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“Aren’tyou going to come for a swim?”
I open my eyes and take in the sight of the man hoisting himself out of the pool. Every inch of his bare skin glimmers with water droplets, clinging like dew to the hard edges of his sculpted torso.
The rays of the sun high in the cloudless sky warm my bikini-clad body as I enjoy what will be one of the last summer-like days now that September’s nearly over.
“The water’s beautiful.” He sucks in his lower lip as he rakes his gaze down my frame, heat flaming in his chestnut eyes.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve been together for five years now. He still looks at me like I’m the only person who matters. The only person in his universe.
“And miss watching the show?” I raise my sunglasses to ogle Tristan’s physique. Wet and muscular. Tan and solid. “Not a chance in hell.”
His eyes darken, the desire in his appreciative stare lighting me on fire.
It’s not the same as when Creed looked at me this way, but I’ve stopped comparing every man to him. I had to. Otherwise, I don’t know how I would have survived. I needed to distance myself from the constant reminders of everything I lost that summer.
For the past nine years, I’ve done exactly that.
Upon moving to Paris, I focused all my attention on studying the culinary arts.
But in the quiet of night, my thoughts always returned to Creed.
To his touch.
To his love.
It was torture to lie awake craving him. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’d dreamt he came to me, only to wake up to the reality that he could never be mine. If he ever was.
After months of restless nights, I knew I couldn’t keep living this way. Couldn’t continue loving a memory. Like my mother often said during her life…We can’t live in the present if we’re still held captive by the past.So I decided to leave the past behind me.
Even if that meant leaving Creed behind.
Enter Tristan Emerson Hughes.
It was as if the world knew he was exactly what I needed. And I like to think I’m what he needed, too.
The son of a former U.S. President, he knows how trying it can be to be part of a powerful family. The path that led him to Paris was similar to mine. His father hoped he’d follow in his footsteps and go into politics. But Tristan always hated everything about the American political machine, preferring to use the influence that came with his last name for good.
Much like me.
I think that’s why I was drawn to him. While what we share isn’t remotely as explosive or consuming as it was with Creed, I’m okay with that. Tristan was one of the first people to look at me and not see my title.
He sees a person. He seesme.
I can’t say with certainty Creed ever did.
It took me years to come to terms with the truth that it never would have worked between us, no matter how hard we fought for it. Not when we weren’t the only people in our relationship. From the beginning, the crown was there, too. If I’ve learned anything throughout my life, it’s that nothing is powerful enough to overcome the crown.
Not even love.
A deep chuckle rumbles from Tristan’s throat as he stalks toward me. Each step he takes causes my pulse to kick up, his eyes gleaming like a wolf on the hunt, dark with danger. Like the predator he is, he cages me against my lounge chair and settles between my legs. When I feel his hard length rub against my core, I don’t even care he’s dripping water all over me.
“Why watch when you can be part of the show, beautiful?” he croons in that subtle American drawl I find so incredibly sexy.
He presses his lips to mine, his kiss consuming me as I lose myself in him.
It’s been a while since we’ve been together like this without any distractions. Tristan’s spent the majority of the past several months on the set of his next big picture, hence why we agreed to get away to Saint-Tropez.
While he may come from a political powerhouse of a family, he chose a different path in life. After attending Yale, he headed out to California to try his hand at acting, something he’d grown interested in while earning the degree his father insisted he obtain. Now he’s one of the most popular actors in the world.
