All Chapters of Spicy Hot : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

 Kassian LéonThe plane takes off. The roar of the engines, the push against the back, then near silence. The city lights recede, become a carpet of fireflies, then disappear beneath the clouds. She looks out the window, fascinated, her breath forming a slight mist on the glass.— It's beautiful, she says.— Yes.But I'm not looking at the scenery. I'm looking at her. The soft light on her face, the sparkle in her eyes, the smile on her lips. I look at her hands, slender, elegant, resting on her knees. I look at her feet, bare in her heels, her delicate ankles. I look at everything. I want to engrave everything.She turns to me.— What?— Nothing.— You're staring.— Yes.— Why?— Because I can. Because I want to. Because I love it. Because you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.She holds my gaze, a challenge in her eyes.

 Kassian LéonShe looks, marveling like a child. Her eyes shine brighter than the city lights. She touches the water with her fingertips, smiles at the cats sleeping on the steps, breathes deeply as if to keep this air inside her forever.— It's the most beautiful city in the world, she says.— Yes.— Have you been here before?— Often. For business.— And now?— For you.She rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells of sex and love, travel and adventure. I stroke her arm, from elbow to wrist, again and again.— I'll never forget tonight, she says.— Me neither.— Even in a hundred years.— In a hundred years, I'll be dead.— Then I'll remember for both of us.I laugh softly.— You're romantic.— So are you, you know.— No. I'm pragmatic.— You'r

Kassian Léon1 year later.I've never taken my eyes off her.We're in our apartment. Ours. Not mine, not hers. Ours. In Montmartre, with a view of Paris that reminds me of Venice every time I look out the window. She chose the furniture, I set up the kitchen. She brought her plants, I brought my books. Our lives merged seamlessly, as if they were always meant to be one.Tonight, she's cooking. She's wearing one of my T-shirts, too big for her, and nothing else. Her bare feet on the tiles, her hair tied up in a messy bun, she's dancing to music I barely hear. She tastes the sauce with the tip of the spoon, closes her eyes, smiles. She's at home. She's at home with us.I put down my book. I watch her. Really.— What? she says without turning around. She feels my gaze on her neck.— Nothing.— You're lying. You make that sound when you're thinking.— What sound?— The one where your breathing changes. Like you're weighing your words before letting them out.I get up. I cross the room. I

PROLOGUEThe InvitationELSAThe first time I saw the envelope, I thought it was a mistake.It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of grey day where Paris looks like a faded postcard. I was coming home from work, tired for no reason, as always. My footsteps echoed in the stairwell of my eleventh-floor building, that staircase I had been climbing for two years without ever really looking at the walls, the steps, the doors. Just a mechanical path between the street and my apartment.It was there, slipped under my door.Thick paper, cream-colored, which seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. My name written by hand in an old-fashioned script, almost calligraphic, with thick and thin strokes they don't make anymore. No stamp, no return address. Just my first name, traced with an application that made each letter unsettling.Elsa.I stood still on the landing, my key in my hand, looking at that envelope as if it might start moving. My heart was beating faster, I felt the blood rush

I smiled. A slow, dangerous smile, which I saw reflected in her eyes like a promise."The initiation. Three nights. Three trials. The first, the night of opening. The second, the night of the offering. The third, the night of union. In the end, you will be one of us. Or you will be free to leave.""And if I want to leave before?""You can. The door is always open. No one is holding you."She looked behind her, towards the hallway, towards the front door. I saw the calculation in her eyes, the hesitation, the fear. Then she looked ahead, towards the black door."But if you leave now, you'll never know," I added. "You'll live your whole life wondering what was behind that door. Regretting not having had the courage to see. Imagining, night after night, what you could have lived. And that regret will gnaw at you more surely than any fear."She held my gaze. Long. A full minute, perhaps more, measuring herself against me, searching within herself for the strength to stay or to leave.Then