Brothers of Paradise Series

“You do your part first.”

“Want me to sign a contract as well?”

She shakes her head, eyes following my hands as I unbuckle my pants, following her instructions to the T. It’s not difficult-I’m already hard. “This is what you do to me,” I say. “Every day.”

She swallows. “Uh-huh.”

“Want to see just how badly?”

She nods, hand toying with the zipper in her dress. I grin and tell her in excruciating detail what I feel, what I want from her. How I need her tonight. I use all the words she likes-the ones she’s admitted get her even wetter than she thought possible. It takes a long time before we finally settle down to sleep that night, every minute more enjoyable than the last.

Spoiler: we both win.

Afterwards, she’s warm in my arms, body curved neatly against mine. The scent that clings to her skin is intoxicating. Sea and sex and sun. My arm is resting around her waist, and her hand smooths up and down my skin lazily. I close my eyes.

It feels too good, this. A dream. A fantasy.

“Henry,” she murmurs softly. “You didn’t tell me earlier. Are you head over heels, too?”

I smile. “I’m weak after sex. Are you exploiting it?”

Faye laughs, burying her face against my neck. “Maybe.”

My arm tightens around her waist. Her body against mine is something I’d never stop taking for granted. The quiet is expectant, but not uncomfortable. Faye will be okay with whatever I reply, as long as it’s the truth.

“In every relationship in my life, there have been… expectations. I have to be someone. A son. A big brother. A winner, an instructor. A role model. A boss.” My thumb rubs a circle over the silken skin on her stomach. “But here with you, I’m just me. And it’s enough.”

Faye is quiet for a long moment. Then her lips, gentle and warm against mine. “Henry,” she murmurs.

“That was a yes,” I clarify. “To your question.”

Her laughter is soft in the dark, surrounding me completely. “I’m glad.”

The next day…

“I’ve been practicing my knots,” Faye says. “I bought some string at the supermarket.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“That’s it, you’re the best student I’ve ever had.”

“Anything to impress you,” she says with a smile, grabbing her bag from the trunk. Lily and Hayden’s car is already here-parked next to ours. They should be waiting by the Frida.

My phone rings, and it’s a number I don’t recognize. On a Sunday? I debate letting it go to voice mail, the ocean beckoning, before I decide differently. Still watching Faye, I answer.

“Henry Marchand.”

“Hi, I’m so glad I could reach you. My name is Richard Drew from the Architecture Society of New York. As you might recall, we’re in charge of the jury selection for the new opera house.”

My throat has gone dry. “Yes, I recall.”

“Well, we were very impressed with your submission. The jury has met and deliberated, and they have unanimously chosen your design. Congratulations!”

Faye locks the car and gestures with her head. Can we start walking toward the dock?

“Erhm,” I say. “That’s good news.”

“It certainly is! The public announcement won’t be made yet, not until this week. We will be in contact on Monday with all the details. I’m sure you have a ton of questions.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But we wanted to let you have the weekend to digest it.” He pauses, voice happy. “Congrats again, Mr. Marchand. We’re looking forward to a great partnership.”

“Yes. Thank you. So am I.”

We hang up. Faye, now staring at me curiously, takes a step closer. “You okay? You look white.”

I grin at her, excitement racing through me. “Well, Miss Alvarez. Think you could handle working together with me again?”

Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

I don’t answer for a second, just letting her see my smile. It feels massive-etched on my face. After I sent in the model, I’d almost forgotten about the dates for the jury’s selection. My mind had been occupied with Faye, with getting her back, and then with being with her.

“Henry,” she prompts. “Who was on the phone?”

“The Architecture Society of New York.”

Her arms fall limp at her sides. “No way.”

“Yes. Guess who’s going to be building New York’s new opera house?”

“You will,” she murmurs, her voice weak. “Oh my God, Henry.”

“We will,” I say. “We’re both listed as executive architects.”

And then her arms are around my neck, and she’s laughing, or maybe crying, and I swing her around on the marina parking lot. They chose our design. Out of hundreds of applications, they chose ours. The curving steel and wooden beams we’d labored over in digital detail will become real.

“Yes,” she finally breathes, her smile wide. “I’ll work with you again.”

I kiss her soundly. “Just draw up the contract, sweetheart, and I’ll sign.”

***

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