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Chapter 10
Zoe
I wake up to the smell of rose petals. Blinking, I sit up. My hands and feet are untied. The toys are gone. The sheet lies discarded at my feet. Maxime sits on the edge of the bed, still dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt from earlier.
He hands me a porcelain cup. “I brought you an infusion.”
I reach for the offering with mixed feelings. I’m thirsty and the tea smells delicious, but I don’t want to take anything from him, not after what he did. My body aches everywhere. Fighting an internal battle, I contemplate if I’m going to accept his peace offering. In the end, my dry throat wins. I take the cup from him and fold my palms around it.
“It’s not too hot,” he says. “I reckoned you’d be thirsty.”
Damn right. I give him a cutting look as I sip the brew. It’s become my favorite since he made me try it in Venice. It’s not only the herbal tea that makes the room smell of flowers. The scent is stronger than just the rose petal tea. My gaze falls on a small ornate glass container on the nightstand filled with golden liquid.
“Drink up,” he says, “and then lie down.”
I tense. “Why?”
“I need to take care of you.”
My tone is scathing. “Does your care involve ropes?”
He chuckles. “Only rose oil.”
I look at the bottle. “It smells good.”
“It’s pure. I had it brought in from Grasse this morning. It took forty-thousand roses to fill that little bottle, and I’m going to drench your body in it.”
I feel like slapping him. The only thing preventing me is the promise I made to myself and him not to ever do it again. “I’m angry with you.”
His lips quirk. “I’m sure you are. However, I bet you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Multiple orgasms? Who knew it could be such an effective method of torture?”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative.”
When he reaches for the cup, I gulp down the last of the tea. “What’s with this thing you have for roses, anyway?”
“You,” he says, taking the cup from my hand and leaving it on the nightstand.
“Me?”
“You always smell of roses.”
“I do?” I blink. “You noticed?”
“There’s not anything about you I don’t notice. Now lie down.”
Cautiously, I shift down the mattress. I’m still not sure I trust him not to inflict some other kind of punishment.
“Your lesson is over,” he says as if reading my mind.
I relax a little. I still have much to process after last night. I’m drowning in guilt when I think of Gautier’s mother. I’ll never trample on the enormous gift of his life by being ungrateful, but a small part of me wishes he hadn’t left me with this guilt. Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d let me take the bullets meant for me. Shame burns in my stomach for the thought. I’m alive thanks to him. The least I can do is honor him by living it as well as I can. I just have to figure out how to cope with the truth Maxime finally shared with me last night. The deceit is a bitter pill to swallow. I thought I couldn’t forgive him for cheating and lying about my admission into a top fashion design school, but this is so much worse. This betrayal goes even deeper. I hate him. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate that I care about him, and I hate that I need him even more. I hate what he’s doing to me, and I’m powerless to prevent it.
The very subject of my turbulent thoughts rubs his knuckles over my breast.
“Turn over.”
I don’t want to react, but I can’t stop it. The tip contracts. More shame churns in my stomach until acid pushes up in my throat.
“Turn over, Zoe,” he says in that sinful accent, his tone non-negotiable.
I turn onto my stomach. At least I can hide my face and his effect on me. A few cold drops dribble on my back. I suck in a breath. When he starts rubbing the oil into my skin with his big, warm hands, I almost forget to think. He finds every knot in my shoulders, every tense spot that aches because of last night’s strain, and takes his time to massage the hurt away. He moves down my back to my glutes, legs, and feet, and then my arms before finally massaging my scalp. I can’t help but succumb to how good it feels. Like everything Maxime does, he’s an expert at this, too. I’m all but melting into the mattress by the time he’s done, my body buzzing drunkenly on relaxation. I’ve only slept for a couple of hours, so I’m about to doze off when he clicks his tongue in disapproval and says, “I’m not done yet.”
The mattress dips as he lifts. I tense a little again, some of the agreeable fuzziness evaporating. Turning my head to the side, I watch him. He’s pulling the T-shirt over his head, exposing his powerful, scarred chest and broad shoulders. Holding my eyes, he pushes the tracksuit pants over his hips. I trace the deep line of the V that cuts to his groin and the semi-hard cock that hangs heavy between his legs.
