Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
My breath stuttered, my thighs clenched, and my mind spun with the only thought that mattered. . .
I need this cock inside me.
I wanted to feel that thick, pulsing cock stretch me open, bury itself deep into my pussy and claim me in the way his kisses already had.
Just the idea of his big cock had me clenching, a helpless, aching pulse building between my legs, spiraling into something close to desperation.
Fuck.
I was delirious with it, trembling, wanting, starving.
Fabien was still lost in me, his lips and tongue working me over with pure, mind-numbing expertise, but I could barely think, barely function, barely hold onto the remnants of my self-control.
And I didn’t want to anymore.
Not when I could have more.
Not when I could have all of him.
“Fabien. . .” I moved my hand from his cock, lifted it up, and curled my fingers under Fabien’s chin and I tilted his head up.
When he looked at me, his eyes were heavy-lidded.
His lips were wet, his breath uneven.
I shivered. “Forget the Met, Fabien.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Forget it?”
I swallowed hard, but there was no hesitation, no second-guessing, only certainty.
Only raw, aching need.
I gathered up the courage and simply said it, “Let’s go to your hotel.”
Silence stretched between us, thick, charged.
And then. . .a deep, growling sound left Fabien, his fingers flexing against my waist like he was restraining himself from ripping my dress apart right there in the backseat.
He licked his lips. “Are you sure?”
I leaned in, brushing my lips over his. “I am.”
The light turned green, yet Dalvin didn’t even drive.
Was he waiting for my answer too?
Fabien exhaled sharply, his hand lingering against my skin for one last indulgent moment before he slowly lifted my gown back over my breasts.
I swallowed, trying to steady myself, but my body still thrummed with the heat he had ignited.
With my breast put away, Dalvin had us moving again.
Fabien shifted slightly and lifted his gaze toward the rearview mirror. "Excuse me."
Dalvin’s voice was hoarse, rough, like gravel scraping against velvet. “Yes, sir?”
"Change of plans. Take us to Aman New York."
A beat of silence.
Then Dalvin cleared his throat, gripping the wheel tighter. "Yes, sir."
I let out a slow breath, my pulse still erratic, my skin still tingling from the way Fabien had touched me.
The way he had looked at me.
The way he had made me feel.
Fabien leaned back my way and brushed his lips against the shell of my ear. His breath was warm and teasing. "I want you, Rae."
I shuddered.
"I want you badly. But. . ."
I eyed him. "But?"
He licked his lips. "If you find that when we get to my suite. . .you realize that you’re not ready, I will understand. I mean. . ."
He chuckled. "I may run into the bathroom and splash my body with cold water, but I will understand."
The tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding melted away at his words.
My stomach tightened, but this time, it wasn’t just lust. It was this rising affection for him.
Fabien wasn’t just trying to get me into bed. He was careful with me, reading me, making sure I felt safe in this moment of reckless indulgence.
I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Thank you."
His lips quirked. "You waited ten years. You’re not the sort of woman who jumps into one-night stands."
"True."
He sighed. "However. . ."
I raised a brow. "However?"
His lips brushed against my temple. “You’ll find that once I have you in my bed. . .that ten-year wait will make a lot of sense.”
“Mmmm.”
"Let’s just hope that I don’t kidnap you in the morning and sneak you into Paris."
A laugh bubbled from my throat, further keeping me comfortable.
Yet, there was still a tiny bit of nervousness from what could come next.
Holy shit. I’m really about to do this.
Chapter eleven
The Art of Worship
Fabien
In France, we have a saying—l’instant décisif—the decisive moment.
It is the moment where it all matters, where fate balances on the edge of a blade, where time slows, and you either seize the opportunity or watch it slip through your fingers.
Henri Cartier-Bresson, a French photographer, coined the phrase, believing that in every story, in every life, there is one moment that shapes everything after it.
A single second where everything aligns—light, emotion, motion—and if you capture it, you own something timeless.
I never thought I would have a moment like that.
Not in my line of work.
Not in my life.
Yet tonight, this is my moment.
And what’s more unbelievable. . .it refuses to end.
Because I have stumbled upon a goddess.
An American goddess with dark brown eyes that threaten to unravel me, full lips I could worship for years, and curves that could have toppled kingdoms in centuries past.
And what do the men in this country do with such a woman?
They let her roam free.
Unclaimed.
Unworshipped.
Ridiculous.
In France, she wouldn’t have lasted a week in celibacy.
Not untouched.
Not sleeping alone.