Chapter 191

Chapter 191
Elena

When I finally pulled back, Étienne produced a handkerchief and gently wiped my tears.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "Not for this."

I managed a watery smile, then looked at the photograph again. "You remembered. You brought me here just for this."

"I thought about having a party," he admitted. "Inviting Chloé and your teammates. But then I realized that would be too much. Too loud. You'd spend the whole time managing everything instead of actually enjoying yourself."

Fresh tears threatened. I shook my head, overwhelmed. "This is perfect. Having you here—it's everything."

Something shifted in his expression, something vulnerable and raw. But instead of kissing me, he stepped back and moved toward the fireplace. From a cabinet he withdrew a small box wrapped in silver paper.

"I have something else for you," he said, uncertainty in his voice.

My hands shook as I took the box, as I peeled away the wrapping to reveal a velvet jewelry case. When I opened it, my breath caught.

A platinum necklace, delicate and beautiful. The pendant was a miniature ribbon—an artistic interpretation of my rhythmic gymnastics ribbon—captured mid-curl with such precision I could almost see it moving. Tiny diamonds were set along its length, catching the firelight.

"Étienne," I breathed.

"Turn around," he said softly.

I did, lifting my hair. I felt his fingers at my nape, cool and sure as he fastened the clasp, then the weight of the necklace settling against my collarbone. His fingertips lingered at the back of my neck, tracing my spine with a touch so light it might have been imagination.

"This necklace was custom-made," he murmured, breath warm against my ear. "There's only one like it in the entire world." He paused. "Just like you. Unique. Irreplaceable."

I turned to face him, one hand touching the pendant, and found him watching me with an intensity that stole my breath.

"I want one more gift," I heard myself say.

His eyebrows rose. "What kind of gift?"

I stepped closer until I could feel the heat from his body. My heart was pounding.

"Kiss me." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Not on the forehead. Not on the cheek. Not on my hand." I reached up and carefully removed his glasses, setting them aside. "Kiss me properly. Kiss me like you mean it."

For a long moment he just stared at me, desire warring with restraint behind his eyes. Then something in his expression shifted, hardened with resolve.

I didn't wait. I rose up on my toes and pressed my lips to his.

The kiss started gentle, tentative. His lips were warm and soft, moving with careful precision. But then his hand came up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and the kiss deepened into something that felt like falling and flying at the same time.

I pressed closer, eliminating any space between us, and felt the low sound he made in his throat. My fingers found his shirt buttons, working at them with clumsy urgency.

Then I felt his tongue trace my lips, requesting entry, and I opened for him without hesitation. The first touch sent electricity down my spine, and I made a sound I'd never heard myself make before—desperate and needy.

His hand tightened in my hair, angling my head deeper, and his other arm banded around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel every hard plane of his body, the rapid beat of his heart, the evidence of his desire.

Then he pulled back, breathing ragged, pupils blown wide. His hand moved to cup my face, thumb tracing my swollen lip.

"Elena," he said, my name a prayer and a warning.

But I was done with warnings. I caught his lower lip between my teeth, tugging gently, and felt the shudder that ran through him. Then his mouth was on mine again, harder, more demanding.

The kiss turned wild, desperate. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding up my ribs—and I arched into his touch, greedy for more.

Then his hands dropped to my thighs and he lifted me in one smooth motion, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. I gasped at the sudden shift, and he took advantage to deepen the kiss further.

His mouth left mine to trail along my jaw, down my throat, and I let my head fall back. When his lips found the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder, I couldn't hold back the moan, couldn't stop my hips from rolling against him.

"Étienne," I gasped. "Please—"

His teeth scraped my collarbone, just hard enough to make me shiver, and then he was sucking at the skin there, marking me. I could feel the slight sting, knew there would be a bruise tomorrow, and the thought made something hot pool in my belly.

But then he was pulling back, breathing harsh, and I whimpered at the loss. He carried me to the sofa and set me down gently, then dropped to his knees in front of me.

"Did I hurt you?" His voice was wrecked. "Was I too rough?"

I shook my head, unable to form words, my body still thrumming. "No," I finally managed. "It felt good. Really good. I just need—I need a minute."

Something flashed in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe relief—and he nodded, starting to pull back. But I wasn't done. My hands went to his shirt buttons, working them open.

His hand caught mine. "Elena—"

"I want to touch you," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "Please. Can I?"

For a long moment he just stared. Then, slowly, he released my hands and sat back, giving tacit permission.

I finished the buttons and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Then he was bare-chested before me, and I couldn't catch my breath.

He was beautiful. I'd known that, but seeing him like this in the firelight was something else entirely. My hands moved of their own accord, palms flattening against his chest, feeling the heat, the steady heartbeat. I traced his collarbone, then down over his pectorals, feeling his breath hitch.

"You're so warm," I murmured, fingers continuing their exploration. "I've wanted to do this for so long."

His hands covered mine, stilling them. "Elena, I'm trying very hard to maintain some control here."

I looked up at him through my lashes. "What if I don't want you to have control?"

The sound he made was between a laugh and a groan. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Lie down," I said softly. "Please. I want to hold you."

"Don't you want to eat first?" he asked, even as his body was already responding. "I prepared lunch. You must be hungry."

I shook my head. "I want this first. It's my birthday," I added with a small smile. "You have to indulge me."

That earned me a real smile, and he shifted to lie back on the sofa. I didn't hesitate, just curled into his side, draping myself across his chest, ear pressed over his heart.

His arms came around me immediately, one hand at my back while the other stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and just breathed him in—cedar and something clean—and felt tension I'd been carrying for weeks finally drain away.

"If you get hungry, tell me," he murmured. "I'll make you anything you want."

But I was already drifting, lulled by his warmth, his heartbeat, his breathing. The last thing I was aware of was the press of his lips against my temple and whispered words:

"Sleep, my love. I'll be right here when you wake."

And I believed him with every fiber of my being.