As impossible as it seemed, I was bored out of my fucking mind in this beautiful, enormous French villa. The place required no cleaning or handyman work, my VPN connection was so slow I couldn’t get on the RMG server to conduct actual business, and—perhaps most strangely—I felt like there were certain things I shouldn’t do until Chloe got here.
It felt wrong to dive into the infinity pool knowing she was stuck in New York. I didn’t want to walk through the vineyards bordering the house, because it seemed like something we should discover at the same time. Max’s housekeeper had put out some bottles of wine for us to enjoy, but surely only a giant asshole would drink them alone. My claim to this house was hers, too. I’d still only opened one bedroom door, and slept there, not wanting to go through our options until she’d arrived. Together we would pick out where we would spend our nights.
Of course, if I said any of this to her she would laugh at me and tell me I was being dramatic. But that’s why I wanted her here. Something monumental happened to me the other day when I used the bat signal, and that sense of urgency hadn’t diminished, and probably wouldn’t until she was here and had heard what I had to say.
I walked through the gardens, stared out at the ocean in the distance, and checked my phone again, reading Chloe’s most recent text for the hundredth time:
Looks like Air France might have an open seat.
She’d sent this one three hours ago. Although it seemed promising, her previous three texts had been similar, and ultimately she’d been bumped from those flights. Even if she had left three hours ago, she wouldn’t make it to Marseille until tomorrow morning, at best.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small figure emerge from the back of the house and place a platter of food on the table closest to the pool. Another peek at the clock on my phone told me that I’d managed to kill a few hours, and it was finally time for lunch. The house had come with a cook, a fifty-something woman named Dominique, who baked bread every morning, and, so far, served some variety of fish, fresh garden greens, and figs at lunch. Dessert was handmade macarons or tiny cookies with jam thumbprints. If Chloe didn’t get here soon, Dominique would have to roll me to the door to greet my lady friend.
Beside my plate was a large glass of wine, and when I looked over at Dominique, she’d stopped at the threshold of the back door, pointed to the wine, and said, “Le boire. Vous vous ennuyez, et solitaire.”
Well, shit. I was bored, and I was lonely. One glass of wine couldn’t hurt. I wasn’t celebrating—I was surviving, right? I thanked Dominique for lunch, and sat down at the table, trying to ignore the perfect breeze, the perfect temperature, the sound of the ocean not even a half mile in the distance, the feel of the warm tile beneath my bare feet. I wouldn’t enjoy a single second until Chloe was here.
Bennett, you are one pathetic navel-gazer.
As usual, the fish was incredible, and the salad with tiny tart onions and little cubes of a sharp, white cheese packed so much flavor that before I knew it, my wineglass was empty and Dominique was at my side, quietly refilling it.
I began to stop her, telling her I needed no more wine. “Je vais bien, je n’ai pas besoin de plus.”
She winked at me. “Puis l’ignorer.”
Then ignore it.
One bottle of wine down and I began wondering why I hadn’t bought a villa in France myself. I had lived in the country before, after all, and while the memories were bittersweet—time away from friends and family, a grueling work schedule—I’d lived here in a time of my life that felt so short in hindsight. I was still young. I was still starting out, really. Thank fuck Chloe and I had found each other when we still had our whole lives ahead of us.
Hell, if Max could find a gorgeous place like this, I could find one that was even more lush and beautiful.
The wine had left my limbs warm and heavy, my head full of rambling thoughts that seemed to have no reason. How insane would it have been to know Chloe in my early twenties? We would have torn this place up, and probably lasted only a weekend. Isn’t it amazing how you meet the person you’re meant to meet, when you’re supposed to meet her?
I fumbled with my phone and texted Chloe: I’m so glad we met when we did. Even if you were an enormous pain in my ass you’re still the best thing that ever hapened to me.
I stared intently at my phone, looking for an indication that she was replying, but nothing. Had her phone died? Or was she asleep in the hotel? Could she text on the airline? I did the mental calculation, knowing she was six hours? Seven hours behind . . . ? No, too complicated. I smiled at Dominique as she poured me another glass of wine, and I texted Chloe again: Not drinking all of the winembut what I have is dellicious! I promis to save some for you.
I stood, tripping over . . . something. I frowned down at the lawn and wondered if I’d stepped on a small animal. Discarding the thought, I walked into the garden, stretching my arms and letting out a long, happy sigh. I felt relaxed for the first time since I’d last fucked Chloe, which was about a zillion years ago. With a full stomach and a bit of wine in me, I realized I hadn’t taken the time to plan for Chloe’s arrival at all. We had some things to get out of the way first. We had some talking to do, some planning.
Would I lead her to the garden, pull her down onto the lawn with me, and make her listen? Or wait for a quiet moment over dinner and then go to her, guiding her out of the chair and close to me? I knew what I wanted to say—I’d gone over the words a million times in my head on the flights here—but I didn’t know when I would say it.
Best to let her be here a few days before dropping the hammer.
I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and tilted my head up to the sky. I let myself enjoy it for just a beat. The weather was spectacular. The last time I’d been outside in the sun with Chloe was at a barbecue at Henry’s the previous weekend, and it had only been marginally warm. After a day in the sun and wind, we’d gone home and had some of the laziest, quietest sex I could remember.
I opened my eyes and immediately clapped a hand over my face in the bright sun. “Ow. Fuck.”
Dominique appeared several yards away and pointed to the front gate. “Allez,” she said, telling me to go. “Se promener. Vous êtes ivre.”
I laughed. Hell yes, I was tipsy. She’d poured the entire bottle of wine for me. “Je suis ivre parce que vous me versa une bouteille entière de vin.” I think that’s what I said.
With a smile, she lifted her chin. “Allez chercher des fleurs dans la rue. Demandez Mathilde.”
This was good. I had a task. Find some flowers. Ask for Mathilde. I bent to tie my shoe and headed out of the property, toward town. Dominique was a wily one, getting me drunk and then sending me off on errands so I wasn’t moping around the house all day. She and Chloe would get along swimmingly.
Not a half mile down the road, there was a small storefront with flowers spilling out of every conceivable container: vases and baskets, boxes and urns. Over the door was a small sign written in looping script that said simply, MATHILDE.
Bingo.
A bell rang as I entered, and a young blond woman stepped from the back into the small main room of the store.
Greeting me in French, she quickly gave me a once-over and then asked, “You’re the American?”
“Oui, mais je parle français.”
“But I also speak English,” she said, her thick accent curling around each word. “And it is my store, so we’ll practice for me.”
She raised her brows flirtatiously, as if to challenge me. She was beautiful, no doubt, but her lingering eye contact and sexy smile made me a touch uneasy.
And then it hit me: Dominique knew I was bored and lonely, but she probably had no idea that I was waiting for Chloe’s arrival. She’d filled me with wine and then sent me to the hot young single woman down the street.
Oh dear God.
Mathilde moved a little closer, adjusting some flowers in a tall, slim vase. “Dominique said you were staying at Mr. Stella’
s.”
“You know Max?”
Her laugh was husky and quiet. “Yes, I know Max.”
“Oh,” I said, eyes widening. Of course. “You mean you know Max.”
“This doesn’t make me unique,” she said, laughing again. Looking away from her flowers, she asked, “Are you here for flowers? Or do you think perhaps Dominique sent you for something else?”
“My girlfriend is coming tomorrow she was stuck in New York and then they had a strike and now she’s coming,” I blurted out in one steady, awkward word-flood.
“So you’re here for flowers, then.” Mathilde paused, looking around the store. “What a lucky woman she is. You are very handsome.” Her eyes slid back to me. “Perhaps you’ll be sober by then?”
I frowned. Straightening, I muttered, “I’m not that tipsy.”
“No?” Her eyebrows lifted and an amused smile spread across her face. She moved back through the store, collecting an assortment of flowers as she walked. “You are charming anyway, Friend of Max. The wine just makes you less inhibited. I bet normally you button up your shirts and frown at people who will walk too slowly in front of you.”
My frown deepened. That did sound a little like me. “I take my work seriously but I’m not like that . . . all the time.”
She smiled, tying some twine around the flowers. Mathilde handed me the bouquet and winked. “You’re not at work here. Keep your shirt unbuttoned. And don’t sober up for your lover. There are nine beds in that house.”
The front door was open. Had Dominique left and not closed it behind her? Panic seized me. What if something had happened when I was in town? What if the house had been ransacked? Despite Mathilde’s advice, I sobered instantly.
But it hadn’t been ransacked. It was exactly as I left it, with just a bit more wind blowing through the open door. Yet . . . I hadn’t come out this way; I’d walked from the backyard to the front gardens.
Down the hall, I heard water running, and I called out to Dominique, “Merci pour l’idée, Dominique, mais ma copine arrive demain.” She should know as soon as possible that I was spoken for. Who knows if she would start inviting women over here? Is that what she did for Max? Dear God, the man hasn’t changed one bit.
As I neared the closest bedroom off the hall, I realized that what I’d heard was a shower. And just inside the door were suitcases.
Chloe’s suitcases.
I could have barreled in there and scared the ever-loving shit out of her. She had, after all, been stupid enough to leave the front door open enough for it to blow wide in the wind, and then climbed in the shower. I clenched my jaw and fists as I imagined what might have happened if someone else had decided to walk into the house instead of me.
Fuck. I hadn’t seen her in days and I already wanted to strangle and then kiss the hell out of her. I felt a smile pull at my mouth. This was us. It was such a familiar battle of love and frustration, desire and exasperation. She would push every button I had, and then uncover new ones I didn’t even know I had, and push those.
Her quiet singing drifted from the bathroom into the bedroom I’d claimed the first night here. As I moved closer, peeking around the doorway to where she stood, I was greeted by the sight of her long wet hair slick and shiny down her naked back. And then she bent over so her perfect ass was in the air as she shaved her legs, and kept singing to herself.
Part of me wanted to climb in, take the razor from her hand, and finish the job for her, kissing every smooth inch. Another part of me wanted to climb in and make good on the promise to take her from behind, slowly and carefully. But an even larger part of me relished playing the voyeur. She still didn’t know I was there, and seeing her like this—thinking she was alone, singing quietly, maybe even thinking about me?—was like a cold glass of water on a scorching day. I would never get tired of watching her in any setting. And naked, wet, and in the shower wasn’t too far from the top scenario on the list.
She rinsed her leg and stood, turning to clear the conditioner from her hair, and that’s when she saw me. A smile exploded across her face, her nipples tightened, and in that moment I almost shattered the glass shower door to get to her.
“How long have you been standing there?”
I shrugged, looking down the length of her body.
“Such a creeper.”
“Still a creeper, you mean.” I moved a little closer, crossing my arms over my chest as I leaned against the wall. “When did you get here, you sneak?”
“About a half hour ago.”
“I thought you just caught a plane in the States? Did you go by portkey after all?”
She laughed, tilting her head back under the showerhead for one final rinse, before turning off the water. “I caught the first one I told you about. I thought it would be fun to mislead and surprise you.” Taking her long hair in both hands, she pulled it over her shoulder and squeezed the water from it, watching me with eyes that grew increasingly hungry. “I think I was hoping you’d come home to find me naked in the shower. May have been why I stepped into the shower.”
“I’ll admit it’s pretty fucking convenient because I’m ready to be naked myself.”
Chloe pushed open the door and came directly to me. “I wanted that pretty mouth on me as soon as I heard you were flirting with the flower girl.”
I scowled. “Oh please.” And then I paused. “How did you know about that?”
She smiled. “Dominique speaks very good English. Said she grew tired of your moping and sent you down there because you’re so cute when you’re annoyed. I agreed.”
“She—what?”
“I’m glad you didn’t decide to bring Mathilde back with you, though. That could have been awkward.”
“Or it could have been awesome,” I teased, pulling her against me and wrapping a towel from the rack around her shoulders. I felt the water from her breasts soak into my clothes.
She’s here. She’s here. She’s here.
I bent, brushed my lips over hers. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. “Have you ever been with two women at once?” she asked, leaning back and running her hands up under my shirt as I worked to dry her off. “I can’t believe I haven’t ever asked you that.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Answer my question.”
I shivered. “Yes.”
Her hands were cold and her nails felt sharp when she scratched down my torso. “More than two at a time?”
Shaking my head, I bent to run my nose along her jaw. She smelled like home, like my Chloe: her own mild citrus scent and the soft natural smell of her skin. “Weren’t you saying something about wanting my mouth on you?”
“Specifically between my legs,” she instructed.
“I assumed.” I bent, scooped her up, and carried her to the bed.
When I put her down on the edge, she sat up, leaning back on her hands behind her, pulling her feet up on the edge of the bed . . . and spread her legs. She looked up at me, and whispered, “Take your clothes off.”
Holy Christ this woman was going to kill me with views like that. I kicked my shoes across the room, yanked off my socks, and reached behind me to pull my shirt over my head. Giving her a few seconds to reacquaint herself with my bare chest, I scratched my stomach and gave her a smile. “See something you like?”
“Are we giving shows?” Her hand slipped over her thigh and between her legs. “I can do that.”
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I breathed, fumbling with my belt buckle and pulling the buttons of my jeans free in a single movement. I nearly fell over trying to get them off.
Her hand moved away, and then she reached both arms out for me. “On top,” she said quietly, apparently not wanting my mouth after all. “Over me, I want to feel your weight.”
It was perfect, like this, without pretense. We both wanted to make love before we did anything else: looking around, eating, catching up.
He
r skin was cool, and mine still felt flushed from the sun, my uphill walk back to the villa, and the thrill of seeing her here so unexpectedly. The contrast was astounding. Beneath me she was nothing but smooth skin and tiny, quiet sounds. Her nails dug into my back, her teeth slid over my chin, my neck, my shoulder.
“I want you inside,” she whispered into a kiss.
“Not yet.”
Although she let out a little growl of frustration, for a while she let me simply kiss her. I loved the way her lips felt on my tongue, the way her tongue felt against my lips. I was acutely aware of every point of contact between us: her breasts against my chest, her hands on my back, the tendons of her thighs pressing into my sides. When she wrapped her legs around mine, her calves felt like a band of heat around me. I reached down and wrapped my hand around the back of her knee, pulling it higher to my hip until I felt my cock slide against her slick skin.
Beneath me, she arched and rocked, getting as much friction as she could without me pushing inside. Kisses would start tentative, maybe playful, and then grow into deep, ravenous, arching hunger before returning to slow and tasting. She let me press her arms over her head, let me suck and bite her nipples almost to the point of pain. She asked me what I wanted, what felt good, and whether I wanted her body or her mouth first. Her first instinct when we were naked was always to pleasure me.
This woman amazed me. I’d lost perspective on who she used to be outside of our relationship. With me, she could be anything. Brave and afraid weren’t opposite. She could be sharp and tender, devious and innocent. I wanted to be her everything in the same way.
“I love the way we kiss,” she whispered, the words coming out pressed against my lips.
“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what she meant; I simply wanted to hear her talk about how fucking perfect it all felt.
“I just love that we kiss the same, that you always seem to know exactly how I want it.”
“I want to be married,” I blurted. “I want you to marry me.”
Fuuuuuuuck.
And so my entire carefully constructed speech was thrown out the window. My grandmother’s antique ring was in a box in the dresser—nowhere near me—and my plan to kneel and do everything right just evaporated.
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