The presidential suite was thick with silence. Only Lucien's breathing broke it, steady and rhythmic in the dark.
Ava lay rigid on the left side of the massive bed. Her hands folded tight over the crisp white sheets, her body refusing rest. The mattress was impossibly soft. The linens luxurious. But comfort slipped from her grasp.
Her heart thudded like a drum, loud enough to drown out sleep. The darkness pressed heavy, wrapping her in a cloak of unease. Every sound, every shift in the air, seemed amplified.
She stared upward. The ornate ceiling was barely visible in the faint spill of moonlight that slipped through the curtains. Beyond the glass, Paris glittered—alive with lights and promises. Inside, there was only the two of them. One bed. A cruel accident, or perhaps a deliberate silence on Lucien's part when the hotel manager had apologized for the error.
The bed loomed between them, a living presence. She could feel the weight of him on the right side, his nearness consuming the space as if he belonged in every corner of her world.
Ava shifted slightly, careful not to cross the invisible line. He had been clear. Don't disturb me. The words had been clipped, final, tossed out as casually as his jacket over the velvet armchair. Yet despite his command, she felt his awareness of her. Just as keen as her awareness of him. The thought made her shiver—fear tangled with something far more dangerous.
Her mouth was dry. She needed water. Anything to break the tension of lying so close to him, separated only by silk sheets and failing self-control.
Slowly, she slid from the bed. Bare feet brushed against plush carpet. The room was cool, the air licking at her skin through the thin cotton of her camisole and shorts. She moved with care, each step deliberate, until she reached the bar by the window.
A crystal pitcher gleamed in the faint light. She poured water, the clink of glass against glass deafening in the hush. Her hand trembled as she lifted the tumbler. The first sip cooled her throat, but her heartbeat refused to settle.
"You're awake."
The voice was low, rough.
Ava froze, the glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes darted toward the sound. Lucien wasn't in bed. He sat in the armchair by the window, framed against silver light. His shirt hung open, unbuttoned, exposing hard lines of muscle. His dark hair was mussed. His eyes glinted in shadow, fixed entirely on her.
He hadn't been asleep. He'd been watching.
Her pulse spiked. "I… couldn't sleep," she whispered. The glass clinked softly as she set it down. "I just needed water."
He didn't answer at once. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze never wavered. It held her fast, stripping away defenses she'd built brick by brick. In the dark, with Paris muted beyond the walls, she had nowhere to hide.
"Come here," he said. The words were soft, almost a command, threaded with something gentler that made her chest ache.
Her breath caught. She should refuse. She should climb back into bed, pull the covers up, and pretend. Pretend none of this existed.
But her body betrayed her. Her feet carried her forward, slow steps across the carpet until she stood before him. Heat radiated from his body, wrapping around her like a tide.
The air crackled between them. His eyes traveled her face—lingering on her lips, her throat, the slope of her shoulder. She felt stripped bare, defenses peeled away. Still, she didn't step back. She couldn't.
"Sit." He gestured to the ottoman across from him. His voice was steady, but a rough edge cut through it, a break in control.
Ava hesitated, then obeyed. Her knees brushed his as she lowered herself onto the seat. The contact jolted her like a spark, sharp and consuming. She clasped her hands in her lap, searching for something to anchor her racing pulse.
"Why can't you sleep?" His tone softened, almost gentle. He leaned back, though his eyes never left hers. They searched, probed, stripped.
Her throat tightened. "It's… this." She gestured weakly at the room. The bed. Him. "It's too much."
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "The bed?"
Color rose in her cheeks. She looked away, focusing on the faint silhouette of the Eiffel Tower through the curtains. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?" His voice held a challenge, but it was softened by something raw, unguarded. "Tell me, Ava. What's keeping you awake?"
Her gaze snapped back, startled by the question. By the vulnerability in it. In the dark, Lucien seemed different. Not untouchable. Not the commanding man who bent the world to his will. But human. Exposed.
It terrified her. It thrilled her.
"I hear you," she whispered. Her voice trembled. "Your breathing. It's everywhere. Even when you're not touching me, it feels like you are."
His eyes darkened, storm gathering in their depths. He leaned forward again, his hands braced on his thighs as though to keep them still. "And that bothers you?"
"Yes," she whispered. Then shook her head. "No. I don't know."
His breath escaped ragged, low. "You're not the only one who can't sleep."
The words weighed heavy, intimate. Ava's pulse jumped. The distance between them felt both impossible and nonexistent.
"What's keeping you awake?" she asked. Her voice barely carried, as if volume would break the moment.
He didn't answer right away. His hand lifted instead, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to retreat. She didn't.
His fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was so light it was almost imagined, yet it burned. He traced the line of her cheekbone, his thumb pausing at her mouth.
"I think about that kiss every day," he said. His voice was raw, stripped bare. "Every damn day, Ava."
Her heart faltered, then surged. The memory crashed over her—the kiss weeks ago, reckless, forbidden. She had told herself it was a mistake, a lapse. But with his hand on her face, his eyes locked to hers, the lie dissolved.
"Lucien…" Her voice broke, caught between plea and warning.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Tell me you don't think about it." His tone was urgent, relentless. "Tell me you don't feel this."
She couldn't lie. Not here. Not now. "I do," she whispered, the truth tumbling out. "I think about it all the time."
His thumb brushed her lower lip. The soft touch ignited her, heat surging through every nerve. She trembled, overwhelmed by her own admission.
When she opened her eyes, he was closer still. Inches away. His gaze was torn—desire locked in battle with restraint. She could feel the war inside him because it was her war too.
"Ava," he murmured. Her name sounded like a prayer.
She didn't know who moved first. Maybe her. Maybe him. But suddenly his lips were on hers.
The kiss began soft, tentative. Then deepened, urgent, hungry. Everything they had buried broke free in that touch. Her hands grasped his shoulders, his chest, holding fast as if he were the only solid thing in the world. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer until the ottoman no longer mattered. She was in his lap, lost in the fire of his mouth, the strength of his arms.
The kiss was heat and ache, memory and promise. It carried everything unsaid, everything denied.
When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads resting together. The silence was heavy, brimming with meaning.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered, her voice unsteady.
"Neither do I," he admitted. His hands remained on her, steadying her, grounding her. "But I'm done pretending I don't want to try."
She searched his eyes, desperate for clarity. All she found was the same vulnerability mirrored back at her. The dark had stripped them bare. There was no retreat.
He traced her cheek again, softer this time, but no less intense. "I think about that kiss every day," he repeated, his voice a low growl. "And I don't know if I can stop."