Shangri-La Hotel, Paris

 

 

The eight-hour flight and six-hour time difference from Chicago to Paris placed Quentin and Phoebe in the middle of the afternoon on New Year’s Eve. Arriving at the Shangri-La Hotel, the couple was met with top-hatted doormen who jovially took their bags and showed them to their suite. Upon reaching the large rooftop terrace, Phoebe was taken away by the panoramic views of the Eiffel Tower. It sat immensely large and so close it seemed only a touch away.

“This is so beautiful,” she said, holding a hand over her heart at the breathtaking scenery.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Quentin said, approaching her from behind to wrap Phoebe in his arms.

“Surely, you’ve seen this view before to know it was here,” she said, still astonished by the sights of the metal structure.

“I wasn’t referring to the tower, my lady love.”

Quentin pushed a hot kiss against Phoebe’s cheek, and a tickle of warmth ran down her neck. Phoebe cranked her head up to peer at him through smitten eyes.

“Oh,” she said, flattered by his insinuation.

“Would you like to have lunch out here? The weather is calming enough that we could enjoy a meal without being rushed inside by the breeze.”

“Yeah, this is nothing like Chicago’s windy city.”

“Paris is a world away,” he said, pushing another kiss into her neck and trailing up to her ear.

Phoebe shivered from the heat of his mouth, and she turned full circle in his arms. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of your touch,” she quipped.

“Ever?” he asked.

Phoebe shook her head slowly. “Ever.”

Quentin held her tight and kissed her lips, filling her mouth with the caress of his soft tongue.

“Mmmm,” Phoebe said.

“Or we could skip lunch and…” Quentin implied.

Phoebe’s eyes rose with a flare of sensuality as his tongue continued to explore her mouth as if he’d never tasted her before.

“Or we could mix lunch with a little love in the afternoon before we go shopping.”

Pulling back, Quentin smiled. “Whaaaa,” he said, “Phoebe Alexandria Rose wants to spend money?”

Phoebe smiled delightedly. “Your money, silly, not mine.”

A deep thunderous laughed chortled from Quentin’s throat, sending a vibration wrecking Phoebe’s nervous system.

“Of course,” he drawled. “I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise,” he said, amused at her sass. “What are you in the mood for, sweetheart?”

“Hmm, something light maybe, veal ragout.”

“The lady knows her dishes,” Quentin said, twirling her underneath his arm as they strolled back into the opulence of the grand luxury hotel suite.

Veal ragout was the quintessential French cuisine. The mixture of veal stew meat and chopped parsley, tomato sauce, and finely chopped celery stalks made for a simple yet fulfilling dish.

Quentin strolled to the phone while Phoebe removed the coat she’d worn on the jet ride over. She peeled her heels off with her feet and sauntered to the bathroom. The cold marble floor comforted her warm toes as she slipped across the large lavatory to the sink. Taking an eye over her appearance to make sure her light foundation was still immaculate, Phoebe smiled, satisfied that the hustle from the airport to the hotel had kept her mane intact as well. She slipped a hand in her curls and decided right then that she would straighten her tresses for tonight. In order to do that she would have to make this shopping trip quick. It would be easy to get lost in the French malls and shopping centers, and although her celebrity stretched overseas, it was simple to hide in the sea of other famous faces, especially on a night like this.

Turning to the side to catch a glimpse of her waistline and derriere, Phoebe pursed her lips as she held in her belly and poked out her butt. It wasn’t as if she needed to lose weight, her curvy thighs and flat midsection sat with a perfect mixture of angles. But it didn’t stop her from wondering if she should shed a few pounds. Leaving the sanctuary, Phoebe sashayed back into the bedroom, padding across the plush carpet in search of Quentin. She found him with the French doors to the patio open setting the table with an intimate display of wine flutes, expensive china, and rose petals littering the surface. A bottle of champagne sat on ice, and a small golden box wrapped with a red gift bow sat on one side of the table.

Phoebe smiled inwardly and couldn’t help but wonder what was inside the present. Usually, whenever she was awarded a gift, Phoebe would hurry to open it, but at the moment, all she could focus on was the towering structure of Quentin’s tone build. His physique was so thoroughly ripped that the bulge in his arms waved through the cotton material of his sweater. As her eyes roamed over him, they took in the fitness of his broad chest, thin waist and taut ass. The jeans covering his magnificence kissed his muscled thighs, and Phoebe was sure the denim wouldn’t look as roguishly sexy on any other man the way it did on Quentin.

When she made it to his feet, Phoebe noticed he, too, had shed his shoes, opting to leave his pedicured feet bare as he worked around the table. A thought crossed her mind and she wondered how Quentin would feel if their feet mingled underneath the table. Phoebe bit her lip as a trace of heat saturated her thinking about the simple, yet intimate dance of their toes. Coming out of her reverie, Phoebe breathed a dreamy sigh and sauntered onto the balcony.

“For me?” she said, gaining a closer look at his arrangement.

“Oui, ma dulcinée,” he responded.

Phoebe raised a surprised brow. As long as she’d known Quentin, she’d never heard him speak another language. And although she and her sisters and brothers were fluent in several lingos, it didn’t cross Phoebe’s mind that Quentin would also pick up on some of their studies. It surprised and filled her with a deprivation that had nothing to do with food.

“You know, my lady love sounds so much better in French,” she said.

Quentin’s deep grumbling laughter seared her loins. She’d never felt so turned on and completely set on fire by another human until she neared Quentin. The mere fact that she’d attacked him early in the month at his gym, jumping into his arms like she was a freaky vixen was proof in itself that she had no control over the way her body responded to his imminence, or the way she vibrated from his touch. Or the way her pussy thumped when they kissed. The riveting energy was shocking to her core in the most splendid way.

Quentin pulled out her seat, and Phoebe sat down as he adjusted her chair against the table. A knock on the door sounded before Quentin could claim his seat, and it was just as well since, he knew it must have been room service.

“Good timing,” Quentin said when the door opened. “Follow me.”

The server pushed the cart inside and trailed Quentin across the massive expanse of the suite to the balcony where Phoebe waited patiently. One by one, the server removed the dish tops while announcing their food. Steam rose from the freshly prepared stew, and Phoebe’s stomach rumbled just looking at the cuisine.

“Thank you, sir,” Quentin said.

“Would you like me to set your tables, monsieur?” the server asked.

“I think I can take it from here,” Quentin responded.

“As you wish,” the server dipped his head into a slight bow and turned to Phoebe, “Mademoiselle,” greeting her and saying goodbye at the same time.

The server turned to leave the room, and Quentin followed him to the door. As the server crossed the threshold, Quentin offered him a fifty-dollar tip.

“For your troubles,” Quentin said.

“Ah, thank you, sir, but it’s no trouble at all, I aim to please.”

“Which we appreciate, have a good day.”

Returning to the balcony, it was now Quentin who watched Phoebe add their lunch to their china. “I would’ve taken care of that for you,” he said, claiming his seat.

“You set the table, right?”

Quentin tilted his head in a nod.

“Then you’re good, babe, I think I can handle this part.”

Quentin’s gaze roamed over her chocolate covered skin that spanned down her neck and hid inside the long sleeve cardigan sweater she wore.

“So I was wondering,” Phoebe started, bringing Quentin’s attention from her plump breasts to her luscious lips. Phoebe sat and readjusted her seat, then crossed her legs. “Did you plan the whole thing with the game?”

Quentin’s brows knocked together as he thought.

“I mean,” Phoebe reiterated, “did you purposefully take me to see the Bulls to out us as a couple?”

“To out us?” Quentin questioned.

“I know it sounds ridiculous putting it that way, but I just thought there could’ve been other places we could have gone that would’ve been far less attractive for media outlets.”

“Would you rather I have taken you someplace quieter?”

“No, not necessarily.” Phoebe shrugged. “Just wondering I guess.”

“Are you embarrassed to be on the arm of Chicago’s most notorious playboy?” Quentin pushed on.

It was the same thing Phil Grayson had said. It was the same words that had been splashed across the front pages of the newspaper. Phoebe vividly remembered the headline and start of one particular story, the one Quentin had texted to her.

 

Chicago’s Most Notorious Playboy Dating America’s Sweetheart

Quentin Davidson, the city’s most notorious playboy adds yet another notch to his belt with America’s sweetheart Phoebe Alexandria Rose, shocking Chicago’s elite. The kiss they shared at last night’s Chicago Bulls game was epic and sizzled everyone who witnessed it right down to the bone.

 

“No,” Phoebe stumbled, “of course not.” She pressed her lips together as Quentin’s lazy grin grew.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve been called worse things,” he drawled.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Quentin decided to cut her some slack. “Of course, I knew going to the game would put us in front of the headlines, but I didn’t see any reason to try and hide it. We’re together, it’s as simple as that. I don’t care who knows about it or who has a problem with it.”

That much was clear from the way he’d sucked in her mouth in front of possibly millions of viewers. Phoebe sat back, content in his assurance. Her eyes dropped to the gift sitting in front of her.

“Open it,” Quentin said.

Phoebe smiled gracefully. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, lifting the small box in her hands. The silk material sat cool in her palm as she made a show of fumbling with the bow to open it. Quentin chuckled, knowing Phoebe was always the kid to rip open presents during Christmas.

Pulling the top off revealed a vintage brass key. Phoebe took her eyes to Quentin. “Is this what I think it is?”

Quentin’s quirky smile drew her in, and a flutter of emotions ran through Phoebe.

“Depends on what you think it is,” Quentin teased.

“Okay for the sake of the theatrics, just tell me,” she said impatiently.

“But you know the answer to your question, so why don’t you tell me,” he said.

Phoebe glanced back down at the brass key. She knew Quentin was a collector of vintage items, including but not limited to his old school cars and art canvas, but also his vintage condo.

“Your home?”

Quentin’s smile reached his eyes as he watched Phoebe’s glaze over.

“I want you to be comfortable on the arm of this notorious playboy,” he teased, “so yes, this is a key to my front door. It’s yours to do what you will with it.”

Phoebe sat in silence for a moment, watching him as her thoughts battled, and her heart rate increased. She tried to gather herself as emotions she’d never known washed over her. For Quentin to give up a key to his front door was epic according to her brothers, the media, and anyone else who were aware of his bachelor lifestyle. But for Phoebe, it warmed her heart and solidified a lingering albeit quiet question: was he serious about her or was this something he would move past quickly?

“You’re serious,” she said as if answering her own question. Quickly, she cut back in. “That wasn’t really a question.” She smiled, still in shock at what most people would feel wasn’t that big of a deal.

Quentin sat forward. “You seem surprised,” he said. “I’ve given you a key to my place before.”

“On my eighteenth birthday,” she whispered, remembering when she’d received the gift. At the time she’d been confused but Quentin had elaborated that if she ever got lost in this big old world, she could always find peace at his place. He’d only been twenty-two, but by that time, Quentin had become so protective of Phoebe that he didn’t see any reason not to give her the gift.

“I never used it,” she said as if speaking to herself.

“I always wondered why.”

Phoebe searched for an excuse. “Um, well, I guess I never thought you really wanted me to show up. That you were just being nice,” she said. Although she’d had several dreams of spending the night at his place, going out for a leisurely stroll, and dining at the finest restaurants as Quentin’s new love. “I didn’t want to come over, and you had someone there, you know.”

Phoebe removed the vintage key from the box and rubbed her thumb over it. It wasn’t a wedding ring, but it was still symbolic in a way only they would understand.

“To give you a key then invite someone over when you could walk in on us is just rude,” Quentin said. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No,” her brows crunched. “I mean, well, maybe then, we were both young so.” Phoebe shrugged.

“But now you don’t?”

“No,” she smiled, “I don’t. Thank you, Quentin.”

She stood and leaned over the table as he met her halfway for a delectable kiss. “Mmmm,” she moaned just as Quentin’s dick lurched in his pants. He grabbed her jaw and swallowed her tongue as a sting of energy shot to his groin. When their mouths departed, it was with sheer strength from Quentin. But Phoebe didn’t move, holding her balance in place as she continued to lean across the table. “I want more,” she practically panted.

Quentin gave her a quick kiss and moved away, settling back in his seat. Phoebe quirked up an eye at him. “If I give you more, a simple kiss would never do. More for me is…” he took a wicked eye over her statuesque frame then moved back to her lush lips. “More…” he cruised.

Phoebe shivered at his implication and slowly sat back in her seat. She wanted more of Quentin for sure, but she was well aware if they started now, they’d most likely never leave the room.

“There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

This raised another arched brow from Phoebe, and her smile was belated. “Where?” she asked like a kid on Christmas.

“When we’re done with lunch,” he promised.

Phoebe sat back, fond and excited about whatever Quentin had in store. Deciding to make a move, they prayed over their dish and ate in silence while taking in the beautiful views of the Eiffel Tower and its surroundings.

“You really couldn’t have picked a more perfect location to see this tower,” Phoebe said, dabbing the corners of her mouth.

“Hmm,” Quentin nodded also emptying his plate. “I hoped you would love to be this close.”

“I do,” she said.

The two words cuddled around Quentin’s heart and sank into his bloodstream, causing him to shift in his seat from the sincerity and affection behind them. It was a simple response but held much more meaning to Quentin. He gazed sharply at Phoebe, imagining her wrapped like a present just for him in a bridal gown that hugged her beautiful body. His thoughts ventured further into their honeymoon night where he would take his time with her only to fuck her brains out later. His dick moved again, and it further warmed his blood. He’d saw it all like it was a premonition of his future, and yet there were still a few things he needed to clear up before he could move close to taking a humungous step such as that.  

“This was good,” Phoebe said with a yawn leaving her mouth.

“You ready for a nap?” Quentin said, implying something other than sleep.

Phoebe’s musical laugh sent a population of chills settling over his skin. It was amazing how she not only turned him on but did strange things to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Phoebe heard his implication. “First,” she said, “I want to see this thing you want me to see, then we shop, then maybe we…” she shrugged with a giggle on her lips.

Quentin leaned in and swiped his mouth with his tongue. “Later, I was thinking maybe we could bring in the new year at this masquerade ball.”

Phoebe perked up. “That sounds like tons of fun,” she said.

“Would you like that?”

“Yeah, let’s do it, baby.”