Twisted Together

Q smiled. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me and my wife. We have an important interview to attend, and we’re already late.”

The crowd roared with applause, humming with happy energy as Q handed the microphone to the prime minster.

The prime minister took it. “Thank you for your time and generosity. The city of France will gladly contribute to your tour.”

Q shook his head. “No, need. The financing is taken care of.” Looking at Frederick, he said, “Find out how many rooms you need and book out the finest hotel. Franco will assist you if needed.”

Frederick nodded, slapping Q on the shoulder. “Consider it done, my friend. Now, you really better go.”

Untangling myself from Q, I gathered Sophie in another hug. “Visit me any time.”

She grinned. “Maybe we can have coffee one day—just us.”

I didn’t know if the topic would be our past or future but I would spend time with her regardless. I needed to stop feeling guilty. I needed to move forward. “That would be nice.”

We parted, drifting toward our respective places. Q gathered me in his strong arms, welcoming me back into the world I loved while Sophie disappeared into the crowd. The women offered hugs and high fives, swallowing her up in their collective embrace.

My body was drained. I had nothing left. I felt carved like a pumpkin with no seeds. But it was a good carving—a cleansing leaving me eerily weightless and completely vulnerable to the new existence before me.

I’ve forgiven myself. I would never curse my fate again.

Q had successfully given me every stage of healing.

I was whole.

Frederick grinned, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “You guys really better go. They’re waiting. We’ll see you later in the week.”

With one last glace at the crowd, Q stole my hand and guided me into the sunshine.

We entered the hotel suite on the tenth floor, frazzled, humbled, and completely drained.

Q hadn’t let go of my hand as we traversed the crowd to the hotel across the street. Franco had kept us safe, his team of bodyguards ghosting around the swarm.

The moment we stepped into the room, a blanket of peace descended, hushing my racing heart, letting me relax for the first time since this morning.

My feet throbbed in my heels as we crossed the richly decorated suite. Q released me, dropping onto the English rose-print couch. “That was exhausting.”

I smiled, slouching next to him. “Yes, but so incredible—to see those women worship you, Q. To know she’s okay—it’s amazing.”

He scowled. “Not worshipping, esclave. Never that. They only have themselves to thank for taking their lives back. I was only the beginning, not the solution.”

I wanted to kiss him senseless for being so proud—unable to accept the good he did.

His lips quirked into a gentle smile. “And who knew you had fans already. I’m going to get jealous if people start hugging my wife.”

I laughed. “No fans—just a part of my past giving me freedom to let go.” My eyes faded, thinking of Sophie. I was so glad she survived. So happy she’d been invited by the prime minister, giving me absolution.

“Come here, Tess,” Q murmured.

My tummy flip-flopped at the quiet authority in his tone. I scooted closer, falling into his open arms. “What do you need, maître?”

He smirked. “Oh, I can think of many things I need.” His lips landed on my ear, making me shiver. “I need you naked. I need you strung up, so I can show you how damn proud I am. And I need you screaming because my nerves are shot and being in public isn’t getting any easier with you so vulnerable by my side.”

I’m not vulnerable. I have you.

“If you promise to do that thing with your tongue again—I’ll scream for you.”

I gasped as his lips descended on mine, kissing me stupid. His tongue speared my mouth, dragging moans and pleas and promises from my soul.

The hotel door opened.

Q growled, his arms tensing around me. For a moment, I feared he wouldn’t let me go—to hell with the reporter.

But then he released me, moving away. My lips twitched, noticing the way he crossed his legs, hiding his impressive, delicious erection.

The reporter, with her plaited black hair and vibrant hazel eyes, entered. We’d agreed to one interview. Only one. And then it was back to work.

A hotel staff member followed, wheeling in a trolley full of pastries, éclairs, and coffee.

The woman smiled, sitting down, brushing her navy skirt around her legs. She pulled free a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from her bag, placing them on her nose. Her smile was cupid-sweet and bright pink.

We waited in comfortable silence as the coffee was poured. Once the waiter had left, Q grabbed a steaming cup, holding it to his lips. His sharp attention fell on the reporter, sizing her up with one glance. “Bonjour.”

She snagged a cup of caffeine, mimicking Q in a sip. “Hello, Mr. Mercer. Mrs. Mercer.” Her warm gaze landed on me; I smiled. “Hello, nice to meet you.” Collecting the last cup from the table, I held it, letting the hot liquid soothe my fluttering nerves.

I’d never been interviewed. I had no idea what to say. What not to say.

I needed a rule book so as not to embarrass myself or Q.

Taking another sip, she said, “My name’s Fiona, and I’ll be conducting the interview today.” She placed a recording device on the low coffee table between us, opening her notepad. Reclining into the Louis Vuitton styled chair, she grinned. “I wish to extend my gratitude for your time and expect us to be here for a few hours—but it all depends on how deeply you wish to tell me your story—and if you’d like to break during questioning.”

I’ll need a break. If only to gather my thoughts from the very distracting male seething with energy beside me.

Q nodded. “That’s fine.”

Fiona looked to me, a bond of femininity shot between us. She turned off the recording button. “Just before we start, I wanted to say on a personal level, your story has inspired me to help with Feathers of Hope. I’ve signed up to report on the women who want to tell their stories. I didn’t think anyone would be interested in speaking, but I’ve been overwhelmed with their tales already.”

Her eyes flickered to Q. “I feel out of bounds saying this, but I think I’m a little bit in love with you—mainly because of how much you love your wife.”

Q choked on a sip of coffee, before rearranging his face into something resembling coolness. “I think the only answer to give is thanks?” He glanced at me. His eyes yelled a message: what sort of interview is this?