Enzo stretched his arm over me to open the door. And I reached toward him. Suddenly, his face was just inches from mine.
It was like a movie scene, like one of those romantic comedies that play on TV on Sundays.
A moment where time seemed to freeze, where we both knew what the other was thinking. We could extend the night. He could come upstairs with me, and we would make breakfast together the next day. As his lips approached mine, all my thoughts stopped for the first time since I woke up that morning. And, in the end, my lips met his. Or his met mine. However it was, his touch was gentle yet insistent, as if he was savouring every second, every breath, and I found my body melting under the heat of his touch. He tasted like mints and something I couldn’t quite place. The kiss deepened, growing more fervent, as if we were both trying to catch up on the time lost. His hand cradled my face, the warmth of his palm grounding me as our lips moved together before sliding down my breasts, his thumb brushing over my perked nipple.
Alright, maybe we didn’t need to go upstairs. The car was comfortable enough.
“Vera,” Enzo moaned into my lips.
The rough rasp in his voice was enough to send shivers down my spine.
I leaned back, giving him more space to manoeuvre, and his gaze met mine for a heartbeat. Lust clouded his dark embers, a delectable sight, paired with the puffiness of his lips, before slowly sliding the straps of my dress over my shoulders, just enough to reveal my breasts.
“I could watch you forever,” he groaned, but I couldn’t reply,for his mouth was on my left nipple before I could process his words.
A moan left my lips as his tongue brushed the tip once, twice, before his other hand began playing with my right breast. I felt my folds dampen with desire, and the words came out of my lips before I could stop them.
“I want you,” I said.
“You don’t need to beg twice,” he replied before capturing my lips between his once more. His hand kept going down until it reached the edge of my dress, lingering there, tracing the fabric above my thighs. “Or maybe you do…” he said, a grin forming against my lips.
A tame laugh rippled off me. “Oh, come on.”
Enzo’s lips travelled to my neck, sucking and licking and making my legs quiver. At the same time, he slid his fingers underneath my dress, caressing the lace of my panties, his breath hot against my neck.
A moan escaped my lips, and his fingers dug deeper, pressing against my clit.
“I’m not kidding,” he whispered. “If you want me to remove the fabric that separates your dripping pussy from my fingers, you’ll have to use your words, Vera.”
An image of his fingers deep inside me flooded my mind, the need to feel Enzo filling me, rocking into me as his lips played with my nipples, consuming me.
“Please,” I said, the word coming out thin as a moan. “I need you, Enzo.”
“Good,” he said, pushing the fabric to the side.
His thumb found my swollen clit as his index pressed against my opening, teasing once again. I let out a frustrated groan, and a laugh parted his lips.
“So impatient,” he said, but right as his fingers caressed my entrance once more, a harsh light flooded in through the window. Enzo pulled away, and I squinted, blinded, as I covered my breasts. It was so bright it felt like we’d been thrown under a spotlight, and I resisted the urge to hide under Enzo’s embrace.
“Vera?” a voice shouted from outside the car. “Thank God you’re back safely!” Mrs. Meng stood in the street, bundled up in a thick coat, pointing a flashlight at us. “Who are you, boy?” The light from her flashlight illuminated the back of the car. “And where is Regina?”
SATURDAY El Sábado, Le Samedi
Chapter 16
It had been 24 hours since I received the money and the fake grades. I had studied Julian’s case in detail. I knew what had happened to his clients, whom the police had managed to capture. I knew that a simple forgery, in any case, was enough to start an investigation at Saidi and at Cutnam. And that, after the investigation, the accused (me), guilty or not, would be left with no options.
My future was hanging by a thread.
Here’s what I did that Saturday morning: I woke up, splashed cold water on my face, realisedit hadn’t all been a dream, and muttered a series of profanities. Coffee followed, along with some paracetamol for the headache. I’m not built for drinking. Then, I searched for information about the Hawtrey-Moore family online. And I made a decision: I was going to speak with Laurent Dubois.
Eloïse had told me that her biological father had eyes everywhere. If a million had disappeared from the Club (who knows, maybe for the Dubois, a million pounds isn’t that much, but I’d say they should have noticed), he had to know. It had no choice but to find out.
But turns out getting an audience with a billionaire when you’re a nobody is as complicated as it seems.
Laurent Dubois is a 78-year-old Frenchman, flabby, bald, and, despite what anyone might imagine from those three traits, attractive.
He reminds me of Sean Connery. My mother spent her entire youth obsessed with his 007 movies, an obsession that, now that she has streaming services, has resurfaced. I’ve never understood the appeal. I like sinking into my sofa, revelling in cheesy rom-coms that might be cringeworthy by today’s standards, getting a thrill from low-budget slasher flicks with more fake blood than sense, and diving into fantasy worlds. I couldn’t care less about the film’s artistic merit or the critics’ opinions.
