The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  “Hold on with both hands to the back of the chair,” he instructed. Their gazes clashed. “Don’t touch anything else, or else I’m going to tie you up, understand?”

  Her body shivered at the promise of things going kinky, but she nodded, her weight sinking deeper into the chair. She gripped the back of the chair and his hands stroked up her thighs and reached for her panties, which he tugged at. She shimmied her hips forward.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, dosed with desire.

  “Just showing you what I understood by pussy tease, Mila,” he said as he slipped her panties off and flung them to the side.

  Her pulse danced as he hooked her legs over each of the wingback’s armrests and with her sex exposed, all focus drained to her pussy. Things were going only one place, and her delayed orgasm from that morning was threatening to explode just at the thought of his mouth on her clit.

  He gripped her knees, immobilizing her in the chair, his tongue and lips on her skin. His mouth made its way slowly up her inner thigh to her sex. Her nails dug into the backrest as she held tighter, trying not to squirm under his delicate ministrations.

  “James,” she whispered, feeling drugged. “I’m going to come.”

  “I hope so,” he murmured. His tongue grazed the lips of her sex, and she bucked against his mouth. “But not without a bit of teasing.”

  With his hands on her knees, there was not much scope for movement. Her hands begged to break free, to take hold of his head and get some control over what he was doing, but instead of letting go, she held on tighter, lifting her pelvis to his mouth.

  He licked her then, rolling his tongue over her clit. The feeling was almost too intense, but she had nowhere to go and could find reprieve only in a deep moan that caught in her throat. He licked her again, his tongue sparking to life every last nerve in her body. Every muscle tightened and a ghostly ripple of pleasure rushed through her. If this were how he started she wouldn’t be able to take much more.

  He reassured her by smoothing his hand down her thigh and slipping it under her shirt, never letting his tongue stop its torturous and languid licks. His hand edged higher, so slowly; she caught her breath. The tension in her sex was wound tight, pulsing to the shattering point. When he ran his thumb over her puckered over-sensitive nipple, the caress shot to her core. She whimpered, craving more, unable to resist anymore. When his thumb and fingers tightened around her nipple the sudden pressure was too much. A ripple of contractions burst through her, one by one, from her innermost core to her clit. She cried out as her orgasm exploded against his tongue. His lips closed over her clit and he sucked gently, extending her release.

  Her breathing had broken into ragged pants, and when he eventually let go she dropped her tired arms. He shifted and rested his head on her chest, his hands clasping her hips. She threaded her fingers through his hair, wanting to anchor him to her.

  After a moment he lifted his head and searched her eyes. “This has been the only thing I’ve had on my mind since this morning.”

  “Pussy teasing?” she breathed, her body still adrift. “It was rather rude to leave me the way you did.”

  He smiled, a naughty grin. “Wasn’t it worth the wait?”

  Oh yes. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured, stroking his hands to her knees, lifting her legs over the armrest and placing them back on the seat. “You’ve eaten?”

  “No.” Surely it would be her turn to return the favor. The prospect made her swallow nervously. She’d never given a man a blowjob and would hate to disappoint him.

  “I’m talking real food, Mila,” he said, with a slow smile.

  A mix of relief and disappointment floated through her at his words. She’d been hungry early on but had wanted to paint while the light was right. Her glass of wine stood on the side table, untouched. She shook her head. “I’ve been painting.”

  He glanced at the pad on the floor. He picked it up and studied it keenly. “I love it,” he murmured as he put the pad down and touched her legs again. “Let’s go for dinner. There’s a nice place up the road and we can talk—” He broke off, looking toward the window.

  A man who wanted to talk? She held her breath; it was too good to be true.

  “Chat about your day at the Louvre,” he finished, not meeting her gaze.

  She should have known. They were not going to talk about what had just happened. About her coming in his mouth within minutes of him walking into the apartment. Or about why he was there in the first place—business dinner cancelled or not. Or about their mutual better judgments.

  But she wanted to have dinner with him and talk about her day. She could steer clear of every exhausting emotion, focusing only on art. “I’d love to but I don’t think I can walk right now. Not even up the street.”

  He got up. “Come on, I need to shower first, so you can put your feet up a bit.” He held his hand out to her and she eased out of the chair, feeling stiff and weak.

  She’d hardly straightened when he scooped her up in his arms as if she was feather-light. “James!” she shrieked but enjoyed the sudden romantic gesture as he pressed a kiss to her head.

  “Why do you always smell so delicious?” he murmured in her hair as he carried her to the bedroom.

  She nestled to his chest, taking the moment for what it was, forcing herself not to wish for more.

  He settled her down on the bed and extracted his arms from around her back. “Give me five minutes,” he said as he stroked some wisps of hair from her face. “And don’t fall asleep,” he warned as he handed her Jane Eyre.

  She chuckled as he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She clutched the book to her chest. There was no way she could fall asleep now. In the bathroom, her lover, possibly the sexiest guy on the planet, had turned on the shower. In her mind’s eye, he was stripping, and the mere idea made her ache to have him inside her again.

  But he hadn’t gone there, didn’t take it any further beyond pleasing her. And he hadn’t expected her to reciprocate the favor. Why? Her body felt empty, with a new need that she never before knew existed. She wanted him.

  But then… he still hadn’t kissed her. That fact was like a pause button, forcing her to stop, step back and take stock. She was delusional to think that he actually cared for her.

  chapter 25

  James congratulated himself on his self-control as they walked down Rue Saint Honoré half an hour later. He’d actually managed to go down on Mila without ripping her flimsy shirt off and taking her as every cell in his body had begged him to do. Cold showers had become de rigueur, as had a worrying craving for making something, which he suspected resembled love, with Mila, and not only giving in to mutual sexual desire.

  He glanced at her. She looked gorgeous in a strapless summer dress, dark blue with little red roses scattered all over the fabric. The skirt fell from her narrow waist and grazed her knees, with the bodice of the dress clinging to her curves. Her bare shoulders were driving him nuts and he groaned inwardly. She was so goddamn sexy and was totally unconscious of it. When James had finished his shower Mila had already dressed, depriving him of any pleasure in watching her put on that little number. He had no idea which part of her had had this foresight, but if he’d found her waiting still semi-naked on his bed, it would have been a very delayed dinner.

  He’d made peace with his uncontrollable attraction to her but what raged a war inside him was that hopeless knowledge that she deserved better than him. She deserved more than what he could give her.

  A block down from the apartment they passed the narrow street in which the club was situated. He saw the club’s door from afar and cringed as the black door blinked back at him. The only indication of the club’s existence was a silver plaque on the door, so small it was hardly noticeable. The plaque only gave the house number and in cursive
said Club Privé. A security camera was mounted at the right-hand upper corner of the door. There was another secret camera mounted a bit higher up to take footage of would-be visitors. There was a single buzzer intercom. Nothing on the outside gave a hint of the luxury and opulence that awaited members on the inside.

  His entire body shuddered as he looked away. Mila had been quiet since he’d met up with her in the kitchen after having dressed. She’d been reading at the kitchen counter, and the wine glass, which had still been full when he’d come home, had been emptied. Dutch courage.

  He felt disconnected from her and every time his gaze had met hers, she’d flushed a deep red. He wanted to know what was going on in her head. He’d hate to be wrong, but morals aside, he suspected that Mila was starting to enjoy her French sexcapade.

  He reached for her hand and led her into the restaurant where he’d made a reservation after his call with Jean-Pierre. It had been a cocksure and arrogant move on his part, and he wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d said no to dinner.

  The waiter seated them at a corner table, in an intimate and private area. As they sat down her leg brushed against his and he shifted away, just to find his leg gravitating back to her naked knee again and again.

  She was still unnaturally quiet after they’d ordered. He was used to her being chirpy, vibrant and full of jokes. He hoped he was not to blame for her stillness. “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “No.” She blinked. “Yes.”

  “So very pensive, Mila,” he murmured. Had he made her orgasm into another orbit? The idea made him grin. “Did you enjoy the Louvre?”

  This question lured her out of her shell, and soon they were chatting, the earlier tension seeping away as he piqued her with rude comments about art, and she made him laugh with a snide comment to put him in his place.

  “Why do you know so much about art?” she asked when the waiter collected their empty main course plates.

  He hovered over the question, but Mila probably knew something of his family’s bumpy road to riches. His dad had a snakes-and-ladders type of luck with his businesses, and his mom’s whims didn’t help.

  “During one of my parents’ lows, my mom nearly bankrupted my dad. I was in the last years of high school at the time. To make ends meet I had to step in.” He bit the inside of his lip. Those days had been far from rosy. “My mom had invested, or splurged rather, in random pieces of art during one of my dad’s ups. Turned out some of the pieces she’d purchased had an excellent return.” He smiled, a bit pessimistic. “I got hooked. It’s a nice egg to have in my array of baskets.”

  She looked at him with such tenderness it made him melt. “Stacey never talks about things like that. She doesn’t know much about that time, does she?”

  “She was too young to remember much.” Stacey had been a little girl who’d only wanted to wear princess dresses and fairy wings. He’d wanted to keep her in that dream world for as long as possible.

  “And you still look out for your family? For Stacey?”

  “My dad is doing well now. He actually listens to me nowadays.” He met her gaze. “But yes, I look out for what is mine.” And you are mine.

  She didn’t look away but searched his eyes. As if she’d read his mind she shifted uncomfortably and stood. “Excuse me.”

  He watched her as she descended the stairs to the underground restrooms. Something was off with Mila and he couldn’t figure out what it was. He didn’t like seeing her like this, distracted as if she was bored of him already. He groaned at the thought.

  She returned five minutes later and as she sat down he asked, “Were you planning to go out tonight?”

  “Where to?” she asked, staring at him blankly.

  “To one of the places I recommended?”

  She shook her head. “No, I—” She broke off.

  Relief swept through him at her answer. And triumph, but he didn’t want to probe deeper. “Do you want dessert?”

  “I want—” She broke off, averting her eyes, fingers fiddling with the napkin.

  “What would you like?” he asked softly.

  “I want—” Her gaze met his and her eyes shimmered.

  His heart pumped faster, his pulse rushing. “Just say it, Mila.”

  “I want to scrap the just once deal.” She blushed a deep red, her voice such a soft murmur he had to lean in to hear her. “I want you,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, sending a bolt of lust to his groin.

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d hoped that scrapping their deal would be on her mind. He’d actually prayed for it.

  Still, he braked against the notion. “It’s not a good idea, Mila.”

  He wanted her that moment, on the table, her legs wrapped around him, moaning in ecstasy as he fucked her until all the remaining crockery had crashed to the floor. But not in front of the other diners. Never.

  He might be used to having sex with like-minded people and then letting go, but Mila… he’d been her first. And now, things were going deeper between the two of them. He was already more involved than he’d planned to become, and with her asking for more… her feelings were getting too involved as well.

  And that was only scratching the surface. Underneath it all was his past that threatened to bubble up like some poisonous gas. Of course, it might never come to that, with her going home. He was flying to New York the following week. But if it did, he wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces. The last thing he wanted was for Mila to leave shattered.

  “I know I’m not Marlène, I can’t—” Mila whispered, “I don’t want to replace her—”

  It felt as if the earth caved in under him, sliding him into a boiling pit of fury. “Fuck Marlène,” he growled. “Don’t you ever, ever compare yourself with Marlène.”

  Her face drained of color and she glanced to the side, where the diners at a neighboring table shot curious looks at them.

  He huffed out a breath, but it didn’t help to soften the bolt of anger and possessiveness that shot through him.

  He reached for her cheek, palmed in it his hand and made her look at him. His fingers quivered as he stroked her hairline. Touching her hardly eased his anger at her comment, and he exhaled again, fighting for control over the absurd emotions that pummeled him.

  Mila was this world, Marlène was the one he’d left behind. Out of choice. For the first time, the realization hit him. It had been a conscious choice. He knew that he didn’t want to go back there. It was a type of hell he’d only recognized for what it was once he was out of it. It had been fun. It had been safe. It had been a place where he’d had control. But James had never felt as alive as he did now.

  With Marlène it had been motions—manageable, an act that played out time and again, the script well known. With Mila it was emotions, and he had no idea how to control anything he was feeling.

  “I’m so confused, James,” she murmured, tears teetering in her voice. “It’s been so intense with you, I—”

  Jesus, she was going to be the end of him. “Mila, what’s happening between us has nothing to do with Marlène.”

  He leaned closer, pinning her down with his eyes, searching hers. Her lips were trembling, moist from the tip of her tongue and from little nervous bites she’d been worrying them with.

  Fuck this shit.

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  chapter 26

  Her lips were so soft, so willing as he captured her mouth and pressed deeper. God, he groaned internally. She opened for him and he roamed with his tongue, mating with hers in a slow dance. She kissed him back, gently, almost in reverence of their passion that threatened to boil over. He slipped his hand around her neck, pulling her towards him, and as her hand settled on his chest he caressed the soft skin between her neck and her naked shoulder. He should have known it would be like this. Hot and tasting of sweet promises, o
f everything he had sidestepped for too long.

  Eventually, he pulled away, but cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb stroking her plump bottom lip. With her flushed face inches from his, he murmured, “Let’s take this somewhere private.” The need to be alone with her, to experience her without an audience, was overwhelming.

  She nodded. He pulled some euros from his wallet to cover the bill, tossed them on the table and reached for her hand. They got up and he guided her out of the restaurant, his hand resting on her lower back. Once outside, they headed to the apartment, hand in hand.

  He was clinging to her, almost desperately, with lengthy steps rushing the short walk back to the apartment. He wanted to break into a run, to get her home as quickly as he could. The weight of her gaze rested on him every few steps. It took all he had in him not to pause and claim her mouth again, in the middle of the sidewalk, surrounded by tourists and other Parisians going about their business.

  They got to the apartment and he punched in the front door’s code. Once in the small lobby, he pressed the call button for the lift. He crowded her to the wall, kissing her, his stubble brushing against her chin. She moaned and he broke away.

  Softer. Slower. He wanted to step away but she circled her arms around his neck.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, “Don’t pull away like that.” She pressed her body flush against his, every curve a tease in its own right. The softness of her breasts succumbing to his harder chest; her smaller frame against his awakening his need to protect her.

  Her supple middle gave way under the pressure of his erection. God, he was hard. A deep groan rumbled from his chest as their tongues twined together and she moaned. When the lift pinged open he urged them inside, still kissing, his hands firmly on her butt keeping her glued to him.

  He felt for the uppermost button, pressing it hard, hoping the lift would by some miracle take them where they wanted to go. They kissed during the ride to the top floor, and when the lift opened they let go. He let her walk out first, resting his hand on her lower back, steering her ahead. When they came to the apartment door he paused. She stared at him, expectantly. He lifted her hand to his lips, teasing her skin with soft kisses from her palm to her wrist, and higher to her shoulder.