#desiredoue

The summer in Paris had a peculiar way of turning the “City of Light” into a golden furnace. The asphalt of the avenues seemed to pulse beneath the July heat, and the air, usually filled with the aroma of coffee and car exhaust, now carried the sweet scent of linden blossoms and the lingering smell of sunscreen. For Isadora Beauvoir Marx, the heat was a silent enemy that tested the British patience inherited from her father, while her French half tried, unsuccessfully, to maintain elegance in the midst of the thirty-four-degree temperatures punishing the capital.

—Mon Dieu, Désiré, if you tell me one more time that training was under the sun and that I shouldn’t be complaining, I swear I’ll throw you into the Seine.

You muttered, brushing the back of your hand across your damp forehead.

You were sitting in the passenger seat of Désiré’s car, an air-conditioned luxury vehicle that was the only reason you hadn’t suffered a nervous breakdown yet. You wore a light, short white linen dress, and your hair was tied up in a deliberately messy high bun, exposing the nape of your neck where a few stubborn strands clung to your skin.

Désiré Doué, on the other hand, seemed completely at home. The PSG Golden Boy had one arm resting on the window, his fingers tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of a French rap song playing softly on the radio. He wore only a black tank top that highlighted his defined muscles, tanned skin, and tattoos, all of which seemed to glow beneath the sun.

— Calme-toi, Princesse. — He laughed, flashing that easy, self-assured smile that always disarmed you. — I only said that you’re beautiful when you’re irritated. The heat makes you piquante.

— Piquante? — You raised an eyebrow, your sarcasm as sharp as ever. — I’m melting, Désiré. My brain is turning into fondue. Where are you taking us? If there isn’t water involved, I’m jumping out of this moving car.

— Promis! — He promised, casting you a quick yet intense glance. — We’re going to a refuge. A place where journalists don’t go and where my girlfriend can stop complaining for five minutes and enjoy the sun.

You had been officially together long enough that each other’s presence felt as natural as breathing. The phase of stolen kisses in the Jardin des Tuileries had given way to a solid companionship, although discretion remained the golden rule due to his meteoric rise to fame. But that day, Désiré didn’t want to think about game tactics or the pressure from supporters. He only wanted you.

He drove out of the bustling city center toward a private property on the outskirts of Boulogne-Billancourt, owned by a friend of the Doué family who was traveling. It was a villa hidden behind high walls and ivy-covered fences, with a garden that looked like an Impressionist painting and, most importantly, an infinity pool reflecting the flawless blue of the Parisian sky.

As soon as the electronic gate closed behind you, the silence and cool shade of the trees wrapped around the car. You sighed, feeling the tension leave your shoulders.

— Enfin, amour!

You whispered.

— Do you like it, ma belle?

Désiré parked and turned off the engine, turning toward you.

— It’s acceptable… — you replied, though your eyes sparkled with relief. — Now move. I need water.

You got out of the car and headed toward the pool area. The gentle sound of water spilling over the edge was music to your ears. Désiré, however, wasn’t looking at the pool. He was watching you as you set your straw bag on one of the loungers and began unbuttoning your linen dress.

— Aren’t you going to change in the dressing room?

He asked, his voice suddenly a shade deeper as he leaned against a stone pillar.

You paused, the dress already half open, revealing the thin straps of an emerald-green bikini that contrasted perfectly with your skin. You shot him a challenging look, the kind that said you knew exactly the effect you had on him.

— Why would I? There’s nobody here, Désiré. Just the two of us. And the trees.

You finished removing the dress and let it fall onto the lounger.

Doué felt his throat go dry. You were petite, but every curve seemed sculpted with a precision that left him breathless. The bikini was minimalist, tied with delicate bows at the hips, and the confidence with which you moved—that blend of reserve and audacity—was what fascinated him most.

— Putain…

He muttered under his breath, a curse that always slipped out whenever he lost control of his words.

You smiled, a crooked smile, genuinely amused.

— What is it, baby? Lost your voice? I thought you were the expert when it came to handling pressure.

Désiré took a few steps toward you, the heat of the sun now competing with the warmth rising through his chest. He stopped only inches away, intoxicated by the scent of lavender and sun-warmed skin.

— The pressure at the Parc des Princes is nothing compared to you in that bikini, Princesse.

His voice was rough.

He reached out and lightly touched your waist, where your skin was soft and warm.

— You’re beautiful.

You felt the familiar flutter in your stomach. No matter how much sarcasm you used as armor, the way Désiré looked at you—as though you were the only thing that mattered in the world—always managed to break through your defenses. You placed your hands against his chest, feeling his accelerated heartbeat beneath the tank top.

— Less talking, Doué. — you whispered, moving your face closer to his. — I want to swim.

— So do I.

He replied, but before you could pull away, he drew you into a kiss.

It was a kiss that tasted like summer: warm, urgent, and deep. Désiré held you firmly, as if he wanted to preserve that moment, that peace, that feeling that you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you. When you finally parted, both of you were slightly breathless.

He removed his tank top and shorts in quick movements, revealing the athlete’s physique that made him one of the most sought-after footballers in Europe. But there, beneath that sun, he wasn’t PSG’s star player; he was simply the boy who had loved you long before everything began.

— Race to the water?

He challenged, his eyes gleaming with his usual competitiveness.

— You have legs that are practically two meters long, Désiré! That’s unfair.

You protested, though you were already running.

You dove in almost simultaneously, the shock of cool water against sun-heated skin provoking surprised shrieks and laughter. The pool was an oasis. The next hour was spent playing like children, Désiré trying to dunk you underwater while you retaliated with perfectly aimed splashes, calling him a “spoiled boy” while he called you an “irritated little mermaid.”

Eventually, the heat and the playfulness left you both tired, and you drifted toward the edge of the pool. You rested your arms on the marble ledge, gazing at Paris in the distance, the Eiffel Tower standing like a sentinel on the hazy horizon.

— C’est parfait.

Murmured Désiré, pulling you closer against him beneath the water.

— Yeah…

You agreed, resting your head on his shoulder.

— Sometimes I forget how beautiful Paris can be when we’re not trying to run away from someone.

Désiré kissed the top of your head.

— I wish every day could be like this. No training sessions, no cameras. Just me, you, and that bad mood of yours that I love.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow.

— I don’t have a bad mood. I have personality. It’s different.

— Bien sûr, Madame.

He laughed, using the title that always made you blush, reminding you of the promise represented by the rings you both still carried, even if they weren’t always visible.

— But admit it… you like it when I bring you to places like this. You like being my Princesse.

You sighed, closing your eyes and enjoying the warmth of the sun on your face and the coolness of the water around your body. Turning in his arms, you wrapped your arms around Désiré’s neck, your fingers disappearing into his damp curls.

— I like being with you, Désiré. The place doesn’t matter that much.

You paused, your sarcasm returning in a whisper.