Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(32)

He leans in and kisses me, softly at first; then his arms go behind my back, and he rubs the still-soapy loofah up and down, making me shiver. I ignore the pang in my stomach, as I’m sure he’s ignoring his, and we fall into that easy, heady rhythm our bodies know so well.

All the regret and disappointment wash down my body, swirling into the drain until it disappears.

For now.



It’s been two days since Olivier asked me to come to Paris with him.

Two days since I turned him down.

Two days of spending almost every hour in each other’s arms, within each other’s touch. Other than the time he had to jet off to Saint-Tropez for a meeting, we haven’t left each other’s side.

It’s like we’ve fused in some way I never thought possible.

That molecular level of connection that I was talking about before?

Yeah, well that was before we even slept together.

Now that we’ve been having sex constantly, it’s morphed into something else entirely. A symbiote? Who the fuck knows. All I know is that I have to leave him today, and every single part of my body, heart, and soul is screaming at me.

Telling me I’ve made the wrong decision—I should have agreed to stay.

Telling me that I’m harming myself if I go.

Telling me that my body actually belongs to his, like two magnets kept apart in separate drawers, inching up and up and up, trying to reach each other.

It’s crazy.

I know.

It hurts my brain to know I even feel this way, because it goes against every logical cell in my body.

This is not something that Sadie Reynolds feels.

And this is definitely not the way that the sane Sadie Reynolds behaves.

I’m the girl who lost her virginity to her best guy friend to get it over with.

I’m the girl who went out with Tom because he seemed like the most boring guy on the planet and, therefore, the least likely to break my heart or give me any surprises.

And I’m the girl who tossed all that hard-earned cynicism aside in order to have a fling with the hot, rich French guy who saved her life.

But this has turned into more than a one-night stand, and it has the chance to turn into something even more than that. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t have any delusions that if I went with him to Paris we would turn into something more than a vacation romance. He has his business and his life there; I have my life in Seattle: school, my mother, my dwindling bank account.

It’s just . . . I have a chance to keep this going. I have a chance to indulge myself in this man and everything he’s offering me. This doesn’t have to be goodbye.

And yet it will have to be goodbye at some point, so it might as well be now.

“Here you are,” Olivier says from behind me.

I’m standing at the railing on the deck and staring at the sea, the salty breeze tangling my air and invigorating my senses, making me second-guess everything.

I slowly turn to look at him. “You have a way of sneaking inside,” I tell him.

He walks through the door, his skin looking especially bronzed against the white curtains billowing behind him. With his reflective aviator sunglasses on—the Dumont brand, no doubt—he looks especially movie star-ish.

“Are you all packed?”

I nod and slowly walk toward him. I have one hell of a limp now, but at least I can put pressure on my foot. “It takes about two minutes to cram all my stuff in my backpack. At least it’s all freshly laundered now.”

He winces as he watches me walk and quickly rushes over, grabbing me. “Are you sure you don’t want to take your crutches?”

“Have you ever tried to wrangle crutches on a train? I haven’t. But it looks terribly awkward. I’ll be fine.”

His hand trails across my face. “But I won’t be. I’ll be unable to stop worrying about you. I’ll be unable to stop thinking about you.”

I manage a small smile, trying to mask this lump of wet sadness that’s crawling up my throat. His fingers coast along my jaw, holding my chin with a warm grip. I close my eyes. “I won’t be able to stop thinking about you either,” I tell him.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he says gruffly, and then he places a soft kiss on my lips.

I’m almost powerless against him—the feel of his grip against my skin, his lips and tongue moving softly against mine. He knows what he’s doing to me; he doesn’t have to beg or ask. He can persuade me just with his body and the way it calls to mine. Intimately, honestly, hungrily.

I pull away, breathless, my face all flushed and my knees weak, and it has nothing to do with my ankle. “I wish things were different.”

He sighs and runs his hand over his face before pulling at the back of his neck. “I do too. But we’ve spent nearly one week together here. Why go to Spain for another two? What’s there for you? Why are you running from me?”

“I’m not running from you,” I say, sounding more defensive than I mean to. I turn away and sit down on the lounge chair, the spotless fabric hot from the sun. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“I would go with you to Spain if I could, but I’m needed in Paris. Not just with the hotels—I could find someone to do my job for a while, but it’s the autumn season. My family needs me. And I need you.”