The words I never gave you

Chapter 6

Villa Astor, Cap Ferrat, French Riviera

The Gulfstream touched down at Nice Côte d’Azur just after sunset, the sky bleeding rose-gold over the Mediterranean. Elena spent the entire flight pressed to the window, eyes wide, whispering “holy s**t” every time the stewardess refilled her champagne.

She was dressed in a simple cream sweater and jeans (perfectly fine for any normal person, but here it looked like she’d wandered in off the street). Sarah and Erica exchanged glances that could freeze vodka. Bianca, ever the perfect hostess, kept her smile polished and distant, asking polite questions about turbulence and whether Elena preferred still or sparkling. I caught Elena’s knuckles going white on the armrest. Out of her element doesn’t begin to cover it.

The villa is exactly as I remember it: pale stone glowing under floodlights, infinity pool spilling into the sea, the air thick with jasmine and salt. Eight bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, a wine cellar older than most countries. We have our traditional assignments: Bianca and I in the master suite that overlooks the water, Sarah and Erica in the lemon-yellow leg suite, the boys in the right-wing chaos they call “the frat pad.”

When the housekeeper asked Elena which room she’d like, I pointed to the mini-suite on our floor (smaller, yes, but with the little balcony that catches the sunrise and, crucially, only two doors down from us). It made logistical sense; she wouldn’t be isolated in the east wing with staff quarters and storage. Still, I felt Bianca stiffen beside me. A flicker of something unreadable passed between her and Sarah. Eye contact ricocheted around the marble foyer like gunfire. Elena just murmured “thank you” and disappeared inside with her single duffel bag.

Dinner was… an event. The table was set for royalty: Baccarat crystal, gold-rimmed plates, a three-course menu that started with lobster bisque and ended with a bitter-chocolate soufflé so perfect it should be illegal. Elena showed up in a black turtleneck and the same jeans. The silence when she sat down was glacial. Austin actually smirked and said, “Did you raid the crew luggage by mistake?” Jason snorted into his Sancerre. Even William, who is usually polite to a fault, raised an eyebrow. Only Bianca and I pretended nothing was wrong.

Bianca, as always, barely ate. Three bites of Dover sole, a sip of soup, then pushing the rest around like a bored child. I’d already texted the chef: light snack to the master suite at ten, no arguments.

Conversation inevitably turned to bloodlines. In our world, curiosity about pedigree is a drug, and Elena was the new mysterious pill on the table. William started it innocently enough: “So, Miller—what does your family do over holidays?” Elena’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully. “We don’t really… do big holidays.” Sarah leaned forward, eyes glittering. “No ski chalet in Gstaad? No house in Aspen?” Erica chimed in sweetly, “Surely there’s a lake house somewhere?” The questions came faster, sharper, until it felt like an interrogation. Elena’s cheeks flushed crimson; she looked trapped.

Before I could shut it down, Bianca placed her napkin beside her plate and stood. “I’m suddenly not feeling well. I think I’ll retire.” Her voice was soft, but in this circle it’s law: when the hostess leaves, the party ends. Chairs scraped, apologies murmured, and within minutes the dining room emptied.

Back in our suite, moonlight poured through the open French doors, silver on the marble floor. Bianca kicked off her heels and curled into the velvet chaise like a cat. I closed the door, leaned against it. “Thank you for that. They were being vicious.”

She gave me that smile (the real one, the one that makes the whole world quiet). “You wanted her here. I won’t let my friends humiliate your guest.” God, she’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that stops time: cheekbones catching the moon, hair spilling like pale silk over one shoulder. My chest did that stupid tightening thing again.

A soft knock. The maid with the tray I’d ordered: warm goat-cheese tartines, tiny macarons, a pot of chamomile. I dismissed her and carried it over. “Eat,” I said, mock-stern. Bianca opened her mouth to protest (something about calories or photoshoots), but I was already settling her onto my lap. “Not negotiating, princess.” I broke off a piece of tartine and held it to her lips. She rolled her eyes but took it, then licked a crumb from her lower lip in a way that went straight to my groin.

One bite became two, became kisses between feeding her, my tongue chasing honey from the corner of her mouth. The tray was forgotten on the side table. I lifted her effortlessly, carried her to the bed, laid her down like something sacred. Moonlight painted her skin pearl-white as I peeled away the silk dress, kissing every inch I uncovered. Her breath hitched when I reached her breasts, teasing n*****s into tight peaks with my tongue, grazing with teeth until she arched off the mattress.

Lower still. I hooked her lace panties with my fingers and dragged them down her endless legs, settling between her thighs. She was already glistening for me. I took my time (slow licks, gentle circles, then firmer, sucking her c**t until her hands fisted in my hair and she came with a broken cry against my mouth, thighs trembling around my shoulders).

She tugged me up, desperate, nails raking my back as she freed me from my trousers. Her perfect lips wrapped around my c**k (warm, wet, eager), taking me deep, humming so the vibration shot straight through me. I had to pull her off before I lost it too soon.

When I finally slid into her, it was slow, deliberate, every inch savored. She gasped my name, legs locking around my waist. Then she pushed on my chest (wordless command) and I rolled us so she was on top. Straddling me, hair cascading like a curtain, she looked like a goddess. She set the pace: rolling hips, grinding down, taking me deeper with every motion. Her breasts bounced gently, head thrown back, moans soft and sweet and utterly mine. I gripped her hips, thrusting up to meet her, watching her fall apart again (tight, pulsing around me) before I followed, spilling inside her with a groan that felt dragged from my soul.

We stayed locked together, her forehead against mine, both of us shaking. Eventually she collapsed onto my chest, my arms wrapping around her automatically. The ceiling fan turned lazy circles above us; the sea whispered beyond the open doors.

I pressed a kiss to her damp temple. “You’re perfect,” I murmured. She made a small contented sound and burrowed closer.

Tomorrow the others will probably resume their subtle war on Elena. Sarah and Erica will snipe, the boys will tease, and Bianca will keep playing perfect hostess while quietly marking her territory. And me? I’m caught in the middle of two worlds: one glittering and familiar, the other raw and uncharted.

But tonight, with Bianca’s heartbeat steady against mine and the taste of her still on my tongue, everything else can wait.