Chapter 13: Parisian Stakes

Harper Quinn woke Tuesday morning in the Parisian hotel suite, her body heavy with the delicious ache of last night's balcony escapade. The four-poster bed was a tangle of cream sheets, Zane's arm slung across her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder. She shifted, wincing slightly—every muscle sang with the memory of him thrusting into her against the railing, her screams echoing over the Seine, the city bearing witness to their reckless surrender. His murmured Mine still rang in her ears, a claim she'd echoed back, and now, in the soft dawn light filtering through the curtains, she felt the weight of it settling in.He stirred, his hand tightening on her hip, pulling her closer as his lips brushed her neck—right over the bruise he'd deepened last night. "Morning," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and something darker, his erection pressing against her thigh, a silent promise of more."Morning," she replied, her voice husky, rolling to face him. His gray eyes were half-lidded, glinting with a hunger that made her pulse kick up, but she slid out from under his arm, dodging the temptation. "Expo today. We've got work."He groaned, flopping back onto the pillows, one arm flung over his face. "You're killing me, Harper.""You'll survive." She smirked, climbing out of bed, her bare skin prickling in the cool air as she grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor—black, rumpled, smelling of cedar and him. It hung past her thighs, a makeshift robe as she padded to the bathroom, his low whistle following her."Tease," he called, and she shot him a look over her shoulder, catching him propped on one elbow, watching her with a grin that promised retaliation.The shower was quick, hot water soothing her aches, but it couldn't wash away the heat of his gaze, the memory of his hands, his mouth. By the time she emerged—hair damp, wrapped in a towel—he was up, jeans slung low, pouring coffee from a tray the concierge had left. He handed her a cup, his fingers brushing hers, a spark that made her breath catch."Expo starts at ten," he said, sipping his own, his eyes tracing her towel-clad form. "Big players—vendors, clients, that Tribeca asshole Julian Reese. You ready?""Always." She set the cup down, stepping past him to her suitcase, pulling out a sharp black blazer, a silk blouse, and slim trousers—professional armor with an edge. "You?"He smirked, leaning against the counter, bare-chested and unbothered. "Born ready. But I'm more interested in what you're wearing tonight.""Focus, Carver," she said, rolling her eyes, but her cheeks warmed, knowing he'd get under her skin one way or another.The expo was a sprawling affair at the Palais des Congrès—glass ceilings, white marble, a labyrinth of booths showcasing cutting-edge design. Harper navigated it with purpose, her tablet loaded with notes, her heels clicking as she met vendors—Italian marble suppliers, French lighting artisans—pitching ideas for Zane's penthouse and beyond. He trailed her, a shadow in his tailored suit, charming when it suited him, silent when it didn't, his presence a constant hum at her back.By noon, they'd secured a deal for matte-black fixtures and a lead on a custom chandelier, but the air shifted when Julian Reese appeared, blond and polished, weaving through the crowd toward them. "Harper," he greeted, his smile too bright, ignoring Zane's stiffening beside her. "Heard you're tearing it up. Paris suits you.""Work suits me," she said, keeping her tone cool, shaking his offered hand briefly. "You here to pitch or poach?"He laughed, unfazed, his eyes flicking to Zane. "Both. Got a penthouse in the 7th arrondissement—needs your touch. Carver can't keep you all to himself.""Watch me," Zane cut in, his voice low, stepping closer, his hand brushing Harper's back—a subtle claim that didn't go unnoticed. Julian's grin widened, but he backed off, tossing a card her way."Think about it," he said, winking, then sauntered off, leaving tension in his wake."Asshole," Zane muttered, his hand lingering, fingers pressing into her spine. "He's sniffing around you again.""He's sniffing around business," she corrected, stepping out of his touch, though her skin tingled where he'd been. "I can handle him.""I know." His eyes darkened, a flicker of that jealousy from the showcase, but he let it drop, guiding her toward the next booth with a hand that hovered, possessive but restrained.The day blurred—meetings, handshakes, a lunch of croissants and espresso where Zane's knee pressed hers under the table, a silent tease that kept her on edge. By late afternoon, they'd locked in a Parisian client—a boutique hotel needing a full redesign—and Harper felt the high of it, her career surging alongside whatever this was with Zane. They celebrated with champagne at a rooftop bar, the Eiffel Tower glinting in the distance, his arm slung casual but deliberate over her chair."You're good at this," he said, his voice low, sipping his drink, his eyes on her lips. "Better than good.""You're not bad yourself," she replied, her champagne flute cool against her fingers, her body warm from his nearness. "When you're not growling at rivals."He smirked, leaning closer, his breath brushing her ear. "I growl for you, too. You like it."Her laugh was shaky, heat pooling low as she shoved him back. "Behave. We're in public.""For now." His hand slid to her thigh under the table, a slow squeeze that made her breath hitch, but he pulled back, leaving her wanting as he stood. "Dinner, then back to the hotel. I've got plans."Her pulse raced, knowing those plans involved more than sleep, and she followed him out, the city's hum a backdrop to the storm brewing between them.Dinner was at a tucked-away bistro—candlelight, steak frites, a bottle of Bordeaux that loosened her edges. They talked—design, Paris, a rare glimpse of his childhood in upstate New York—but every word carried an undercurrent, every glance a spark. His foot nudged hers under the table, deliberate and slow, and by the time they stumbled back to the hotel, the wine and his proximity had her dizzy with want.The suite was dark, the balcony doors still open, Paris alive beyond them. She kicked off her heels, turning to him, but he was already there—hands on her hips, pulling her against him, his mouth crashing into hers. The kiss was fierce, hungry, tasting of wine and need, and she moaned, her fingers tugging at his jacket, shedding it as they stumbled toward the bedroom."Zane—" Her voice broke, a plea as he yanked her blouse open, buttons scattering, his hands cupping her breasts through lace, thumbs circling until she arched into him."Tomorrow," he growled, kissing her neck, her jaw, his hands everywhere. "Tonight's just a warmup."She laughed, breathless, shoving him back onto the bed, climbing over him, her trousers gone, his shirt next. They wrestled, playful and desperate, a tangle of limbs and heat, stopping just short of the edge—his hands teasing, her hips rocking, both of them panting, teasing, saving the full plunge for what he'd promised tomorrow. The night ended with her curled against him, his arm possessive, Paris whispering beyond the open doors, the tension coiled tight for the explosion to come.