Chapter 200

Chapter 200
Elena

The cobblestones jarred through the car as Étienne navigated the narrow streets of the Marais, each bump a countdown to something I couldn't name but desperately wanted. I watched his hands on the wheel—precise, controlled, like everything he did—and felt my pulse kick up another notch.

"This is it," he said, pulling through an archway barely wide enough for the car. "My grandfather's house. Mine now."

The courtyard was small, enclosed by stone walls thick with ivy. A skeletal rose trellis climbed one side, bare branches reaching toward shuttered windows. The whole place felt suspended in time, untouched.

"No staff," he added, cutting the engine. The sudden silence felt loud. "No family. Just us."

Just us. The words settled in my chest like a vow.

Inside, the air smelled like old stone and beeswax. Tall windows let in bars of golden light, and I could see the furniture hadn't been moved in years—a worn velvet sofa, a long wooden table against one wall with delicate porcelain arranged on its surface.

I turned to look at him, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch.

I crossed the room and kissed him.

He made a sound low in his throat and his hands were immediately in my hair, kissing me back with none of the restraint he'd shown at the airport. This was what I'd been waiting for—seven and a half hours on a plane, the interminable drive from Charles de Gaulle, every second since I'd left him three days ago. This was him unguarded, and it made something crack open in my chest.

He walked me backward, his hands sliding to my waist, and I felt the edge of the table against my thighs. He lifted me onto it without breaking the kiss, and something clattered behind me—porcelain shattering, bright and sharp in the quiet.

Then another crash. And another.

I pulled back just enough to see the destruction: a blue-and-white cup in pieces on the floor, delicate vases reduced to shards, the whole arrangement swept aside by our bodies.

A breathless laugh escaped me. "You're destroying antiques."

His eyes were very dark, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "I don't care."

"Étienne—"

"I don't care," he repeated, and kissed me harder, his hands sliding up my sides with an urgency that made my head spin. The broken porcelain crunched under his shoes as he pressed closer, and I couldn't bring myself to care about anything except the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His tie was crooked, his hair messed where I'd run my fingers through it, color high on his cheekbones. I could feel him hard against my thigh, and the knowledge sent a rush of heat through me.

"When we get home," he said, voice low and strained, "I can do this until you tell me to stop."

Heat flooded through me. I swallowed hard, my hands still fisted in his shirt. "I won't tell you to stop."

His eyes darkened further, and the look he gave me was hot enough to make me shiver. His hand slid higher up my thigh, pushing my skirt up, and I felt his thumb brush against the edge of my underwear.

Then the doorbell rang.

We both froze. His hand was still on my thigh, my legs still wrapped around him. The bell rang again, and he made a sound that was definitely a curse.

"Stay here," he said, helping me down from the table.

I watched him walk to the door, adjusting himself discreetly and trying to look composed. When he opened it, I heard a familiar voice.

"Étienne, I—oh."

Isabelle stood in the doorway, and her eyes went wide as she took in the scene: Étienne's disheveled appearance, my flushed face and swollen lips, the shattered porcelain scattered across the floor.

Heat flooded my face. I watched comprehension dawn in her expression, saw her eyes dart between us, landing on the visible mark on Étienne's neck that I hadn't even realized I'd left.

"Mom," Étienne said, and I'd never heard him sound quite so off-balance.

"I..." She blinked, clearly trying to process. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd—" She stopped, taking in the broken porcelain again, the way his shirt had come partially untucked, the obvious bulge in his trousers he hadn't quite managed to hide. "But I see you're... occupied."

"We were just—" I started, but what could I possibly say?

"Having tea?" Isabelle suggested, and there was something in her voice—not quite amusement, but not disapproval either. "With very enthusiastic pouring techniques, apparently."

Étienne cleared his throat. "Mother—"

"I'll leave you to it," she said, already backing toward the door. Her eyes met mine briefly, and I saw something flicker there—understanding, maybe. "But Étienne, do try to be more careful with your grandfather's porcelain. Some of those pieces are irreplaceable."

"I'll have it cleaned up," he said stiffly.

"I'm sure you will." She paused at the door. "Take care of each other. And for heaven's sake, eat something before you—" She waved a hand vaguely. "Well. You're both adults."

And then she was gone.

The silence that followed felt enormous. I looked at Étienne, at the broken porcelain, and started laughing despite myself.

"She knows," I said unnecessarily.

"She's known," he replied. "Probably before we did."

He looked down at the shattered remains and shook his head. "I'll have someone come tomorrow." His eyes met mine, still dark with want. "Right now I want to take you to dinner. Like I promised."

"Barbecue?" I asked, though what I really wanted was to stay here and finish what we'd started.

"Barbecue," he confirmed, and held out his hand. "And then home."

The promise in his voice made my knees weak.

---

The restaurant was quiet, tucked away in the sixth arrondissement. Étienne had reserved a corner table, and we sat close enough that his thigh pressed against mine under the table.

I could barely focus on the food. Every time his hand brushed mine, every time he looked at me with those dark eyes, I felt heat pool low in my belly. By the time we finished, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

The drive back felt endless. Étienne drove with one hand, the other resting high on my thigh, his thumb tracing circles that made me squirm.

"Patience," he murmured, but I could hear the strain in his voice.

When we finally pulled into the garage, he cut the engine but didn't move. Just sat there, his hand still on my leg, breathing carefully controlled.

"Elena," he said. "If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back."

"I don't want to go back."

He studied my face, weighing something. Then he nodded, got out, came around to open my door.

The elevator ride up felt endless. We stood on opposite sides, not touching, but I could feel the tension crackling between us. When the doors opened, I followed him down the hallway, watched him unlock the door with hands that weren't quite steady.

Inside, he turned to face me. "Last chance," he said, his voice rough. "If you want to stop, tell me now."

I closed the distance between us and kissed him.

This time there were no interruptions. Just his hands in my hair, my back against the door, his body pressing into mine. I could feel how hard he was, and I rolled my hips against him deliberately.

He groaned into my mouth. "Bedroom. Now."

He lifted me and I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling him press right where I needed him. He stumbled slightly, caught himself against the wall, and I took advantage of the pause to bite his neck, hard enough to leave another mark.

"Fuck," he breathed, and his control cracked a little more.

When we reached his bedroom, he set me on the edge of the bed and pulled back just far enough to look at me. Moonlight filtered through the windows, turning everything silver. His eyes were almost black with desire.

"I love you," he said, and his voice shook. "I need you to know that. Before anything else."