Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(46)

I grab him tighter, my nails digging in, and in the glimpse of his eyes behind the mask, I see something change. It scares me in the most delicious way. It’s like something inside him flipped, and he’s now in another place, one where he’s a wild animal and I’m his prey. His pace quickens, his hips firing like pistons, again and again, until I think either he’s going to break me in two or we’re going through the window.

What a sweet death that would be.

And then the orgasm is upon me, slinking up slowly from behind until I’m totally blindsided. It fires out from my core, spreading out in a wave of hedonistic lust until it obliterates me. I yell garbled words, holding him so tight I might be hurting him, but I don’t care. All I can feel is him, and my body responds in kind, jerking and quaking around him, barely hanging on.

He comes with rough grunts and a few final, powerful thrusts, like he’s actually trying to impale me, and even though the window holds, it still feels like we’re falling.

Falling, falling.

Into each other.

I collapse into his arms, not even able to keep my head up, my legs falling to the side like I’m a rag doll.

He grabs my waist and pulls me off the glass, turning me around and placing me on the immaculately made-up bed, then lies down beside me.

I open my eyes, trying to focus as he takes his mask off.

“Turns out, it was me all along,” he says by way of a joke.

But there’s some truth to what he says.

It was him all along.

All this time, all these years, I’ve been looking for someone who would set my world on fire and make me new again.

It was him all along.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

OLIVIER

“Going for the Phantom of the Opera look, are we?”

I glance at Blaise as I pass by him in the hallway. He’s been taking the invitations from the guests, and I’m surprised he didn’t badger me for one.

“You know, the Phantom doesn’t have a monopoly on white masks,” I point out and then gesture to Blaise’s own face, which is covered by a red velvet mask with golden sequins at the edges. “It looks like you stole that mask off a showgirl from the Moulin Rouge.”

“Very funny,” he says. “You know, the Phantom knew a thing about branding himself. Perhaps you should take some of that inspiration.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means the Olivier Dumont brand is nonexistent,” he says with a calm shrug, a look of disdain in his eyes as they rake over me. “Always the same, the typical billionaire hotelier playboy.”

“Better that than the guy who drives a fucking red Ferrari with a matching showgirl mask.”

“At least I’m known for something,” he says, and then his attention is torn away to a masked couple coming across the moat bridge with their invitations out.

Right. The moat.

You see, the ball is almost always held at one of the vineyards we own. We’ve had it at one of my hotels once or twice—actually, the H?tel Rouge Royale where I met Sadie the other night—but my father has always insisted that it’s more of a special event when it’s somewhere outside the city.

In this case, it’s far outside the city.

We’re at the Chateau la Tour Carnet winery, one of those that Renaud operates from afar, which is not only located all the way in Bordeaux but is in an actual castle. It’s a small castle, but a castle all the same, complete with a moat, a drawbridge, and groomed grounds filled with peacocks and swans. The peacocks are beautifully cared for, and there’s even a rare white one. The swans are evil creatures who love to terrorize any guests who wander from the back terrace.

On the first floor of the castle, there’s a medieval room filled with old knights’ armor, weapons, and rare books and tapestries, as well as a few other little rooms that have been transformed into coatrooms and champagne stations for the party. Upstairs, the long dining hall and music room have been transformed into the dance floor and main party areas, while the study and bedrooms are off-limits. Then there’s the kitchen, where numerous chefs and waiters are creating amuse-bouches and drinks, and a long spiral staircase to the very top, where guests love to lean out the windows and listen to the band assembled on the terrace below.

It’s extravagant, with every single inch of the castle transformed to celebrate the upcoming fashion week and the autumn launch—but, of course, everything is gaudy and luxurious in the fashion world. People have come from all over—from New York, London, and Dubai—all fighting to get an invite to this very famous, very exclusive event.

But there’s one guest who didn’t have to try at all.

Sadie Reynolds.

She’s not here, but I’ve been watching out for her like a hawk—one of the reasons I’m hanging around Blaise like I am. He doesn’t seem to be suspicious that I’m without a date, but he doesn’t exactly like having me around either.

“Olivier, can I have a word with you?” my father asks, appearing beside me.

He looks good: black suit, black mask. Very simple and traditional.

“Of course,” I tell him.

He starts to lead me away and says to Blaise over his shoulder, “Be extra vigilant tonight, Blaise. There were rumors of invites being sold on the black market.”

“Is that true?” I ask my father as we head out through the armor room and back doors to the terrace. The band is playing, and a few people are already dancing. It’s seven at night, but the sun is still out, and it’s hot, though cooler out here than it is inside. Being my father, he never once thought to add air-conditioning for the event. He’d think doing such a thing to a castle would be sacrilegious.