Page 42

FORTY-TWO

A Gown

Vivianne

The rest of the night unfolds in a haze of primal passion, a highlight reel of raw, uninhibited sex that leaves me exhilarated and spent.

Paul flips me to my knees; the soft fur beneath me contrasts sharply against his firm grip on my hair. He pulls my head back, claiming my mouth in a fierce, dominating kiss. His other hand explores my body, grasping, squeezing, and igniting waves of pleasure that crash through me.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, feral rumble. “Every inch of you.”

He takes me from behind, a powerful thrust that sends me cascading into another orgasm, my cries of ecstasy filling the room.

His rhythm is unyielding, each thrust driving me closer to the precipice. His grip on my hair tightens, the edge of pain amplifying the pleasure, sending me into a spiral of sensation.

“Too rough?” He checks in with me.

Never with him.

“No.” I gasp, my body trembling with need. “More.”

“You want more, ma chére ?” His voice is a low growl in my ear, uttering words that fuel my desire, pushing me over the edge into another climax.

“Yes.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yes!” My body shudders, my inner muscles clenching around him. He increases his pace, taking me with demanding possession, his body driven by primal need.

Later, he towers over me, his hand tangled in my hair as he guides my mouth to his cock. I look up at him, his eyes dark and hungry, his body taut with need.

“Open that beautiful mouth,” he commands, his voice hoarse with desire. “Take me deep.”

I obey, taking all of him, my mouth and throat working in harmony, my body aching with renewed desire. He throws his head back, a deep groan echoing through the room as he finds his release, his body pulsing, his grip on my hair easing.

But he’s not finished with me.

He pulls me to my feet, his mouth capturing mine in a searing kiss, his tongue exploring, claiming. He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the wall.

He presses me against it, his body pinning mine, his cock hard and ready again.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes raking over my body. “Marked by me. Claimed by me. Filled by me.”

He enters me, his thrusts powerful and unyielding, his body claiming, possessing. I scream his name, my body convulsing as another orgasm rips through me, my nails digging into his shoulders, my teeth marking his flesh.

“Fuck, ma chére ,” he groans, his body tense, his muscles coiled. “You feel so damn good. So tight. So mine.”

This night is different from our encounter in the cave. There, it was reverent, a sacred union. Here, it’s animalistic, a primal claiming.

He takes me again and again, on the fur, against the wall, bathed in the glow of the fire. My scalp is tender from his punishing grip on my hair. My jaw is sore from taking his cock, but I don’t care.

I crave him, all of him, the pleasure and the pain.

His body is wrapped around mine, his breath warm against my ear, his heart beating in sync with mine. Later, as we lie by the fire, his fingers trail over my skin.

“I’m sorry, ma chére ,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the bruises on my back. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Don’t be,” I whisper, my voice soft yet filled with conviction. “I’ve never had sex like that before, never experienced that kind of raw physicality. You took me to another place, another realm. The bruises…They’re worth it. They’re a reminder of where you took me, of how you made me feel.”

His eyes search mine, a mix of concern and desire swirling in their depths.

“You’re sure? I lost control. I was—feral.”

“You were glorious.” A small smile plays on my lips. “And I loved every second of it. The way you claimed me, the way you made me feel alive, truly alive, in a way I never have before. It was—transcendent.”

“Ah, then I’ll take transcendent.”

He captures my lips in a soft, tender kiss, a stark contrast to the wild, untamed passion of the night before. But it’s no less intense, no less powerful.

As we lie there, the fire burning low, the first light of dawn creeps in through the windows. The world outside is blanketed in fresh snow, the flakes drifting down in big, fat flurries.

The pristine, chilly white landscape is the complete opposite of the heated, passionate world we created inside.

Paul shifts behind me, his lips grazing my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. “I kept you up all night. You should get some rest. Today is—important.” His voice is low and husky, a sound that stirs something profound inside me, even after everything we shared.

I nod, though it takes a moment for reality to settle in. Today is the auction, the very reason I’m here. But the thought feels distant, like a shadow creeping back in after being chased away by the fire we ignited. A shiver of anticipation mingled with nerves runs through me but it’s nothing compared to the ache of wanting more time with him.

Paul rises from the fur, extending his hand to me. “Come. Let’s get you back to your room. You need to prepare.”

I take his hand, my body slow to move, reluctant to leave the warmth of his touch. For a moment, I forget why I’m even here, why any of this matters beyond him. Our time together makes everything else fade away—every worry, every plan. I could stay here forever, wrapped in him, lost in this chateau, where nothing but his hands and the heat between us exist.

“Everything you need should be in your room,” he says, his voice gentle yet firm.

I nod, a mix of emotions swirling within me. Excitement, nervousness, and a touch of sadness that our time together is, for now, ending.

Paul leans in, capturing my lips in one last lingering kiss. “Until later, ma chére ,” he murmurs, his voice filled with promise.

This night has been a revelation, a testament to our raw, primal connection. I’m lost in the wild, untamed world of Paul de Gaulle, a man ruled by his passion. It’s a world I never want to leave. But even this must end.

As I step into my room, the door closing softly behind me, I’m immediately greeted by the sight of my suitcases resting on my bed. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as the realization strikes me—Anthony must have known exactly what Paul and I were doing all night. Why else would he have placed my bags on the bed rather than at the foot, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be sleeping there?

Anthony left a note penned with elegant calligraphy flourishes, notifying me that Paul and I will depart shortly after three in the afternoon to drive down to Lac Léman.

I approach the bed, my fingers tracing the edges of my suitcases as I avoid my own gaze in the mirror. The heat in my cheeks intensifies, spreading down my neck and across my chest. The thought of Anthony, with his professional demeanor and polite smiles, knowing the intimate details of my night with Paul makes me feel uncomfortably exposed.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I’m a grown woman, capable of making my own choices and living my own life.

With a glance at the bags, it’s time to figure out what to wear tonight, but I don’t feel like moving and have no motivation to get ready. Exhaustion pulls at my bones.

I bring my hand to my neck and fiddle with the necklace still in place. As I did last night, I trace the delicate design, feeling more than seeing the intricate carving of the swan.

Agent Radcliffe said my stay in Paris would be at least a couple of weeks long, maybe longer. A diligent packer, I packed all the essentials into four large suitcases and one hanging dress bag.

What to wear to tonight’s event won’t be a problem.

I unzip the dress bag and carry it into the bathroom, where the adjoining walk-in closet waits. Whichever one I choose will need a bit of refreshing.

In my world, it’s easy to get caught up in the glitz and glamour, always trying to outshine the next in line. The more lace or encrusted gems, the better—or so some naive debutantes believe. I discovered that simple and understated items are often more of a showstopper than bedecking myself in jewels, which is one of the reasons I seldom wear jewelry.

My first choice is a black sequined gown. It has a high choker-style neck, is bare on the shoulders, and is open down the back. The fabric fits tight and hugs my natural curves. It would be perfect, except the high choke collar detracts from the swan cameo wrapped around my neck.

The next dress is a simple fall of layered fabric, varying shades of pink, deepening to a russet red at the bottom. The shimmering layers cascade down to the floor. This one has a higher back than the black dress but dares a plunging neckline and is fitted with a corseted waist.

It might best showcase the cameo, except the light pinks don’t match the iridescence of the mother of pearl in the cameo.

The ivory gown is my final choice. I bought it precisely for its clean lines and understated elegance. It goes against my usual preference for avoiding embedded jewels, but the tiny natural pearls flutter down the fabric in intricate whorls. They cross over my breasts, accentuating my bust line and narrow waist. The thigh-high slit hints at more than it reveals, making this dress the most comfortable to wear for a long night in heels.

Unlike the previous morning, when I rushed through my routine, I take my time and enjoy a little pampering. Filling the jetted tub with steaming water doesn’t take long, and I’m delighted to find lavender-scented bubble bath in the cabinet above. The fragrance wafts through the air, calming my frayed nerves as I pour it into the rising water.

I glance at Paul’s painting on the wall, staring at the impossibility of his innate talent. He said he never trained formally, but it’s hard to believe when his work matches the masters—flawless precision, yet something uniquely his.

Frosted glass covers the far wall of the bathroom, obscuring what I know must be a spectacular view. Snow still falls outside, heavier now than before, and I sigh, wishing I could watch it while soaking in the warmth.

I grab one of the romance paperbacks I packed, letting the tub fill slowly. When I return, the temperature is perfect, and I step in, settling against the smooth edge. My fingers graze a switch on the wall, and I flick it, expecting the jets to activate.

Instead, I squeak in surprise as the opacity of the glass wall disappears, revealing the majestic view of the Alps. Snow piles on the branches of the pines, causing them to droop under the weight.

I smile, sinking deeper into the hot water. I could imagine spending winters here, doing nothing but staring outside. The view in spring must be incredible—the grounds coming alive, shedding their white blanket, vibrant greens, and colorful flowers bursting forth. Unlike the riot of colors surrounding the Faulks estate, Paul’s chalet seems quieter, more understated, and yet, it suits him.

It takes a little longer to locate the button for the jets. By the time I do, the tub is nearly full, and I sink completely beneath the surface, the quiet rumble of the jets vibrating against my back, the bubbles dancing across my skin. I stay under until my lungs burn, then emerge, my head breaking the surface, savoring the warmth.

This—this—is why I’ll stay in my room. Not because Anthony wants me to, but because this little slice of heaven is too good to leave. Time loses meaning as I soak, twice draining and refilling the tub to keep the temperature just below scalding. The steam opens my pores while I lose myself in the pages of my book.

Eventually, my fingers wrinkle, my skin pruning from the water. I trade the tub for a shower, washing and conditioning my hair with the guest toiletries. Outside, the sun creeps across the snow, marking the passage of time. Hunger nags at my belly.

I make another trip to my suitcase, rummaging for my toiletries. Whoever packed my bag from the hotel did a fine job, though their organizational skills are questionable. Why put my makeup at the bottom of the suitcase? The first thing a woman needs after arriving at a new place is her toiletry kit.

Steam spills out of the bathroom, filling the room as I take off my robe, cooling my overheated skin. My hair is still a mess—wet, tangled—and I haven’t even started on my makeup. Another annoyance grips me as I search through each bag, hunting for the heels to match my dress. Why they weren’t all packed together remains a mystery.

I grab my purse and fish out my phone. Dead. More rummaging yields my charging cord. Plugging it in, I return to the bathroom, beginning the ritual of putting on my makeup and styling my hair. When I’m done, I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

My gaze drifts to the dress. I consider calling Anthony to help with any wrinkles, but to my surprise, the steam from my bath already refreshed it. Slipping into the gown, I move carefully, ensuring my makeup and hair remain flawless. The ivory satin hugs my curves, perfectly tailored to my measurements.

In a dress this tight, wearing anything beneath feels excessive. The ivory fabric matches the luster of the mother-of-pearl swan cameo perfectly. The bodice frames it like a work of art.

I strap on my heels and make another pass through the luggage, finding the matching clutch. My phone shows a charge of nearly halfway—good enough. I hesitate, debating whether to contact my father. A call will take longer than I have, and he hates texting, believing it’s poor manners. Then, Jacques’s business card catches my eye. I could avoid my father by texting his driver—no doubt Jacques will report back.

Sitting on the bed, I compose a text:

Viv: Good afternoon. I’m headed to Lac Léman. I will not require your services for the rest of the weekend. Please take the time and enjoy yourself.

I press send and wait.

Jacques: Miss Faulks, thank you for contacting me. I was concerned when you did not call and then quite beside myself when you checked out of the hotel.

Viv: I’m sorry to have worried you, but I’m quite all right.

Jacques: You must forgive me. I was going to notify the embassy and your father.

Viv: Oh, please tell him I’m fine. We decided to proceed to Lac Léman early. I was excited to have time to sightsee before the weekend’s events.

Jacques: Are you certain you’re well?

Viv: I am.

Jacques: Is that what I should tell your father?

For Christ’s sake. I forgot about my father’s code words. If I let Jacques say anything other than the predesignated code, all hell will break loose. Evidently, Jacques’s instructions are specific.

Viv: Tell my father, don’t forget to feed Pippa.

Pippa. I haven’t thought of her in years. She was the kitten my father gave me when I turned five—a tiny, furry bundle I adored instantly. A few weeks later, the sneezing, the wheezing, the itching started. Doctor visits revealed a severe allergy. My father took Pippa away despite my screams, protests, and tears. I called him “the worst father in the world.”

He insisted Pippa went to a good home, but I never forgave him. Years later, as a teenager, he used Pippa as a code phrase— “Don’t forget to feed Pippa” —so I could confirm I was safe without saying I was fine. It’s been a decade since I used it.

Jacques: I will pass along the message. If you require my services this weekend, I can provide them during your excursion.

Viv: That won’t be necessary. Monsieur de Gaulle has everything in hand, but thank you for offering to drive all this way. I hear the mountain passes are treacherous, and I would hate if anything happened to you. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll notify you of my return.

Jacques: As you wish.

With those obligations handled, I focus on what’s in front of me—food. My stomach growls in agreement. The breakfast tray Anthony brought remains untouched. I’m not much for breakfast, but missing lunch was a mistake, and now I’m starving.

Lifting the lid, I look at the options—choosing the toast and fruit. The eggs are cold, the oatmeal unappealing. The milk has likely soured. Orange juice will do. The light meal eases the hunger pangs.

Finally, it’s time to go. My hand trembles as I open the door, fear threading through me—will Paul approve of my choice of attire? Despite the pearls, the dress feels understated for an event like this. But I know, deep down, he’ll love it.