CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE ARSÈNE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ARSèNE

My phone is blowing up when I’m in the Uber on my way back to my apartment from the airport.

Christian: Something happened when I was away.

Arsène: I’m not helping you bury any bodies.

Christian: You think I’d ask you for something like that via text message? You think I’m that dumb?

Arsène: Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer for. What happened?

Christian: Arya took the spare keys for your apartment.

Arsène: I’m flattered, but she is not my type.

Christian: Winnie asked her for them, YOU MORON.

I will my heart to stop beating like a sledgehammer, but to no avail. The thought that Winnifred is in my apartment right now makes my pulse go haywire. I don’t even bother answering Christian. Just check the traffic app on my phone, which alerts me that, as usual, there’s a traffic jam from hell on my street.

I tap my foot against the car’s floor. Would it be an overreaction to bribe every single asshole in front of us to pull over and let us through?

When we get about five blocks from my apartment building, I tell the driver to stop and throw a wad of cash at him.

“You’re gonna walk the rest of the way?” he asks, surprised. “A little dangerous in the middle of the night .?.?.”

But I’m already out, running like a maniac. When I get to my building, the door to the stairway is locked. I swear, kick a trash can, and call the elevator. The wait takes forever. So does the ride up to my apartment. Then I get inside, and my living room is completely empty. Winnifred-free.

I scan the kitchen and living area, then move swiftly to my bedroom, where I find her sprawled on my bed, fast asleep. The view of her like this, alone, takes my breath away.

Torn between my need to wake her up and talk to her and her need to sleep off her exhaustion, the latter wins, and I crawl into bed, wrap my arms around her, bury my nose in her strawberry hair.

There’s no way I’m going to fall asleep. The adrenaline pumping in my veins alone can keep me awake well into next year. But just holding her is enough. After a few minutes of us lying still, I feel her stirring in my arms. A soft moan escapes her lips, and her hands circle around mine, pressing me harder against her.

“Hey, Mars?” she murmurs. “Tell me something interesting about the universe.”

I close my eyes, smiling into her hair. “There’s a planet made of diamonds. It is twice the size of planet Earth and is covered by graphite and diamonds.”

And, if given a chance, I would give you a ring with a diamond even bigger. If you say yes.

But, of course, Bumpkin is not Grace. She doesn’t care for expensive jewelry.

“I bet it’s beautiful,” she whispers. Shivers roll down my skin, and I kiss the side of her ear.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

She laces her fingers through mine and drags my hand up her chest. Her heart is beating like a drum, each thump thrusting into my palm. Mine.

She is not wearing a bra, and her nipple pebbles through her dress. My thumb massages her nipple soothingly, and my mouth clasps over the curve of her neck and shoulder. My cock is engorged, aching for her. She rolls on top of me and straddles my hips, staring down at me with unabashed hunger, and I cannot believe I’ve ever fucked a woman who wasn’t her. A person who didn’t look at me the way she does now. Like I’m her entire world. Her moon, her stars, the Milky Way, and the galaxies around it.

“Missed you, Bumpkin.” I let loose a vicious smile. She leans forward and shuts me up with a dirty kiss.

Blood roars in my veins. I unbuckle while she hikes up her dress. I tug her panties sideways and slide into her. She rides me, slow and tauntingly, our gaze never breaking.

“I thought you never allow women into your bed.” She bites my neck and rolls her hips, meeting me halfway, like she knows my body like the palm of her hand.

“What did you want me to say?” I groan out, my pleasure so acute I can barely breathe. “Sorry, you can’t get into my bedroom because I stole a giant poster of you from your workplace. PS, please don’t file a restraining order against me?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Become your stalker?” I thrust into her, staring deep into her eyes. I’m trying to concentrate on the conversation so I don’t blow my load after five minutes. “It was premeditated, believe it or not.”

She reaches to kiss me. “No. Take the poster.”

“So I’d always feel close to you.”

This pleases her, and she picks up the pace while I tug at the front of her dress, freeing those magnificent breasts. I pull her down by holding one button between my fingers, then suck on one of her nipples hungrily.

Her head drops to my shoulder. “Arsène.”

“Winnie.”

She stops. For a moment, I think something’s happened. She straightens her back, though I’m still inside her. I feel my pulse in my balls. My cock would scream if it could.

“What?” I ask.

“You called me Winnie.”

I smile. “It’s your name.”

“You never call me by my nickname. Other than that one time, you’ve only called me Winnifred or Bumpkin.”

In one swift movement, I flip her over on her back, pinning her underneath me, doing all of this without withdrawing from her once. I kiss the tip of her nose.

“That’s because everyone calls you that, and I always wanted you to remember me.”

She strokes my cheek. “There wasn’t one moment in time since Italy that I haven’t remembered you.”

I pound into her. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the air. It is brutal. It is hungry. It’s nothing like I’m used to. We’re in our own little bubble. I never want to leave.

She gasps, digging her nails into my back, like she is about to fall apart. I thrust into her, harder still, faster, almost manically. Because I have no guarantee that I will see her tomorrow. No one promised me this is hello and not a goodbye. We haven’t spoken yet, and the sense of urgency is seizing each of my bones in a choke hold.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she pants.

She arches beneath me, spasms around my cock, and suddenly, she feels hotter—much hotter—and my balls tighten as I come inside her.

When I collapse on top of her, we’re both sweaty and wasted. Two bags of useless limbs. So human, so mortal, it is almost laughable that what we shared right now was divine. When I pull away a little to give her some space—crushing to death the woman I love is not on my agenda—she looks confused and childlike.

“You okay?” I ask.

She presses her lips together. “That really depends on how our next conversation is going to go.”

After we take a shower together, we dress to the sound of the city waking up. Winnifred leans against the poster I stole of her, her arms pressed behind the small of her back. She is staring at me as I get dressed. It’s a small gesture, but I’m not used to being observed. I decide I like it.

“What if we can never have babies?” she blurts out into the room. The question echoes between the walls.

“Then we’ll never have babies.” I roll a sock up my foot. “Why must there be an if about it. Since when do babies determine the strength of a relationship, or lack of?”

“We may never be able to have biological babies.” Her eyes are shining in the blue-pinkish hue of dawn, like two diamonds. She is thinking about Paul. She is thinking about the disappointment, the pain, the betrayal. She is worried about history repeating itself.

“You mean, we’ll be able to spend our time traveling all over the world, making memories, living the high life, and fucking twenty-four seven? I’ll try to bear the burden of such a scenario.” I stand up, but I don’t make a move toward her. Not yet.

“Oh, be serious.” She stomps her foot on my granite floor.

“I am serious.” I smirk. “I don’t care if we never have children. Quote me on that.”

“Then again, we might have lots of children. Three, maybe four!” she says heatedly. “I like babies. I love children. And if we can adopt, I’d definitely want to. How would you feel about that?”

“Exhausted, I assume.” I dig my heels into the plush rug under the bed, making a point that nothing she says is going to make me run for the hills. “And excited. The house will always be full. I will never be bored. I do prefer children to full-size people, as a general rule. They’ve yet to surrender every part of their individuality in order to fit in, and they view the world through a fascinating prism.”

What I don’t say is that I’d love a do-over. A real family. A place of my own. That I think Winnifred will make an amazing mother—like Patrice—and that I want to see her have everything her heart desires.

She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Her walls are breaking. I can feel them tumbling down, brick by brick.

“We both had such toxic relationships,” she whispers, eyes still closed.

“Yes. And we’ve learned so much from them. This feels different. Grown up. Fully ripe. It feels like I dismantled something unsteady and built it back together, but better.”

She opens her eyes and licks her lips. “I’m sorry I bailed on The Seagull. It was wrong of me—”

“I don’t give half a shit about The Seagull,” I cut her off. “It was never about the play. Never about your commitment to it. Always about us.”

She digs her teeth into her lower lip, considering this. “Yeah. I guess so. You couldn’t wait to get rid of Calypso Hall, could you? How was London, by the way?”

I smile. This is what she wants to talk about right now? Classic Winnie.

“Beautiful. Cold. Gray. The restaurant was fantastic.” I pause for a moment. “But I couldn’t do it. Calypso Hall is still mine.”

She tilts her head sideways, staring at me funny. “It is?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well .?.?.” I take a step toward her. Check the temperature. She is standing still, not inviting me to come closer but not withdrawing from me either. “I did pour five hundred thousand into renovations and a complete refurbishment just a few weeks ago. They’re due to start working on it after The Seagull finishes.”

She cups her mouth, her eyes flaring. “You didn’t!” She stomps, so full of joy I can’t help but tip my head back and laugh.

“Did too.”

“But .?.?. why?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

“I was going to sell it to Archie Caldwell, an old friend of mine, if you can call him that. He wanted it for his wife, who is moving here and looking for a project to keep her entertained. Then I realized if everything goes according to my plan, maybe I will have a wife who would like to keep Calypso Hall for herself too. Besides, turns out I’m one sentimental little shit. My mother loved this theater, and .?.?. well, I loved her.

“Anyway, I didn’t want to make any drastic business moves without consulting you first.”

“Me?” She stubs her finger to her chest, raising her eyebrows.

“You.” A smile spreads across my lips.

“Your business is yours, not mine.” She shakes her head.

I laugh. “What’s mine is yours—as long as you’re mine. This is the deal. And I never make bad deals.”

“Why did you fly out to London in the first place?” She frowns, confused.

I wave a hand in her direction. “Archie compared the loss of his wife’s beloved dog to the death of Grace, so I wanted to dangle the carrot in his face before I told him personally he’d never have Calypso Hall.”

“You’re really terrible.” She bites down on her lower lip.

I sigh. “I know. Love me, anyway?” I grin hopefully.

When she doesn’t say anything, just stares, I walk toward her. “In case I haven’t made myself clear thus far, I’m not Paul. I’m not interested in a prenup. Or in a baby machine. Or in a woman who makes cookies for my colleagues. I want a partner. An equal. I want you to be exactly who you are.” I take another step, then another. Now I’m flush against her. Her body heat rolls into mine. She is pressed against her poster. The one I went to sleep in front of every night for months, imagining she was next to me. That we shared the same home. “And who you are is who I fell in love with,” I finish.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and rises on her toes to kiss me. I grunt into our kiss, wrapping my arms around her.

“I’m not going anywhere, Arsène Corbin. Whether you like it or not, I will always be your home. I will always wait for you, like the poster. I’m your family now.”

I believe her.