by Kenya Wright
When I finished coming, he lifted me up from his lap.
“Baby?” I gasped as he flipped me around. Before I could ask anything else, he bent me over. A sigh left my lips, as my body rode more aftershocks of my orgasm.
“You make me crazy.” He thrust inside me from behind.
I reached for the side of the tub, gripping the edge.
“My princess.” He slammed into me. “That’s what I’ll call you.”
And he did, as he buried his cock deep inside of me, gripping my hips. “Oui, princesse.”
My breasts swung with the rhythm of his pumping. My legs grew week as I held on. Although I’d just came, shivers of mounting desire rushed through me.
“Oui, princesse.” He came hard, groaning in pleasure and banging his final thrust into my body. Rocking me. Splashing the water. He lost control as much as I did, and I loved witnessing it. There was so much beauty in his breakdown. Poetry to the way he grunted and thrust, right on the edge, right before spilling into me, wild with loud groans.
“Goddamn it!” He slammed into me hard, his cock jerked inside of me, bumping and exciting me for another round. I gripped the edge of the tub.
“Fuck.” He leaned against me, as if it was hard to stay up. He hadn’t moved his cock yet, which told me that one more inch and he’d spurt some more.
I grinned in pure satisfaction.
And then he thrust one more time, growling violently against my back and spilling into my pussy some more.
Damn you’re a beast, Jean-Pierre.
We stayed there, in that intimate position, for several seconds.
He clung to me, holding my body close to his. Steam rose around us, along with the scent of our sex. The jet streams twirled and twisted rose petals along bubbles.
And we remained connected. Our breathing slowed together.
No regrets.
Our courtship wasn’t traditional. My mind still boggled from the truth of it all.
Still, there was something between us. Strong and hot. Alive and breathing. It moved around us. It slipped within and outside of us.
There was something between Jean-Pierre and me.
Was it just lust? Obsession? Some odd form of luxury Stockholm syndrome?
It didn’t matter.
This was it. Something I’d been waiting for all my, life but didn’t have the words to describe. And this felt good. It opened my eyes. Mind. Body. All my senses. I felt more alive than ever. And that meant something. And this meant something.
And this moment was ours.
This moment could never be taken away.
This moment when we remained connected within warm water and rose petals. This moment when we became one and never yearned to let go.
Chapter 1
Pillow Talk
Eden
Under silk crimson sheets, we lay in bed, holding each other.
Jean-Pierre’s master suite was the only dark part of his whole condo. It didn’t have as much elaborate decorating like the other rooms—a bed, dresser, small desk, and mounted high-tech entertainment system. Everything was minimalistic, except for the coloring.
The coloring was strategic in some way.
He was saying something.
Black carpet covered the floors. In some ways there was an elegance to the black. A pure sophistication. Power. Class. And then, on the other hand, there was this feeling of absence.
Every step, I felt as if the darkness might suck me away.
A midnight sky had been painted on the ceiling—more dark sky, than stars. More endless shadowed space, than the true brightness of the galaxy.
And everything else was black or made of expensive wood.
The walls were the only white thing in the room. Bone white. Nothing hung on them, not pictures or paintings. No memories. It created a balance to the darkness. White space to the black ceiling’s emptiness.
And then there was his bed. The decor and foundation were all red. Dark cherry red wood. Crimson silk covers and pillows. The contrast of black and white surrounding the red bed, made it energizing somehow. It made a powerful presence. The bed seemed to be alive. So soft. At times, liquid-like and moving. Stimulating. It damn near increased my blood pressure, when I lay in it.
However, with the colors and his confession yesterday, I knew that there was more to Jean-Pierre than the muscled man resting naked next to me.
When we’d gotten out of the tub, he dried us off and carried me into the bedroom. I climbed into bed.
As always, he’d turned music on. It was slow jazz for the evening, nothing experimental or classical. Just a soothing sound in the background.
He brought the lit candles in from the bathroom and turned the bedroom lights off.
Damn. He’s so beautiful.
“I love when you look at me like that.” He climbed into bed and slid over next to me.
“I love looking at you like that.” I turned toward him as he wrapped his arms around me. It was cheesy, but true. I could play cool and smooth, but what did it matter, when it would all be a lie. He captivated me, and I couldn’t get enough.
I slid my breasts against his muscular chest and inhaled him. He smelled so delicious, I wanted to eat him. Dip that hard muscular body in chocolate. Lick honey off him.
Why do you smell so good?
Even after he ran in the morning. Right when he was sweaty and exhausted. Even then, I nuzzled him senseless. Even then, I wanted to do so much. Smell him. Eat him. Crawl inside his skin.
His smell was intoxicating.
Even in this moment, when I was a little on edge, I enjoyed cuddling against his warm body. Breathing, him in. Was it a primal urge with Jean-Pierre? Was it all pheromones directing my body to crave him so?
His voice smoothed over my skin. “Are you hungry?”
“No.” I snuggled closer into his warm hold. “Are you? I can get you something.”
He chuckled. “No, I’m not hungry. And the butler can get us something. You must stay in my arms, princesse.”
I grinned. “Are you really going to call me princess?”
“I am.”
“And what will I call you, my prince?”
“I’m more of a king.”
“Then, I’m more of a queen.”
“You’re correct, reine.”
Satisfied, I closed my eyes, enjoyed the heat of him, and the jazz filling the air.
In the song, the saxophone lifted its melody higher, adding more emotion to the notes. The slow thumping of a trumpet played along, helping the saxophone deliver its message.
Jean-Pierre spoke within the candlelit darkness. “I can change my room, if it’s too much for you…the colors.”
I opened my eyes and turned my view to him. Candlelight painted his face and some places and left shadows in others, not giving me a perfect picture of that face. More distorted and hidden. “You don’t have to change your bedroom for me.”
He shrugged. “Rafael said it looks like Hades, the god of the underworld lives here. He said you would hate it.”
“No way. I love it. Besides, Hades would’ve probably darkened the walls.”
Jean-Pierre chuckled. “That’s what I told him. He said that even Hades would be depressed in here.”
“I don’t think it’s depressing. It just reminds me of. . .”
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“It sounds crazy.”
“Tell me.”
“It reminds me of a vampire’s room.”
He snorted. “And that’s better than Hades? At least Hades is a god.”
“But my vampire, that owns the room, is sexy and mysterious.”
“I like that.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “What made you think of a vampire?”
“The bed reminds me of blood.”
His body tensed against me.
“Blood and darkness,” I said. “That’s what the room says, but. . .there’s brightness in the room where it counts.”
He groaned.
“I’m definitely changing the bedroom. It does sound depressing. You should be in charge of it. When I let Rafael decorate, he goes too far.”
“What rooms did he do?”
“Everything but the bedroom. I don’t care about the decorating. I let him do it. It keeps Rafael busy.”
“Do you stay in Paris a lot?”
“I do. When I’m not here, then I’m in Nice.”
“Nice is where you were born and raised?”
“Yes. We left when I turned twelve.”
“Why?”
His body tensed again. “It’s a long story filled with. . .bad memories.”
I swallowed, wondering what had happened to him. “I’m sorry, if I’m asking a lot of questions. I just want to know everything about you.”
“I understand.” He touched me, sending lovely shivers through my frame. “I just don’t want to. . .scare you away.”
“I think we faced that possibility when you confessed everything. And…I’m still here.”
“You are.” He twirled one of my curls around his finger. “But, what would make you run away?”
“Not black carpets or a tragic story from when you were twelve.” I slipped my finger along his skin. “What happened today?”
He continued to play with my hair. “We haven’t found Celina or Shalimar, but there are more details that are coming up.”
“What details?”
“The man that I told you about, named Kazimir—”
“The Lion?”
“Yes. The Lion.” Jean-Pierre frowned at me. “Kazimir is not dead.”
“What does that mean for you?”
“That, I possibly bet on the wrong horse. I helped his stepbrother Sasha, plot to murder him. Now Kazimir has killed his stepbrother. I don’t know if Kazimir discovered my part in Sasha’s plot, but I would’ve been happier, if Kazimir was dead.”
I widened my eyes, and tried to breath the truth of his words in. This was beyond my world. Jean-Pierre had spent time explaining about the Russians. The whole situation terrified me. I didn’t like the idea of a man like Kazimir even knowing Jean-Pierre.
He nipped at my lips. “Don’t look so worried. I happen to be a scary too.”
“I don’t want you to fight Kazimir.”
“I won’t, if I don’t have to.”
“I hate that you had to go against him, and that my Aunt Celina forced you to.”
“Don’t worry about that either. Kazimir and I would have had to deal with each other one day. We’re both too high on the food chain to not bump into each other.”
I let out an exasperated breath.
“Everything will be fine.” He switched to French. “I’ll always protect you and the love growing between us.”
Love?
The more I practiced my French, the more I realized that Jean-Pierre liked to slip secret messages into his shielded words. I wasn’t sure, if he knew I understood. That was the other thing I was learning about him. In some ways, he was guarded with his emotions and feelings. Somethings, he could only tell me in French.
Jean-Pierre returned back to English. “Rafael wants to leave France and search for Shalimar. He asked me for my opinion.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I wanted time to think about it.” He tucked the curl behind my ear and reached for another one. “What do you think I should tell him?”
Oh. You’re asking me?
I thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “Does Rafael love Shalimar?”
“He thinks he loves her.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I think he cares for her with his whole heart. I think that he would do anything for Shalimar, even come close to dying for her.” Jean-Pierre shook his head. “But love? I’ve never seen Rafael in love, but I think it would look differently.”
I thought back to what Jean-Pierre had told me, about Rafael and Shalimar. There’d been a point where Rafael, had slept with several of the prostitutes that she worked with.
Jean-Pierre continued, “With Kazimir being alive and unpredictable, I want all of us to lay low. This is a good time for us to go back to Nice and relax. I don’t want Rafael or anyone else too far away from me.”
“So, you think it’ll be dangerous, if Rafael goes looking for Shalimar?”
“Celina is tangled up with the Russians. We heard that once Kazimir killed Sasha, he’s been cleaning house. I don’t want us anywhere near this.”
“But you don’t want to tell Rafael no?”
“I don’t.” He left my hair alone and pulled me closer to him. “I can’t tell him that Shalimar isn’t worth the threat of the Russians, when I fought a war for you.”
“That’s true.”
“What would you do?”
“I would tell him to go. He’ll regret it, if he doesn’t. And that regret will keep him hostage for a long time. But…if I were you two, I would do everything I could to protect him while he searched for her.”
“If I send too many men with Rafael, then he’ll think I’m coddling him.”
I grinned. “You coddling someone? No way.”
“I can be a bit intense, and protective with the ones I care for.”
Sarcasm dripped from my words. “Really? I’m totally shocked from that confession.”
He smiled, but it didn’t remain for long as he sighed. “That’s what I’m going to do. Let him go but protect him fiercely. You’re right.”
I am? Well. . .yes, but. . .get a second opinion from someone in the Corsican.
I felt grossly inexperienced giving him advice on any of this. In some ways I was shocked that he’d told me. He didn’t have to.
In fact, since his confession, he’d been telling me more and more about his world. I knew he was nervous about telling me these things. When he discussed anything dealing with the Corsican, he watched my reaction with a careful gaze. Did he see this as a test? Or was this part of the job of being his girlfriend? When things went bad in his world, who did he talk to?
Would it now be me?
He closed his eyes. I did too, enjoying our connection. He held me like he was never going to let me go, and it felt so good as I breathed him in.
The jazz song shifted to classical. César Franck’s, Violin Sonata in A Major played. Franck was a French composer and this work had been one of the most celebrated pieces in the violin sonata repertoire.
I had no idea who was playing the violin in this song, but they owned every note. I groaned with enjoyment.
Jean-Pierre whispered, “You’re enjoying the violinist?”
“I am. This song has always been so romantic to me.”
He brushed his lips against mine. “Do you know the story behind it?”
“No.”
“Franck’s father was a banker but believed that his son would be a great composer. He gave his son lots of financial support. Franck worked as a professor during the day and composed at night.”
“Hard worker.”
“Very much. But then Franck met the love his life. One of his students.”
“How young?” I asked.
“He was twenty-five and she was twenty-two. Her name was Eugène.”
“Oh okay.”
“So, his father forbids Franck to court Eugène. While his father recognizes that she’s a violinist, he doesn’t believe she’s worthy of his son.”
“I’m not liking his father. He should stay out of it.”
“Franck agreed. He defied his father and proposed to Eugène.”
“Good.”
“So, Franck gave this sonata to Eugène on the morning of their wedding. And that evening, he performed it to their wedding guests.”
I swooned. “That’s serious romantic swag.”
“I agree.”
“He fell in love, wrote a song about it, and the world fell in love with the song.”
I listened to Franck’s sonata with new ears.
Like most, this followed three acts. The violin danced with the orchestra, more guiding than playing with them. And the violin took us on a journey of long strokes to lure and then short strokes to entice. Highs and lows. Valleys and peaks.
I imagined Franck, playing for his guests with fire in his eyes, knowing that he’d forsaken his family for love, and still stood above them all with a song in his heart.
Lovely notes rose in the air, singing to me.
And then I noticed something that I hadn’t before. I’d been enjoying the style and rhythm of the musician, but I hadn’t realized the familiarity. All violinists had a signature flow. A certain way they played the E string. A specific way they executed allegro. If one listened closely, they could pick their favorite musician out of many songs.
I widened my eyes and filled with excitement. “This is you playing. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I think it’s embarrassing to have one’s own music on their playlist.”
It’s not embarrassing, if you can’t play that music again.
I shook my head. “I think it’s perfectly fine.”
This was a side of Jean-Pierre, that I’d never seen before. In his home, his bedroom, away from everyone else and naked. He was open and raw. If I hadn’t realized it before, I understood tonight. Jean-Pierre would show me him. The good. The bad. The hurt. The love. The things that confused him. And the things that he was confident in.
These next weeks I would learn the true Jean-Pierre.
He disrupted my thoughts. “What’s your favorite Sonata?”
I wanted to talk more about his beautiful playing, but I stepped into his switching of the topic. “I like most sonatas by Mozart.”
“Aww. You’re one of those?” Jean-Pierre joked.
“Stop it. There would be no sonatas, if not for Mozart.”
For the first time ever witnessed in my presence, Jean-Pierre rolled his eyes. “Mozart didn’t create the Sonata.”
“I love when you’re being a classical snob.”
“I’m not. It’s just, that there are songs, so captivating, they create long-lasting memories before they reach their last note. And Mozart’s sonatas are not on that list for me.”
“Wow. Mozart was the one that popularized the sonata.”
He huffed.
“Okay.” I chuckled. “Sure, Beethoven, Schubert, and even Franck helped the Sonata’s rise, but all due to Mozart. You have to give him that.”
