"Abi, wait! Please. Where are you even going?"

Noah's voice cut through the quiet that filled the car parking lot outside the back of the venue. The lingering selfie hunters had long since disappeared and, in the cold night air of Paris in February, the solitary tear that escaped my eye left a hot trail across my skin.

Wiping my cheek, I turned to face him as I pulled on my black faux fur coat and hugged it tight around my body.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, taking a couple of strides to close the remaining distance between us.

I didn't know the answer.

"Abi," Noah continued, placing his hands on my shoulders and ducking his head down to my eye level. "I know this is all a bit mental, but you have to believe me that not a day goes by when I don't wish you were here with me."

Sliding his hands around my shoulders he placed them flat on my back and pulled me into his body. His smell enveloped my senses as my face buried into his chest, the same clean masculine scent I'd always known.

"The fact you actually are here now is more than I could have asked for," he continued. The vibration of his voice rattled against my cheek, soothing me in the way only Noah's voice could.

Wiping my nose with the back of hand, I pulled my head away from hos torso and craned my neck to look up at him.

"I just feel as though I'm missing out on this whole part of your life," I said. "It's so hard to watch all this from afar, knowing you're mine but not being able to tell the world."

"It kills me, too," he said, moving one hand to push my windblown fringe to the side. "But I swear, I'm not doing anything bad behind your back. I love you, Wilson."

The sight of his lopsided smile and the dimple that always pierced my heart made it impossible not to smile back.

"I love you too, Nomeo," I whispered.

The warmth of his lips on mine washed away any remaining doubt left in my mind. Noah Hartnett the musician may have belonged to the whole world now, but Noah Hartnett the man was all mine.

"Come on," he said, pulling his face from mine and massaging my scalp with his fingertips. "Let's get out of here."

With one quick call and a thirty second wait, a blinding set of headlights rounded the corner of the building into the parking lot where we stood.

"Your carriage, Mademoiselle," Noah smirked, opening the door of the sleek, black Mercedes that pulled up and ushering me into it.

As I scooted over on the cream leather seats, he bundled in next to me, rubbing his arms to brush off the chill.

Leaning over towards the drivers seat, he cupped the driver's shoulder with a huge grin.

"Bon soir, Christophe," he smiled, "Back to the hotel please."

"No problem, sir," the driver replied, craning his neck around to smile politely in my direction. "And the lady?"

"She's with me," Noah said, squeezing his shoulder with his large palm, before shifting back into the backseat and fastening himself in.

Turning to grab my seatbelt, I began to follow suit before Noah's hand on my knee caused me to look around.

"Sit in the middle," he said quietly, "I want to be able to touch you."

Doing as he said, I slid over into the middle seat and clicked the seatbelt in place over my lap. As the car rolled out of the arena to join the main road, Noah grabbed a black fleece blanket rolled up in the door compartment and flung it across us both, pulling me into his body with one arm.

Snuggling in under its warmth, I leant my head on Noah's shoulder and drew circles on his knee with my forefinger. The crazy, noisy world of the concert seemed a whole world away as we puled out into the traffic. Nobody knew who sat behind the tinted windows. No fans, no industry people, and no Arla Breeze.

In the darkness of the backseat, I trailed my fingers further up his leg until they came to brush lightly over the crotch of his black skinny jeans. I smiled ever so slightly to myself at the discovery his body was already straining for my touch under the material.

Without moving my head, I glanced towards the driver, his eyes fixed on the busy roads of Paris. Silently, I began to undo the buckle of Noah's jeans and the buttons of his fly, his breath hitching ever so slightly against the top of my head. Sliding my fingers under his open jeans, I teased his length through the soft cotton of his boxers, its firm heat filling my palm as I gently stroked up and down.

Shifting my body weight slightly, I maneuvered my hand down into his underwear. Noah coughed loudly, disguising the jangling noise his open belt made as I did so.

I darted my eyes towards the driver once more, his face was still firmly facing forward. I'm sure he'd seen much worse during his time as a chauffeur. But, whether he knew what was going on in the backseat or not, he didn't seem to be paying a blind bit of attention.

With a gentle grip, I started to massage Noah with my hand. My mind flashed back to the time he told me to spit. I'm not sure I could have got away with doing that there and then in the back of a chauffeur car, but the memory alone caused the tingling between my own legs to grow stronger.

Taking care not to move my arm too obviously, I continued my movements up and down. Noah's breathing became heavier, the hot air from his nostrils tickling my forehead as I leaned on his shoulder.

"Abi," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Taking it as a cue, I moved my thumb over the tip of his length and made small circles as I squeezed my palm gently.

"Abi," he whispered again, his voice slightly more forceful. "We're here."

I shot up in the seat faster than humanly possible, the blanket falling away from us in the process and leaving a split second of Noah's genitals exposed to the backseat before he quickly pulled it back over his lap.

"As the driver stepped out to walk around and open the door, Noah quickly did himself up and raked his fingers through his hair. "I'll go first," he said, turning to smile at me. "Just in case. Christophe will do a loop then drop you back here. Tell reception you're staying with Bartholomew Biggins and they'll show you up."

"Bartholemew Biggins?" I snorted.

"We use different names in every hotel," he laughed, "Can never be too sure what riff raff might be trying to sneak in for a night with Noah Hartnett."

With a mischievous grin, he leant over to place a lingering kiss on my lips. Slapping him away playfully, I scooted back over to the other side of the car as Christophe pulled open Noah's door onto the pavement. As the door closed behind him, a bright flash lit up the sky, closely followed by a handful more.

Paparazzi. Really?

I rolled my eyes as Christophe climbed back into the driver's seat and started the engine back up.

"Mademoiselle, I will escort you to the back entrance. It is not nice for a lady to face those assholes alone."

The way the word assholes sounded in his thick, French accent made me laugh. 

"Thank you, Christophe," I smiled, meeting his crinkled, friendly grin in the rear view mirror.

The doorman at the back entrance looked disinterested as I stepped out of the car and made my way into the hotel. Following the signs to the main reception, I muttered to myself about the stupidity of this whole situation. If only Noah was allowed to be honest about being in a relationship, I wouldn't need to be sneaking around in Parisian hotels just to spend some time with him.

As I stepped into the grand lobby, however, any grievances were smashed apart by the elegance and sophistication that greeted me. Huge pillars dotted around the reception were adorned with giant vases of fresh flowers, and a giant, red mosaic dominated the middle of the polished marble floors.

"Bienvenue a Hôtel Plaza Athénée," the suited receptionist smiled as I approached, her immaculate red lipstick matching the tiles on the floor beneath my feet.

I took a deep breath as I rested my fingertips lightly on the counter between us. "Hello. I'm staying with Bartholomew Biggins."

Her lips twitched as the words left my mouth, but she held back from laughing.

"Of course," she said airily, jumping into action to programme a room key card on her sleek computer screen. "Monsieur Biggins is in one of our very best rooms."

The smirk crept back across her lips, an action I couldn't help but mirror.

"Take the elevator to the eighth floor, Eiffel Suite 878."

Thanking her politely, I took the keycard and made my way to the elevator, the heavy doors closing and surrounding me the faintest wave of piano music as it smoothly made its way up.

Number 878 wasn't hard to find, there didn't seem to be many rooms on the suite floor. I was just about to swipe in when a wave of panic washed over me. What if it wasn't the right room? I kind of thought Noah might have waited outside for me, or at least left a note on the door.

Of course he wouldn't leave a note on the door Abi, you idiot, I thought, shaking my head as I drew a breath and plunged the small plastic card into the lock.

The view that greeted me snatched any air left in my lungs straight back out, pummeled it around with two giant fists, then blew it out of the balcony doors that stood open onto the most incredible view of Paris I could have imagined.

Against the twinkling figure of the Eiffel Tower in the background, Noah stood lit by only the glow of the lights behind him. He had changed his stage T-shirt for a long-sleeved black top, and held a bottle of champagne and two glasses in one hand, his other elbow resting behind him on the balcony railing.

"Of all the shit hotels we've stayed in on this tour," he began, "I am so fucking pleased you turned up to the one city where management decided to treat us."

"Noah, this is..." I tried to reply, as I walked through the sumptuous, Art Deco living room of the suite and out onto the balcony. The words stuck in my throat. There was nothing I could say to describe how it felt to look out over the heart of Paris, with the most beautiful boy I had ever seen by my side.

"This is just..." I tried again.

"Incredible?" he offered.

"Beyond incredible," I whispered.

Placing the bottle and glasses down onto a concrete bistro table, Noah placed his arms around my waist from behind as I stood gaping open-mouthed at the view. I'd been to Paris once before, when I was nine. Mum and Dad had taken me to Eurodisney for my birthday with my cousin and my aunt on my dad's side. It was one of the happiest times of my life. The world had been full of magic back then; none of the pain and hurt that I had come to know since.

On that balcony, with Noah's arms around me, I felt as though the world was magic once more.

The warmth of his breath brushed my ear as he nuzzled his chin into my shoulder. "Shall we go inside and have a drink?" he asked.

"In a minute," I replied, not taking my eyes off the canvas of lights that spread in front of my eyes like a carpet of gold. "I just want to soak this in for a bit longer."

"However long you want," Noah said, squeezing me a little tighter in his arms. "I'm just glad you're here.

"Me too," I whispered, reaching one hand up behind my head to push my fingers into his hair.

His lips were as light as a feather as they brushed against my neck. I smiled lazily as I tilted my head to one side, allowing him to tease the sensitive skin with his mouth as I continued to twirl my fingers through his hair.

Eventually, I couldn't hold out any longer. His soft kisses spread a blanket of electricity across my entire body with each one he placed on my neck. Turning to face him, his arms still wrapped tightly around my waist, I stroked my fingers down his cheek and into the light stubble on his jawline.

Neither of us said a word before our mouths met. For one amazing night in Paris, under the light of the Eiffel Tower, things were perfect. We were perfect. Messed up in our own ways, uncertain of what the next day would bring, and completely useless without each other.

Just Noah and me. Perfectly imperfect.