Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,30

world. It’s as undeserved as it is addicting.

I shake her hand. It’s soft and warm in mine, and even though there’s no loud music to blame this on, I pull her closer as I reply. “Truce.”

“Truce,” she murmurs. My eyes drop toward her lips and then the expanse of skin down her arms, and through my hazy, wine-addled mind, I recognize something. She’s cold.

“You didn’t bring a jacket.”

“No,” she murmurs, her hand slipping from mine.

I shrug out of my thin leather jacket and hand it to her. She accepts, fingers curving over mine. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

We turn onto a bridge spanning the river, wooden beams beneath our feet and lights glittering across the water. My jacket hangs over her shoulders.

I clear my throat. “This bridge used to be where couples put love locks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Used to be?”

I nod, pointing to a panel of plexiglass. “It got too heavy. The mayor decided to cut them all down.”

Ivy’s smile turns wistful. “That’s a shame. Well, perhaps you don’t think that. You probably think it was touristy.”

“I don’t like that I’m so predictable to you.”

She laughs, slowing to a halt on the bridge. “Only sometimes. You didn’t think it was romantic at all?”

“Mmm. Perhaps a bit.” I step closer, unable to resist. “Although, I suspect most who did it were only doing so because it was a thing to do.”

She nods. “So it would only have been romantic if you’d have been the first to do it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” she murmurs. “You like it when I challenge you.” Behind her, the Seine glitters with reflecting lights, as age-old bridges and riverbanks are illuminated. It’s a beautiful sight. It’s Paris.

But I can’t tear my gaze away from Ivy, from the smile on her face. It’s innocent and teasing at the same time, like she’s offering me something that she knows she shouldn’t be.

A mistake we need to make.

“It’s growing on me,” I admit.

She sways closer, a strand of blonde hair curving over her cheek. My hand aches to smooth it back. “Thank you for showing me Paris today.”

“Do you feel like you’ve had the full experience?” I reach up to smooth the piece of hair back. My finger doesn’t stop, though, running down the soft skin of her cheek.

Her eyes are wide, but not afraid. “Almost. I suppose there’s one thing I technically haven’t done that was on the list.”

“It was on a list?”

“Yes. You see, my sister made me add…”

“Add what?”

A blush creeps up her cheeks. “Well, they call it the city of love.”

“Do they? I hadn’t heard.” I rest my fingers on her neck, using my thumb to turn her head up toward me. She’s the perfect height for me.

“It’s one of those tourist things,” she breathes.

“Explains why I don’t know it.” I run my thumb over her full bottom lip. Disconnect the part of my brain that tells me this is a bad idea. “Let me guess, then.”

“Okay.”

“You want to be kissed in Paris.” I can hear the roughness in my voice. Does she, too?

“To gain the full experience, yes.” Her hands come up to rest on my chest. Can she feel how my heart is beating?

My other hand finds her waist, curling around it. “I can help with that.”

“Good,” she murmurs.

Her eyes flutter closed as I close the distance between us, the most beautiful image I’ll never be able to capture on camera. It’ll have to be stored in my mind instead, but stored it will be, because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget how Ivy Hart looks under the Parisian moonlight, standing on a bridge with her face turned up for me to kiss.

I ghost my lips over hers gently, once, twice, almost not kissing. Drawing out the anticipation. Her fingers curl into fists in the fabric of my shirt.

I put us both out of our misery and kiss her fully.

I’d planned on maintaining self-control, on this being a soft, tentative kiss, one to remember. Kissed in Paris, the memory.

But this kiss has a mind of its own, or perhaps my lips do, because soft and tentative are the last two words applicable here.

I flick my tongue along her lips and she opens to me, tasting warm and sweet and just faintly like whatever drink she’d just had. My grip on her tightens, as if this sensation might float away if I don’t hold on.

And Ivy, dear God… her arms twine around my neck in a surrender that feels complete, and so trusting. My left hand