Forbidden French
: Part 2 – Chapter 33

I’m sitting in the center of a booth in Bar 717, sandwiched between Heath and Collette and their friends. Everyone is talking, but I’m staring at the door, a nervous wreck. I dumped the last half of my second drink and switched to water the moment Alexander warned me Emmett might be on his way. My leg bounces underneath the table, and Collette shoots me an odd look.

“You okay?”

Absolutely not.

Time has a new meaning. Each second feels like eons, and when Emmett finally walks into the bar, I feel like I might pass out.

Just as I suspected, his entrance is quite the ordeal. I swear the volume of the music dips slightly. Gravity bends in his direction. He has us all ensnared as he stands near the door, scanning the room. It’s an eerie thing to watch a predator at work, to endure the gut-clenching fear of knowing you’re the one they’re seeking. I force down a hard swallow and wet my lips.

He’s wearing what I now realize is his signature look: black suit; black button-up shirt, unbuttoned at the neck; silver watch glinting on his wrist. Inky dark hair and a harsh glare. The devil called—he wants his wardrobe back.

When he finally spots me, Collette’s leaning in to tell me something, talking right against the shell of my ear so I can hear her over the music, but it’s no use. I’m not listening. Emmett has my attention.

My stomach twists as he takes his first step in my direction. He doesn’t waver in his pursuit, even as people try to talk to him.

He has a face like thunder as he watches Heath put his arm around the back of the booth, skimming his fingers along my bare shoulder.

It’s intentional, I know. Heath sees Emmett walking toward us. He hears the chorus of greetings.

“Emmett!”

“Emmett, you made it!”

“Pull up a chair. Or, here, we can all scoot in.”

Heath doesn’t move his hand, but he does lean over the table just as Emmett arrives at our booth, ensuring Emmett can hear his goading tone.

“Nice of you to show…I’ve been keeping your fiancée company.”

Emmett doesn’t even look at him. His dark gaze captures mine.

Pissed is an understatement.

He holds up his hand, waving his pointer finger and middle finger in a universal gesture for, Come here.

I don’t move.

I’m not sure he understands what’s going on, but I know he got my note. I’ve called it off. You’re free. I don’t belong to him. He can’t beckon me like a dog.

But even if I’m willing to stand my ground, the others aren’t. These are Emmett’s loyal subjects, after all. The people to the left of me start scooting out of the booth, clearing the way for me, Collette included. How annoyingly helpful of them. I give Emmett a dirty look and start to slide out. Everyone watches me. I’m surprised no one throws out teasing barbs. It feels like my daddy has come to collect me from a party, like I’m about to be dragged home and grounded for weeks.

I slip out of the booth, stand, and straighten my regrettably short dress. Nerves threaten to win out. The urge to keep my gaze on the ground, to bow my shoulders and shy away from this confrontation is strong, but I’ve always been a wallflower. Tonight is a chance to be bold for once. So, rather than brushing past Emmett with my face half-hidden behind my long hair, I walk right up to him, meeting his surly expression with a menacing one of my own.

God, it feels good.

“Did you need something?”

He takes me in slowly. Too slowly. His arrogant gaze rakes down my body. I can feel it as clearly as if he were skimming his fingers across my skin.

“I’ve been hunting for you all over the city.”

I hum, sounding bored.

“Have you?”

There’re a few seconds of silent standoff, and then he reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair off my face. I go perfectly still as he continues to curve the back of his finger down my jawline and beneath my chin, lifting it up to expose my neck. Then a little higher still, and my back arches.

Once he has me like that, his eyes fall down my chest to my cleavage, then lower. I’m too aware of every breath, of the rise and fall of my chest. It’s like he’s inspecting a luxury good, deciding if he’ll pluck it off the store shelf or not.

I wrench my chin away and narrow my gaze.

He’s not the least bit bothered by my show of defiance. In fact, I think he likes it.

“What do you want?” I hiss.

His eyes are all too teasing when he replies, “A word.”

Not here. Everyone at the table is watching us, I’m sure of it. We’re far too conspicuous. Even with everything else going on at the party, we’re the main attraction. Emmett draws attention by merely existing; I’d rather not be a spectacle if I can help it.

I walk away, first around the side of the crowd, away from the booth, and then inspiration strikes when I see a pair of heavy black velvet drapes, sectioning off a corner of the club. Though it looks off limits, I dip behind the drapes, and to my relief, no one tries to stop me. I realize immediately why no one’s guarding the space: it’s just a dead end into a supply corner. There are boxes of empty alcohol bottles waiting to be recycled, crates of clean glassware, folded linens.

Emmett’s on my heels. He steps behind the drapes and then deftly unhooks one of the panels from its tieback so it falls, mostly concealing us from the rest of the party.

I turn toward him and fight back a gulp. He’s a real monster in the dark now. Playing at bravery in a crowded bar is one thing; having to contend with Emmett in private is far more dangerous.

Adrenaline has all my hairs standing on end. My hands tremble at my sides.

I should swerve around him and leave. That would get my message across once and for all. God, I can almost imagine the visceral pleasure of getting to devastate him the way he’s devastated me time and time again.

But I can’t do it.

I have traitorous blood. It makes it so I want him, always. I stand weak before him as he steps toward me, a shadowed scary figure.

“Should I compliment you on your dress? It’s fucking obscene.”

His challenge makes it slightly easier to stand my ground.

I tut-tut like he once did to me. “Language.”

His eyes spark and then he leans in to be sure I hear him. “Vous êtes très baisable.”

A decadent shiver rolls down my spine.

“Is that better?” he asks me.

“I don’t speak French,” I say icily.

He smiles deviously. “Should I translate for you?”

I swallow and shake my head.

I force my gaze over his shoulder, acting as if there’s someone more interesting in the crowd behind him. “Don’t bother. In fact, unless you have something you need to talk to me about—”

He steps forward, blocking the party from view, shrouding me in darkness. Then he bends his head, towering over me. “You thought you’d confess your love on Christmas Eve then run and hide like always? The little mouse, the quiet girl…I’m not buying it anymore.”

I try to swallow past my nerves. “I’m not hiding. Didn’t you get my note? I’ve called off the engagement. It’s over.”

He dips down further, very nearly pressing his lips to mine. “Non. It’s barely begun.”

Fire ignites in me so suddenly I press my hand to his shirt, just beneath his neck so it’s easy to push him away.

“Of all the ridiculous things you could say…I suppose you suddenly replace it convenient to want me? It’s that easy?”

He presses into my hand, staying close. “Don’t make me sound so flippant. Neither of us was being honest before, now were we?”

I try to push him away again, harder this time, but he doesn’t move. “I don’t want to talk about the engagement. It’s done. You could have married me. You had the chance. Instead you fought tooth and nail against it. I don’t believe your feelings have changed.”

He flattens his hand over mine, ensuring my palm stays on his chest. “You have one part correct. I fought to make a choice of my own volition, yes, and I won’t apologize for that. But you were never the issue. My feelings haven’t changed one bit. I always wanted you.”

I let out a short, caustic laugh. “Oh, is that right? Is that why you went around town dating other women these last few months? To prove how much you wanted me?”

“I never dated anyone.”

His nonchalant tone enrages me even more.

I lean in, spitting angry. “Don’t lie to me. I sat and listened to the gossip day after day. The rumors only grew worse. You and some breathtaking blonde at a bar, at a museum, at dinner. You wanted me so badly…” I laugh like I replace it absolutely absurd.

“Fuck the rumors. I admit I was attempting to toy with my father, buck his control whichever way I could, but I’d like you to listen when I say, I was never dating anyone. I haven’t slept with anyone—haven’t even kissed anyone, in fact—in months. Though…that doesn’t include a certain night in Italy. Do you recall?”

His taunt nearly makes me see red.

“We’re not talking about Italy.”

“No, why would we? You let me crawl up on top of you and cage you in against those wooden boards. Your pouty lips were so willing to part for me.”

I hate that my stomach swoops with the headiness of his words.

“You told me you would never marry. Said you don’t believe in it.”

“Yes, and then…you.”

He says it so swiftly, like his mind has been made up for decades.

Me.

The gravity of his declaration makes my head spin.

He doesn’t give me time to recover before he continues, “You told me a truth the other night about your infatuation with me, so I’ll do the same. I replace you intoxicating, beautiful…addicting. I was intrigued by you when you were a child, though now, the feeling is less wholesome, you see. I replace I’d very much like to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” My voice sounds pleading rather than stern, and I hate myself for it.

“You’re already blushing.”

“Because I can imagine where your sick head is going.”

His gaze takes on a new desperation before he replies, “I am sick, Lainey.”

And with that he tips his head down to kiss me—once, quickly—making me rise up on my tiptoes, falling toward him as he breaks it off. He likes me having to beg. He does it again, a kiss softly pressed against my lips, a mere taste when what I need is never-ending indulgence, a ceaseless barrage.

My hand changes its agenda. I’m no longer pushing him away; I’m gripping the lapel of his jacket with every ounce of strength I have.

Impatience sparks inside me. I’m about to lift my head toward his again, but I barely manage to stop myself. I sway with indecision. There’s a withdrawn pause as our gazes meet. A silent, heavy question lingers in the air.

Continue or turn back?

I wet my bottom lip as I consider the surrender and all its conditions.

Overwhelmed, I lean into the crook of his neck, deeper into the shadows.

Pure impulse takes over, words tumbling out of me before I’ve even fully considered them.

“Show me what it would be like…” I whisper against his hard jaw, leaving off the ending of my plea.

To be yours.

It’s a minor acquiescence. I’m hardly admitting defeat. Rather, a ceasefire. I think we both need it. Exhaustion has a chokehold on me, and maybe if he just gives me a reprieve from this constant wanting, I’ll have the strength to consider the proper decision.

His head dips down and he places a string of kisses along my jaw, up toward my ear. “Come back to my house.”

“No.”

That much I can’t allow. That line cannot be crossed.

“We’re in the back of a bar. The curtain is only half-closed.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s against the idea of continuing what we’ve begun; he’s merely stating the facts, getting consent, I suppose.

I loosen my grip on his lapel and slide my hand up and around his neck, tugging him back down to me. I love the size difference between us, his coiled muscles beneath my hand a reminder of how outmatched I am in this moment.

It goes without saying that I’ve never done anything like this, and he knows that. He knows by pressing me further behind the drape, he’s lifting me up and out of the mediocre sameness of the life I’ve lived for so long.

Anyone could look in and see, at least that’s the idea. In reality, though, it’s not so easy. The club is dark, this corner darker still, and Emmett is concealing me, ensuring it’s his back they’ll see if someone peers in, not his mouth meeting mine, hunger starting to win out against common sense. Not his hands sliding up from my hips and over my breasts, toying with each peak, making me whimper. Not my hands fisting his shirt, drawing up the material with no real goal in mind except to sate my need to touch him.

He takes more, tilting my head to the side, parting my lips so his tongue can meet mine. The way he makes me feel is almost enough to enrage me.

I let him slip his hand up beneath my short dress. It’s so little material for him to contend with and he’s so smooth at getting what he wants. My panties feel wet against his middle finger as he runs it along the seam, back and forth, teasing me. I shudder and he feels it, already trying to coax out more. It’s easy. I’m easy. Or perhaps not. These feelings have been pent up inside me for so long. Drawing them out shouldn’t be hard for him. Can he tell I would give him everything?

His ring finger joins his middle, running the length of my underwear, drawing circles over the most sensitive little spot so that my mouth pops open and I cry out.

He doesn’t shush me. He doesn’t seem to fucking care.

His fingers hook into the side of my panties and draw them aside. The silk was nice, but nothing compared to Emmett’s fingers. Thick, long, so so skilled at making me feel like I might shatter at any moment.

“This is what it will be like,” he says, all confidence as he kisses me roughly and then peels back to finish. “When you’re mine.”

It’s on that word that ownership seems to take full effect, because at that precise moment, he presses his fingers inside me.

A soundless gasp.

Eyes pressed shut.

Tiny tingles building up, up, up.

There is no stopping it.

Emmett had a hold on my life even when I was still a child at St. John’s, racing through the woods, trying to catch a glimpse of the French prince.

I love you.

It’s the thought I hold on to, cling to as he draws his fingers out then presses them back in, swirling his thumb where I need release. He lets me ride his hand in a cruel, savage way I shouldn’t like as much as I do.

His French words whispered against my lips are like drops of kerosene.

It’s so painful.

When I come, it doesn’t feel good so much as earth-shattering. For a brief moment, my world depends solely on him. My gravity, breath, life—they’re all his.