by Abby Knox
I've never experienced this sort of crisis before.
The money doesn’t tempt me. I have more than I need waiting for me on my yacht. Most importantly—astoundingly—I don’t feel the itch, that desire to achieve something.
I thought it would be one last job: to unload the Georgia O’Keeffe without the hassles of appraisals and taxes and a paper trail for the seller, and to triple my commission that I wouldn't even have to share with a broker. Everybody wins. Kind of.
It would be easy. And then I could go on with my plan to lay low at the villa of my grand-mère in Sainte-Maxime.
It should have been an easy con to pull off: charm the girl and casually mention the art piece in conversation. And then reel in the big money from her super rich friend.
But now, sitting here, talking to her, I can’t go through with it.
The woman, the best friend of the married tech guru, is not even a part of this high-flying world I float in. She asks me if I got my watch on sale or if it was a gift. She teaches yoga to little kids. She eats burgers and fries and likes outdoor concerts.
She’s so refreshingly innocent and unrehearsed I could kiss her.
Looking into her eyes, I can’t think of anything but wanting to show her the world. I want to show her the Mona Lisa in Paris. I want to take her out on my yacht to spend a few weeks soaking up the sun in Saint-Tropez.
I’m flooded with guilt that I’m using this girl to get access to her best friend’s money.
Back at my hotel, I pay for another night, although it’s extremely inadvisable. I can sense the feds getting closer to catching up with me.
Still, I make the call once I get back to my room, and I follow up with the deal. Not only do I not overcharge and pocket the difference, I don’t even take my own legal cut on the sale of the piece.
Several hours later, Stella’s husband, a beefy fellow with a kind face, meets me with the check, but he has more concern about his wife’s friend than about his wife’s money. He shakes my hand and says, “If you hurt my wife's best friend, I will hunt you down. Do we understand each other?”
I nod and reassure him. “I understand completely, and I promise that won’t be necessary.”
After he leaves, I wire the money—the full amount—to my client. Then I look forward to spending just one more night here in America with the woman of my dreams, knowing I will probably never come back to these shores again.
Chapter 4
Laney
I’m so excited to go on this date, my whole body is shaking.
I know this date is nothing but a glorified one-night stand, no strings attached. He said something about setting sail to Europe in the morning. Maybe that's all it is, but I just have a feeling about this guy. It's not a feeling that he's the marrying kind or anything; it's more a feeling that he might be the most intriguing man I've ever met and I'm eager to peel back the layers.
You want to peel back the layers of his glamorous persona, or his layers of clothing? Hmm…why not both?
I know myself pretty well. I am built for monogamy and marriage, but the prospect of a one-night stand with a mysterious, dapper stranger is thrilling as all get out.
Stella gave me free rein of her closet before she left for her date night with Luke. All I have with me on this vacation is swimsuits, shorts, cover-ups, and a sundress that barely passes as anything other than beachwear. Although her vacation wardrobe is for a pregnant lady and all the dresses are meant to frame a pregnant belly, I still find plenty of options. I finally settle on a dark red maxi dress with a deep vee neckline to show off my cleavage—my one physical attribute that makes me closer to a 4 than a 2. The hibiscus floral print makes me happy. My beachy hair is fairly hopeless so I twist it up into a loose side bun at the nape of my neck.
It’s been so long since I’ve been on a proper date I don’t know if I should wear lipstick. I’m for sure going to be kissed; I just don’t know if he’s going to kiss me before or after dinner. I end up applying some sheer, summery lip gloss and borrowing Stella’s gold designer handbag. And just for good measure, I do a sequence of yoga poses to get my nervousness under control and my blood pressure balanced.
When I arrive at the party, Fabian (whose name I still suspect is fake as hell) is leaning with one elbow against the bar but looking impossibly hotter than he did earlier this afternoon.
The party is already in full swing. There are dozens of perfect 10s milling around in barely-there dresses, angling for his attention, but his eyes are on me.
His eyes drift all the way down to my toes and back up again to my face, and I feel my entire body flush once again. His expression about does me in; nobody has ever looked at me with that much heat before, and in such a way that doesn’t feel creepy.
How does he do that?
“Hi!” I say, still trying to quell the nervousness so it doesn’t show in my voice.
He exhales something in French and I nearly lose all feeling in my knees. “Mon pétale.”
Fabian takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles, then kisses each of my cheeks. When he places his hand on the small of my back and says, “Let’s get you a drink,” I’m trembling because I feel like I’m on a date with the ghost of Cary Grant and everyone in the room can see we don’t belong together.
I’m grateful for the liquid courage; this resort hotel's poolside party is packed with people who look like they could be top-tier Instagram influencers. My eyeballs are being blessed by some seriously sexy dance moves that are well out of my area of expertise. I'm not a terrible dancer but I'm pretty sure I'd look like Napoleon Dynamite next to these people, so I'm praying Fabian doesn't ask me to dance.
The man can pick up on cues, I'll say that for him. Sensing my unease, he asks if I'd rather take our drinks out to the hotel's private beach. We chat as we stroll across the boardwalk that spans the protected dunes and seagrass, and Fabian holds my drink while I slip off my shoes when we reach the other side. The party has spilled out onto the beach, where Fabian locates a couple of semi-isolated lounge chairs, a fair walk down the beach, away from most of the revelers.
"We're lucky to find these, it looks like all the other chairs have been claimed," I remark, scanning the beach. Fabian holds my hand to help me sit down gracefully — I can never sit down gracefully in a lounge chair — and then adjusts the back of it for me so it's upright but comfortable.
With an unusual shyness I've not seen from him yet, he says, "They're mine. I had a feeling about the crowds, so I went out and procured some chairs today, in hopes that you would show up." He looks away from me and stares out at the water.
I don't know whether to feel honored or overwhelmed by the idea that he went out and bought chairs just for tonight. “That's too nice," I say, admiring his profile, watching the ocean breeze play with his hair. I find myself wanting to reach out and touch the stray tendrils and tuck them behind his ears so they don't obscure his face. "Can I pay you back for my half, at least? You went to a lot of trouble."
I know that he knows I'm serious, so when his response to my offer is to laugh, I feel confused at first.
The way he laughs is so infectious, I start to laugh myself as he leans toward me. "What's so fun—"
His lips cut off my words in a soft, unexpected kiss. The brief caress of his mouth on mine and his hand cupping my face electrifies my entire body.
"Do not ever mention paying me back for anything, sweet lady," he says, leaning back in his chair.
I'm not sure how to proceed from here, I'm so shaken after one simple, sweet kiss. The way he's looking at me, all I can think about now is jumping his bones. It's not the same wolfish gaze from earlier today. This expression is the way someone looks when they have a thousand things they want to say, but can't find the right way to say them. My heart thuds. I will the sun to set faster so I don't have to see him looking at me like that; yet I also will it to set slower because, my god, he's beautiful, and no one has ever looked at me in this way. My mind quickly f
lails around for something — anything — to talk about.
"So," I finally say, "It’s nice out here, away from the crowds of people wondering why such a dashing fellow is hanging around with a humdrum person like me.”
Fabian stops as he reaches for his drink. “No, you misread them. Trust me, it is you who is out of my league.”
I’m glad he can’t see my full expression in the dimming light; I’m embarrassed by his flattery.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I say.
He sees me self consciously fiddling with my dress and mercifully changes the subject. “Let’s play a game,” he says. “I’m going to ask you five things about yourself and you have to answer as quickly as you can.”
I love learning trivia about people so of course I agree.
“What’s your favorite book?”
I’m thrown because nobody has ever asked me this before. “Of all books? Or do you mean childhood book, or young adult...”
“Gut reaction, mon amie. Just the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Like Water for Chocolate,” I say.
He responds with a huge smile. “Very nice. Favorite color?”
“Teal. Turquoise. Aquamarine? Are they all the same?”
“For our purpose here, yes,” he answers. “Favorite food?”
“Tex-Mex.”
"Wait," he says. "Tex-Mex?"
I clarify, because it's no surprise he might not know about this. "A combination of Texas, Mexican and Spanish cuisine. The best. That's all you need to know, and I don't even try to tell me French cuisine is better."
Chuckling, he moves on. “Favorite movie?”
“Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”
“Favorite country you’ve ever visited?”
“Fiji. OK, now it's your turn," I say, and repeat the same questions back at him.
Book? “Devil in a Blue Dress.” Color? “Terra cotta.” Food? “Anything cooked by my grand-mère.” Movie? “Ocean’s Eleven. The original.” Country: “America, because I’m going to miss it here now that I’ve made a friend.”
This last part triggers a little pinch of regret inside me. Before I can stop myself, I tell him he should stay.
“Sadly, I cannot. You should come with me. My grand-mère would adore you, and you could teach her how to cook Tex-Mex.”
I have to laugh at the notion of me teaching anybody’s grandmother how to cook anything, especially a French woman who is also an accomplished cook.
“She would love your company almost as much as I do, my little petal.”
I barely have time to gasp when his words flood me with happy thoughts because the next flood of sensation comes from surprise that I’m being kissed again. Hard.
How did we get here? I don’t even remember him kneeling down next to my beach chair to lean in, cup my face with both hands this time, and kiss me with his firm, assertive lips, but here we are.
Fabian’s warm tongue teases my lips in between deep, sensuous kisses. As much as I detect some odd kind of fakery and over the top charm in him, this kiss is the real deal. It’s unrehearsed. Spontaneous. Passionate. It’s the real him, kissing the real me. He sees me, he feels me, and it’s wonderful.
The waves are crashing, this beautiful man is gently holding my hair out of my face while he kisses me. And he still smells so damn good.
“Do you feel that, my darling?” He takes my hand and places it over his heart.
“It’s beating so hard. Are you OK?” I ask.
“In fact, I am not OK. You have ruined me, mon tresór.”
“Shut up and keep kissing me.”
He starts again by brushing his lips against mine in a sweet kind of teasing that builds up a heat between us. I tease back by licking across his bottom lip. Listening to his resulting moan makes me smile.
We hear the first explosion of fireworks over the water, and I feel it in my chest.
He whispers in my ear, “Come and sit on my lap. I want to hold you close while we kiss.”
“And miss the fireworks?” I tease while he pulls me into his lap. He leans back in his lounge chair and situates me sideways across his legs. “You watch the fireworks and I’ll watch you.”
I feel his hands squeeze my hips and pull me in tight. My hand goes to his chest, my fingers teasing over the buttons. A low groan from deep in his throat tells me he wishes I would stop fingering his buttons and commence with the unfastening.
Our lips seal together and I release the topmost button.
Lust takes over my senses and I swipe my tongue slowly across his bottom lip and then across his top lip in the opposite direction.
His roving hands caress my hair, my back, my legs. He whispers heated words against my mouth. “You bring up all manner of filthy ideas about what I want to do to you, angel.”
I palm the rod that’s tenting the front of his pants and watch in amusement as he sucks in his breath.
“Mon dieu,” he groans, letting one hand grip my ass while the other roams over the curve of my breast. It feels so good I let myself moan a little louder than I should, but the sound is covered by the continuing explosions of gunpowder overhead.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot we were in public,” he says.
I trace kisses across his cheek and whisper in his ear. “I’ve never been this naughty before, and I like it. Keep going.”
I feel his limbs tremble as his mouth devours mine between soft whispers in French against my lips.
Glancing around us, I see the closest fireworks watchers are a group of friends sprawled out on a blanket about ten yards away, their eyes trained on the sky.
I undo the top two buttons of his shirt and spread my hand across his warm skin of his slightly fuzzy chest. He kisses me as one of his hands explores the curves of my hips, while the other takes a journey under the hem of my dress. His touch travels slowly up the inside of my leg and stops once it reaches my upper thigh. If the sun was shining, people would for sure be getting a show right now. My dress covers his arm, but it’s clear what’s happening underneath. Fabian’s hand goes even farther up, cupping my pussy over my lacy thong.
The fireworks burst one after another, lighting up his face with blues, red and purples. In the flashes of light, I can see Fabian’s hooded eyes studying me, especially the bare skin of my shoulders and my breast that’s level with his mouth.
He licks his lips in the same way he did earlier today, and I think my panties might explode. The two of us engage in a back and forth to see how far we will go out here on the beach.
While his fingers work their way around the flimsy fabric under my dress, his sensuous mouth paints my exposed décolletage and shoulder with kisses. My fingertips squeeze his nipples in response. His mouth goes lower to kiss my breasts over the fabric, and his fingers find the soaked split under my panties. I deliver a kiss with a slight nip of my teeth against the delicious scented skin of his neck. His one hand squeezes my ass and his other one parts my lips and finds my clit.
I try to move. I want to straddle him, to feel his hard length in my hands and stroke. I wriggle a bit to situate myself, but it only sends shock waves of pleasure, multiplied by the pressure of his hands and his whispered demands.
“Stay where you are, mon pétale. I’m going to make you remember this moment. When I’m finished with you, you won’t ever be able to look at fireworks without squirting.”
Holy fuck, this dirty boy. “I want to ride you so hard but I want to be a good girl.”
Fabian whispers his approval and goes all in with his fingers on my clit, delving into my entrance to tease me, all while his mouth soaks my nipples through the fabric of this sundress.
His fingers keep working me over while his stubbly chin finds a way to push aside the fabric that’s keeping his mouth away from my tit. At one particularly loud boom in the sky, he has freed my breast and has latched on with his mouth and tongue. I allow myself to moan because nobody else can hear me. Fabian soft lips suck, kiss
, and lick, all the while ruining my pussy with his hand. His touching, caressing, massaging and exploring of my clit, my cunt, and then back again has me squirting. Holy hell, I never pictured myself letting go like this in public.
When my orgasm rocks through me, I circle my arms around his neck and moan his name into his ear.
“I need you naked, petal. Come to my room.”
I agree breathlessly and I barely have time to straighten my mussed clothes before he guides me up the beach, into the hotel, and up the elevator.
We reach the top floor and enter the most amazing suite I’ve ever seen.
“Good god, who ... who even are you?”
He looks hesitant before he answers. “I am whoever you want me to be. Who would you like me to be?”
“Tonight I just want you to tell me what to do. Do whatever you want with me on your last night in America.”
He guides me to the bedroom and instructs me to remove my dress and underwear, which I do. A little too slowly, I admit, but it amuses me to tease him like this. The veins in his neck and forehead engorge as he grows more frustrated the slower I go. All his effortless charm is gone, and now the only thing he oozes is need. He looks like a wolf about to bare his teeth. “Turn around,” he says darkly. “I want to look at your ass.”
His accent seems to have faded slightly, but I don’t really care at this point. I turn around and listen to him growl.
He presses a hand to my ass cheek, warming my skin with his palm as he squeezes—soft at first, then harder. I communicate that I like what he’s doing and want him to go farther by pressing against his hand. He runs his fingers up and down and across, then does the same to the other cheek. I’m almost relaxed into his touch when he lets his fingers brush against the split in my backside. I respond by spreading my legs ever so slightly.
“I’ve never done ... that stuff before, but I’d love it if you want to.”
After massaging my cheeks for some time, while whispering filthy things against my neck, I feel him slide the tips of his fingers down into my darkest valley.