Under Covers

twenty-four | paris

A/N: HAPPY NEW YEARS LOVELIES! ♥ enjoy some squirmy smutty goodness to ring in the new year with a ✨bang✨ xoxo Ami

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twenty-four | paris

in 2015, 32% of French adults – nearly a third – self-declared that they smoke cigarettes regularly

RAYNA

May 9th, 6:21 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

FRECKLES OF EARLY-MORNING sun smatter across my groggy eyelids. I flop onto my belly, burying my nose into the pillow with a tired groan.

The woodsy scent of Jake's cologne wafts along my senses. Ya rab... My body feels like it's been peeled through a paper-shredder. Memories rip through my head. My hair is limp and my breath is rancid and apparently I gave away all my self-respect last night. Fanfuckingtastic.

I sit up and let the sheets fall to my waist. My naked body tightens beneath the cool of the room. Next to me, the bed is empty.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I head to the washroom and freshen up. My boobs are sore. The space between my legs is sticky and tender. I give myself a severe glare in the mirror. You pathetic hoe.

I wanna crawl in a hole and rot. Cause of death: too many fucking orgasms. It might've been worth it.

What I need ASAP is to eat my feelings away with an Eiffel Tower's worth of crisp, gooey, fresh-from-the-oven pain au chocolat. I've just tugged on a bathrobe, about to pick up the phone to dial room-service, when I notice the balcony door hanging ajar.

Breeze flutters the gauzy curtains. The pink sunrise streaks low across the smoggy horizon, and the city below is quiet, still yawning itself awake. The small terrasse accommodates nothing more than a tiny table and two rickety chairs. Vines of green ivy climb the balcony's black-iron rails.

Jake's lounging on one of the seats, naked except for his boxers, tan skin golden beneath the dapple of sunlight. His scrapes and bruises are still fresh, patched with bandages. There's a cigarette nestled between his long fingers, tendrils of smoke curling through the air. He brings it to his kiss-stung lips, the cindery tip burning orange like the sun.

His hair is rumpled. In the dawn glow, his tattoos are so black they gleam. Last night, I caught a vague glimpse of the small one etched across his left side. A woman's name, and a date. Not my business, but Jake doesn't strike me as the sentimental type, and I can't help but wonder who could possibly be special enough for him to ink permanently into his flesh and blood.

Even scratched and scuffed, he's hazardously handsome, in a moody, careless way. I watch him take another slow drag, the slants and angles of his face obscured by the fumes.

"There are more exciting ways to die, Jake," I tell him, leaning against the doorframe. My voice is raspy from the number of times I cried out his name. "I'd be happy to help."

He gives me a wry side-eye. "One cigarette a month," he explains laconically. "A single vice." Pinching his Marlboro nimbly between his index and middle fingers, he uses the rest of his hand to pick up his coffee-cup from the table and lift it to his mouth for a sip.

I roll my eyes. Even his guilty-pleasures are strictly controlled. "We're like, less than a third into May."

He gives me such a dark, dry look that my panties would fall straight to the floor if I were wearing any. Your fault, his expression says.