I kiss her until she’s fucking breathless, and then I snap back, barely supporting her so she thinks I’m going to let her fall. But I don’t. I gather her up like a loving husband and swipe my thumb over her lips. Her stunned expression is laced with raw want.
I wink as I steady her and give a wave to the photographers. Taking Brooklyn’s arm, I steer her away, whispering low in her ear.
“See, sweetheart? I can fake it, too.”
Luka
Chapter 3
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I smooth my collar and run a hand through my hair, then mess with a couple stray locks at my temple that don’t want to stay in place.
Wearing all black, my outfit matches my mood. My slim-cut pants aren’t bespoke, but they look it. My dress shirt has a mid-high collar, and I’ve left the top few buttons undone to show some skin. Women love my exotic skin tone, and they can’t resist me in monochrome.
A gold Rolex, black Italian leather belt, and wedding band are my accessories. It’s hot outside and I’m not in the mood for fuss. I spray my cologne and slip a few condoms into my pocket, locked and loaded and ready for a good time.
I need to get rid of this tension between Brooklyn and me, and there’s only one guaranteed way I know how to do that. I’m going to get drunk, and I’m going to fuck. I don’t care which order they happen in. All I do care about is that by the end of this Parisian evening, I won’t remember my wife’s name.
As I meet my gaze in the glass again, I can’t deny that I’m being a complete and total bastard. This is low, even for me.
But right now, I couldn’t care less.
Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my wallet and cell and open the bedroom door. Brooklyn is curled up in the chair by the window, reading. Her legs are pulled lazily to the side, and she’s twirling a strand of that dark, lush hair around her dainty finger.
I soften my gaze, feigning disinterest. She looks over at me, then looks again. An immediate flash of hunger crosses her face. She shifts on the chair and sets down her e-reader.
Slowly, I pull at the cuff of my right sleeve and smooth the length of the fabric up and down my arm. She’s watching me, the lust growing darker in her eyes. Good. Let her want me. Let her wish I was going to be fucking her tonight and learn what real disappointment feels like.
“You look nice,” she says, and swings her feet to the floor, preparing to rise. “Where are we going?”
I almost laugh in her face. “We aren’t going anywhere. I am. You’re staying put.”
“But you said we couldn’t be seen alone—”
“I said you couldn’t be seen alone. I can do whatever I want. I know plenty about how to move around this city without drawing attention to myself.”
Her perfect pink lips drop apart. “You’re not serious…”
I ignore her dismay, striding to the door. “Don’t wait up.”
A soft sound of disbelief puffs from her mouth as I leave. In the hall, I pause to relish the satisfaction of knowing I’ve made her wonder what I’m up to. Oh, she’ll try and go back to reading her book. She might turn on the television, or scroll through her phone, but she won’t be able to concentrate on anything other than me for the next few hours.
Yet as I head down in the elevator, I realize I actually have no clear idea of where I’m going. I know of plenty of clubs around here, or I could Uber my way to the other side of the city. But despite my posturing, the reality is that there’s a pretty decent chance I’ll be recognized the moment I leave the hotel, just as we were on our walk the other day. And yeah, I still have my reputation to think about. Marrying Brooklyn was a tactic to strengthen my own public image, to an extent, but it was more about propping up Danica Rose’s PR status and making the company look good. Being photographed in Paris—on my honeymoon, no less—with another woman on my arm isn’t going to do the agency or the Zoric family any favors.
My eagerness dampens as I enter the lobby and realize there’s really nowhere I can safely go. Good thing I don’t give up easily. I make a sharp turn and head for the classy hotel bar. I can get drunk there and flirt with a fine piece of ass or two. More than flirt, if I play my cards right.
If I can just fuck Brooklyn out of my system, everything will be okay.
The room is long and lofty with low lighting and several areas of cozy, intimate seating that creates the perfect ambiance for slipping away with someone unnoticed. I choose a seat at the far side of the bar and tip a finger to the bartender. I ask for my drink in impeccable French, and within a few moments I have a perfectly aged whiskey sitting in front of me with the order to keep them coming.
The weight of the glass is a familiar, cool friend in my grip. My pulse picks up, my mouth tingling with the promise of the sweet taste. It’s going to burn before it soothes. It’s going to fill my mouth with sin and poison and the betrayal of the promise I made to myself not to use alcohol and sex as my crutches anymore.
I take a sip, closing my eyes against the heat as the amber liquid rolls over my tongue and slides down my throat. It’s welcoming all the way to my core. Now all I need to revive the old me is to bury my cock in some nameless woman’s cunt. I scan the room and see plenty of single females to choose from. A few meet my eyes with interest, and one starts to head toward me, but my gaze slides right over them. They’re hot enough, but I’m on a mission.
By the time I’m done with my second drink, my body has relaxed into the ambiance. Music that I don’t recognize filters through the air mixed with foreign conversations.
And then I spot her.
Dark braids spill over her bare shoulders. Huge, lifted breasts strain at the fabric of her tight black dress and her red lips contrast nicely with her warm brown skin. She’s alone. I watch nonchalantly for a few minutes. No one joins her, and she doesn’t check her phone as if waiting for someone. She looks like she’s having a good time all by herself, but judging by the way she keeps glancing around the room, she wouldn’t mind some company.
She’s probably a tourist, like me. Hopefully not also on her honeymoon. Though if she is, she’s in the bar alone, looking like a delicious snack—which signals she’s on the same level of careless debauchery that I am.
I signal the bartender for another drink, grab it, and make my way across the room. She’s just pulling out a chair to sit at a small table in the corner when I approach.
She spots me immediately, her brow quirking as she takes me in.
“Bonsoir,” I greet.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.” She laughs, shaking her head. Her voice has the hint of a southern accent. She points to herself. “No par-lay.”
“It means good evening,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen, a smile showing off perfect white teeth. She giggles again, in that bubblegum way I’m used to hearing from women trying to get my attention. “You’re American, too! How funny is that?”
My gaze drifts to her breasts and I swallow down the rest of my drink. She puts a hand on my arm and starts rattling on about some bus tour she took around the city, but I’m barely listening. Her bodycon dress doesn’t do much to hide the promise of what’s beneath. Shapely, tight, curvy. Nothing like Brooklyn’s yoga-toned muscles and mile-long legs. I clamp down on the comparison. I need to get as far away from my wife as possible.