“I see a life of crime pays,” I say, feeling the expensive vibe of this area.
André laughs. “Non, not entirely. The money I get from Hélène and the Werwolf Order gets donated, mostly to charities they would be particularly opposed to supporting.”
I laugh at that. “So…?”
“Celeste,” he says, answering the unasked question. “My grandfather, I never knew him. But he owned the jewelry store where she had Noémie’s ring appraised.”
“Really? She held onto it after all this time?” I ask in surprise.
“Oui.”
“Amazing,” I say with awe. This history of his just keeps getting more and more fascinating. “And then she met her husband because of it? That’s so…”
“Convenient.”
“Romantic,” I correct, slapping him lightly on the arm, making him laugh again. “And here I thought you were the more sentimental one.”
“By the time he died they owned several shops and real estate in France, mostly Paris. My grandmother pays me a substantial salary.”
“You probably earn it.”
“Oui,” he concedes. “Definitely. But enough about that. Now, it’s time for your surprise.”
I immediately perk up at that. By now, I know better than to ask. He stops to buy a blanket, which I find baffling at first. Then, I stop to consider all the possibilities. Some perfectly lurid (which I happily linger on), others more obvious (which I’m not opposed to either). It’s Paris, how could he possibly go wrong?
We finally reach a metro station, and he leads me down the steps and purchases two fares for us. The ride to wherever we are headed reminds me of the days back at Columbia University when the subway was my only mode of transportation. Once I started working for Gaultier, I’d take a taxi, Uber, or Lyft everywhere, even when I used to visit Georgette. I forgot how enjoyable it is to simply people watch.
When we finally get off and we’re on a busy street, I still have no idea where we’re going. Along the way, André buys utensils, glasses, plates, and way too much food—baguettes, cheese, fruit, and two bottles of wine, a red and champagne. With the blanket now tucked under my arm instead of his, I have a tiny inkling of what is up and when we turn a corner I see the Eiffel Tower, confirming my suspicions.
I smile and squeeze the arm of his that isn’t holding everything he bought. “And here I was beginning to think you’d lost your romantic edge,” I say, feeling the excitement build inside of me.
“Jamais de la vie!” he says with a teasing smile.
“Isn’t it supposed to sparkle?” I say, squinting at the outline of the infamous tower.
“Only at the top of the hour,” he says, checking his watch. “We have twenty minutes.”
That gets me moving faster, even though the grassy area in front of the Eiffel Tower is practically in front of us. When we arrive and find a free spot, André switches out the bags in his hand for the blanket under my arm and waves it open to place on the ground.
I’m the first to sit, unpacking everything and feeling my spirits lift even more. It’s yet another simple pleasure I forgot I enjoyed. Frank and Georgette would make a habit of taking me to one of several parks around New York for picnics. It’s been a long time since those days.
André pops the champagne first. We both laugh as it foams over the top, getting the blanket wet before he quickly grabs a glass and fills it. After pouring a glass for me, I wait for him to pour his own.
“To…smiles,” André says, tipping his glass toward mine.
“To smiles,” I repeat, feeling one take over my face.
“And stars,” he says before I can pull my glass away.
My smile broadens as I repeat his words, knowing exactly what he’s referring to. “To stars.”
I sip the champagne, my eyes still captured by his.
By the time I’ve finished my glass, I feel the silly giddiness take over. Maybe it’s the bubbles infiltrating my blood, but I can’t help but feel like I’m in a fairytale. This is different from The Little Princess version I had with Georgette and Frank—the one where the little girl finds a home after years of struggle.
This one is more like all the stories where the heroine finds her prince charming. This version has butterflies in my stomach, hardening nipples, accelerated heartbeats, and, let’s be honest, a man who could visually put any fairytale prince to shame. A fantasy come true.
Before he refills my glass, he cuts a few slices into the wheel of brie while I pull a chunk from the baguette. We switch, and I place one of the slices onto my piece of bread and moan as I take my first bite. It reminds me that the only other thing I’ve had to eat since the plane was that crepe.
André pours more of the champagne after we finish our first serving. That’s when the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower cut through the darkness.
“Amazing,” I say in awe as I stop to watch the show. “Like stars,” I add, feeling that silly, romantic feeling hit me again.
“Mon amour pour toi vivra plus longtemps que les étoiles,” André says next to me.
The words make my heart seize, wondering what he’s implying by quoting Noémie’s message to Victor. After indulging in a long sip, I take a chance and slide my eyes his way, only to find his firmly fixed on me. The sparkling lights play off the bits of color in his irises and now my heart is entirely at a standstill.
His eyes darken, as though determined to fight any resistance on either his part or mine. Then, his hand comes around my neck and he draws me toward him. I, for one harbor no resistance, even though I know how dangerous this is for us both.
Fuck the Werwolf Order. Let them do with this as they will.
The way his lips feel against mine only proves how right this is. I fall into it, letting the earlier feelings I had—not to mention the champagne—completely take over. We inch closer and closer, close enough to potentially cross the threshold of decency. Frankly, I wouldn’t be opposed to him taking me right here in public.
“Get a room!” shouts a nearby American teenager, causing the rest of his group to laugh in a deliberately over-the-top manner.
I pull away, with a nervous laugh.
André keeps his hand firmly around my neck, his thumb stroking the tiny curls at the nape once again. It causes my spine underneath to shiver right down to the base.
“Perhaps we should take their advice?” he suggests with a seductive smirk.
“Oui,” I breathe.
Chapter Forty-Four
André
We’ve packed everything up, and slowly make our way around other nighttime picnickers. The champagne, we drink straight from the bottle in between laughs.
The kiss was a risky move, even if the Werwolf Order did buy my story about cozying up to her in order to find out where the diaries are. Until I confront them with the recording from today, I’m still on thin ice; falling through with this woman would be a perfect way to go. In fact, a careless part of me almost welcomed so openly defying the Order.
Instead of taking the subway back, I catch a taxi. There’s no way I’d last for long, even in public. The craving I have for her is stronger than the intense hunger I have after a day of nothing but that piece of bread and cheese and the taste of sweetness I wiped from her lips outside the Louvre.
When we finally make it to my apartment, I think about just throwing the food and wine away if only to speed our trek up the stairs to my place. Still, we laugh, holding hands as we go. I unlock the door while she recovers. She’s still breathless as I open it and place the bag and blanket on the kitchen table and I drag her to the bedroom.
Once there, I pull her closer, feeling her body pressed against mine.
“Elle,” I whisper, once again forcing myself to get used to using the name on her passport, just in case I slip up in public.
“Call me Brielle,” she insists. “I don’t want to hear another woman’s name on your lips.”
“Brielle,” I say enjoying the way her real name feels coming from my l
ips just before placing them back against hers.
She pulls away and smiles, wriggling her nose. It makes her look cute, especially with that cap of tight curls that softens her features. “I think…we should probably start with a shower.”
Although I’m ready to skip a few chapters and get right to the good part, I have to agree that after such a long plane ride, followed by this crazy day a shower probably is a good idea. Besides, it isn’t as though I can’t find pleasure that way.
I take Brielle’s hand and lead her to the bathroom. This time is even better than the first back in the Gilt Hotel. Reintroducing my hands to all the curves and long expanses of smooth skin only makes me eager for more.
In contrast to the fierce, almost violent, fuck in Victor’s apartment, we take our time, savoring every moment as though it might be our last.
Which it may very well be.
I won’t ruin the night with thoughts about today’s meeting. Lathering my hand with soap to personally clean the day from Brielle’s skin certainly helps with that.
My fingers slide across the softness of her belly, then down between her legs. She falls against the wall of the shower and the spray of water falls in rivers over her front, snaking around the swell of her breasts, getting caught on the hardened tips of her nipples. The result is like a Degas painting, blurring and softening the image of Brielle, transforming her into something ethereal.
My eyes rise up to focus on her face as my middle finger finds that sweet spot, making her back arch even more. My dick reacts accordingly, rising along with the wave of pleasure that overtakes her.
“André!” she groans as I feel her body shudder against the palm of my hand.
She threatens to slip down the slick walls and fall in a puddle to the floor. I reach out with one hand to circle her waist and pull her toward me, half-lifting her up.
This causes her back to arch even more, her tits practically begging for my mouth. And who am I to deny them? When my mouth lands on one perfectly puckered dark brown tip, something between a moan and a cry escapes her lips. That only causes me to pull her in closer, both my arms surrounding her. Brielle’s arms drape across my shoulders, fingers digging into the muscles of my upper back. My tongue flicks across the tiny nub and circles around the soft flesh in my mouth until she begs me to stop.
After giving her a moment to recover, I step out of the shower, bringing her along with me. I grab one towel to wrap around my waist and grab another for Brielle.
“You look so adorable like this,” she says laughing and swiping my wet hair away from my eyes.
“And you look…formidable.”
Brielle’s lips purse into a smirk, then part in surprise as I throw the towel around her. I swaddle it around her head and shoulders and begin drying her off.
Her eyes crinkle with pleasure, making her look like a kitten in a blanket, feline eyes and twitching nose. It does absolutely nothing to lessen the intensity of my need for her.
I work my way down her body—which would be a cruel sort of torture for me if I weren’t sure I’d get more than just a visual sample. I throw the towel back on the rack and unwrap the one from my waist to dry myself off.
“No,” Brielle says with a wicked smile. “I like you wet.”
“Ditto,” I say, matching her smile with a devilish grin of my own.
She laughs and reaches her hand to glide along the slick skin of my chest as she comes in closer. “Do you know how turned on I was that first day I saw you underneath my desk?”
I feel my grin relax, as I reach out to cup her face.
“Et moi? Le coup de foudre,” I say, stroking that familiar curve of her cheekbone, as I think about those first photos I saw of her before we ever met.
Her eyes squint with curiosity. “What does it mean?”
“Literally? Strike of lightning. Another way of saying head over heels.”
Her face softens and she smiles and reaches up on her toes, arms thrown around my neck. I meet her half way, lowering my head to kiss her.
This, this is exactly where I want to be, the ugliness and danger that surrounds us disappearing.
One day…
For now, I plan on fully indulging in the sweet taste and feel of Brielle.
“What is the question from that song, ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’?” she says with a laugh once we pull apart, her arms still around my neck.
“Bien sûr, mademoiselle.” I lean in closer and whisper in her ear, “But, I’m perfectly fine with ‘let’s fuck.’ ”
“Well then, let’s fuck,” she says with a laugh.
I pick her up, eliciting another laugh, and waste no time heading to my bed. She slips from me, falling back onto the bed, legs already spread. Despite my drying her off, I can see how soaking wet her pussy is. Considering how hard she’s making me, my dick swelling to it’s fullest, she’ll need all the lubrication she can get.
I walk to the nightstand and pull out a condom. The last time we were both overcome with emotion to even think about this bit of precaution. My dick grows impossibly more swollen at the thought of getting Brielle pregnant, and I quickly force the rubber down my length and make my way to the foot of the bed between her knees.
“Baise-moi fort,” I say, my gaze hardening as I watch her body squirm with anticipation.
“Say it,” I order, needing to hear her utter the words, “fuck me hard” in my native tongue.
The rise and fall of her chest is now the only movement. “Baise-moi fort,” she whispers.
I grip her thighs and pull her to the edge of the bed, spreading them open wider. I grab my dick and slide the tip up and down her slit causing her body to squirm once again.
“Louder,” I growl. If I’m going to fuck her hard, I want to hear her begging for it first.
As though reading my mind, Brielle moans out a loud, “Baise-moi fort!”
I enter her, hard and deep, causing her back to arch up from the bed. I slowly slip back out to the tune of her low moan.
“Tu aimes ça, petite salope?”
I wonder if she’d be appalled at the language used. In my experience, women love to hear filth, especially in French. As I enter her again, claiming her pussy, I grip her thighs harder, knowing that the only one Brielle will be a slut for is me.
That thought has me working my hips harder, releasing one thigh from my hand and lifting it higher up my waist. I lean on my free arm, lowering myself so I sink into her even deeper now.
“Yes, yes,” she breathes, and now I’m wondering if that’s simply a response to the urgency in my voice or if “you like this, you little slut?” is just one of the things she learned to translate into French while in prison.
Either way, it makes me want her even more and my body reacts, snaking my hips so I hit every fucking sweet spot inside of her.
“Oh God, it feels so good!” she cries, her hands gripping the bedspread as I force another thrust into her hot, tight chatte. I feel the pulse of her orgasm around my cock then watch it spread to the rest of her body in a hard shudder.
“Ta chatte ça fait du bien,” I growl in response, continuing to fuck her with quick, shallow movements. Her eyes open into seductive slits and she smirks at me, as though she knows what I just said. Her chatte tightens around my cock, making it feel extremely, fucking bien, thank you very much.
The palm resting on the bed clenches as she continues to milk it, forcing my seed until there’s nothing left to give.
I fall down next to her, rolling onto my back as I recover. I’m not sure it was just semen she drained me of. I peel the condom from my limp dick and toss it into the waste bin next to the bed.
Next to me, Brielle is still breathing heavily. A breathless laugh escapes her. “Now I get why the French call it la petit mort.”
I laugh and slink my arm underneath her to roll her into my side. The little death. Probably not the best use of the term considering the ominous circumstances surrounding us, but undoubtedly apt.
I’ve wronged Brielle once before, even if it was to save her life. That just strengthens the feeling that has grown over the past two years.
If there’s anyone I’d die for, it would be Brielle.
Chapter Forty-Five
Brielle
The hazy sun shines in a slant through the gauzy fabric of the curtains, casting a soft glow across part of the room. I’m resting on André’s outstretched arm, and I twist around to face him as he lies on his back facing the ceiling.
He’s still asleep, and I rise up onto my elbows to stare down at his face. Without that piercing gleam in his eye staring me down or the seductive curl of his lips lighting me up, he seems like some innocent sweetheart. A really hot sweetheart, but sweet all the same.
Last night plays around in my head, making my body go from room temperature to scalding. The way his wet, hot skin felt looked as he fucked me makes me feel like I need to take another shower, this time to rid me of a different kind of filth.
But who the hell wants to be clean?
The filthy language he used for some reason makes me feel something other than dirty. I know enough beginner French to have picked up on the gist of most of it. I could hear the possessive urgency in his voice and the thought of being his and only his causes a swell in my heart that’s slightly terrifying.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” he mutters, those lips forming into a smirk that certainly doesn’t portray anything even remotely innocent.
I smile as his eyes slowly come to life. Then I laugh as his outstretched arm comes around to twist my body into his so that I’m half lying on my back next to him.
“Did you sleep well?” he whispers into my hair.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say nodding as I stroke the arm pressed into my breasts. My fingers glide through the fine hair and indentations created by the thick cords of his forearm muscles.
“Are you hungry?”
“Is that a come on?” I ask with a smile.
“If you insist,” he says, and I can picture that wicked grin of his widening.
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