Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(28)

The right thing to say.

“Your god?” I drive myself in deeper, and she lets out a moan.

“The only one.” She opens her lustful eyes to stare up at me, and for a moment I think she’s going to say something else. But then her head goes back into the pillow, and her eyes close, and she succumbs to the pleasure as I start to thrust in deeper, harder, like I can imprint myself on her this way.

Even as the pace of my hips quickens, I’m still in control, desperate to drive away the questions waiting for us on the other side. Beyond this hotel, beyond these sun-filled days with each other.

“Olivier,” she whispers roughly, lips at my ear. “I’m coming.”

A shudder rolls down my back, and I still myself, unable to keep going without losing it. Sweat pools between our overheated bodies, our hands gliding over each other, yearning to hold on. I am determined, but so is she.

I can’t hold back any longer.

I’m brought to the edge in an instant, and before I can even moan, I’m letting loose. I come so hard into her that the bed shakes and I lose all control. My world both widens into a million galaxies and shrinks until it’s only her. I’m calling her name, loud, grunting, letting loose powerful groans as this pleasure rips me apart. Her nails dig into my back, and she’s crying out breathlessly, swearing over and over. She pulses around me, and we both keep coming, like we’re unable or unwilling to stop.

But eventually our bodies can’t handle it. I collapse on top of her and bury my face in her neck, holding on to her limbs and trying to breathe, trying to keep her here in this bed with me, holding on to this moment until it turns into another moment and another moment.

Our lives are made up of nothing but moments.

But I want to live in every moment with her.



“Are you sure I can’t bring you back something?” I ask Sadie as I slip into my suit that Marcel has dropped off for me.

“What would you get me? I have everything,” she says lightly, gesturing to the room. She’s sitting on the rumpled bed in the fluffy, Egyptian cotton Dumont house robe that we supply all the guests (worth about $2,000, if you’re counting). Her foot is out in front of her on a pillow, though it’s no longer bandaged, and the swelling is almost completely gone. Is it wrong to mourn the moment when she’s fully healed, when she finds no reason to depend on me?

I’m being ridiculous, of course. Which, to be honest, is a new thing for me. I’ve gotten my dick sucked and come inside her more than enough times to consider her out of my system, but she’s only gotten more inside, slipped under my skin like some form of silk that bonds to your bones.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “I’ll bring you a surprise.”

She laughs, cocking a brow at me. “I don’t even know what that could mean coming from you.”

I leave her and head out of the villa toward the lobby to tell the front desk that I’ll be in Saint-Tropez if anyone calls. I wasn’t supposed to hang around in the area for more than a day, but, as luck has it, one of our investors is at his summer villa here and wants to meet. Saves him a trip up to Paris.

I’m striding through the tiled lobby, guests going to and fro and paying me no attention—probably because most of them are famous and don’t have a moment to think about anyone else—when suddenly I feel the air change.

It sounds fucking crazy. It always sounds fucking crazy, even when I try to explain it to myself, but that’s the truth.

The air becomes sharper, more acidic, as if an electrical storm is coming, the kind you know will ruin your bright and sunny day.

And there he is.

Without thinking I stop walking, pausing in the middle of the lobby, and my head swivels toward the corner near the elevators.

There he stands, in a rust red suit, white shirt unbuttoned, no tie, hair a mess, facial hair that could use a trim, especially above the lip.

My cousin Pascal Dumont.

His bright-blue eyes are fixed on me, like he’d been watching me for a while, maybe even as I left the villa—eyes that tell me they know everything, even the things about myself that I don’t know.

Eyes that aren’t kind.

They seem kind. They’re photogenic in their intensity and lapis color; they crinkle at the corners when he gives an easy smile; they’re often brimming with a million emotions, emotions you can take and make your own, turn into whatever makes you feel better about yourself.

But they aren’t kind.

He’s not kind.

And, of course, he’s not here by accident.

My throat already feels thick, wondering what the hell he could want.

The thing with Pascal is that he could want anything.

And for most of my life, I’ve been willing to give him anything.

To make up for the things that I’ve done.

The terrible things that I’ve done.

He gives me his crooked smile, no teeth, and nods, coming over in such a way that lets me know he’s been waiting a long time for this moment.

I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Maybe at the start of the summer at his mother’s birthday. I stopped by with Seraphine out of courtesy. Had some cake, and then we were gone.

We never stay long in that nest of vipers.

“Cousin,” Pascal says to me, stopping just a foot away. He has a way of making his words sound the way oil looks traveling through water, something snaking and insidious that permeates the good parts of you.