Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

He put his phone away without looking at the number.

They walked back through the Paris streets, her hand in his, the city warm and unhurried around them, and the twelve minutes back to the hotel took considerably longer than twelve minutes because neither of them was in any hurry and Paris on a Sunday understood that and accommodated it without comment.

At the hotel entrance the doorman held the door with the professional discretion of someone who had learned that the correct response to everything was simply to hold the door.

The lobby was quiet.

The elevator came immediately and they rode up to the fourth floor in the specific silence of two people who had said everything that needed saying and were now simply present with each other in the same space, decided and unhurried.

The corridor was empty.

They stopped outside her room.

Vanessa turned to face him, key card in hand, and looked at him one final time with the expression that had nothing managed in it and hadn’t for a while now, the composed professional entirely absent, just her, exactly as she was, in a Paris hotel corridor on a Sunday afternoon with two hours before a flight.

”Sean,” she said.

”Yeah,” he said.

She held his gaze for one more moment.

Then she opened the door.

And looked back at him.

”Come in,” she said softly.

He followed her inside.

The door closed behind them.

—---------

The moment the door clicked shut.

Vanessa’s mouth was on his before the sound finished.

No preamble. No hesitation. Just her body pressing him against the door and her tongue sliding past his lips with the kind of hunger that had been building for three days and two nights and a Sunday morning corner table where she’d said the truest thing she’d ever said to anyone.

Sean’s hands found her waist.

She kissed like she wanted to consume him. Deep. Wet. Her tongue exploring his mouth with a rhythm that was less kiss and more claim.

”You have no idea,” she breathed against his mouth, ”how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Her teeth caught his bottom lip. Pulled. Released.

”Since the fitting room,” Sean said, his voice rough.

”Before that.” She was already working his jacket off his shoulders. ”The moment you walked into my store without an appointment and looked at me like you already knew exactly who I was.”

The jacket hit the floor.

Her blazer followed. The bronze one from Saturday morning. She shrugged out of it with the same efficiency she brought to everything, except now the efficiency was driven by something raw and urgent.

Sean’s hands slid under her silk shell. The skin of her back was warm and smooth and she arched into his touch with a sound that was half sigh and half growl.

”I’ve been wet since the courtyard,” she said, pulling his shirt up. ”When you looked at me after I touched your face. Do you remember that?”

”I remember.”

”I had to sit through an entire dinner.” Buttons. She was working his buttons with the precise fingers of someone who’d spent twenty years with fabric. ”Sitting across from you. Making conversation. Pretending I wasn’t thinking about exactly this.”

His shirt opened.

Her palms flattened against his chest. She looked at him the way she’d looked at the south wall photograph on Marc’s monitor. Like she was cataloguing something she intended to keep.

”God,” she said quietly. ”You’re so handsome.”

Then she was kissing him again, harder, and her hands were at his belt and Sean was pulling her silk shell over her head and her bra was black and simple and gone three seconds later because she reached behind and unclasped it herself without breaking the kiss.

Her breasts pressed against his bare chest.

Warm. Soft. Her nipples hard against his skin.

”Bed,” she said against his mouth.

”Here first,” he said.

She laughed, low and dark. ”Impatient.”

But she didn’t move toward the bed. Instead she dropped to her knees in the hotel room entryway and looked up at him with those dark eyes that had been cataloguing collections for twelve years and were now cataloguing something entirely different.

The belt. Her fingers were precise and quick. Buckle. Leather through the loop. Button. Zipper. She pulled his trousers down and his boxer briefs followed and then he was standing in the entryway of a Paris hotel room with his cock hard and rising and Vanessa Chen on her knees in front of him.

She wrapped her hand around him.

Not tentative. Not exploratory. She held him the way she held everything. Deliberately. Completely.

She leaned forward and ran her tongue from base to tip in one long stroke.

Sean’s hand found the doorframe.

”Fuck,” he breathed.

”You taste good.” She did it again. Slower. ”I knew you would.”

Then she swallowed Sean dick so deep in her throat, her lips wrapped tight around his shaft, her tongue working the underside as she pulled back and then pushed forward again. Her hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t reach. The other hand cupped his balls with the same deliberate pressure she’d used to adjust his collar.

Sean looked down at her.

”You look incredible,” he said.

Her eyes lifted to his. She held his gaze as she took him deeper, and something in her expression shifted at the words. Pride. Hunger. The specific pleasure of being seen exactly as she was.

She pulled back, his cock slick and glistening.

”Tell me what you like,” she said, stroking him slowly. ”I want to make you come. I’ve wanted to make you come since the first time we met, when you looked at me and I felt it in my pussy for the first time.”

”I like what you’re doing.” Said Sean

”What else.” Said Vanessa

”When you take it deep.” Said Sean

She smiled and then slid her mouth down Sean dick shaft again, and this time she took him to the back of her throat and held there, her nose pressed against his stomach, her throat working around him. One hand gripped his thigh. The other stayed at his balls, pressing, massaging.