Chapter 45 Paris Nights
The fire in the hotel suite was dying, the embers glowing a dull, angry red in the grate. The room service cart had been pushed into the hall. The world outside the heavy velvet curtains was silent.
I was standing by the fireplace, still wearing the robe. Tristan was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
He had just kissed me.
This kiss had been a statement. A declaration of intent. I want you. I’m going to take you.
But now, the silence was back.
"Why did you stop?" I asked. My voice was husky, unfamiliar to my own ears.
He looked up. His eyes were dark, almost black in the low light.
"Because I need to know," he said. "I need to know that this isn't just... Paris. That this isn't just the wine."
"It’s not the wine," I said.
"Then what is it?"
He stood up. He walked toward me. He didn't touch me, but he invaded my space, his presence looming over me like a storm cloud.
"Is it revenge?" he asked softly. "Is it pity? Or is it just... unfinished business?"
"It’s hate," I whispered.
He flinched. "Hate?"
"I hate you," I said, looking up into his eyes. "I hate that you hurt me. I hate that you didn't trust me. I hate that you let your sister destroy us."
I took a step closer, pressing my hand against his chest. His heart hammered against my palm.
"And I hate that even after all of that... I still burn for you."
He stared at me. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
"Show me," he growled.
He grabbed my hand. He pulled me against him. His grip was hard, bruising. There was no gentleness in him now. The charming date from the bistro was gone. The broken man from the hotel room was gone.
This was the Titan. This was the man who owned half the city. And he wanted to own me.
He kissed me. It was rough. Demanding. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming every inch of me.
I kissed him back with equal force. I bit his lip. I tangled my hands in his hair and pulled, needing to feel him, needing to hurt him, needing to consume him.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through my chest.
He spun me around. He pressed me against the wall next to the fireplace. The stone was cool against my back, but his body was a furnace against my front.
"You hate me?" he murmured against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Good. Hate me. Use it."
He ripped the belt of my robe. It fell to the floor.
He pushed the robe off my shoulders. It pooled at my feet.
I was naked underneath.
He stepped back. He looked at me. His gaze was a physical touch, traveling over my breasts, my stomach, my hips.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Mine."
"I’m not yours," I gasped.
"You are," he said. "You always were. Even when you were in Milan. Even when you were sleeping with other men."
"I didn't sleep with other men," I lied. Or maybe I didn't. Maybe those encounters hadn't counted because they weren't him.
"Liar."
He knelt in front of me. He spread my legs with his hands.
He looked up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire.
"I’m going to make you forget your own name," he promised.
He buried his face between my legs.
I cried out. My head fell back against the wall. My hands found his shoulders, gripping hard.
He was relentless. He used his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He knew exactly where to touch me, exactly how much pressure to apply. He knew my body better than I did. It was infuriating. It was ecstatic.
"Tristan," I panted. "Tristan, please."
He stopped. He stood up.
He looked down at me, his face flushed, his breathing ragged.
"Please what?" he asked. "Please stop? Or please fuck me?"
"Fuck me," I begged. "Just... do it."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He unbuckled his belt. He shoved his pants down.
He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He pressed me against the wall again.
And then he entered me. He was big, hard, filling me completely.
I gasped, digging my nails into his back.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I opened my eyes.
He was staring at me. His face was a mask of intense concentration, of raw need.
"Say it," he growled, thrusting into me. "Say you hate me."
"I hate you," I moaned.
He thrust again. Harder. Deeper.
"Say it again."
"I hate you!"
"Good."
He moved faster. The rhythm was punishing. My back scraped against the wall. My breath came in short, sharp gasps.
He was trying to conquer me, to mark me, to erase the last five years.
And I was letting him.
I was fighting back, meeting him thrust for thrust, matching his intensity. I wanted him to feel my anger. I wanted him to feel my pain.
"Minerva," he groaned, his voice cracking. "Minerva."
He buried his face in my neck. He bit me. Hard.
I screamed.
The pleasure crashed over me, a tidal wave of white-hot sensation that drowned out everything else. I shuddered against him, my body convulsing around his.
He followed me seconds later, shouting my name into the empty room.
He held me there, pinned against the wall, while we both came down.
His breathing was harsh against my ear. His heart was racing against mine.
Slowly, he lowered me to the floor.
My legs were shaking. I couldn't stand. I sank onto the rug in front of the fire.
He knelt beside me. He reached out to touch my face.
I slapped his hand away.
The anger was back.
"Don't," I said.
He froze. He looked at me, confusion and hurt warring in his eyes.
"Mina?"
"Don't touch me," I said, pulling the robe around myself. "Don't act like this fixes anything. Don't act like this means we're okay."
"I didn't say we were okay," he said quietly. "But we're real. This... this was real."
"This was hate," I said, standing up. My legs were still weak, but my resolve was iron. "This was five years of poison leaving the system."
I walked to the bedroom door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To sleep," I said. "In the bed. You take the couch."
"Mina..."
"The couch, Tristan," I said. "Or I leave. Right now. I'll walk to the airport if I have to."
He looked at me. He saw the bruise on my neck where he had bitten me. He saw the tears in my eyes that I refused to let fall.
He nodded.
"Okay," he said. "The couch."
I went into the bedroom. I closed the door.
I locked it.
I crawled into the big, empty bed. I curled into a ball.
And I cried.
Not because I hated him.
But because I had just realized that hating him felt exactly like loving him.