Final Call (The Call #2) (33 page)

I giggle and tap out a
random beat on the door. Truth is, I have no intention of letting
Aaron Stone fuck me right now.

I plan to sit him on
that fancy-ass leather chair and fuck
him.

Slowly, I turn the lock
and grab the handle. The door opens before I can pull it down, and
Aaron steps forward, his eyes locking with mine, hunger and lust
glaring from them.

The temptation to let
him do what he wants with me is so overwhelming that I almost do
exactly that.

“Gonna catch me?”

“Do I have to chase
you?”

I tilt my head to one
side. “Depends if you’re gonna catch me or not.”

He steps forward and
tugs me to him before I can think about running. “Looks like I
already did.” He trails his nose down my neck, his lips peppering
kisses as he goes, and pauses at my collarbone. “And we’re back in
the office.”

“So we are.” I fist the
front of his shirt and walk backward, pulling him with me.

“What are you playing
at, Dayton?” he murmurs.

I grin, spinning us and
pushing him back into the chair. “Why, Mr. Stone. If you want a
hard and fast fuck, it’s only fair that I get to do the fucking.
You already had your turn today.”

He pulls me onto his
lap and his erection rubs against me. He’s hard and ready, and I
could spring him from his pants, tug my shorts and panties down,
and lower myself onto him without any foreplay.

“You’re one sexy woman
when you start demanding things.” He pushes his hips up into
me.

I smile and kiss him
hard, running my tongue along the seam of his lips. “Remove your
clothes, Mr. Stone.” I slip my hand between us and cup his cock
over his pants, teasing the side of his length with my thumb. “We
don’t have long.”

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

There’s something
insanely crazy about walking into a house in Paris, my favorite
city in the world, and knowing it belongs to us. Well, technically,
Aaron, but if I say that out loud, he might kill me.

I think I’m finally
used to the yours-mine-ours thing. Most of it, at least. This house
I can see as ours. He might have bought it, but he knew exactly
what I’d want. He picked the perfect Parisian property. Complete
with the bay windows he mentioned before and a balcony off the
second bedroom, not to mention the gorgeous rose garden in the
backyard, it’s perfect. I can see the Eiffel Tower from almost any
room in the house.

Believe me. I’ve looked
from every one.

I don’t want to think
about how long he searched for this or how much he paid for it. I
don’t want to think of anything except the fact that it belongs to
us, and in the four days since we arrived here, we’ve gradually
made it our home.

It took me two hours to
tear down the old curtains and drag him out for new ones. Of
course, that meant returning with new rugs, throw pillows, and some
adorable bedding, but everyone knows that house shopping is
extensive.

And now I’m picturing
crazy things.

I’m picturing mini
breaks here, not just two of us, but three of us, maybe four. I’m
picturing walls adorned with pictures, both professional and
natural. I’m picturing a high chair in the corner and mucky
fingerprints on the glass doors leading from the kitchen to the
backyard. Maybe little crayon scribbles in hidden places, a Lego
brick here, a toy car there.

I’m seeing the kind of
future I never let myself imagine.

It was never in the
cards. Even when Aaron came back into my life, I couldn’t believe
it was a possibility. Then when I did, that was torn away brutally
by a secret I never knew existed.

Then it was fixed
again. His relentless pursuit, his refusal to give up—they made me
believe that maybe… Maybe we could make this work. Maybe we really
do have a shot at it.

And Naomi took that.
She made me question everything—until Aaron answered every single
one of them.

This is the first time
since I walked into that booth in the Southfall Hotel that our
relationship hasn’t been based on money or clouded by lies. It’s
free, and true, and honest. The way a relationship should be.

I can feel it. Our
smiles are wider, our eyes brighter, our touches lighter. It’s
almost as if everything that was buried before is now simmering
away on the surface, mixing with our ever-present lust and
attraction. It’s a heady mix, one that gives me a nearly constant
delirious high.

There will be more
lows. Of course there will. It doesn’t matter that we may have had
more than our fair share of them in such a short space of time. All
that matters is that I know, and Aaron knows, that we’ll come out
on the other side.

I will be more
confident of that if we leave Paris in one piece. Our track record
isn’t exactly great.

Our track record can be
changed.

I step out of my robe
and into the large corner tub, shutting off the taps as I do. The
hot water ripples when I lower myself into it, and I’ve barely lain
back when I hear the door open.

“Move forward,” Aaron
orders.

“This is my bath.”

“It’s our bath,” he
replies, and when I look at him, he’s totally naked.

I huff and move
forward, giving him enough space to slip in behind me. He does, and
he lets his legs fall open to the sides. I slide back and lie
against him, linking my fingers through his as he wraps his arms
around me.

A happy sigh falls from
my lips. This is a part of Paris I remember and adore. Both of us
lying together in a bathtub full of bubbles, not speaking, just
holding each other. These are the moments I cherished, and I smile
at the thought that I don’t have to think back every time I want to
remember this feeling. I simply have to drag him into the bathroom
and run a bath.

“What are you
thinking?”

I turn my head to the
side, gazing out of the window. “I’m thinking I love Paris.”

“I love Paris, too.” He
kisses my shoulder. “It gave me you.”

“It’s very generous
that way,” I tease. “Although the return gift leaves something to
be desired.”

He prods me in the
side. “I think I found desires you weren’t aware of over the last
few days.”

Ah, this much is true.
Who knew having sex in front of a large bay window in the middle of
the day was so fun?

“I was very much aware
of them. They’d just never been satisfied before now.”

“They’ll continue to be
satisfied, too.”

“I should hope so.”

He laughs quietly,
burying his face into my neck. “Sit up. Let me wash your hair.”

I do as he says, and he
grabs the showerhead from the little holder I put it in for easy
reach. When the water is the right temperature, I lean my head back
and let him wet my hair.

“Tyler’s coming back to
Seattle in a few weeks.”

“He is?”

“Hmm. He said he’ll
call you to arrange your photography lessons when he’s found a
place to live.”

I lick my lips. “I
forgot to tell you about that. With everything—”

“I’m not mad,
sweetheart. Would you believe I’m happier at the thought of you
being behind the camera instead of in front of it?” He pauses in
his massaging motion, and I crane my neck round to look at him.

“Would you believe I’m
not surprised in the slightest?”

We share a smile, and
he turns my head again. “He said you were thinking of going back to
school.”

“Yeah. I was
considering it.”

“He didn’t tell you,
huh?”

“Tell me what?”

Aaron rinses the
shampoo from my hair with the showerhead before he replies. “Tyler
is trained to teach photography. He used to do shoots for us on the
side, outside of classes, but he loved the photography side so much
he gave up teaching.”

“Tyler is a
professor?”

Well, shit me.

“There are a lot of
things about Tyler you don’t know, Dayton. He’ll teach you so you
don’t need to go back to college.”

I consider this. “Like
an apprentice?”

“Yes, exactly like
that. It’s the best training you could get, and from the best
photographer I know. He’ll continue his freelance work for us while
you work together.”

“So technically I’ll be
working for you.”

“No. Tyler isn’t
employed by us.” Aaron trails his fingers down my back. “He’s
self-employed. We commission him to do shoots for us, so you’ll be
working for yourself.”

I shrug. I can deal
with that, and I actually prefer it. Imagine working for the guy
you live with. Aside from the fact that I’ve never really worked
for anyone in my life, no matter what people say, you don’t leave
stuff at the door or at work. It’ll carry over. Having an argument
at home then having to go to work with him would drive me
insane.

Aaron lifts me from the
bath, and I smile. It doesn’t matter if I can do it myself. He’s
going to do it anyway, and this is a battle I’m choosing not to
fight. No point wasting my energy on something I won’t win.

I curl myself into the
thick, fluffy towels we bought yesterday and shuffle into the
bedroom. Hanging over the door is a knee-length red dress with a
flirty skirt. I glance at Aaron and narrow my eyes at the
shit-eating grin on his face.

“Humor me,” is all he
says before opening the closet and pulling out a white shirt and
black pants.

I blink a few times,
watching him as he dries his powerful body. “What are you playing
at, Aaron Stone?”

He looks up from his
position, one knee on the bed, the towel wrapped around the thigh,
and smiles. “Remember those plans I canceled last time we were
here?”

“How could I forget?” I
reply dryly.

He smirks. “I remade
them, and it’s what we’re doing tonight.”

I glance from my dress
to his clothes and back to his blue eyes. His lips curve even more
before he turns around to dress.

I stand here, hugging
my towel around my body with my hair dripping wet, and stare at his
muscular back. If he thinks I missed that mischievous glint in his
eyes, he’s mistaken.

What is he playing at
indeed?

***

The Eiffel Tower at
night is a sight to behold. The way it lights up, reflects onto the
flowing water of the River Seine, and illuminates the dark night
sky is something close to magical.

Aaron takes my hand and
slowly pulls me toward the tower. I raise an eyebrow, but he says
nothing, letting his feet do the talking as we get closer and
closer.

“Are we going up?”

He smiles, and we enter
the elevator that will take us to the top. I’m surrounded by the
strong feeling of déjà vu. We did this once, the first time, and it
was the night he told me he loved me.

Aaron squeezes my hand
as we go up, and I gaze out at the city around me. At Notre Dame,
the Champs-Élysées, the Louvre—all lit up in their own unique ways.
The lights spread out in a romantic way no other city in the world
can recreate, and I step into Aaron’s side. His arm goes around me,
his lips brushing my temple, his touch warming through me.

“Dinner,” he whispers,
leading me into the exclusive Le Jules Verne restaurant. The empty,
exclusive Le Jules Verne restaurant.

Empty.

“You booked the whole
place?” I look at him in awe.

“For you? Yes.” He
leads me to a table in the corner, one that provides an
uninterrupted view of the Louvre. One he knows I’ll love, and I
do.

He pulls my chair out
and I lower myself onto the seat, taking in the table. Candles.
Wine. A beautifully printed and embossed menu.

Aaron pours two glasses
while I sit here, overwhelmed. This is what he planned before? It’s
no wonder he was pissed when he had to cancel. But still…

Every day, he amazes me
a little more. This time, I admit, it’s the fact that he’s strolled
in here and booked out the whole damn restaurant like he’s buying a
stack of newspapers.

“Is this a special
occasion I’ve missed?” I question, accepting the glass of wine.

“No.” He smiles. “It’s
a just-because.” He lifts his menu, ending that line of
questioning, and I can’t shake it.

Something is going
on.

A server appears from
nowhere and asks for our order. Aaron reels it off for both of us,
which is good since I’ve only glanced at the menu and certainly not
at the food list. He gets it perfect—of course he does—and looks
out of the window.

I stare at him. I stare
at him until my eyes hurt, wordlessly, until our food is brought
out.

Even as I eat, I watch
him, and after a while, he returns that gaze. Our eyes lock across
the table but no words are exchanged, and I can see it. In his
eyes. That glimmer that knows something I don’t. That betrays his
‘just-because’ excuse.

I’m not getting it out
of him no matter how hard I try. I know he won’t give anything away
until he’s good and ready, so I’m stuck sitting here in my awkward
limbo until he does. Stuck here, wondering, waiting,
what-iffing.

Our plates are cleared
away and replaced with our main course. Again, it’s eaten in
silence, our eyes flitting from our plates to each other’s. The
only difference is that there’s a zinging of tension, one tight
enough to cut, and I swallow hard. My fork clatters as I put it
against my plate and look at him firmly.

“Do you want dessert?”
he asks innocently, his steady voice betraying the tightness
between us.

“No. I want to know
what this is.”

“This? It’s dinner in
the Eiffel Tower, sweetheart.”

“No. What is it? Why
are you doing it?”

Aaron waves his hand
and the server reappears and removes our plates a second time. I
chew the inside of my lip, keeping our gazes connected, and wait
for him to speak.

“Can’t I take you to
dinner and just have it be dinner?” he questions, resting his
forearms on the table and leaning forward.