Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Complicated maybe, but worth it,” I whisper. “Or we could make it simple. What happens in Paris stays in Paris.”
He smiles, a brief, wolfish grin, and presses a soft kiss to my head. “Yes, we can blame the whole thing on Paris. I like that way of thinking.”
“We didn’t use any protection.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he says softly.
“It might be a way to kill two birds with one stone…”
Axel laughs softly, his breath warm on my face. “That’s true.”
I let out a small laugh, too tired to speak more, and close my eyes. Paris is suddenly more than just a city of lights and art. It’s the place where everything between Axel and I have changed, and neither of us will ever be able to go back to denying this pull between us.
Chapter
Twenty
JO
Iwake up to the faint hum of the Parisian street below drifting in through the half-open window, but Axel’s side of the bed is empty. My stomach flips as I remember last night. The possessive way he pressed himself into me, the way our coupling felt like fire and gravity combined. It was nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It was a whole lot better than I had imagined it would be. I have never orgasmed like that, especially from penetration. I knew Axel would be good in bed, but I didn’t expect him to be that good.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the sheets falling over me in a tangled heap. I can still feel the imprint of his body on mine, the memory of his hands tracing me, holding me. Shivers run down my spine at the recollection. I push the sheets away, and my hand lingers on the inside of my thigh, and as I do it, I wish it were Axel’s warm, strong hand on me again. I touch his side of the bed, and it is cold.
But maybe it was just one and done for him.
We just had to get it out of our systems, and now we have. I tell myself to be ready for the fact that it may never happen again. After all, we’re supposed to be here playing detective, finding information about the stolen painting. Everything else is dangerous. Unnecessary. A distraction. A fire I can’t control. It’s going to be hard enough going back now after one time, but if we keep letting it happen again and again, it will be too hard. I know that much. But I also know that if he walked through that door right now and kissed me like he did last night, I wouldn’t resist him. Not even for a second.
I pull myself up, my muscles stiff from last night’s unfamiliar movement, and pad on bare feet across the cool wooden floor to the bathroom. The tiles in the bathroom are a little bit cold. I debate between a shower and a bath, and I decide on a shower. I get in when the water is hot, and steam curls around me. I close my eyes, letting the water wash over my skin. My mind betrays me, replaying Axel’s touch, his lips, the way his chest had pressed against my breasts. Every brush of his skin against mine, every shared breath, every fleeting touch. It’s impossible to forget.
I try to focus. Get a grip, Jo.
This is Paris. We’re here for an investigation. I can’t, no, I shouldn’t be thinking like this. Yet the thought of last night’s activities stubbornly pulls me in again. The images are fresh and insistent. I run my hands over my arms, over my body, trying to scrub away the craving that lingers so strongly. But it’s still there, wrapped in every nerve ending. I shake my head. Focus, Jo. You’re not here to … you know. This is not a dirty weekend. But the image of him, of us, it’s right there. I sigh and let the sexy images stay, dangerous as they are.
My hand strays towards my belly and moves lower. That is the moment I halt. I turn the water off quickly and step out of the shower. I wrap a fluffy white towel around myself, then pick up another smaller one and rub my hair briskly until it is damp and clinging in loose strands to my face and neck.
Leaving the bathroom, I select an outfit that’s simple but elegant, something that feels right for Paris. A fitted white blouse and a pair of high-waisted black trousers. After slipping into black flats, I fasten a pair of little silver earrings that I picked up in London the week before my life was turned upside down. I stand in front of the mirror, running a comb through my damp hair. When it dries, I’ll scrunch it into a ponytail. My reflection feels alien. It shows someone professional, composed, and ready to meet whatever the world throws at her, but between my legs, my clit feels heavy and hot, and the flush on my cheeks betrays the night before when I was anything but composed. I can still feel the ghost of Axel’s hands sliding along my back, the curve of his palms against me. My pulse quickens, and I catch myself biting my lower lip. I tell myself to stop being so pathetic. It was just sex. No need to get carried away. It probably won’t happen again. But a part of me, the stubborn, daring part that is likely to get me into trouble, desperately wants it to.