The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  “Thursday mornings. I’ve got a conference call with my team in Singapore. I can’t be late.” He leaned in and kissed her softly on the mouth as he cupped her breast and caressed her nipple with his thumb. Her body melted under his touch, feeling heavy and sunken as he deepened the kiss.

  When he pulled away he whispered in her ear, “We’ll have to work on my brush technique later.”

  He got off the bed, his erection leading the way to the bathroom.

  “You’re going to leave me again? After working me all up?” she teased. She wanted him… and the idea of what he could do with her set of kolinskies was enough to make her squirm and break into a small sweat of desire.

  “I share your pain,” he called back, “but there’s nothing like a bit of anticipation.”

  She could attest to that and resisted the urge to walk into the shower and work on her own new skill set by going down on him again.

  Instead, she studied the red smear on her chest and the tear trails his silent token of love had left on her belly and heart. God, it was going to hurt to leave James behind.

  chapter 30

  By late afternoon Mila had had enough. Doing the Louvre back to back two days in a row might not have been the brightest idea. Her feet showed signs of new blisters and her eyes were dry and tired from staring at art the whole day.

  She leaned against the wall by the door of the apartment to dig the keys out of her bag. When she inserted the key it wouldn’t turn and she paused. She tested the door handle and the door swung open. James must be home. She bit her lip at the prospect of finding him here, waiting for her for a change. As she walked inside she reprimanded the butterflies in her stomach and told them to calm the heck down. She put her things down on the table in the entrance hall.

  As she entered the lounge a slow chill crept down her spine. All the windows were open, letting the stuffy summer air into the apartment. The once-empty space was a jumble of gorgeous antique furniture. Sofas, lamps, side tables, dining room chairs and a table stood in disarray, filling the space. Above the roadside noises that rose through the windows, laughter traveled past the kitchen and into the lounge. She recognized one voice and her skin burst out in a spread of pricks, but the woman’s voice made her stop in her tracks. Her laughter was husky, filled with such joy and teasing that Mila could, in her mind’s eye, see her face, eyes sparkling as she looked up to her lover’s face.

  They were bickering in French, but between chuckles and scuffles, it was more playful than anything else.

  There was a shriek and more laughter before the two piled out of the short corridor that led to the lounge. Mila wished she had something to clutch to her chest, something to shield her.

  She had a few seconds to study the couple before they realized she was in the room. Damien was holding a red piece of clothing in his hand, just out of reach of a blonde, who was trying to grab it from him. She wore nothing but a matching bra and panties, made of delicate ruby-red lace and mesh. The underwear covered the essentials but revealed her nipples through the see-through bits. And they were pierced, little silver barbells peeking through the mesh of her bra.

  The visual stirred a deeply erotic sensation in her lower belly, and Mila dropped her gaze in confusion. Marlène. Her body was breathtakingly beautiful. Every curve was in perfect proportion and toned. Her long hair was a weird mix of blonde and what appeared to be ashen-colored streaks. Her skin was smooth and flawless. She seemed rather youthful and at the same time ageless, every part of her incongruous with what Mila had expected.

  But what had she expected? She should have known Marlène would be breathtakingly beautiful. She was after all the beauty editor of Vogue—someone to emulate and admire as Stacey had done for years. So this is where Stacey had gotten the crazy idea of coloring her hair platinum.

  Damien was the first to notice her standing in the lounge, her face afire to the roots of her hair.

  He dropped his hands to his side and raised his eyebrows. “Mila.”

  Marlène’s gaze narrowed on her, unfazed by being semi-naked.

  “Damien,” Mila greeted him, her voice a soft croak. James was not going to like this at all.

  “You’ve met Marlène?” he asked as he handed Marlène her shirt.

  “No.” She wanted to flee. Go back to the Louvre and disappear in the crowd, and not return until the apartment was back to what it had been when she’d left earlier that morning. The knot that had been slowly building in her gut gave a snarky little twist. Get real. Things were never going to be the same again.

  Marlène strutted over. “You must be Stacey’s friend?” she asked. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  She had? Mila swallowed. She’d heard a lot about Marlène too, but only the one-sided idolized view Stacey had of her. What she’d heard from James she hadn’t liked.

  When Marlène stuck out her hand, Mila could do nothing but reach out her sweaty palm and shake her hand. At least they weren’t attempting the multi-sided French kiss-thingamajig that Damien had given her the other night.

  “Well,” Marlène said as she let go of her hand. “You’re enjoying Paris?”

  “It’s just lovely,” Mila blurted out. “I’ve never been overseas before.” Dear Lord, did she have to sound so inexperienced? Untraveled? Young? Idiotic?

  Marlène was pulling the red stretchy top over her head, her curves and toned stomach almost rippling, her cleavage pressing close with the movements of her arms, letting her studded nipples press tight against the mesh of her bra.

  She couldn’t really say, but Marlène’s breasts were just a tad out of proportion with the rest of her. A bitchy little murmur in her head whispered that it was because they were fake.

  Mila dropped her gaze, crossing her arms over her own breasts. Was that the only place Marlène was pierced? Did James like it?

  “Once Stacey is here we should go out one night,” Marlène said, a little smile playing on her lips. “Have you experienced some of the nightlife?”

  “I did come around two nights ago—” Damien started.

  “Stacey’s only here next week,” Mila interrupted. And by then she would have made other plans. “She has to write one more exam.”

  “Oh? All the more reason to celebrate once she’s here.” Marlène shot a glance at Damien. “We can go clubbing.”

  Mila swallowed the urge to spit out that she wasn’t the clubbing type.

  “There are some nice clubs around this area,” Damien said, winking at Marlène.

  “We can make a night of it with James if he’s still around.” Marlène smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. When her gaze dropped to Mila’s breasts, and lower to where the red heart watercolor stain had seeped into her pubic hair, it felt as though she was naked and Marlène could see every inch of skin that James had touched and had made love to. “We can have so much fun together.”

  Damien raised his hand and squeezed Marlène’s shoulder. “Let’s leave James out of this. We only take the girls.”

  The look he cast her way made her flinch inwardly. She wasn’t a woman, just a girl.

  “Stacey’s been sending me messages,” Damien continued. “She can’t wait to have a night out. James breathing down her neck might be awkward.”

  Oh no, Stacey. And with Marlène talking as if nothing had happened between her, James and Damien, she was sick to her stomach.

  “I—” She broke off. She needed to buy time. There was no way she was going to commit to an evening out with Damien and Marlène. But she didn’t have any proper defense on hand. “Let’s wait until Stacey’s here to make plans—”

  “Sure,” Marlène interrupted. “We can talk later. Let’s go, Damien. I’m really hungry.”

  “Do you want to join us?” Damien asked. “Early dinner?”

  “No, thank you.” Her gaze traveled down Marlène’s figure. She
was still clad only in her panties and a top.

  Marlène laughed. “We had to get out all the furniture so that I could get to my wardrobe. It’s like Christmas unpacking all these things.” She turned and sauntered off to the corridor and the rooms that were once locked up.

  Damien rested his hands on his hips and studied her. He was not blocking her way, but the situation was too weird and she couldn’t walk past, ignoring him, without seeming rude.

  “James is taking good care of you?” he asked after the silence stretched uncomfortably long.

  She blinked, having no clue what to make of his statement. “I’m nobody’s to take care of,” she said, a bit more bite in her tone than intended.

  “You should be,” he said softly and reached out to take the tip of her hair that curled on her breast between his fingers.

  The movement was slow, not sudden enough to make her jerk away by instinct. It was done with measured and delicate intent as if she was a wild thing that would bolt at his first touch. His hand hovered there, so close to her breast it was intrusive, but she’d been hypnotized by the infinitesimal movement of his fingers as he rubbed her hair between them, so that she only felt his touch at the roots of her hair.

  “But sometimes it’s fun to do the rounds,” he finished his sentence. “James would know.”

  She gathered her hair and he let go with a wry smile.

  “Excuse me. I’m tired.” Did she have to give some excuse? The way in which he touched her had been more than enough to walk away.

  When she got to the corridor Marlène came out of her room. She was dressed in a beautiful summer skirt, which spread from her waist to below her knees, white with enormous bold pink and red flowers on it. Her outfit screamed catwalk and designer and was rounded off by red high-heeled sandals.

  Mila would curse with every step she took on the cobblestoned roads of the inner city if she wore those. Maybe Marlène knew something she didn’t.

  And Damien—what the deuce was he thinking after the other night? Coming into the apartment and making comments about James doing the rounds. That Damien was still having a thing with Marlène was clear.

  She walked into the master bedroom, closed the door quietly, plunked down on the bed, and waited. She clasped her hands over her breasts, feeling overprotective.

  It wasn’t long before the apartment turned quiet.

  chapter 31

  James checked his watch again. Usually, he made it home earlier and he pursed his lips as he got into the lift. He disliked being held up by work when he had much more enjoyable things to do. The whole freaking day all he could think of was Mila and her smooth, creamy skin. In the morning, he’d idled a considerable time away researching kolinsky paintbrushes on the Internet and had at last settled on a neat little beginner’s kit that set him back a few hundred euros. A pity they’d only arrive later in the week, but they still had time. And he was planning to use them creatively.

  He dropped his bag and keys and walked into the lounge only to come to an abrupt stop when he saw the scattered furniture.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Mila?” he called out, his gaze jumping over Marlène’s heirloom furniture, which had been carried out from her room and dumped in disarray.

  There was movement coming from the kitchen, but his blood took flame as Marlène appeared in the lounge and came towards him.

  “Where’s Mila?” he asked. He didn’t doubt for one second that Marlène had already met her. From the smile toying on her lips, he knew.

  “She is a very pretty little rebound, James,” Marlène laughed.

  He pushed against the anger that burned through him. It wasn’t worth it.

  “Where is she?” he asked, trying to keep his cool. How much time had Marlène spent with Mila? What had she told her?

  “I’m not sure, but the door to your bedroom has been closed since I came back.” She yawned and rubbed her nose. “To be honest, I don’t have the energy to make small talk with her right now.”

  Small talk. For fuck’s sake. Most probably inviting Mila to one of her orgies would be more like it.

  He glanced over the room. Did she have to pile her furniture all over the place without arranging it in some kind of usable order? “When are you packing up?”

  “And getting out?” She sniffed.

  “Yes. That’s pretty much what I’m asking.” He narrowed his gaze to her nose, focusing on her beautiful, delicately turned French nostrils that were one of her best features.

  “I was hoping… we could talk. I don’t know… patch things up?”

  He blinked. Was this why she’d delayed moving her things out of the apartment? She’d been pushing his limits from day one. Now she’d gone too far. While he was traveling the situation hadn’t bothered him much, but now he wanted her out. “There’s nothing to talk about. How does tomorrow sound?”

  Marlène shook her head. “I can’t. For months now I’ve been thinking only of us, James. Please.”

  Hell would freeze over first. “Where are you staying?”

  She frowned at him. “Here.” Another sniff. “Since I own twenty percent of this apartment, I assume I can stay here for a couple of nights.”

  “That wasn’t the deal, Marlène. I offered to buy you out eight months ago.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Things have been busy, as you know.”

  He didn’t want to dig into her life. He wanted to find Mila and see whether she was all right. He started walking past Marlène but she stopped him with her hand on his arm. He closed his eyes, wanting to shrug her off, but there was something desperate in the gesture. Marlène was never dependent; she was always sure of what she wanted, certain that things were going to turn out just as she’d planned.

  “I miss you,” she murmured. “I miss us.”

  Funny that. He took in her face. He might have missed her at some point, but for a long time now he’d gone bland towards her and the memory of them together.

  She sniffed again, not the telltale sniff of hovering tears. Those delicate nostrils told their own story.

  James couldn’t care less, but he couldn’t help himself either. “How did it work out for you, in the long run?”

  “As you predicted.” Their gazes clashed and in hers there was desperation.

  “I told you you’d make a habit of it, and then you’d have a habit.”

  She leaned closer to him, dropping her forehead on his shoulder. “So what if you were right? Maybe I wanted a habit.”

  “Well, con-fucking-gratulations. I prefer if you keep all your habits to yourself.” He shrugged her off and stepped away. “Stay the hell away from Mila. And don’t even think of introducing any of your shit to Stacey.” He had no control over whom Stacey decided to hang out with at home, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to encourage her to spend time with Marlène while she was in Paris. At least there was a whole ocean between Stacey and Marlène on a good day. He intended to keep it that way. Marlène better be long gone by the time Stacey arrived.

  James left her standing in the lounge and with each step towards his bedroom took a deep breath and huffed it out. His bedroom door at the end of the corridor was closed, and as he passed Marlène’s rooms, he glanced inside. The wardrobes gaped open and clothes were strewn on the floor. She was such a fucking teenager sometimes.

  He knocked on his own door for some reason he didn’t quite understand himself. There was no answer and he opened the door with his heart stuck in his throat.

  Mila sat on the bed. Through the skylight and windows, the setting sun threw beams of light over her like a halo. She looked so calm and serene, studying the pad on her lap, her hand poised mid-air with a dainty paintbrush between her fingers. She always seemed so deeply content, as if her heaven was contained in a piece of blank paper. Seeing her there let his world shrink to her and that moment and everythi
ng became secondary to being with her. He let out a breath, relieved that she hadn’t run off yet.

  She looked up at him. “Hi.” She tugged her headphones from her ears. “I didn’t hear you.” She smiled and he dropped his gaze, overtaken by the unwelcome feeling that he was deceiving her. He was going to lose her the minute he told her the truth and he wasn’t ready to let go.

  She was still here, and for now, she was still his.

  “What are you painting?” he asked as he sat down next to her and picked up a small painting on hard paper. She had several already finished and they were scattered over the bedcovers, drying.

  “Postcards. For my family. As a surprise.”

  He grinned. Only Mila would paint her own postcards. Each one had a different landmark of Paris on it—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre Pyramids; he recognized L’Orangerie’s exterior and the outside of Shakespeare and Company. “They’re gorgeous, fit for printing.”

  She said nothing, and her gaze rested on him as heavily as everything else that weighed him down.

  He forced himself to look her in the eyes. “I didn’t know Marlène would be here so soon.”

  She searched his face. “She was here when I came back from the Louvre.”

  “Did you talk?” He had to know how far Marlène had pushed the boundaries with his pretty rebound.

  “Not much. Damien was here with her.” She covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for? I’m over her, Mila.” When was she actually going to get it? It was as if she couldn’t accept that Marlène and everything in his past was just that. The past. It was time he stood up to it, acknowledged it to himself. Told her. “Damien did me a favor. Honestly. Made it easier for me to break up with her.”

  When the words were out he knew they sounded shittier than he’d intended. If it weren’t for Damien, he would still be with Marlène, if only for the sake of being with someone who allowed him to live life in a damage-controlled environment.