Final Call (Call #2)(69)
Author: Emma Hart

“Again?”

“Mhmm.”

“Oh no.” I wrestle myself from him. “No, no, no!”

I laugh, running through the apartment. And as I slam the office door shut behind me, I realize my mistake.

You never run from someone willing to stalk you until he can catch you.

“Dayton.” He hums my name through the door. “Do I need to break the door down?”

“That’s a habit for you.”

“Open the f**king door. The longer you keep me waiting out here, the harder I’ll have to f**k you.”

Oh, silly, silly man. When will he realize that that’s not a bad thing at all?

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

I plan to sit him on that fancy-ass leather chair and f**k 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 f**k, it’s only fair that I get to do the f**king. 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 c**k 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.”