Summer
MID-JULY IN PARIS is when I first saw her in the flesh—it was hot as balls, thanks to the heatwave that swept over most of Europe. Everyone was sweating on the crowded dance floor at this random nightclub, with the exception of one.
Carolina Lancaster.
I knew who she was. Of course, I did. Her last name is on practically every building at the private school I attend back home, though she doesn’t even go there. Then there’s the fact that her family moves within the same social circles as mine, not that she’s ever around. She’s lived outside of the U.S. for years.
It was almost as if she didn’t exist. She’s more a myth or an apparition: much discussed, yet never seen.
She’s a principal dancer at the London Dance Company, or some such shit. A prima ballerina at an extraordinarily young age—or so the media says. What she’s doing in Paris, I don’t know. But she’s sexy as fuck out there twirling on the dance floor, moving to the music. Clad in a pair of skimpy black shorts that show off her long, long legs and the tiniest tank top I’ve ever seen.
White. Cropped. See-through. Hard nipples poking against the thin fabric. She dances effortlessly. Without thought and total abandon. Her slender arms wave above her head, her lips curved into a dreamy smile, eyes unfocused as if she’s in a trance. She’s not very tall, but her legs are endless. She’s fascinating. Everyone is watching her.
She doesn’t even notice.
Staring at her for so long, I find myself licking my lips like I’m fucking starving. For her. It’s like I can’t take my eyes off of her. My skin feels electrified just watching her, so without thinking, I take a step forward. Then another. Until I’m out on the dance floor, surrounded by writhing bodies, not moving a muscle, yet sweating profusely while she completely ignores me as I stand just to the side of her.
She sees me, though. I can tell by the way her gaze flicks in my direction, quick as lightning, a flash of interest before she turns her back to me. Pretending I’m not there.
No one pretends I don’t exist. Most people—especially girls—can’t ignore me. I sound like an asshole, but I’m just stating facts. Everyone knows my family. My last name.
Even me.
The song ends, the DJ announcing the next song in French, and I take my opportunity.
“Hey.”
She whirls around at the sound of my voice, and I blink at her, mesmerized by her stunning face. The perfect symmetry of her features. Blue eyes, elegant nose, rose pink lips formed into a pout. Her expression flips to bored in an instant, and she says something in French as her gaze roams over me from head to toe.
I tilt my head, frowning. “What was that?”
She laughs, and I can’t help but smile, even though I’m positive she’s laughing at me.
She repeats the phrase, her blue eyes going wide.
“Fous le camp de moi.”
Get away from me.
Playing the cool Parisian to the dumb American, who just so happens to speak French, and I’m totally down for this game.
“You’re playing me.”
“Non.” She shakes her head, her eyes wide—innocent, though I call bullshit on that. Not a single blonde hair falls out of place. It’s slicked back into the tightest ponytail I’ve ever seen, and I don’t think there’s a lick of makeup on her face.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
I stare at her. Hard. She stares back. Just as hard.
“I know you can speak English,” I finally say to her.
The music finally starts once more, a slow and jazzy beat, and the majority of the dance floor clears. The remaining couples cling to each other, shuffling around us as they dance, yet neither of us move.
Until finally, she takes a step closer, her cool scent wrapping around me, making me fucking dizzy. This girl is giving off some sort of vibe that has me in a goddamn trance.
“Who are you?” Her voice is thick with a fake French accent.
“That doesn’t matter.” It’s my turn to shift closer, dipping my head so my mouth is at her ear. I inhale sharply, taking in her delectable scent, and it hits me like a drug sliding into my veins. “I know exactly who you are.” I hesitate. “Carolina.”
She lurches away from me, disgust written all over her face. “Paparazzi, eh? Well, go on.”
“Wha—”
Carolina throws her arms out wide, her tank riding up until it rests just beneath her almost non-existent breasts. “Take your photos. Sell them to the rags. Then everyone can gossip about me dancing at a Paris nightclub with my tits out.”
I like that she said tits in that haughty little voice of hers. She sounds like a princess.
A spoiled, little princess who gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants it.
“I’m not a pap.”
She frowns, her slender arms falling back to her sides. “Then who are you?”
“I went to your school.” Now she appears even more confused. “Lancaster Prep.”
“Oh fuck.” She rolls her eyes.
Right before she turns and walks away.
Without hesitation, I chase after her, making my way through the crowd, calling out her name, but she ignores me. She’s fast as hell, slipping through the clusters of people filling the nightclub, and at one point, I lose sight of her buttery blonde head.
She appears again seconds later, directly in front of the entrance, pushing her way out of the club.
I speed up, hurrying after her, busting through the door to find her standing on the sidewalk facing the street. A man stands next to her, thin and freakishly tall, and he whips a lighter out of his pocket. That’s when I realize she’s holding a cigarette and she places it in between her bee-stung lips, leaning toward the guy when he flicks the lighter, the tip of her cig glowing red before she blows out a breath laced with smoke.
Smoking isn’t sexy. Not one bit. It’s a fucking killer, and it stinks.
But watching Carolina Lancaster puff away on a cigarette makes my dick hard.
She catches sight of me, a look of pure disdain on her face, and she withdraws the cigarette from her lips, murmuring out of the side of her mouth to her skinny friend.
He laughs. Most likely at me.
“You followed me.” Her gaze is on me, her tone an accusation.
I approach them slowly, wanting to get near her again, so I can catch another whiff of her scent. Soft and wet like the ocean. Salty and … violent.
Again, like the ocean.
“You ran away before I could explain,” I tell her, slipping my hands in my pockets, going for nonchalant. Like she has no effect on me.
“Explain what? I don’t care what you have to say.”
Damn, this bitch is mean.
I kind of like it.
“You didn’t even ask my name.” I pause only for a moment, ready to tell her who I am, but she interrupts me.
“Like I said. I. Don’t. Care.” She sucks on the cig, blowing the smoke directly at me. I grimace and she smiles, pleased with herself.
“I want to know,” her friend pipes up. I turn my attention to him, which is fucking difficult, because all I want to do is stare at Carolina all damn night. “What is it?”
“West.”
“West. That’s a direction, not a name,” Carolina mutters, flicking ash on the sidewalk.
“What kind of name is that?” The guy frowns.
I open my mouth, ready to explain, when Carolina interrupts me yet again.
“Probably a family name that goes back generations. Might be short for something. Most likely an old surname that belonged to his mother or his grandmama.” She arches a brow.
“Nailed it.” I incline my head toward her.
Her friend laughs. She doesn’t even crack a smile.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, West. I’m Gideon.” He steps forward, offering his hand, and I shake it, smiling at him.
At least he’s friendly, though he’s not the one I’m interested in.
“I’m bored,” she whines, turning to Gideon. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“More like you’re rude,” I tell her, a faint smile still planted on my face.
She glances over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she contemplates me, the cigarette still hanging from her lips. She removes it before she says, “Well, look at you, calling me out for my shit.”
I shrug. “Someone has to.”
“I like him,” Gideon says with a nod.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t,” Carolina says, turning to face me fully. It’s jarring, how beautiful she is. I try my best not to react as her gaze races over me, taking in every single detail. My skin tingles like she just touched me all over. “The last thing I want to do is spend the evening with an American.”
“You’re an American,” I point out.
“I haven’t lived there in almost six years.” Her smile is serene, just before she takes another puff on her cigarette. “If I want to fuck a nice, rich American boy, I can go home and find a long list of them.”
I’m slightly taken aback by her saying the word fuck so easily. She’s so dainty and elegant, not what I would consider the usual type to drop f-bombs so casually. “I never said anything about fucking you.”
“You want to, though.” She sniffs. “I can tell.”
Damn it, she’s not wrong.
“Let’s find another club.” She turns to her friend, the suggestion obviously just for him. “I want out of here.”
“Okay.” Gideon looks beyond her, his gaze locking with mine, a mischievous smile on his face. “West, you should come with us.”
“No—” Carolina starts.
“I’d love to.” It’s my turn to interrupt her, and she doesn’t like it.
At all.
She viciously takes another drag off the cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a sexy purse of her lips. I watch her unabashedly, drinking in everything about her that I can visibly see as she continues to ignore me, chattering away with Gideon in fluent French.
The melodic sound of her voice puts me in a trance as she complains about me accompanying them on their night out, and my gaze drifts to her tits. The tiny nipples that are still hard, rubbing against the fabric of her tank. She doesn’t have much, but it’s enough for me to wrap my hand around one and draw that pretty little nipple into my mouth—
“Stupid American.”
I glance up at the sound of her voice, ignoring the insult.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Gideon says to her, waving his hand, his gaze on mine once more. “Are you going with us?”
Pausing, I think about my friends still inside. Last I saw them, Brent was still at the bar hitting on the bartender. TJ and the others were dancing/grinding on girls.
They won’t care where I went. They might not even notice I’m gone.
Fuck it. I’ll text them later.
Gideon flags down a cab—why not take an Uber?—and next thing I know, I’m crammed in the back seat of a tiny car, with Carolina in the middle of us. She’s pressed so close to me, it’s as if I can feel every single inch of her.
Electricity sparks the moment our skin makes contact and she studies me, the cigarette long gone, a mint in her mouth. Between her lips.
On her tongue.
“You wear the uniform of every American teenage boy who comes to Europe for the summer,” she accuses me. “Trying to fit in when you do nothing but stand out.”
I glance down at my khaki shorts and white button-up shirt. It’s untucked, with the sleeves rolled up, and I recall how every single one of my friends is wearing a similar outfit. Some of them are even wearing a hat on backwards.
“Brooks Brothers shirt. Ralph Lauren shorts,” she continues, her gaze landing on my lap. My crotch.
“Loafers on your feet.” Her voice is tinged with amusement when her gaze meets mine once more. “I can’t tell any of you apart.”
“You sound like a snobby European.”
She shrugs one bare, smooth shoulder, and it rubs against my arm. Sparks fly due to the friction. “I am one.”
“You’re American.”
“As you seem to love to remind me. But like I said, I don’t live there anymore. I don’t like it.” She leans her head toward mine and I inhale as discreetly as I can, taking another hit of her intoxicating scent. “And I normally don’t like boys such as you.”
“Then why am I sitting with you in a cab?”
Carolina jerks her thumb in Gideon’s direction. “It’s his fault.”
I lean forward, so I can make eye contact with him. “Hey, man. I owe you one.”
“I’ll collect too,” he says with a laugh, going silent when she glances over her shoulder, sending him a look. “What’s your problem tonight?” he asks her.
She says nothing, turning so she’s facing forward once again, and I unabashedly stare at her profile. Her mouth is formed in a perpetual pout and she works her jaw, her lips parted, her gaze sliding to mine to find I’m already watching her.
The taxi speeds down the road, taking us to another nightclub, and we continue to stare at each other. Gideon is tapping away on his phone, the screen illuminating his sharply-angled face with a silver glow, the only other light coming from outside.
“You’re rude,” she barely whispers, her voice hardly making any sound.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I whisper back, shocking myself. I don’t tell girls they’re beautiful, especially ones who so obviously know it. I don’t need to feed their egos. I prefer they feed mine.
Shitty but true.
Her eyes widen the slightest bit, but that’s her only outward reaction. The mask drops into place just as fast, her gaze narrowing, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, like she’s thinking about feasting on me. “You’re a flirt.”
“So are you.”
She laughs. “If you think me being mean to you is flirting … then you have problems.”
“Yeah.” I lean in closer, invading her space. “I do.”
My gaze fixes on her mouth, the way she plays with the mint. Swirling it around, teasing it with her pink tongue. I stifle the groan that wants to escape, readjusting myself. Wishing I could get away from her, yet also dying to haul her into my arms.
“Would you care for a mint?” she asks after I stare at her—we stare at each other—for about a million beats too long.
“Yeah.” My voice is gravelly, like I just woke up, and I swear I saw something flash in her eyes.
“West.” She shakes her head, her lips curling up in the faintest smile. “Such a silly name.”
“You should hear my actual name.” It’s really not that strange. I’m just playing it up.
“I don’t want to know,” she whispers. Her hand rests on my chest, gently pushing me away before I can tell her what it is.
Frowning, I contemplate her, confused. She’s giving me serious whiplash, and fuck, it’s torture.
“Come here.” She reaches for me, her long, elegant arm sliding up my chest as she tucks her hand around the nape of my neck, pulling me close, her lips brushing mine when she says, “take my mint.”
Her hand is a gentle tug, a hint of encouragement, and I dip my head, my mouth hovering above hers. We share the same air, the same fucking breath. I suck in her minty exhale, my forehead pressing against hers. My skin prickles with awareness when I hear the catch in her throat and I lift my chin.
Angling myself just right.
Until my mouth is resting on hers.
Her warm, soft lips part beneath mine, somehow pushing the mint toward me and I lightly suck on her tongue, the mint sliding into my mouth. Every single hair on my body stands on end when I relax my lips, loosening my hold on her tongue. She laps at my top lip like a cat, right in the dead center. The flicker of her wet tongue, the sharp sting of her teeth upon my lower lip making me hiss.
Slowly I pull away, the mint resting on my tongue, my entire mouth tingling, but not because of the winter-fresh flavor flooding my mouth.
No, she’s responsible for that feeling. Swear to God I’m shaking, and I note the tremble in her body too. She’s watching me with wide blue eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
I offer her a smile, showing that the mint is clenched between my teeth, and she laughs.
“Fine,” she says, as haughty as a queen. “You can dance with me.”
“What, like it’s an honor?”
“One of the highest.” Gideon leans over, getting in on our conversation. “She usually dances alone at the clubs.”
“It’s true.” She nods her confirmation.
The air is electric in the cab, and by the time we’re slipping out of it, I don’t hesitate to reach for her hand, tangling my fingers with hers. She doesn’t pull out of my grip, the both of us falling into step behind Gideon. He doesn’t say a word until we’re in front of the doorman, and Gideon points at Carolina, letting him know her last name.
Apparently, if it’s Lancaster, that can open a lot of doors. I don’t bother mentioning my last name. It opens a lot of doors too, especially in France.
But she doesn’t know that.
Within minutes, we’re inside the giant club, Gideon getting us drinks at the bar while Carolina leads me onto the dance floor. This place is somehow even more crowded than the club we left. The air is hotter. Heavier. The music louder, the bass thumping in my body, rattling my bones. When she turns to face me, she begins to dance to the beat, her hips swaying, her arms above her head, while I stand there like an idiot and just watch her as if I’m hypnotized.
“You don’t dance?” she shouts at me.
I shake my head, unable to speak. Too captivated with the way she moves her body. The clothes she’s wearing don’t cover much, and my imagination kicks into overdrive, envisioning her naked.
Spread out for me on my bed like an offering.
Her smile is wicked. Like she knows what she’s doing to me. What I’m thinking. “That’s a shame. What if you have rhythm?”
“I don’t.”
She places her hands on my chest, dragging them down. Slowly. Her fingers skim across my stomach, making the muscles tighten and clench beneath her touch. “I bet you do where it counts.”
My dick stands at attention at her words, at the suggestion in them.
“You’re very fit,” she observes, her gaze full of amusement.
“I’m an athlete.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, you are. Lacrosse?”
I make a dismissive noise. “Track.”
Her brows lift. “You throw things? Jump over things?”
“I run.” I give in to my need and rest my hand on the spot where her waist dips in, pulling her closer. “I’m fast.”
Her hands are still on my stomach, pressing. Burning. “Is that a good trait to have, or a bad one?”
“Depends on how you look at it.”
Someone bumps into Carolina from behind, sending her nearly falling into me, and I grab hold of her firmly, my hands on her hips, yanking her closer.
“I don’t like fast boys.” She rises up on tiptoe when the music gets louder, her mouth right at my ear so I can hear her. “I usually like to take things nice and slow.”
I run my right hand over her ass and she takes a step away from me, shaking her head. My hands fall away from her. “Too fast, American.”
I stare at her, watching as she digs into the tiny pocket of her even tinier shorts and whips out a crumpled cigarette. “Do you have a light?”
“No.”
Without a word, she abandons me once again on the dance floor.
A frustrated growl leaves me as I chase after her, keeping track of her bright blonde head so I don’t lose her. Until we’re both at the crowded bar, where she’s standing next to a dark-haired guy dressed all in black with a thin mustache, a devilish smile on his face as he offers her a light. She leans in close, the flame igniting the tip of her cigarette, and with a laugh she pulls away, shaking her head when he says something to her.
Jealousy consumes me and I march over to where she stands, grabbing the crook of her arm and jerking her around to face me.
“What did he say to you?”
Her smile is small, a gleam in her eyes as she yells, “He wants to take me away somewhere and fuck me.”
White hot fury floods my veins. “What did you tell him?”
“I said I came with someone.” She pats my chest, like I’m a pet. “Calm down. I won’t fuck him.”
The fury is still there but not as strong. “Good to know.”
“I don’t like it when people touch me. Men.” She contemplates me for a moment, her blue eyes narrowed, her upper lip curled in an almost-snarl. “They say I’m cold.”
“Who?”
“The boys who want to touch me.”
“You let me touch you.” When she doesn’t say anything, I continue, “In the cab. When you gave me the mint.”
Her lips curl in a faint smile. “That was different.”
“How?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. There’s something about you that’s approachable. Like a cuddly teddy bear.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “No one would ever describe me in that way.”
“Brooding, scary American boy? I’m sure you ruled the school, am I right? I know the type. You’re probably just like my brother.” She shakes her head, as if her older brother is a complete disappointment.
Her brother is a fucking legend. Whit Lancaster is an insufferable asshole, who ran Lancaster Prep with an iron fist back in the day when he attended the school. The heir to the oldest Lancaster’s empire, Whit is wealthy beyond measure and gives zero fucks about anyone else but his wife and child.
I aspire to be as ruthless as Whit, and lucky me, no Lancasters have attended Lancaster Prep since I was a sophomore, when Crew Lancaster graduated. They’re always the ones who are automatically in charge. The ones everyone follows with undying loyalty. And now I’m prepared to have that kind of allegiance my senior year.
“I hear your brother is a complete prick.”
She laughs and the sound nearly sends me to my knees. “He is. He’s terrible.” She hesitates. “I get the feeling that you’re terrible too.”
I shift closer to her, bending my head so my mouth is close to her ear yet again. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Carolina doesn’t even hesitate.
“I would very much like to know.” She grounds out her fresh cigarette in the ashtray on the bar before taking a step closer. Her hand sneaks beneath my shirt so fast, I suck in a breath when her cool fingers land on my stomach. “Want to be my secret?”
Before I can answer, she’s curling her fingers around the waistband of my khakis, tugging me forward. I go willingly, her hand falling away as she turns and heads toward the farthest side of the club. I follow her, my heart racing, my skin still tingling from where she touched me. Her knuckles brushed my abdomen when she curled her fist around my waistband, leaving me with a throbbing hard-on.
Her words didn’t help either.
Want to be my secret?
Fuck yeah, I do.
But I’m no one’s secret. More like they’re always my secret.
Not this girl. This girl has me chasing her. Willingly.
She doesn’t stop moving until we’re in a darkened hallway, the music nothing but a dull throb. A blast of arctic air conditioning brushes my sweat-covered skin, offering instant relief, and when she turns to face me, my gaze automatically drops to her chest.
“You know how to kiss, American boy?”
“I know how to do a lot of things,” I tell her. There have been plenty of girls, but nothing too serious. I’ve had sex. I can make a girl come easily with my fingers.
With Carolina Lancaster, I can imagine us getting pretty damn creative.
“Then show me what you can do.” She plasters herself against the wall, her arms slightly spread, palms flat, legs braced.
Slowly, I approach her, remembering what she said. How she doesn’t want to go too fast. How she doesn’t like to be touched.
The longer I take, the quicker her chest rises and falls. Tempting me. I want to touch her so fucking bad. But will she just shove me away?
Taking my chances, I lightly place my hand on her hip, the sharp edge of bone startling. She’s thin. And from the looks of it, nothing but muscle.
I’d guess she works out more than I do.
An impatient noise leaves her, making me smile, and when my gaze meets hers, I find her glaring at me, her expression murderous. Like she wants to hold a knife to my throat and watch me slowly bleed out.
Leaning in, I pause only when my mouth hovers directly above hers, my tongue darting out for the quickest lick. She leans forward with parted lips, as if seeking more from me, and I smile as I tilt my head, retreating.
“You’re mean,” she whispers.
“So are you,” I remind her, using every ounce of self-restraint I’ve got to keep still. I squeeze her hip, my touch gentle. “If I move too fast, will you run?”
She nods, lifting her chin, her lids lowering, gaze focused on my mouth. “Yes.”
“What if I move slow?” I slide my hand upward along her side. Over the dip of her waist, along her ribs. “Will you run then?”
“I always run,” she admits, sounding breathless.
I focus my gaze on her chest, watching it rise and fall rapidly. My fingers tease the hem of her cropped tank, slipping just my fingertips beneath the thin fabric and brushing the underside of her tits. She sucks in a sharp breath and I lift my gaze to hers. “Too fast?”
Carolina shakes her head. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see you.” I slip my fingers farther up, over the gentle curve of her breast, my thumb teasing her hard nipple. “Feel you.”
She glances around, as if she’s afraid we’ll get caught. “Someone could spot us back here.”
“Let them.” With only two fingers, I tug the fabric up, exposing her to my hungry gaze. Her nipples are tiny and pink, and my mouth waters. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
“Stop.” She brushes my hand away, and I step back, the fabric falling back into place, covering her. She’s visibly trembling. “You’re naughty.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I think you like it.”
“Are you always so forward?”
“No,” I say truthfully, letting the word sink in before I say, “Let’s get out of here.”
Her frown is so deep, a little crease forms between her eyebrows. “What do you mean, let’s get out of here?”
“I mean, I want to leave this place.” I crowd her once again, resting my hands on her waist, my fingers burning into her cool, smooth skin. “Take me somewhere that’s special to you, fake Parisian girl.”
Carolina tilts her head back, her gaze assessing. “You’re very bold, you know.”
“I could say the same about you.” I streak my thumb beneath the cropped hem of her tank yet again, like a dare.
I’m pushing her limits, but she still doesn’t run, and I take that as a good sign.
Her eyes darken to the color of the Italian coastal waters—the Sardinia is the deepest, darkest blue I’ve ever seen, and it’s the same exact shade as Carolina Lancaster’s eyes, swear to God. “You’re also a tease.”
“Again, so are you.”
The music stops, shifting into a slower tune, and she pushes away from the wall, slipping away from me, glancing over her shoulder as she keeps walking.
“Come on,” she calls, and without hesitation, I fall into step behind her.
Pretty sure I’d follow her anywhere.
