my memory. ‘You always look so beautiful, ma Rose. In a pretty dress on the stairs, on your knees full of me. Pressed up against a wall, your mouth wet, and clothes half undone.’ She shivers as I run my tongue across the rise of her chest, peeling away the remains of her dress until the round fullness of her breasts are revealed.
She is the picture of a modern-day Venus; no virtue and all want.
Her breath hitches as my thumbs trace the soft undersides of her breasts, the pads sliding up those heavenly slopes. She rolls in her bottom lip as she turns her cheek to the wall, refusing to give in to her sigh. But as her nipples tighten, and I brush my mouth over them, our movements suddenly become desperate, frantic. Wild. My jacket hits the floor, my tie pulled open, my shirt half unbuttoned as my fingers slide between her satin thighs. As her legs widen to accept my touch, I fill her with my fingers, again and again, her pleasure in the tenor of her cries and the sweetness coating my fingertips.
Without any real cognisance, I lift her from the floor, slam her down on my cock, and press my wet fingers into her mouth.
‘I want no one but you.’ I punctuate my words with my thrusts, desperate to fill her everywhere as her dark eyes silently beg. ‘You fill my thoughts. You fill my head. I have carved your name across my heart.’
Her body begins to jerk against me, the hot clasp of her unravelling as I hold her between the wall and my cock. Her entire body trembles against mine, pulses around mine, her fingernails digging into my shoulders as though to prevent her fall. But fall she does, the pitch of her cries frantic as I follow her. A bolt of white heat lances through me, almost wiping the strength from my legs as it blesses me with a moment of clarity. I want to protect her. Keep her. Make her whole. But I can’t do any of that without her owning a part of my soul.
Her dress lies across a chair, her shoes abandoned to another room somewhere, my own clothing discarded in a heap. We’ve fucked. We’ve made love. We’ve whispered promises and chanted prayers. We should be sleeping, yet we aren’t.
And I can’t get the image of Carson Hayes out of my head. His hand on her. It’s not just that he touched her. It’s the way he looked at her. The way he looked at me.
‘What did Hayes whisper to you in the bar?’ Though I keep my voice even as I ask, she still stiffens against me.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You’re a very bad liar, ma Rose.’ I run my fingers through her hair, as much for my reassurance as for hers. She sighs, settling her hand between my chest and her chin.
‘He said you’re as fake as the watch you wear.’ Her eyes don’t meet mine, though she traces the contour of my wrist above the leather. ‘I didn’t want to tell you.’ Her chest expands against mine with a deep inhale. ‘But your grandfather’s watch is apparently a fake.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’ She pushes up, her shock evident even through the tangle of her hair. She bats it away.
‘Of course.’ I bring her fingers to my lips, placing a kiss against her knuckles before smoothing the hair from her brow. ‘My mother’s family were successful merchants going back to when Monaco really began. But my grandfather wasn’t really motivated by money, so I’m told. Unlike me, I can hear you thinking.’ I pull a lock of her hair to accompany my teasing tone.
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘Money isn’t a motivator for me, you know. Not really.’
‘That’s because you have lots of it. Money motivates the poor. Power motivates the rich. ‘Besides, what’s not to like about being rich? It’s like being Batman. You get the car and all the gadgets, the ear of Gotham City’s mayor. You get to do what you want, be who you want, and then there’s the really cool suit. Only yours is custom made, and you don’t look like a toy in it.’
‘Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.’
‘You were telling me about your grandfather.’ Her smile is a cynical quirk; it’s time to move on.
‘Yes. I suppose he had a philosophy, though one that I didn’t really appreciate until I met you.’
‘You’re not going to tell me he was a time traveller, are