Forget (36 page)

Yeah, he knows exactly, what we’re doing,
I think, but instead I say, “He’s outside smoking, and has death metal blaring loud enough for all of Montmartre to hear. He hasn’t got a clue.” I slide my free hands up the right side of her ribs, palming one plump tit underneath her cock tease of a shirt.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

Two fingers rub over a sweet spot inside of her. I can’t help but grin over the fact that only I can give her this. Her perfect cunt and I, we’re best fucking friends. “Fuck, you’re wet, and so tight, love.”

“Dylan, please . . .” She’s getting greedy. Her ass presses against my straining cock. I slide my fingers out, teasing over her lips, spreading her open. With restless hips, she grinds against my busy hand in response. Her moans increase in volume, damn near heard over the screeching metal Ari has blaring through the parlor.

Sliding my hands under her hips, I lift her knees onto the table.
Bloody hell,
I damn near come from the sight alone—Brooke leaning forward on her elbows, perfect ass in the air.

In two seconds flat, my cock is out and condom in place. “Christ, Brooke, your ass looks amazing raised up like this,” I grunt out, poised at her entrance. Gripping her waist, I ram into her and don’t stop until my hips slam hard against her ass.

Brooke screams out, her hands scratching at the table in search of something to grip.

“The cat’ll be out the bag real quick if you keep screaming like that,” I rasp, pulling out of her slowly.

She mutters something about not caring, moving her ass against me, and hips trying to coax my dick deep.

I bend over her back, mouth at her ear. “Did I hurt you, love?”

“No,” she pants. “But if you don’t start fucking me, I’ll fucking kill you.”

If I weren’t so consumed with the need to pin her to this tattoo table, I’d probably laugh at that remark. Biting her neck, I whisper against her skin, “Grip the table, Brooke.” Once her hands clasp the edges, I let go, lunging forward, and hitting the end of her so hard, it damn near jars her off the edge. Her head falls back, throaty moans spilling from her lips. Gripping her breasts, I drive into her, over and over again. Her sheath grips me tight and my balls tighten in response.

“Dylan, Dylan, Dylan,” she chants my name, begging for her release.

I close my eyes, the desperate need in her voice making me crazed. My thumb strums her clit, cock driving into her. Each thrust gets harder, deeper, and more erratic.

She screams as her head falls forward. Her pussy clenches and spasms around my cock. The feeling of her release pushes me over the edge. I rut mindlessly into her, coming so hard my vision goes hazy. My legs shake and I’m shouting almost as loud as her.
Almost.

It takes me a good five minutes before I can find the strength to stand. I walk into the adjoining bathroom, toss the condom in the trash, and grab a few paper towels. When I walk out, Brooke has only managed to move onto her back. Her eyes are glazed over, half-opened, and limbs hang lazily off the table.

“First a biter, and now, a screamer? And here I thought you were just a nice American girl, Brooke,” I tease, cleaning her up. I slide her shorts back on and she doesn’t budge an inch during the process. “Is it safe to say, you’re a fan of having your ass in the air while I fuck your brains out?”

“Meh,” she mutters, barely shrugging one shoulder, and mocking me in her signature Brooke fashion.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something, love? My ears are still ringing.”

She flips me off. Even fuck-drunk, the girl could be sassy as hell.

We’re in my flat, and Brooke’s gorgeous little body is curled into my side. She’s sound asleep beside me as I continue to read this mind-fuck of a book called
Memories of Suffocation.
I’m so invested in the story, and dying to know what happens to Sophia and Philippe. Jesse would say I’ve grown a pussy overnight.

I’ve been reading for hours, not able to put it down, and occasionally, try to wake Brooke up to ask her a question. It’s a wasted effort. The girl could sleep through a nuclear bomb. I’ve settled on sending her text messages to read when she wakes up.

I nudge her shoulder, whispering into her ear, “Brooke, seriously, what the hell? Why is Sophia going to dinner with her husband? Why is she agreeing to that?”

She groans, pulling the pillow over her head.

I lift up the corner of the pillow. “Babe, I need you to tell me nothing bad is going to happen at the dinner. For fuck’s sake, my pathetic heart can’t take it.” My anxiety level has reached epic heights. Her husband has found out that she’s in love with Philippe. Sophia is going to this huge dinner event and Phillippe will be there. Something terrible is going to happen, I just know it.

She wraps her arms around the pillow, damn near smothering herself. “Nuthin baa ill appen,” she mumbles.

I’m shaking my head, too afraid to turn the stupid page. There are only thirty pages left.
Thirty bloody pages.
I know it’s about to get ugly. “You’re lying to me. I know you’re lying to me.”

Slowly, the pillow is removed from her face. Her glare could light kindling. Hell, it might set me on fire. She picks her phone up off the nightstand, clicks it on to check the time and sighs grouchily. Within seconds, her pillow is smacking me repeatedly in the face. “It’s one in the morning! One in the motherfucking morning!” she shouts.

Apparently, sex isn’t the only that gets her F-bombs flying.

“Finish the book and then we’ll talk.”

And with that, she turns on her side and goes back to sleep.

At a little past two, I finish the book. I have been reading a fucking romance novel for the past five hours. Honestly, I don’t care. This book blew me away. The throat-grabbing beginning, the lies and deception that was unveiled in the middle, and then, the
ending.

That fucking ending!

It’s the most devastating end to a book I’ve ever read. It rocked my fictional world, and now, I’m left with a thousand unanswered questions.

“Hey, Brooke.” I nudge her side. “Wake up, Little Wing,” I whisper into her ear.

She groans. It’s a dramatic, I’m-gonna-beat-your-ass, kind of groan. Her furrowed brow portrays her annoyance perfectly. “Too loud. For fuck’s sake, you’re too loud.” Brooke’s tiny hand smacks against my face, pushing my head back.

I laugh, removing the violent limb that’s veiling my eyes. I watch her curl back into my side, purring like a small cat. She’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and I don’t even like cats.

“Seriously, you have to wake up.” I place my mouth close to her ear, almost touching her soft skin with my lips. I’m tempted, but it’s apparent that tired Brooke is not to be messed with.

She sends another exasperated groan my way. No words. Just groans and purrs.

The most ridiculous smile is plastered across my face. God, I’m smitten with this girl. Hell, smitten doesn’t scratch the surface of what I feel for her.

“I finished it. I finished
Memories of Suffocation,
” I admit quietly.

Brooke sits up, her hand mopping at her face in a lazy attempt to wipe away the sleepy expression. “You’re lying,” she mumbles.

“I’m not lying to you. I finished that fucking book, and now I have a million questions racing around in my head.”

Her eyes shoot open at my words. “You really read the entire book?”

“Yes, I had to know what was going to happen to Sophia and Philippe.”

“Were you pissed at the end?”

“Are you kidding me?!” I shout a little too loudly for this hour of the morning. “There are so many parts of that book that shocked the shit out of me. Her husband. The secrets he made her keep. The arrangement he had with his best friend. The fact that once everything was out in the open, Marco just let Sophia take the blame. He never told anyone the part he played in their marriage, the pregnancies. . . .
her affair!
And don’t even get me started on what Sophia does at the end!” Christ, just talking about this book is getting me amped up.

The sexiest little smile kisses Brooke’s mouth. Her eyes glimmer with satisfaction.

I love this woman.
Fuck. I really just thought those words, didn’t I?

No use denying it. I’m in love with her, completely fucking in love with her.

“I can’t believe you read it! Finally! Now, someone else will know what in the hell I’m talking about when I quote Francesca’s wise and powerful words.” Her gorgeous face beams.

IT’S WELL PAST THREE
in the morning. The normally bustling Paris is quiet, eerily so, yet this hint of whimsy seeps through its pores. Since sleep escapes us, my launch into midnight photo sessions has commenced. Dylan scours the dark streets, camera in one hand, and mine in the other. He doesn’t utilize a tripod, only relying on his small Nikon.

And his eyes are constantly searching for the perfect shot.

It’s just me, and a beautiful man with his camera, walking along the cobblestones and through the romantic squares while the rest of the city sleeps.

I made him bring the Polaroid and find myself enjoying the images I’m able to create. Some are of Paris, but most are of him—focused and intense. It reminds me of watching his band running through a song at Au Fait. He wasn’t there to perform. He was there to do work, tweaking their songs and making them better.

As we cross the Pont Neuf Bridge, there isn’t a soul to be seen. The Seine moves gently beneath us as if not to disturb anyone. Lights of Paris glimmer off the water in brilliant hues of yellows, golds, and blues.

“Shall we?” he asks, nodding towards a bench in the middle of the bridge.

“My legs could use a break. L.A. is more of a get in your car and drive kind of city,” I say, sitting down beside him.

“We might need to build up your stamina.” He waggles his brows. “But I have a feeling your tired legs have more to do with getting pinned to a tattoo table
and
the three orgasms you demanded from my tongue after dinner, than anything else.”

I ignore him, feigning interest in the plethora of Polaroids I’ve taken.

“You’re quite insatiable, Little Wing,” he adds, voice cocky and confident. “It’s my cock isn’t it? You’re kind of in love with it.”

Feeling mischievous, I say, “I can’t deny it’s what keeps me around. Your cock is probably your only redeeming quality . . . well, that and your clever tongue. I’m quite fond of that too.”

He tilts his head, eyes shining with humor. “Is that so?”

“Yep. Honestly, it’s a shame you didn’t get your cock out on the métro. I think I might have actually called you.”

He fights a smile. “In hindsight, I would have pulled it out and started jerking if it meant you would’ve called.”

“I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“What can I say? It just
comes
naturally with you.” He lifts me off the bench, pulling me into his lap. “Surely, you don’t just want me for my giant dick, Brooke.”

My nose crinkles. “Who said anything about giant?”

He flashes his “let’s be real” expression.

I grip his cheeks, pressing my lips softly to his. “Okay, maybe I lied a little.” I hold up two fingers, showing just how little. “Maybe there’s a lot I dig about you.”

“Maybe I already knew that.”

“Maybe I already knew, you knew that.”

“Maybe you should kiss me again,” he says, mouth whispering against mine.

So I do. We kiss for what seems like forever. Dylan’s arms are wrapped around me, holding me close. The kiss isn’t meant to escalate; it’s meant to savor, to prolong this time together.

In less than three days, I’ll be headed home. Less than seventy-two hours, and I have to make a decision on how I want to handle this thing between Dylan and me.

Our mouths slow until we’re simply sitting on the bench together, appreciating the soft silence of this Parisian summer night. An older man carries an easel onto the bridge. He walks a little past us and starts setting up his supplies—small canvas, paintbrushes, and paints. In no time at all, he loses himself in his art, and I find myself staring, fascinated.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” Dylan says.

He walks over to the man behind the easel, kindly interrupting him. They converse in French. Obviously, I have no idea what’s being said, but the man is smiling. He glances at me, nods his head enthusiastically, and hands Dylan a paintbrush and small white container. Dylan thanks him, and then heads back to our bench.