She arched her back, the silent invitation a plea, an encouragement, conveying her need in a way nothing else could.
Finally, he relinquished his grip on her wrists, but only so he had two hands free to bring to the button of her jeans. His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her tremble and then, slowly, devastatingly slowly, he pushed down her zipper.
His phone began to ring again; she could feel it reverberating against her thigh.
“Do you need to answer that?” She asked between hissed breaths.
“No. I’m going to throw the damned thing over the balcony,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the phone with a grimace, his thumb hovering over the power switch. But his frown was reflexive, so too the look of concern that crossed his features.
Desire and need thundered through her but there was the slightest whisper of reality too. His look said what no words could. Something was wrong.
“What is it?”
He kept a hand on her thigh, the intimate gesture strange now in the vacuum of their passion, as reality returned and Skye grappled with the fact they were really virtual strangers.
“It’s my grandmother,” he said after a beat. “She rarely calls.”
“Perhaps it’s about the photos of us last night.”
“Perhaps.” But his expression showed distraction.
“Answer it,” she urged. He obviously thought something was wrong, and given that he knew the situation better than she did, perhaps he was right.
“One moment.” He sent her a look of apology then stepped away, his absence like a bucket of cold water. He lifted the phone to his ear, speaking in rapid-fire French. It was clear from the crisp tone of his voice that something was indeed the matter.
She dressed quickly, her fingers shaking a little as she pushed her bra back into place then moved through the kitchen to retrieve her simple shirt, pulling it over her head. A circular mirror hung above a buffet table; she caught her reflection and grimaced—her hair was wild around her face, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips full and dark from his kisses, her nipples strained against her fabric: she was the image of someone who’d just been kissed into oblivion.
“My grandfather’s unconscious,” his graveled voice reached her. “We have to leave now.”
She nodded gently. “You go, Matthieu. I’ll stay here. It’s not the time to perpetuate this ruse, is it?”
His eyes tunneled into hers. “My grandmother has already seen the photographs. She knows of our engagement. She’ll think it strange if you don’t arrive with me.”
Skye’s eyes fluttered shut at that revelation. It wasn’t that she wanted to back out, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
“Can you pack quickly?”
“I didn’t even unpack,” she said with a short nod.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Their shared desire had disappeared completely, leaving only tension and business-like efficiency in its place. Minutes later, they were in a sleek limousine, being driven towards the office building they’d been in the day before. A short ride to the top and a stunning silver helicopter was waiting. Matthieu opened the front passenger door, waiting for her to get in before slamming it shut and coming around to take the pilot’s position. He reached across her, fastening a seatbelt in place, which brought his hand dangerously close to her sex again.
Desire sparked anew in her bloodstream; she had to look outside the window to avoid showing how turned on she was by him.
Matthieu didn’t notice. He flicked various switches and just a short while later, they were lifting up into the air, over Paris, and away from his place, and whatever madness had temporarily gripped them both. As he expertly navigated them towards the Loire, she couldn’t help thinking that she’d jumped out of the frying pan, and was heading south, into the fire…