8: Bolt Saga, Book 8 Read online

  I nod but still push out a soft huff. “I…I think you’re trying to. But do you? And don’t start with the chest thumping, Kong. I just mean…”

  “What?”

  “You are chest thumping.”

  “You see my hands anywhere near my fucking chest?”

  Deep breath in and then out—serving as a reminder of how deep his sex is still embedded in mine. “Maybe we need to continue this without being glued together with macaron cream.”

  With a roll of his eyes, he separates himself from me. With gentle swipes of the cloth napkins that accompanied the cookies, we clean ourselves up as best as possible. As I scooch back into my panties and straighten my skirt, he takes care of dumping the excess cookie mess at the galley.

  By the time he returns, I’ve got my skirt sorted out and tidied my hair a little, securing it into a bun at my nape. With at least an outward appearance of professionalism, I find the subject at hand a little easier to approach—despite him continuing his Kong-worthy glower.

  Another full inhalation as I face him, folding one of his hands between both of mine. “Let’s just look at the situation with open eyes, okay?” When I get his tight but acquiescing nod, I go on. “How many visits to Paris will this be for you?”

  Beneath my touch, his hand stiffens. His whole stature follows. “I don’t see how this—”

  “How many times?” I insist.

  His shoulders jerk, edging at a shrug. “I…don’t know. A dozen, I guess.”

  “And with just as many women, right?”

  “Emmalina.”

  “I’m not trying to rub your face in it. I’m just stating facts for what they are. You’re three years older than me but have seen thirty times as much of life.”

  His whole body turns the texture of an I-beam. “Because I’ve gotten on some planes and gone places?”

  “That’s part of it, yeah.”

  “So, essentially, my giant rubber band ball has more layers on it than yours.” He arches a brow, though his gaze is still nothing but steel and stone, so I still can’t tell if the line is an open attempt at levity or not. “Is that it?”

  “To be blunt?” I volley. “Yeah. And like I said before, it’s not a sulk or a complaint. Your life has been what it is, and mine—”

  My glib line is decimated into a conflicted groan from the moment he crashes his mouth on mine and then breaches me with his tongue. His possession is brutal and angry and invasive, and damn it, I love every moment—to the point that by the end, I’ve released his hand to grab on to his forearms, then his elbows, and then his massive shoulders. As he stays poised, persisting with the lock of his stare from less than an inch away, I remain a panting, needy mess.

  At last, he yanks at my waist—not to pull me closer but as some kind of reprimand. “You don’t get it, do you?” he rasps.

  “Get wh-what?”

  “You snapped the rubber bands, Emmalina.” His grip turns painful. His eyes become the texture of thunderheads. He dips back in to bite-kiss me. “Every single one of them.” As he starts rubbing his hands up my sides, over my hips and waist, he professes, “You disintegrated them all. Turned me into a pile of rubber shards. Something new. A person I’ve never been, trying to reformulate into a man who can be worthy of you. Who can know you and meet you on the same level to which you’ve elevated me.”

  With his hands sprawled over the sides of my rib cage, he aligns his gaze to mine. Our noses collide and our heartbeats thud against each other. “My angle’s the same as it ever was, woman. You’re not just my more. You’re my life. You’re my new. And that counts for everything, damn it. Every day, in every way. From waking up with you to kissing you good night in my arms…life isn’t just something I get through anymore. It’s something to be lived, to be fought for, to be strived for in all its best ways.”

  As he grips me with more insistence, I close my hands in from his shoulders, grabbing hold of the thick, messy, dark-brown strands that play at the edges of his collar. “And you’re succeeding,” I tell him. “You’re giving life your best, and it shows. And I feel it.”

  A substantial breath moves through him. “If you do, then you already know, deep in your heart…you’re all my rubber bands, Emma. The rest are nothing but shreds at my feet—and now I’m laying them at yours.” His face is steel and solidity; his energy is commitment and intensity. “You’re my everything, Velvet. You’re my love.”

  I let him kiss me again. No. He takes over me. Rakes his marauding tongue and hot lips through me and across me until every breath I take is full of him, smoke and steel and strength, a consummation as searing and meaningful as what he’s just done to my body.

  And I’m toast.

  Burned toast.

  Charred beyond viability and blackened to the point where even butter isn’t going to work on livening me up. I’m probably a damn good core for a few rubber bands right now, but I can barely comprehend adding those to my charcoal brick of a psyche.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  Because joy is a long-burning heat.

  And this joy is the only force in the world I want or need right now.

  Here, in the clouds, it’s the sky in which I choose to fly. The firmament that welcomes me into one of the deepest sleeps I’ll ever enjoy.

  Because why think of dreaming when a girl is already living in a dream? Why fight the call of slumber when what’s waiting on the other side is just as perfect? Why be afraid of surrendering to the dark when complete safety is ensured by the arms of the man who’s just told you about being his life?

  Answer?

  You don’t.

  Thank God.

  REECE

  No more than a few minutes after she falls asleep, I pass out too. We sleep like hibernating bears for the rest of the flight, cocooned beneath a few blankets Cosette has undoubtedly brought as soon as my snores started filling the cabin. But I can only guess it went down like that. I’ve been told, by a good many of the traveling partners to whom Em alluded, that booze on plane rides morphs me into Yogi Bear when it comes to snoring. Of course, I never polished off two glasses of champagne and then got any of them off using my laser fingers and a macaron before.

  Since that’s exactly the memory inundating my mind as Cosette wakes us up for the descent into Paris, I’m not shocked that I’ve got morning wood, the airline-ride version. Not that it diminishes my shit-eating grin by one millimeter. Without a doubt, this is the best transatlantic flight I’ve ever been on.

  The landing path for this flight takes us close to the heart of Paris, living up to its name in every dazzling way. The City of Light seems to have gotten the memo that Emma Crist is headed for town and has cranked its illumination settings to eleven on the one-to-ten scale just for her. Against a sparkling crisscross of gold and violet, all the cultural icons of the city are brightly lit, making them look like rare pieces of jewelry inside a vast treasure chest. Emma gasps every time she identifies a new one.

  “That’s the Pantheon, right? And Sacré-Coeur? And is that the Louvre Pyramid?”

  “Oui.” Even Cosette is enchanted by my woman’s excitement—though secretly, I’m sure even the native Frenchwoman doesn’t tire of this panorama. I notice as much while extending a small envelope her way.

  “Merci beaucoup,” I murmur, securing the gratuity against her palm. “For the service and the discretion.”

  The tiny blonde finally gives in to an authentic smile. “It is always a pleasure to help the cause of true love, monsieur.”

  I acknowledge her praise with a quick wink. “Even when it’s followed by close to eight hours of snoring?”

  Her forehead furrows. “But…there was no snoring, monsieur.”

  “None?”

  “Both of you seemed…well needing of the rest, n’est-ce pas?”

  I chuckle. “Yes. Of course.”

  At the window, Emma suddenly bounces again. “There it is!” she exclaims. “It’s sparkling. It’s sparkling!”

>   In response to my curious glance, Cosette explains, “The Tour d’Eiffel. They shut off all the main lights at midnight, but the ‘sparkle’ comes on one more time, at one o’clock a.m.”

  “I want to see it all.” Emma clasps my hand as I lean over and rest my chin against her shoulder, looking out over the sights with her.

  “And you shall.” I kiss her ear with the promise. “Perhaps we’ll walk some of it tonight since we can’t get into our place until around seven.”

  She swivels her head, blasting into me with a gaze threatening to out-sparkle even the lightshow below. “Our place?”

  “I didn’t want to check right into the Virage,” I explain. “My parents don’t appreciate being taken by their jugular. While my on-camera apology was a ball bounced the right direction, the play is now in their court—and they won’t want to be forced into making that move.” I stroke back and forth between her shoulder blades. “On top of that, I feel better knowing we have a fallback location—just in case what we learn about Tyce and Dad is the worst-case scenario.”

  “Sure. I get it.”

  And clearly, she does—only that doesn’t mean she’s pleased about it.

  “Games, games, games. Why doesn’t everyone just say what they mean and get the bullshit out of the way?”

  I slide my hand up, squeezing the back of her neck. “Well, we still have at least a day until the games begin again, so let’s enjoy the time.”

  The light on her face looks like it got another socket’s worth of boost. “Perfect plan, Kong. I’m not even tired.”

  “That’s why they call me King of the Jungle.”

  “Errrmmm…that’s Tarzan.”

  “Potayyyto, Potahhhto.” I weather her light smack at my cheek with another soft chortle until I’m snagged by the fresh crinkle of her nose and distress in her eyes.

  “Crap,” she mumbles. “Am I dressed all right?”

  “For now, yes,” I reply. “Though I’d suggest replacing the boots with some leggings and flats.” Though I can’t believe I’m saying that. Leggings mean tougher navigation to her lovely pussy, which I plan on giving the full assortment of French experiences as much as the rest of her. “Though part of today’s plans will have to include some shopping. I tossed in a little of everything into your overnight bag, but it won’t go far, and I’m not sure how long we’ll be here.”

  A happy little hum flows off of her lips. “Well, damn,” she mutters. “Twist my arm, mister.”

  I nuzzle into her neck. “With pleasure.”

  To that, I add a wide smile against her skin. She’s happy again, and that eases my nerves about all the unknowns about to come. But thanks to the sleep she’s gotten, along with the magic of the city below, she seems to have tucked away her rising insecurities from before, thank fuck. I won’t delude myself into thinking that my declarations made a lot of difference in her resolve. If I were Emma, I wouldn’t take credence in what I said either.

  You’re my everything. You’re all my rubber bands.

  Jesus.

  It’s so corny, I’m ready to mash it all up and roll hot dogs in it. And yeah, that might be the largest spoke in keeping my integrity wagon rolling here. Because, sure, I’ve followed the boyfriend handbook and been as honest as I can about everything she’s asked, including the painful truth about the faceless dozens who have been in her position before—on an airplane, descending into Paris with my lips at the back of their neck—though absolutely none of them got what she and I shared eight hours ago, in the aftermath of frosting and fucking. Or anything of the eight hours before that, preparing for a trip to hell, press conference style. Or the eight before that, in which I nearly turned my brother into a permanent part of the Griffith Observatory architecture for cornering her in the bathroom there.

  None of them have gotten even a fraction of what this woman has awakened in me, with or without the supercharge of my blood along to help, since the first night she came into my life—and changed my world.

  But she still doesn’t believe it. Not really.

  The only way to prove it to her is the same way we made it to this moment. With more time. With more magic. With more communication. With more connection. With more trust. With more proof.

  Which all sounds so easy—in my head. At several thousand feet over the earth. Without reality, in all its fucked-up glory, to interfere.

  But even if she won’t believe me directly, Emma believes in our love. I know it. I feel it. And now, I’m banking on it.

  Okay, not right now.

  But in about five hours it may be my only salvation.

  Chapter Three

  Emma

  Even in the very early hours of the morning—perhaps because of them—this city is everything I’ve dreamed of and more.

  Around every romantic curve in each street, in the carved stone alcoves and the wrought-iron filigrees, in the pristine black stanchions and the crisp striped awnings, are all the tiny touches that differentiate this place from any other on earth. In so many ways, I’m grateful for the chance to see it all like this, still and quiet, as if getting to watch a rare rose at the brink of blooming for the sun. The city, dating back to the Romans, is filled with so much beauty, I don’t want to miss any of it in the name of dodging cars and scooters and people.

  The visual ambiance is just the beginning of the Parisian spell. As Reece and I roam the cobblestoned streets, using only the river and the landmarks as our compass, we’re happy with the world and each other. Well, that’s how I choose to approach it. Though Reece has never been a Chatty Cathy for the sake of hearing himself talk, I force myself to recognize the unnatural length of his silences since we got here. And while I’m tempted to pry at what cat snagged his tongue, I also remember that a little over twelve hours ago, he was facing the media during the wildest “chat” of his life. Having to apologize to his father and brother, both of whom might be mixed up with the Consortium, had to be right up there with a rectal exam in his book—and that probably wasn’t the toughest part of this journey for him yet.

  Now, we’re waiting.

  And hoping.

  And banking on the success of his lies.

  All right, so they were white ones—but even back in LA, during the drive between the Brocade and the airport, I could tell that swallowing crow for the sake of mending fences with Lawson and Tyce wasn’t in his natural wheelhouse of topics to be dishing with the press—especially because he still feels justified in going caveman on Tyce. In his shoes, in those circumstances, I’m not sure I would have refrained from the same stunt.

  Water way under the bridge.

  These moments are for us.

  For walking and savoring and soaking everything up in the moment. For getting lost in the best city in the world to do that in. For watching the glow from streetlamps tango slowly through the trees, dancing to distant accordion and harmonica tunes from players down in Métro stations. For listening to bateaus call to each other on the Seine, their proprietors preparing for a busy day on the water. For watching the sky become an enchanting ombre because of the rising dawn, its peach and pink hues contrasting with the cobalt shadows still ruling over the streets and alleys. One by one, flares of neon flicker to life against the darkness, announcing another patisserie or café owner has arrived for their work day.

  In front of one of those shops, on the quai across from the Île de la Cité, Reece tugs me to an abrupt stop. I peer at him curiously—and to be honest, a bit impatiently. Just a block up the way is the famous Shakespeare & Company bookstore, akin to a Mecca pilgrimage for booklovers. Though the little shop is still hours away from opening, I’m looking forward to having him take my picture, nonexistent makeup and all, in front of the iconic green storefront with its mustard-yellow sign. But the aromas wafting out of the bakery are worthy of their own holy worship—though we’re shit out of luck on getting to do that too.

  Or are we?

  I stare harder at Reece as he cocks his head, perusing the
inside of the bakery. No, a person inside the bakery—a man I’d mistake as his brother had I not already met Chase and Tyce in LA two nights ago. God, it feels like two months ago…

  “You fucker!” The man throws open the front door, ringing an obnoxious bell over the jamb, before lunging at Reece and bro-hugging him like they’re a couple of linebackers who just won the Super Bowl. “Couldn’t believe it when I got your text.”

  “Yeah, well.” Reece shrugs, his face taken over by a grin I’ve never witnessed before. It’s the smile of a boy long since gone in chronological years but lurking deep down inside of the man all the same. And unbelievably, it adds a sexier new element to his rugged handsomeness. “Sneaked into town this time.”

  “No shit.” While the guy mutters it with his mouth, he travels his curious gaze over to me. “And I’d say the reason is well worth it.”

  “Hey.” Reece draws it out with long, semi-pissed emphasis. “Watch that shit, Connie.”

  A gasp escapes me as the man decks Reece in the arm—I mean, hard—on his way to taking up the space in front of me. He flashes a rogue’s grin that really could make him the long-lost Richards brother, highlighted even more by the contrast of his thick, dark stubble. His apron, smattered with flour, sugar, and an array of fruit jellies, is ineffective for hiding the strain of his biceps at the confines of his gray T-shirt. His timber-log thighs are matching strains beneath his white baker’s pants.

  “Hi,” he quips, waggling his brows. “Connor Barque. Reece the Piece and I went to prep school together. Or should I say, made the rounds of every prep school in New York together. But you probably know that, because I’m sure Mr. Richards has told you all about me by now. Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  But the guy’s only halfway down to kissing the back of my hand when he’s hauled back by his collar, recalcitrant puppy style, by my growling fiancé. “Not in a thousand years, you don’t,” he orders.

  “Holy fuck.” But Connor’s already laughing again.