Chapter 1: A Paris Rooftop Confession
The champagne flute felt like a lie in Amy’s hand. Below, the soirée buzzed, a honeyed hum of French and English gossip swirling up the stairwell. She’d escaped. The rooftop air was cool, a relief against her flushed skin. Paris lay sprawled in the dusk, all muted grays and dreaming blues, but it felt like a painting she was no longer inside of.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Laurie’s voice, warm and sure, didn’t startle her. She’d felt him coming. He stepped into the space beside her, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. He smelled of cigar smoke, good wool, and the particular citrus-and-salt scent that was just him.
“It was getting stifling,” she said, not looking at him.
“It was.” He plucked the full glass from her fingers and set it on the broad stone balustrade. His hands, when they turned back, framed her face. They were warm, slightly rough. “Look at me, Amy.”
She did. His dark eyes were deadly serious, all the usual mischief burnt away, leaving something intense and frighteningly open. The city lights behind him haloed his messy curls.
“Everyone down there is talking about potential. About prospects.” He moved closer, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I don’t want a prospect. I want you. I have never, not for a single day since I found you here, loved anyone but you.”
Her breath hitched. It was the declaration she’d ached for, and it terrified her. “Laurie…”
“No.” His voice was a low rasp. “No more doubt. No more ghosts.” He leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers. “It’s always been you. I was just too blind and too much of a boy to see it. You’re all I see.”
Then he kissed her. It wasn’t like the tentative kisses in Nice, or the passionate, confused ones in his studio. This was a claiming. His mouth slanted over hers, insistent, drinking her in. He tasted of champagne and desperation. One hand slid from her face into her hair, dislodging pins, while the other arm banded around her back, crushing her against him. The wrought-iron railing dug into her spine.
She melted into it. For a moment, the whispering fear was drowned out by a wave of pure, shocking want. Her hands came up, clutching at the lapels of his jacket, holding on as he explored her mouth with a thorough, devastating focus. A small, helpless sound escaped her throat.
He tore his mouth from hers, breathing ragged. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I want to,” she whispered, her lips feeling swollen, her mind fuzzy.
“That’s not enough.” His kisses moved to her jaw, her throat, open-mouthed and hot. “I’ll make you believe me.” His hand left her hair, skimming down her side, over the silk of her gown. It found the curve of her hip, gripped it, pulled her even tighter against the hard line of his body. She could feel him, insistent through the layers of their clothing, and a flush of heat pooled low in her belly.
“Laurie, someone could come up—”
“Let them.” He found her mouth again, his tongue sweeping past her lips. His other hand was at the back of her neck, holding her steady for his kiss. He was everywhere, surrounding her. The careful composure she’d built in Paris, the polished artist’s detachment, shattered under the onslaught. Her fingers threaded into his curls, pulling him closer.
He walked her back until she was pressed between the cold iron and the furnace of his body. His leg slid between hers, a bold, intimate pressure. He rocked against her, and she gasped into his mouth. The friction was electric, blinding. All her dread, all her comparisons, burned away in the raw physicality of it.
“Touch me,” he growled against her lips. He took her hand and dragged it down from his chest, over the tense plane of his stomach, lower. He pressed her palm against the stiff bulge in his trousers. “Feel what you do to me. This is for you. Only ever for you.”
She flinched, not from disgust, but from the terrifying responsibility of it. This powerful, wanting thing was because of her. He saw the hesitation and misinterpreted it.
“Please, Amy.” His voice cracked. It was that break, that vulnerability beneath the passion, that undid her completely.
Her fingers tightened, exploring his length through the fine cloth. He groaned, a raw, shattered sound, and buried his face in her neck. “Christ. Yes.”
His hands were at her bodice, clever, frantic fingers seeking the fastenings. He fumbled with the hooks, swearing softly. “Damn these French fashions.”
“Here,” she breathed, guiding his hand. A series of small clicks, and the pressure on her chest released. He pushed the fabric down, her gown and corset cover, until the cool air hit her bare shoulders and the tops of her breasts. His gaze was hungry, worshipful.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. He bent his head, his mouth closing over the peak of her breast through the thin linen of her chemise. The wet heat, the suction, shot a bolt of pure lightning to her core. She cried out, her head falling back against the iron with a dull thud.
He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, his teeth scraping lightly, his tongue soothing. His hand gathered her skirts in fistfuls, dragging them up her legs. The night air kissed her stockinged calves, her thighs. Then his fingers were there, touching her through the damp silk of her drawers.
“So wet,” he murmured, his breath hot against her damp chemise. “For me.”
He hooked a finger into the slit of the undergarment, and then his skin was on hers. A direct, intimate touch that made her hips jerk. He stroked her, finding a rhythm that had her panting, chasing the sensation. He watched her face, his eyes dark with awe.
“I need to be inside you. Now.” It was a statement, rough with need.
He freed himself from his trousers, the length of him springing free, proud and urgent in the dim light. He pushed her drawers aside. The broad head of him nudged against her, and she was slick, ready, aching.
He didn’t ask. He drove into her in one deep, relentless thrust.
The feeling was one of exquisite, burning fullness. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t pain, but sheer overwhelming sensation. He was still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of control. Forehead resting against hers, his breath coming in ragged pants.
“Amy… God.”
Then he began to move. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding home, deep and sure. His pace was fierce, possessive. Each stroke rubbed a place inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. The metal railing groaned faintly with their rhythm. The sounds from the party below were gone, replaced by the slap of skin, their labored breathing, his low, guttural curses of encouragement.
“That’s it… take me… you feel like heaven… fuck, Amy…”
His filthy, adoring words in her ear pushed her higher. One hand remained tangled in her hair, the other gripped her thigh, hiking it higher around his hip, opening her wider. The angle changed, and the pressure became unbearable, a coil tightening in her belly.
“Laurie, I’m…” The sentence died. Her world fractured into pure, blinding sensation. A wave of pleasure crashed over her, wracking her body, drawing a sobbing cry from her throat that he swallowed with a desperate kiss.
Her climax tipped him over the edge. With a broken shout of her name, he plunged deep, his body shuddering as his own release flooded into her. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the railing, both of them slick with sweat and utterly spent.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, and the distant murmur of the city. The perfection of it was a physical ache in her chest.
Then, like ink bleeding into water, the dread returned.
He nuzzled her neck, pressing soft kisses there. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I choose you. Every day, I will choose you.”
Tears welled, hot and sudden. She clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder, as the thought crystallized with cold, brutal clarity.
It can’t last.
He’d see Jo again. The reality of home, of the past, would intrude. This rooftop, this moment, was a stolen dream. And she was already mourning its end, even as he held her, still nestled inside her, his heart hammering against hers. The happiest moment of her life was already shadowed, fragile as the champagne glass shimmering on the stone beside them.