Cannes After Dark
There were no words, no whispered endearments, just ragged breaths, the slide of skin on skin, the thump of her own heart a frantic drum against her ribs. He lifted her easily, his strength effortless, and she wrapped her legs around his lean hips, pulling him down with her onto the cool sheets.
And then he was inside her, a hard, perfect thrust that made her cry out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled for a breathless second, his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh. Then he began to move, and it was devastating. Each powerful stroke drove her higher, deeper into a maelstrom of sensation where the lingering terror of the attack fused with an overwhelming, incandescent pleasure. He was relentless, focused entirely on her, on this, his body a finely honed instrument of her undoing. She felt claimed, protected, utterly consumed. The world narrowed to the slide of him, the heat of his breath against her neck, the exquisite tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally, gloriously, shattered, her body clenching around him as she came apart with a cry he muffled with his mouth. He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against hers, a low groan torn from his throat.
The silence that descended afterwards was heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing. He was still partially covering her, his weight a solid, strangely comforting pressure. Sabine stared at the ceiling, her body humming, her mind reeling. The professional line hadn’t just been crossed; it had been obliterated. And as the immediate, incandescent heat began to recede, a cold trickle of reality – and the undeniable scent of his skin, still pressed against hers – began to seep in.
The morning after brought an awkwardness as thick as the Mediterranean fog. Sunlight crept across the rumpled sheets where Sabine lay, Greg’s scent – clean soap, something uniquely male – still on the pillows. He stood by the window, fully dressed, back to her, a silent silhouette. The professional façade was back.
Sabine sat up, pulling the sheet with her. “Regrets, Mr. MacAllister?” she asked, her voice huskier than intended.
He turned, expression unreadable. “About last night? No, Ms. Lefevre,” he said, tone neutral, but a faint softening around his eyes betrayed him. “About compromising my professional integrity? Aye, that’s… a complication.” He ran a hand over his hair. “The stalker’s in custody. Confessed. You’re safe.”
Relief washed through her. The threat was gone. But in its place was this connection with the man who had shielded her.
“Good. And us? Is this…” she gestured between them, “…just another ‘complication’?”
He crossed the room. His gaze was intense. “It was unprofessional. It shouldn’t have happened.” He paused, a ghost of humor touching his lips. “But I’m finding it difficult to muster the appropriate level of regret, Ms. Lefevre.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “Sabine. And I’d rather not be just another regret, Greg.”
The use of his first name hung in the air. He nodded slowly. “Sabine. The festival ends soon. My official assignment… ends.”
“And then what?”
He considered her. “Then, I was thinking… have you ever been to the Scottish Highlands? It’s less glamorous than Cannes, but the views are… different. Quieter.” A hint of a smile played on his lips. “And my security protocols there are generally less intrusive.”
It wasn’t a declaration, but an offer. Sabine felt a laugh bubble up. “Are you asking me on a… holiday, Greg? Or is this your idea of a safe house?”
“Perhaps a bit of both,” he admitted. “We can… figure out the operational details. If you’re interested.”
She looked at him. “I am. But first, coffee. And you can tell me all about these ‘operational details’ for Scotland. I have a feeling your definition of ‘quiet’ and mine might differ.” The ghost of his rules now felt like a shared secret. The gilded cage of Cannes had broken open.