by Kenya Wright
I moaned, “Ange déchu.”
Grunting, he tore off my robe and his.
Please.
His warm, muscled body crashed against mine.
Fuck.
Lifting me up and pressing me against the balcony’s glass door, Jean-Pierre poured through my senses. My very DNA soaked up his body heat. I went dark and needy. A lusty fire flooded me.
I arched up, pressing more to him.
That thick cock pushed against my stomach.
I moaned, “Please.”
In the next second, he was inside me.
Pumping.
Owning.
We were on day three. And I very much wished it was day one.
He slowed his strokes to a teasing pace. “Back to our French lesson. How do you say, fuck me?”
“Baise-moi.”
“Finger me.”
“Doigte-moi.”
“Now.”
His voice grew deeper now, laden with the promise of sex. “A présent.”
“A présent.”
He bounced me on his cock. The muscles on my legs tensed as I tried to hold on. My whole body felt like it was being caressed.
I moaned, “Jean-Pierre.”
His body moved with sexual expertise. His abs applied subtle pressure to my clit. His cock stroked up and down in a rhythmic pattern that sent wave after wave of warm pleasure rolling through me. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Wild and naked on the balcony, I couldn’t think of anything more than him.
“And when you want me to do something again, moan, encore.” He drove that cock deep. His balls smacked against me.
Moaning, I gripped his back to hold on.
I thought I was the one that was supposed to be performing. Here, I was supposed to be on a job. But this was no act. I was close to coming with him for the third time. And my body loved everything he had to offer. The ache built.
I moaned, “Encore.”
He groaned and dove hard into me again, making our bodies rock against the balcony door.
We both came.
Our orgasms collided. I almost feared the pleasure would swallow us. Loudly, we both moaned and groaned. Humping each other like wild animals. Desperate for more. One, if only in this moment. As I continued to ride the delicious orgasm, he took my mouth with his. Kissing me. Owning me again. Branding my lips. My soul. Dizzying me with desire.
Still rocking his cock slowly into me, he kissed my neck and brushed his lips against my ear. “Je ne te laisserai jamais partir.”
I blinked, finally having a full translation.
“I'll never let you go.”
Dizzy with him, I tried not to hold on to those words for too long. They warmed my heart. They made my desire rise. My mind twisted with the possibilities of those words.
Stop. This is just an experience.
I caught my breath.
He kissed me again and took my breath back away.
Fuck. I’ll think later.
Chapter 21
Death and the Maiden
Three years ago
Jean-Pierre
A month had passed.
Our men remained in Belladonna.
Rafael and I had arrived in Nice to Russians at our doorstep. No one could kill me in my hometown. Too many eyes and ears gave their loyalty to me. The Russians didn’t survive more than twenty-four hours after entering France.
A second group of Russians appeared. With my bladed-bows, I played Schubert’s Death and the Maiden on their backs.
Schubert had called Death and the Maiden, one of the pillars of the chamber music repertoire. Composed in 1824, it wasn’t published until three years after his death in 1831. And there I performed it in my basement lined in plastic.
That was the long-lived magic of music.
Hundreds of years later, Schubert’s theme of death continued to ring. Terror and pain lathered the melody. Blood sprayed musical notes along the plastic coated walls. The Russians’ screams rode the rhythm of my bow’s strokes. And it was a sweet symphony of blood.
They died in D-minor chord.
I delivered their heads to Moscow, knowing the message would get to the right person. The box showed my returned address. A clear sign that said, “Come and get me.”
This obsession with Eden had somehow spawned a game with another person. Someone hidden within the shadows. I didn’t know who controlled the puppet’s strings, but soon the strings would be cut and the doll dead on the ground.
I’d gone to Paris to rethink the fates of Eden and Belladonna.
Winter had brought a bleak, chilly fog to the city. Children walked next to their parents in bundles of scarves.
I had my first drink for the month outside my favorite café, Les Deux Magots. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir used to debate here. During that time it had been a shitty bar for struggling artists. Now it catered to upscale tourists and the Paris elite. Every famous person had visited the cafe. Hemingway, Camus, and Picasso rubbed elbows at the bar.
Usually, something inspiring came to mind as I sat here.
Not this evening.
My mind rattled. Chess plays scattered in my head. But how could I play a game, when I didn’t know the opponent?
Is this madness? Have I gone too far? Or have I not gone far enough? What is my goal in this? What are my limits? Do I even have limits anymore?
Out of nowhere, Rafael strolled up to my table and broke the argument I’d been having with my head.
I frowned at him. “More Russians?”
“No, but it does deal with your violinist.” He sat down next to me, took my drink, and sipped on it. “What type of sugary ass shit is this?”
“You don’t do hard liquor at a café.”
“Says who?”
“The civilized. What’s going on with my violinist?”
“Giorgio called and said she had a date tomorrow evening. Her aunt set her up with a medical student that plays the tuba at night.”
“A tuba player.” I scowled.
He finished the drink. “This is disgusting.”
I rose. “Tell Giorgio I’ll be there in the morning.”
He called out. “You mean we’ll be there?”
“It’s your choice to come.” I stopped and turned around.
“This should be fun.” Rising, he took out his wallet, pulled out a hundred, and left it at the table. “I enjoy my time with you, Jean-Pierre.”
“Why?”
“You keep me cultured.” He got to my side. “After jail, you’ve made our lives less death and more art galleries and concerts. And now this thing with the city of Belladonna. Our knocking out the Russians has made us stronger than ever.”
“I’m glad someone is happy with this situation.”
Rafael signaled to his limo. “Belladonna Symphony is set to launder millions a month under the eyes of everyone. Your obsession has turned into the best business move of our lives.”
“Let’s hope this obsession will come to an end, and Eden will be in my arms.”
“Until then, we kill people and make money.”
“Exactly.”
Fourteen hours later, we arrived in Belladonna.
I slept fine on the plane, knowing that I would be closer to my desires. The Russians had kept me busy for the past weeks, but I would not be deterred.
We left the plane and climbed into separate limos.
Violent rain crashed down from the darkened sky, blocking out the morning sun. Not many pedestrians walked the streets. Traffic jams littered the city here and there, but most of all we moved through Belladonna with no conflict.
Rafael headed straight to the brothel. He enjoyed sex and breakfast at the same time.
I found a small diner five blocks from Eden’s apartment.
Giorgio opened the limo door for me and held an umbrella over my head. “I’ll stay here.”
“Don’t be on edge,” I said. “We should be fine.”
He tried to offer
the umbrella. I waved it away.
“I don’t trust this city,” he said.
“Do you want something to eat?”
He scanned the space around the diner. “No.”
Wet from the rain and tired from the plane trip, I went in alone, sat at the first booth with a large window, and ordered eggs sunny side up, buttered toast, and coffee with no cream.
The diner was small. A typical American space. Bright and clean. Long lunch counter on one side and a kitchen in the back. Booths lined the opposite wall.
Outside, rain drops pebbled the glass, blurring the image. Sirens sounded. I squinted through the soaked glass. A block away, blue and red lights blared.
Why can’t Americans drive in the rain? Always so many accidents with bad weather.
The cop cars came closer and then suddenly crunched to a stop right in front of the diner.
I put down my coffee.
More cops arrived and halted in front. All around the café, blue and red lights flashed and popped in the storm. The raindrops on my window took on the scattered light. Three more police cars pulled up at the diner and surrounded the limo.
And so we begin?
Several cops jumped out. Guns pointed and ready. One had a shotgun.
Someone is very eager to deal with me.
Giorgio stepped out of the back of the limo. Two cops came out and pointed their guns at him. He raised his hands.
Two more police cars showed up. I counted ten vehicles so far.
This person has the Russians and the local police in their pocket? Interesting.
I dipped the toast in the last bit of eggs.
One of the cops went to Giorgio and yelled something at him.
Don’t kill them, Giorgio. I want to see where this goes.
A neutral expression stayed on Giorgio’s face. He kept his hands in the air as the cop yelled again. And then, Giorgio gestured at the café.
Yes. Send them in here.
I finished my coffee and placed my hand into my pocket.
Five cops barreled toward the café. Seconds later, the door burst open. They stormed in. The cop in front held a shotgun. The rest had handguns.
“Raise your hands in the air!” one of the cops yelled. “Slowly.”
I did. My right hand held a hundred dollar bill.
Mr. Shotgun laughed. “You’ll need a lot more than that to bribe me, boy.”
“It’s for the waitress.” I gestured at my plate. “Can I leave it on the table?”
He frowned. “Go ahead.”
I placed it next to the plate.
Sliding out of the booth, I rose with my hands in the air. One cop stayed at the door. Another hurried behind me. I was sure he had his gun to my head.
Mr. Shotgun targeted my chest. “Be smart.”
I grinned. “No one thinks this is a bit excessive?”
Shotgun walked to my side. “Your reputation proceeds you, Le Boucher.”
“I’m impressed.”
“With me?” he asked.
“No. I’m impressed with myself. I had no idea my reputation had spread to Belladonna.”
“You think you’re funny?”
I noticed his trigger finger tremble. “I think that if you’d really heard about me, you would know that the shotgun wouldn’t help you.”
They weren’t ready for me. Already, I was too close to him. I could’ve lunged for the shotgun barrel, forced it up, and blasted a hole in his head.
No. Let’s see where this goes.
Glaring, he pointed the shotgun to my face. “Come on, Mr. Bad Ass French Boy.”
Hmmm. I think I like that nickname.
They escorted me outside. Cold rain hit my skin. It had been a long time since that happened. Usually, Giorgio would rush up with an umbrella.
A couple people stood by the door and watched the scene.
“Are we under arrest?” I pointed at Giorgio and the rest of my men now face-down on the rain-drenched pavement.
“Someone wants to talk to you.”
Good. Because I definitely want to talk to them.
“Keep your hands raised, until we get in the vehicle.” Without handcuffing me, he led me to the police car, opened the back, and gestured for me to get in. “Your men will be free after we leave.”
Giorgio yelled from the pavement in French, “Do you want me to kill them?”
I replied, “No, I’m intrigued.”
Mr. Shotgun hit my back. “That’s enough. Get inside.”
I did, and Shotgun slid in with me.
“Good.” I nodded at him. “I was hoping we’d have more time to talk.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Frenchie.”
A thick glass partition divided the space. The front doors opened. The earlier two cops jumped in the front. Nobody else talked. I glanced over my shoulder. Three cop cars followed and flashed their lights.
We went off into traffic.
It was a smooth ride, if not for the fury bubbling in my chest.
I stared out of the window. Belladonna sparkled before me. Even through the fizzling rain, the city remained the elegant woman she’d been named after.
We passed Eden’s apartment.
Black vans were parked outside.
More Russians?
Giorgio had said that the Russian guards had lessened around Eden. Now that I’d returned, someone had brought them back and doubled up security.
You’re nervous that I’m back? I hope we can talk about that when we meet.
My hands burned for one of my bows.
City blocks shifted to country homes on a dirt room. We continued and turned south, leaving Belladonna. Large land expanded with miles of fences and livestock grazing. Then, the car pulled into a long driveway. At the end of it a big log cabin stood.
We parked in front and left the car with no problem.
Mr. Shotgun led me in. The rest stayed outside.
When he opened the door, annoyance hit me.
No one stood inside.
I stepped in.
Polished wood served as the walls and floors. Besides for one chair in the center of the large room and a twenty-four inch television, there was no other furniture.
Shotgun nudged me forward. “Go over there.”
I went to the chair and sat down.
Shotgun glanced at his watch. “It won’t be long.”
“Bien.” I thought they would leave me alone in the cabin for a while. It would’ve been my move. Isolation triggered anxiety and uncertainty. After several hours of fear, most were eager to let me know anything.
I was shocked that they didn’t tie me up either, leaving themselves open to harm.
The rumble of an engine sounded outside.
This must be the person.
The door opened minutes later.
I expected some large Russian guy reeking of vodka and cabbage.
Shocked, I studied the beautiful figure in front of me. She was an older woman. I could tell from the hint of wrinkle around her eyes and mouth when she smiled. A tinge of gray that outlined the blond hair that she kept in a tight bun. Very elegant, she wore a tailored blue suit that matched her eyes. Small pearls dangled from her ears. Diamonds decorated her fingers. Fur covered her shoulders.
Who’s this?
I rose.
Shotgun growled, “No one told you to get up.”
“He’s a gentleman.” She curved her lips into a smile and walked over to me. A sweet voice came from those painted lips. “I would like to call you Jean-Pierre. I find Le Boucher to be too much.”
“That’s fine.” I extended my hand to hers.
“No. I do not think we should shake hands yet.” She walked over to the television. “My name is Celina. Feel free to forget my name in the future, as well as this city and everything in it.”
“I’ve found a liking to the city of Belladonna.” I sat down.
“Let’s talk about that, Jean-Pierre.” She took the remote control from t
he top of the television and turned it on. An image played. I realized it was Eden’s apartment divided by four different camera screens. One camera showed Eden sleeping in her bed. I knew that moment instantly. I’d dreamt of that view since standing there that night.
The recording was the evening I’d broken into her apartment.
Celina pointed to the camera footage in the right corner. “And here’s you. . .enjoying the city.”
On the television, I crept down Eden’s hallway, resembling a dark vampire in the night that was searching for blood.
“You were very quiet.” Celina watched me on the television. “Eden is a light sleeper.”
I crossed my legs, not enjoying the view of me on the television. On the screen, I walked up to the violin, touched the case, and gazed at the object like a deranged man. My face twisted in disgust as I didn’t feel the magic that I’d hoped to experience. And then I turned to Eden. Desperation replaced the disgust.
Celina paused the footage and turned to me. “This isn’t a great first impression. Do you agree?”
“I agree. I shouldn’t have entered her apartment. I’d gone for the violin.”
“And Eden distracted you.” She nodded. “I understand. That’s always the story with men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“Broken men gazing at shiny new objects.” She handed the remote control to Mr. Shotgun. “Why are you here?”
“You are the one that sent the Russians to Nice?”
“I’m the only one asking the questions today.”
“I’ve been unharmed.”
“Because I’m nice.”
“Because your Russian resources requested to handle me with care. I doubt they want any more severed heads on their doorstep.” I leaned my head to the side. “Or do they?”
“Jean-Pierre, you’re going to have a long year, if you ever make the mistake of thinking that you understand my resources or me.” She took off her fur and handed it to Shotgun. “You have an interesting story. Drug trafficker at ten. A low-level Corsican leader killed your father and you repaid him at fifteen. The same year you won the Golden Violin award. Both quite huge accomplishments.”
“Thank you, but I would love to get to know you more. You’re Eden’s aunt?”
“I am.” She strolled over to me and placed her hands on her hips. “And I’m very, very protective.”
