussy tease.” He nibbled her earlobe and she dropped her head to the side to give him access to her neck. “What does that even mean, Mila?”
Her skin broke out in goose bumps at the slow, feather-light tease of his lips on her neck. “It’s the male version of a cock tease.”
“And what are you, Mila, if not a cock tease, sleeping half-naked in my bed?” His voice had gone a tone lower, deeper, with even more promise of some sweetly wicked intention than before.
“You weren’t supposed to have been here.” She had nothing but moaned words to defend herself.
“I find I rather like you in my bed. I’m not supposed to be here now, and yet, I find I can’t stay away.” He’d reached her collarbone, his lips trailing a path down the slope of a breast. “Against my better judgment.”
At his last words she bit her lip, trying to contain the flood of emotion that rattled her. He couldn’t stay away. And yes, this was wrong, because he was toying with her just for the pleasure of it. Already it was more for her.
She kept her eyes closed, not ready to read what was in his gaze. Half a minute later, when she’d gotten a grip, she opened them again. He’d dropped to his knees, his hands placed next to hers on the chair’s armrests. He’d stopped touching her and had pulled away. He was waiting.
“I don’t want you to stay away,” she whispered. “Against my better judgment.”
He reached for her paintbrush and pad, which she’d been clinging to during the rush of his sweet onslaught, and put them aside.
His hands were on her shoulders and he brushed her hair from her chest and breasts. When his palms grazed her hardened nipples, heated sparks shot down to her sex and she moaned. She touched his face, cupping his cheeks in her hands, wanting to pull him to her lips and to bury her fingers in his hair, but he stilled her hands with his.