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I drag myself out of bed, taking a shower. A cold shower actually, because I at least tell myself that I'm not going to jack off to Valentina's pouty lips or her caramel taste. By the time I leave my shower, it's like I've gone nine rounds in a boxing ring for as much will power as it took for me not to succumb to my aching cock.
I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in my heartless eyes and wondering for the millionth time what the hell I’m doing to myself.
I could have sworn I’m not into masochism.
I pretend not to notice the extra time I take getting ready. Or the fact that I feel amped up with energy, despite the non-existent sleep I had last night. I also pretend not to notice the anticipation churning in my gut at the thought of seeing Valentina again.
When I'm ready, I check my phone, surprised for some reason to see a text from the temptress in question.
I can't wait to see you.
The simple expression wounds me. It burrows inside my skin, threatening to dismantle the cold exterior I've worked so hard to maintain.
I hate her.
And I love her.
And I wish I'd never answered the siren's call of her letter.
Reminding myself to be strong and telling myself that I'll say goodbye after this little field trip that I'm just doing for old time's sake, I head out of my hotel room, knowing that I'm going to be fifteen minutes early but unable to control myself.
She's dressed in blue today. It's my favorite color, and I wonder absentmindedly if she did It on purpose, the color just another weapon in her evil arsenal.
Her hair's also down today, my favorite way that she wears it. It's longer than it was as a teenager, almost reaching the perfect curve of her ass. The blue showcases the golden tone of her skin and eyes, making her look almost angelic.
I wonder what color she's wearing underneath her dress. I hate how desperately I want to find out. I grit my teeth and finally tear my gaze from her, hating myself for the moment of weakness.
She found me the second she stepped into the cafe, almost like she could sense me. Her golden gaze locked on mine, and I could have sworn for a moment that the whole world disappeared around us.
But then Logan and Quaid step through the doorway after her, unable to keep themselves from touching her, and the moment is broken.
I was reminded once again of the fact that I hadn't been enough for the one thing that I'd wanted for myself more than anything else. Finding that hard truth out at eighteen had been the nail in the coffin for my fucked up youth.
Looks like the burn is still there, even as an adult.
"This place is amazing," she sighs when their trio reaches the table I've somehow been able to finagle in the already crowded cafe.
"It's a tourist trap," I snap, hating the dejected look on her face.
I know why she wanted to go here. It had been in that stupid travel book. The first place we'd wanted to eat when we got to Paris.
And now here I am, ruining it for us.
"The pastries and cappuccinos are very good," I tell her conciliatorily, ignoring the way my heart leaps when her face visibly brightens. She gives me a slow smile, and it feels like I've jumped off a fucking cliff with how much my stomach is leaping at the sight of it.
A slim, blonde waitress comes to the table with a small pad to get our order. She's attractive, but she might as well be paint on the wall compared to Valentina's beauty.
Valentina gives her order, slaughtering the foreign words enough that I almost smile. Almost.
Quaid and Logan don't bother to hold back their grins. Logan in particular makes me want to throw up when he intentionally slaughters the words, even though I know for a fact when looking at his firm bio last night that Logan has become fluent in French over the last ten years.
Fucking prick.
The waitress eats it up, fluttering her eyelashes. I notice that Valentina's cheeks turn red, and I wonder if she's actually jealous.
I'm not sure how she's missed the fact that Logan and Quaid are prepared to kiss her feet if she asked.
The waitress puts her hand on my shoulder when she asks how I'd like my espresso, and a curl of satisfaction hits me as Valentina's gaze tracks the movement. She looks like she's about to jump across the table and rip the woman's hand off my shoulder. It seems like the French lack of personal space is working in my favor at the moment.
