Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(35)

That makes him smile. “Sometimes I forget how eloquent you can be,” he says. “Perhaps I’ll miss that part the most. Your dirty, dirty mouth.”

“Oh, stop,” I tell him, pushing back on his hard chest. “It’s probably a good thing we part ways now, or else I’d turn you from a charming Frenchman into a foulmouthed sailor.”

“You know I can have a foul mouth on me,” he says, leaning in to take my earlobe between his teeth and tugging.

I let out a soft groan. I can’t help it. Even though we just had sex five minutes ago, I’m ready to go again already.

“Sorry,” he says with a wicked smile. “I know those ears of yours are one of your triggers.”

“Like more than an emotional trigger?” I joke, not that I mind my bunny nickname anymore.

“More like a sexual trigger. It’s too bad we didn’t have enough time for me to discover all the rest of them. I bet if I licked the inside of your knee, it might do the same thing. A little hard to reach, but we could make it work.”

I nearly shiver at the suggestion. “I think we should go before things get out of hand again.”

“Always the voice of reason,” he says. He leads me back into the room and then grabs my backpack just as I swing my cross-body purse over my shoulder. I’m almost out the door when something makes me pause and take a good look at this place. This room—this is where my other life began. This is where Sadie Reynolds was able to become someone else. Or maybe it’s like Olivier said, and I both became someone else and myself at the same time. Maybe that’s what it’s really about when you let yourself be free from everything that’s ever held you back.

I can feel heat tickling my nose, and I know I have to get out of here before I start crying.

Luckily, I don’t cry when we say goodbye to the famous hotel or while Olivier drives me to the Cannes train station. I should be staring out the window at the craggy mountains and the deep blue of the sea, the sea that has become a friend and constant companion for a week. I should be soaking it all in.

But I choose to take in Olivier instead.

Sure, I know he’ll live on in my memory, and anytime I want I can pull him up on the internet and ogle him, remembering the good times.

But it won’t be like it is now, with him right beside me. As real and mortal and flesh and blood as anything can be. Not a picture, not a memory, but a moment that I’m currently living, a moment I’m trying to stretch into infinity. A moment that I know will eventually disappear.

So I soak in the details: the gleam of his Dumont watch on his wrist; the fine, dark hairs that tease it; the large spread of his hands on the steering wheel, fingernails in tiny half-moons. The man must get manicures sometimes, because there’s no way anyone’s nails can look that nice naturally.

Then my eyes are drifting over the cords of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone, the way his skin glows against his white shirt.

Then the sharp planes of his features, that mouth that can get me off in two seconds flat, either by sucking my clit into oblivion or by letting loose a thousand dirty obscenities into my ears. The height of his strong cheekbones and the sexy swoop of his dark brows over his eyes.

It’s his eyes that I’ll have a hard time recalling.

The pictures don’t do them justice.

They don’t capture the way he looks at me. They don’t show the lust and the desire and the want and the need and the awe—the awe that I’m the most precious jewel on earth, found in a spot he never thought to look.

Even if they did, it wouldn’t compare.

And then, before I know it, we’re here, pulling up to the train station.

I didn’t have enough time, a voice screams inside me. That was over too fast, there wasn’t enough time.

Like a crazy person, I frantically try to stare at him one last time, as if that will finally cement his image into my head, as if that will keep him there forever.

But it’s too late.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, frowning as he looks me over.

I shake my head. “No. No, I mean, yeah. I’m fine, but . . .”

He swallows, looking pained. “I know. I know.”

And even though he doesn’t say it, I can still hear it in my head. Maybe it’s not his voice at all, maybe it’s mine.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

It takes a lot of effort to get out of the car, like my waterlogged heart is pulling me down to the ground and my legs and arms are filled with lead. The same goes for when we go inside the train station. I can’t even blame my ankle; it’s hard to just put one leg in front of the other and go.

Finally, we stop right beside the train. People are lining up, getting on board. It looks chaotic.

I turn to look at him. “I guess this is it.”

He nods at the compartment. “I’ll help you with your bag.”

“I’m fine, really,” I tell him, reaching for it.

He sighs and lifts it up, and I turn around so he can slip the straps over my arms.

It feels heavier than before. It’s funny, when you’re backpacking—and especially when you’ve been doing a stretch by yourself—your pack becomes a part of who you are. It’s a friend; it’s a pillow; it’s something to hug at night when you’re lonely.

But now, the pack feels different. Like it belonged to someone else other than me. Maybe it did.