The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  He got out of the lift and unlocked his apartment, hoping to find their laughter filling the emptiness. But there was not a sound and his body contracted.

  He crossed the empty lounge, calling their names. No response. Not even from Mila, who he knew would rather spend a night cozy at home than with Stacey out on the town.

  He cursed under his breath. He had to get Mila alone.

  It had been impossible to have a private word with her since that morning. Twice he’d been on the verge of calling her, but he had to speak to her in person. He’d wanted to corner her during lunch, but it had been impossible. He needed to make her understand, to drill down into her mind that what had happened earlier that morning was not his truth. It wasn’t their truth.

  She’d come upon him in the midst of a negotiation with Marlène. Why had he even been negotiating with his ex? Shouldn’t he know, from experience growing up, that nothing stayed hidden, that truth and honesty was always the only road to take? Because every other way led to pure destruction.

  He should have told her. From day one. And now, as he strode through the empty apartment, he couldn’t shrug the notion that his past was catching up with him three times as fast as he could deal with it.

  The master bedroom was empty but disheveled with evidence of females preparing for a night out. The doors to Marlène’s rooms leered open, showing off neatened-up interiors. None of her clothes were scattered on the floor anymore. What the fuck did that mean?

  Inwardly he quivered with unease as he came to a stop in the kitchen. On the counter, three cellphones blinked. Mila’s, Stacey’s and Marlène’s.

  Hell would freeze over before Stacey went anywhere without her phone.

  And Marlène only went one place without hers.

  He dragged his hand across his face. Dinner with her parents had either be cancelled or had never been on the cards. Fuck fuck fuck.

  Mila.

  She was stuck in the middle of all of this. Marlène’s little introduction to the ‘real him’. Her petty revenge. Did she really think he’d ever get back with her?

  His jaw ticked as the thought of Mila burned every notion of Marlène to the ground. He’d never deserved to have her, but if something would put her unadulterated soul off him, it would be an evening at the club.

  His mind raced as he rushed out of the apartment, slamming the door with undue force. Taking the stairs two at a time, he exited to the street and swerved through pedestrians to reach the narrow alley as quickly as he could.

  He buzzed the bell, staring straight at the security camera. Pascal wouldn’t let him wait. The door clicked open and he stepped inside.

  “Monsieur Sinclair,” the concierge greeted him from behind the cloakroom’s desk. “How nice to see you again.”

  Eight fucking months. He would never have put a foot here again if he weren’t forced.

  “Bonsoir, Pascal. Are Damien and Marlène here?” Why did his voice sound so anxious, so out of breath?

  Pascal didn’t blink, trained to keep a straight face. His bouncer bulk shifted behind the desk, giving him the once-over.

  “They came earlier. Two new ladies were with them.”

  He nodded and rushed his hands through his hair. He’d fucking known as soon as he’d seen the empty apartment, where Marlène’s scent had still hung thick amongst the shadows. “Open for me, please. Those two ladies shouldn’t be here.”

  Least of all with the likes of Damien and his ex. His stomach was twisted as tight as the wet towel he was about to be whipped with.

  chapter 38

  Mila couldn’t shrug Damien’s hand off her back, the tips of his fingers burning in their subtle guidance. He’d led them to the antique double door and someone buzzed them in.

  She drew in a tight breath as Damien held the door. Marlène smiled at her, very kindly, but it made her skin creep. A short-lived giggle escaped from Stacey’s throat, her eyes twinkling as if she was about to have the treat of her life.

  They walked into what looked like a high-end cocktail party at a classic five-star hotel. The floor was carpeted; antique mirrors graced the walls and comfortable sofas and settees were scattered strategically. Women wearing elegant dresses and men in expensive suits graced the tasteful space, jewels catching the light from the chandeliers.

  Mila exhaled. So far nothing hairy.

  “Everybody looks so stylish,” Stacey murmured. “And the room is exquisite.”

  Mila nodded, not sure where her voice had gone. Waiters circulated amongst the people who’d grouped together and were chatting, serving champagne and amuse bouche on silver platters. Nothing else was served and there didn’t seem to be a bar anywhere. Music played in the background, subtle and classic, underlining the atmosphere of gilded sophistication.

  Her ears pricked. Heavy bass pumped from somewhere, but she couldn’t place it. The sound was an underlying heartbeat from deeper in the building.

  “Here.” Damien handed them each a glass of champagne which he’d lifted with a perfected swing off the waiter’s tray, who himself looked like he was a model who hadn’t quite made the cut yet.

  Glass in hand, Mila glanced around. The room was not as big as she’d initially thought, and the illusion was amplified by the lights softening to the deeper recesses of the room.

  She took a tentative sip, her first champagne in Paris. Her first champagne ever. It was dry and light, the bubbles bursting on her tongue in a thousand teases.

  “Like it?” Damien asked, his eyes warm as he studied her.

  She took a deeper sip to avoid giving him a shy smile. “Of course.” It was decadent, warming her. As if on cue she relaxed a bit, the drink filtering into her veins.

  Damien turned his attention to Stacey and Mila lifted her gaze to the walls, which were covered in several antique paintings. She stepped away from their little group, wanting to study the works of art.

  “These were all bought at auction,” Marlène said next to her. “Decorating this place was immense fun.”

  “You were involved?” Mila shot her a glance.

  “Intimately.” Marlène edged closer to the wall and Mila followed. “This one here is eighteenth-century. Not quite a Fragonard. But you can see the theme.”

  The painting had a naked woman lounging in rumpled bedcovers and could have been a Fragonard to the untrained eye.

  “I met James working on this project.”

  Mila dragged her gaze from the painting, her stomach clutching. “Really?”

  “God, he was a mess when I met him. A disaster on every level but his job.” Marlène shrugged. “He owns a share in the club. I was still with a decorating magazine at that point.”

  “I see.” She didn’t see at all. Blinking, she retreated two steps, wanting to give Marlène the slip. She glanced over the room, searching for Stacey, wanting to leave before she got to know anything more. Anything that would burst James’s bubble, which had been floating precariously close to a field of thorns.

  Stacey was nowhere to be seen. Damien had disappeared as well. Mila bit her lip hard, containing the pressure on her chest and in her throat. She peered deeper into the ill-lit room. Was it her imagination or had the lights dimmed more?

  As she scanned the room she noticed a corner where a woman had sat down on a settee. Two men stood with her, gazing down at her body that draped over the flow of the chaise longue. The three seemed to share a joke, because they laughed softly, intimately. One of the men sat down next to the woman and pulled the thin strap of her dress down her shoulder to completely reveal her breast. Mila inhaled slowly, raggedly, her gaze transfixed by the threesome, spellbound. “Heavens.”

  The woman’s puckered nipple hardened more on exposure, and she laughed, raising her shoulder as the seated man kissed and stroked the top of her arm. The man that still stood leaned in slightly and poured a drop of champ
agne in the hollow formed by her collarbone. The droplet lingered a second before it gravitated, finding its path down her breast. The seated man closed in, licked the champagne off her breast and caught her nipple in his mouth, sucking deeply.

  “Goodness…” Mila turned her back on the threesome, clutching her champagne glass as blotches of heat invaded her face.

  “Hmm,” Marlène hummed. “Turned you on, didn’t it?”

  The weight of Marlène’s gaze dragged her down, but she met her eyes steadfastly. “Did you see that?” Mila whispered.

  “Foreplay. Just foreplay.”

  She had to look away but had to swallow, her eyelids aflutter. She looked to the floor, swaying on her feet, but it was too late. The heat on her cheeks intensified, only finding reprieve by dissipating to her neck and her whole body, to her core, where she was invaded with tingles.

  Mere meters from them a woman had released a man’s rigid cock from the constraints of his trousers, stroking him gingerly in front of other onlookers who were only mildly interested.

  “Do they even know each other?” Mila’s throat sounded constricted.

  “They’re regulars here; some people come at funny intervals, depending on their personal lives.” Marlène sighed. “Some become life-long friends. It is easy to mingle here. We’ve made sure to keep the tourists and the sleaze out of it.”

  “The sleaze?” Mila frowned, incredulous. “Whatever is the sleaze?”

  “The sleaze factor?” Marlène shrugged. “We French, we have standards. It’s not unusual for the upper crust to engage in this type of affaire. It is seen as a… right… to indulge due to your status. It’s hardly frowned upon, you know.”

  But James wasn’t French. Mila didn’t understand at all how he fitted into this place, irrespective of what ‘a mess’ he was a few years ago. She couldn’t even imagine that.

  Marlène swept her arm to indicate the whole room. “Look at this place. Beautiful, is it not? We kept the tourists out. If you want to go to a club that takes tourists, there is one in the 7ième arrondissement. But you won’t like it.”

  Mila eyebrows shot up at her last comment. “I’m lucky then? To get in here?” She shook her head in disbelief. “And what else happens here—” She broke off to raise her champagne in the direction of the man, who would soon be the lucky recipient of a blowjob. “On the other floors?”

  “Ha, let me take you and show you. There’s a dance floor upstairs.” Marlène’s hand was on Mila’s naked arm, caressing her softly, possessively. “I know you’d like it. Maybe we’ll end up together, in Damien’s hotel next door. There are plenty of rooms, and the linen is always clean. We can share a man—”

  Mila had to block out her voice, her words. She twisted away, the image that those words had conjured up as Marlène spoke in her husky tone chilling every part of her. “Let me go!” Mila croaked and tore loose, wildly searching for the door.

  Her heart was in her throat, her pulse ringing in her ears as she spotted the double doors leading to the exit. She strode away, her dress too tight, the slit too narrow as Marlène’s laugh haunted her.

  Halfway to the doors, she disposed of her champagne class on a waiter’s tray, blinded by tears of confusion. People’s eyes were on her, scrutinizing, lingering on her body and sweeping over her revealing dress, stripping her naked, whispering comments as they did so.

  The double doors swung open, and she froze as James stepped inside and met her gaze, his face pale and his jaw tight.

  chapter 39

  James relived for a split second the first time he’d stepped into a swingers’ club. Every inch of that seedy room, which he recalled vividly, was in exact contrast to the opulent space Mila stood in the center of, but at the core, it was the same. He’d known exactly what he was getting into, and why.

  As James walked in he hardened his stance. The usual Friday night crowd was there, turning their eyes to him, then back to Mila, who’d solidified on the spot like Lot’s wife.

  Marlène sauntered up to Mila and he shuddered involuntarily. Subdued whispers rose in the unnatural quiet as he crossed over to the two women. He knew every single thought that zapped through the brains of the swingers observing them in that crowd. He read it in the looks people shot at him: James Sinclair was back after so many months and the new flesh might just be his.

  Now the men scrutinized Mila shamelessly in that fucking dress he’d bought for her, their gazes sliding up and down her body. Several women eyed her with interest, but turned away sooner than any of the men, possibly sensing it was Mila’s first time, and that she’d be allowed to set the pace. The men would fuck her irrespective, given half a chance.

  The sickening churn in his stomach intensified, spreading over his skin.

  Mila was his.

  He reached her before Marlène and cupped her face in his palms. Moisture teetered in the corners of her eyes as she gazed up at him, her body quivering in his hands. “Mila,” he whispered. “You don’t belong here.”

  She blinked, parting her lips. “No.”

  He leaned in, kissing her gently, reverently, mooring her body against his in the only signal that would talk to this crowd. She let him kiss her, but as her hands crept up his chest he knew it was over. She applied pressure, wobbling on her feet, and he took hold of her hands to steady her.

  Over Mila’s head, he met Marlène’s cold stare and shook his head at her, huffing out a slow breath. She’d brought Mila here to be ogled, introduced to and seduced by random people to get him back—or get back at him? The notion was making him physically sick, his body quaking with the need to contain the aggression that pumped through every tightened muscle. He never felt like this before, never needed to protect anybody from the ramifications of the club, least of all Marlène, who made sure they came to the club at least once a fortnight.

  “Where is Stacey?” His tone said everything. Marlène didn’t dare fuck with him now.

  “I don’t know. Upstairs? With Damien?”

  Fuck.

  There was no way he could take Mila with him on a search and rescue mission through the club, drawing her deeper into depravity as they went higher with each floor. He’d have to come back for his sister, but right now he was aiming to get Mila the hell out of there and still be on speaking terms with her afterward.

  “Look for her and get her the fuck out of here, or I’ll make them shut this whole fucking joint down.” He turned his back to Marlène, letting go of Mila’s one hand and pulling her towards the door with the other. “I’m taking you home.”

  She followed but strained against his hold. “James.” Mila’s soft voice broke on his name. “You are squeezing my hand into the afterlife.”

  He loosened his grip with a muttered apology. He’d clung on to her as if she was his lifeline in that moment. Maybe she was.

  The double doors swung open as if by magic and James led the way into the lobby, heading for the black street door.

  “My bag,” she said, drawing her hand from his.

  She went to the desk, red to the roots of her hair as she faced the bouncer whose eyes oscillated between her and James. The man turned and went to fetch her bag, not even asking her for the number.

  “Thank you, Pascal,” James said, closing the space between them in a few swift strides. He clasped her elbow in his hand. “I’m walking you home.”

  She tried to shrug him off. “It’s hardly a block, James, I can manage alone.”

  He gave her elbow a small squeeze and let go, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You’re not okay. So I’ll see you home all the same.” He nodded towards Pascal and the street door clicked open. “I’m coming back for Stacey. I can’t leave her here.”

  She exited to the street and waited for him to close the door. “What type of club is this, James?” Mila asked although her blush told him everything.

 
Mila hadn’t figured it out yet? “It’s—” He broke off as the ghost of Marlène’s cold gaze brushed over him. She’d been waiting for him to fall, to shatter to pieces what had developed between him and Mila.

  James closed his eyes briefly. What a fuck-up. Inside him, a battle was raging—half of him wanted her to never know his past that held him captive, the other half knew she was entitled to know this about him before developing anything deeper.

  He sensed Mila’s flitting eyes travel over him, swallowed and manned up. There was no turning back.

  “It’s a swingers’ club.” He opened his eyes and looked straight into Mila’s dark chocolate pools. “Great long-term investment.”

  She grazed her lower lip with her teeth. “Yet you are on a first-name basis with the concierge?”

  He nodded. There would be no chance for a relationship with her after this.

  chapter 40

  Mila barely managed to swallow the sob that wanted to explode and strode away from James without a backward glance.

  Her whole body was flushed, not only because of the embarrassment of being in a sex club but because she was undeniably turned on.

  What she felt for James and for what had happened between them before Stacey and Marlène had arrived, had somehow been sacred. And now… she didn’t know what it had been. She’d known from the start that this was a sexual interlude of some sort for him. He’d fucked her almost randomly that second night. But then things between them had changed… and now this?

  She hadn’t seen that coming. She hadn’t expected to be aroused so quickly by the two scenes that still flooded her mind. The woman on the settee looked so relaxed, so happy and even more liberated as she enjoyed the attention of the two men, who got pleasure from the situation too. The woman who was on her knees to suck the man’s cock was so confident, so sure and at ease with what she was doing as if it was second nature.