by Stacy Travis
Chris grabbed both my wrists and slowly walked me into the shower, where the jets doused us with water from multiple directions. His mouth crashed to mine and I freed my hands because I had to touch him. His chest, his arms, his back. I threaded my fingers through his wet hair as we kissed languidly under the streaming water like we had all the time in the world.
Then he started over again on my breasts, only this time, the hot water added friction. So did his tongue. “Oh God… you… amazing,” I said, barely able to articulate words.
I slicked back his hair with my fingers and started to work my hands down his torso again, and again, he grabbed my wrists and held them over my head with one hand.
“Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because you’ll ruin me. I’m so fucking hot for you, I won’t last.”
He backed me up through the swirling steam to where there was a bench—which every shower until the end of days needs to have—and he sat me down and eased my legs apart.
“Now you’re gonna ruin me,” I gasped, already halfway to orgasm under the heat of his touch. I couldn’t get enough of him and he knew it.
“I intend to. Again and again,” he said, taking a slow stroke down my center with his tongue. His very skillful tongue worked me from all angles and lightly sucked until I was moaning his name and likely promising him very expensive Christmas gifts. I wanted him totally. I needed him. The water coming from every direction added to the sensory overload.
But he wasn’t done with his games. Just when he knew I was nearing the dizzying peak of orgasm, he’d move his mouth away and kiss me. It was painful because I always wanted to kiss him. But. Not. Now.
Not when I was that close. He smirked and went down on me again, this time circling and stroking with his tongue until my legs were shaking. “Please, Chris… please.”
“I can’t say no to you,” he said. He slid a finger inside me at the same time his mouth was sucking and licking and possibly even biting. Until I was a writhing puddle of orgasm in his hands.
Oh… oh, wow…” That was the best I could do for words. I was actually slumped to the side, like he’d halfway killed me. Death by orgasm.
Then I felt his hand grab under me and lift me off the seat. He held me in his arms like I weighed all of ten pounds and swung around so he was sitting on the bench. I wrapped my legs around him as he lowered me down, filling me in the most beautiful way. We moved against each other slowly, perfectly. We kissed, our tongues circling in rhythm with our bodies.
It was different than it had been at the beginning of the week. Being together now felt like the sweet beginning of a real relationship. It wasn’t just sex because it felt good. We were completely in sync with each other. We were connected. We were making love and didn’t care if I’d be heartbroken later. All I cared about was the now.
I felt a lot less nervous after the shower.
I left Chris to get himself ready and headed upstairs to work with my team of experts. It really took a team. Flora, a makeup artist from England, got to work on my skin, hydrating it with a steam machine and rubbing essential oils into my temples. Then George got to work taming my wet hair into dry loose waves that looked better than my best hair day at the beach. As he continued to fret and fuss over each wave, Flora swept layers of foundation, opaque powder, and contouring shadows over my face and added liner and rows of glued-on lashes that highlighted my eyes and made them look enormous and pretty.
She packed lip gloss and foundation for touchups into a small clutch purse. Marguerite had dropped it off herself along with the dress, shoes, and a double-stranded diamond choker, whispering, “Don’t worry, it’s not real. But it will look magnifique with the dress.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Wow,” Chris said as I descended the staircase, careful not to trip in my four-inch heels. “Just… wow.”
“It’s an amazing dress.”
“It is an amazing dress, but it’s just a dress. You are spectacular,” he said. Then he leaned in and whispered, “And I’m still picturing you in my shower.”
His wolfish gaze made me blush. He stood there in a tux, his hair slicked back, looking gorgeous and hot and movie-star handsome. My nerves were doing a good job of pushing me to just shy of a heart attack.
Then I looked a moment longer at Chris, really looked. I reminded myself that he was the same normal guy I’d gotten to know over the past week, despite the premiere-ready exterior that made my heart race. Looking at him calmed me a little, maybe because of the placid depth of his eyes.
“Back atcha,” I said.
As he grabbed my hand and walked me toward the door, I was awash in all the emotions I swore I’d protect myself from feeling. I’d have my work cut out for me when I got home and had to get over him. But there was nothing I could do about that now.
So tonight, I was all in.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Another Town Car and a Red Carpet in Cannes
The town car that drove us from Antibes to Cannes was larger than the one that had been driving us around in town, but the same driver, Laur, commandeered it. We cruised along the twisting coastal road toward another city I’d only heard about but never considered visiting in a floor-length gown. The inside of this car had a stocked bar with cut-crystal glasses, decanters of various liqueurs, and a small fridge with chilled bottles of water and Perrier. We grabbed bottles of water and sank them into the cupholders carved out of dark wood on either side of our leather seats.
Chris was quieter than usual on the drive. I debated whether to try to make conversation with him or leave him alone. “So who does the studio invite to these premieres?”
“Press, French executives, agents…” he said.
We’d never had trouble finding things to talk about, but this felt painful. Eventually, I was reduced to talking about the weather, which seemed innocuous though a little sad. “Pretty day. I guess that’s a redundant statement around here,” I said, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. His mouth twitched, an acknowledgement instead of a smile. He said nothing. After another few minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer. “You okay? I’m not used to the silent version of you.”
That snapped him out of his reverie. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry. Just stuff on my mind, I guess.”
“I know you’re in work mode,” I said, trying to respect whatever his pre-premiere process was. “Don’t apologize.”
“Thanks.”
I focused on the view, which never faltered. The water and sky met in a medium-blue haze out on a horizon I couldn’t decipher in the afternoon light. I took a moment to let it sink in, grateful to be here. I couldn’t have imagined any of this—the dress, the guy—when I’d decided to fly to France solo. The first week had been something out of a crazy dream, and I still needed to pinch myself to believe I was sitting next to Chris on the way to his premiere in the South of France.
We’d left the empty strand of beachfront behind and had entered an area of hotels with lines of matching umbrellas on the sand in front of each. One hotel had dark-blue umbrellas, the next had orange-and-white-striped ones in rows, separating sunbathers from one another. It was what I’d pictured when I imagined the beaches in the South of France, but Chris and I hadn’t been to a beach like this. His cove was so private and perfect that we never considered going anywhere else.
Before long, we were pulling up to the Croisette in Cannes, where a wide red carpet was flanked with photographers with long lenses, and a set of bleachers allowed fans to crowd in and watch people exiting limousines and town cars like ours. My heart jumped into my throat even as I told myself that no one would be looking at me.
I felt nervous on behalf of Chris, seeing the gauntlet he’d have to navigate. My respect for him grew as I registered the size of the crowd and began to hear the screams of excitement and shouts from photographers. His costar, Heidi Sanchez—an actress I’d read about furtively over the past few days while trying to make myself an expert in all things White Serpent—
was already on the carpet, posing for the photographers, one hand on her hip and the other holding a beaded clutch. Her husband stood smiling as well, grasping her elbow, moving aside when certain of the paparazzi asked her to pose alone—a drill they seemed to know well. I got ready for our turn as Laur came around the car and opened the door on Chris’s side.
He stepped out to a chorus of screams and people shouting his name. He smiled and put a hand up to wave then turned and extended his hand to me, helping me out of the car. I stood in blinding lights, trying to make sense of how to walk in a straight line.
I immediately felt overwhelmed and nauseated by the flashing bulbs, but I did my best to plaster on a smile that meant nothing and walk in my four-inch heels without face-planting. The least I could do for Chris was to make it past the carpet without incident.
He took my hand, and we started walking down the swath of red, stopping every couple of steps as another photographer called his name. He’d turn and pose for a specific camera, his hand never leaving mine, never relegating me to the side as his costar had with her date. He was gallant, and I was grateful.
“Just follow my lead, walk with me, and stay next to me,” he leaned in and whispered. The smell of his cologne and the mint he’d swallowed a minute before we’d arrived brought me down to earth. He was movie-star Chris, but he was still the Chris I knew.
The carpet seemed to go on forever, populated with seemingly hundreds of entertainment reporters requesting a sound bite and a short interview in front of the cameras. They asked him questions about the movie.
“Will this be the final White Serpent?”
“How are you enjoying your new villa?”
“What projects are next for you?”
“Who are you with tonight?”
That stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t expected anyone to notice the noncelebrity next to Chris, but he took it in stride. “This is Nikki Woodford.”
A few more flashbulbs went off as the paparazzi took in the sight of us together, hand in hand, but Chris was a pro at this. He answered the questions he wanted to but didn’t linger for the ones he didn’t. Before my brain could even process things enough to freak out, he’d whisked me down the remainder of the carpet, and we were in the theater.
The cool of the atrium hit me the moment we walked inside, but it was then that I finally exhaled. Much as I’d thought about it over the past few days, there’d been no way to prepare myself for the scene outside. Now that it was behind me, I instantly felt better. I’d gotten through the worst of it and come out unscathed. Maybe it wasn’t even so bad.
Chris was staring at me like maybe I’d grown a second head. I swallowed and looked at him. “Yes?”
“You did great. Are you okay? Never want to be seen with me again?”
“I’m good. And excited to see your movie. Can we go in?”
We walked past a table with tubs of popcorn and drinks, and I grabbed both, but before we entered the theater, Chris’s publicist pulled him aside and asked if he’d mind doing a couple of interviews with local media. “We can knock ’em out during the movie, and you can go right to the afterparty.”
Chris looked at me, his eyes asking if it was okay. I wasn’t about to be the one to get in the way. “Yes, go. You’ve seen it. I’m fine. I’ll meet you after.”
He kissed me on the cheek, and I headed into the theater. From behind me, I heard his publicist say, “She’s hot. What’s the story with her?” I didn’t hear Chris’s response.
What could I say about the movie? Let’s face it—I wasn’t a superhero fan. It didn’t matter, because what I got in that theater was a movie-screen-sized date with Chris. And the guy had talent. I could see that from the moment his face appeared, fraught with anger that he’d been betrayed.
Watching him work right in front of me was fascinating. I realized there weren’t that many professions where a person was right there, laboring in front of an audience, baring something intimate in a big way. In the non-superhero mortal version of his character, he was unassuming and even a little nerdy. His acting chops impressed me, and I bought into his character’s plight completely.
He lived two lives, and the trick was not letting them get in the way of each other, something the superhero version of his character made difficult. That side of him wanted to save the world more than he wanted to be a regular guy, so eventually, his regular self faded away, and he gave in to the larger calling.
Choosing that path made all the difference. The audience applauded when he put a knife through an old T-shirt that his alter ego used to wear. That part of him was gone forever. I hadn’t seen the prior movies, but I could appreciate that this one, the fourth, represented his character’s triumph over the forces of evil in the world. Like the rest of the theater, I cheered when he killed his nemesis after a brutal series of twists and turns that led to the final showdown.
It didn’t matter that I’d never seen a White Serpent movie before. I barely noticed anything except Chris’s performance in front of me and the several hundred other people with the same up-close view of him in the theater. It made me want him even more, seeing the power he commanded over his craft and the subtleties and human stakes he brought to his character.
Of course, he got the girl in the end. Heidi Sanchez didn’t have anywhere near the talent Chris had, but it didn’t matter. Her role was to be beautiful and hang off the side of a building in peril. When he rescued her, eyes flashing, the audience applauded again. I tried to fight a nagging feeling of insecurity.
He’d looked exactly the same way at me, and I’d believed he wasn’t acting.
After the credits rolled, everyone streamed out of the theater, gabbing about the movie and looking for the signs that led to the afterparty. Chris was waiting in a corner off to the side, out of sight of people going the other way. I threw my arms around him. “You were incredible. I loved it.”
“Really? Your first White Serpent film—did it measure up to the hype?”
“Are you going to give me shit about that forever?”
“I love that you only go to art-house movies. But yes, I will give you shit. So… you really liked it?”
“I really did. You’ve got some big talent. Everyone in the place was cheering for you. You must’ve heard the noise from out here.”
He shrugged. “All I care about right now is what you think.”
“I think you’re brilliant,” I said, realizing that in my giant heels, I didn’t need to reach much to kiss him on the cheek. “And I think I just became your fangirl.”
He seemed to like the sound of that. “Ready for a drink? Or six?”
“Yes, please.”
He grabbed my hand and we left the theater, crossing the street to where a loud party was already in full swing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Swanky Private Club in Cannes
The afterparty was more like a crowded bar scene than anything else, with one difference—everyone in the place wanted to talk to Chris. He didn’t need to work the room, because the room came to him. Mostly, we stayed by the bar, and he would introduce me when someone he knew came over.
“John, meet Nikki. Nikki, John’s done all the post for the White Serpent franchise.”
“Your work was great,” I’d say as though I even knew what it meant to do post.
Chris would chat and smile, accepting every hug, handshake, and kind word with self-effacing appreciation. He knew how to make everyone in his orbit feel good to be near him and lucky to have a few minutes of undivided attention. I knew my job was to smile and nod and be equally gracious if someone included me in the conversation, which mostly consisted of them beaming at Chris and asking me, “Wasn’t he great?”
If someone he didn’t seem to know well came over to gush about his performance, he mostly said his thanks, ever grateful for the compliments and adulation. He was friendly at all times, accessible to everyone, and patient even when having the same conversation for the fifteenth time.
On the whole, he’d leave details about me out of the conversation, just introducing me by name but never with an explanatory phrase—which was fine. What was he supposed to say? Nikki is “the goddess I’ve fallen for,” “someone I’ve been spending time with,” or “the woman I swept off her feet in Paris?”
Of course, this awkward moment was hardly the time to put words to what I might or might not mean to him. It wasn’t like we were dating. When he’d get into a longer conversation about some abstract aspect of the film, I’d drift a few feet away and top off my drink.
The bartender was moving at lightning speed, efficiently taking orders and mixing drinks, spinning across from one side to the other, and never leaving anyone hanging for long. He reminded me a little bit of Johnny, ever the solicitous host, making sure everyone’s glass stayed full. And thinking of Johnny, even with the charismatic film star standing just a few feet to my left, made me feel a little nostalgic.
Over the past month, I’d gained a little perspective on why Johnny and I never had a future. It wasn’t his fault. He’d never pretended to be anything he wasn’t, and he would probably go on to have a happy, albeit alcohol-soaked life because he never wanted more than a good time, living in the present.
He had a lightness I could never hope to harness. I was the one who took everything seriously, and to his credit, he’d never found fault with it. Watching the bartender spin around reminded me that there had been good parts to our year together. However, those didn’t include being an unapologetic asshole and cheating.
“Mademoiselle?” he asked after I’d been watching him for a while.
I decided on another glass of champagne. The first had gone straight to my head, probably because I hadn’t eaten since… I couldn’t remember. Breakfast?