by Allie Hayden
Passion in Paris
French Kiss : Book 1
Allie Hayden
Copyright © 2019 by Allie Hayden
All rights reserved.
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Acknowledgments
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Also by Allie Hayden
1. (Cecilia)
2. (Cecilia)
3. (Cecilia)
4. (Cecilia)
5. (Cecilia)
6. (Cecilia)
7. (Cecilia)
8. (Cecilia)
9. (Cecilia)
10. (Cecilia)
11. (Cecilia)
12. (Cecilia)
13. (Cecilia)
14. (Cecilia)
15. (Cecilia)
16. (Cecilia)
17. (Cecilia)
18. (Cecilia)
19. (Cecilia)
20. (Cecilia)
21. (Cecilia)
Acknowledgments
Also by Allie Hayden
Bonus: Chapter 1
Notes
Chapter 1
(Cecilia)
I surveyed the expanse of the Provencal countryside. The colors were unlike anything I had experienced before: the golden yellow of the mustard cream meadows, the pale purple lavender fields, the lush and vibrant green of the trees, the astonishing ultra-clear blue sky above the gently rolling hills of gold worked together to give me a sense of entering a painting.
And as the black Mercedes taxi rounded the hill leading up to the circular drive of the bastide, I turned my eyes up to the stunning blue-topaz-colored swimming pool glittering in the early morning sun. Something about it was mesmerizing, and it was more than just my slight jetlag that made things dance.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his back to me, wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts hugging his slim waist. Something about his smooth sun-burnished skin shimmering in the morning light, the glint of the sun off the pool, and his tall, erect posture gave him the effect of a mirage: otherworldly and almost surreal, like an Adonis rising from the sea in a renaissance painting.
He turned as he sensed my approach; his longish auburn hair caught the breeze and the sun as it blew across his beautiful face. His eyes looked into mine, and a gentle smile formed, curling his lip, revealing to me his beautiful teeth. This is how I knew he was the American host I was looking for. That perfect orthodontia.
The man looked at the cab driver and spoke in rapid-fire French to him as though it were his first language. Maybe this wasn’t the American owner. After ending the short conversation with a smile, he turned to me. I clasped my hands together; it was something I did when I was nervous. I felt the bare spot where my wedding ring had rested happily for fifteen years and felt the soft pale skin that had been hidden. I was not in denial of my marriage—Bill and I had decided that a break was necessary for regeneration, and so I reluctantly put it in a deposit box at the bank. “Those French would probably gnaw your fingers off for a rock like that,” Bill had said, half-joking.
Returning to the scene that was unfolding before me, I smiled broadly in the Midwestern way as I stepped out of the cab, still clasping my hands together nervously. But I was stopped in my tracks when the man began to move towards me, and it seemed to me as though he was moving to embrace me in a dream. His smile was broad and so genuine that I was oddly stirred.
I’m a married woman! I reminded myself as I felt pulled to him as though through some magnetic field. This European familiarity will be something I need to get used to, I thought to myself. My inner monologue continued: Now, get a hold of yourself there, hun. This perfect man is your landlord! But for some reason, my body refused to obey those demands, and I extended my hands as though I were drowning until he clasped me in his arms, pulling me close to him.
“Cecilia,” he whispered in my ear. “I have been so eager to meet you!” The husky sound of his voice made me feel as though nothing else in the world mattered. I looked into his smiling eyes so happily.
“You must be Darius,” I said, giggling a bit.
“I am. Darius Wilde, Miss Winter. The pleasure is all mine.” I didn’t correct him; I decided to see what would happen. After all, this trip was regeneration, and a harmless little familiarity was nothing to worry about. Or was it?
Darius looked deep into my eyes; his strong hand enclosed mine, and a feeling of intense calm descended over both of us. Then, as if out of nowhere, he gasped. “Your eyes!”
I looked deep into his eyes. “My eyes?” I wasn’t comprehending.
“Those eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue I have ever seen. They are magnificent!” As he said the word ‘magnificent,’ I could feel my loins stirring. He had a way about him, and I knew I should be wary.
I abruptly turned away, feeling disoriented. “I’d really love to see the grounds,” I said to him, striding into the house, deliberately changing the subject.
Chapter 2
(Cecilia)
“That it should come to this…” I thought to myself as I walked ahead of Darius Wilde into the cool and spacious bastide. I never knew exactly what the word ‘bastide’ meant, but I was certainly impressed. Impressed mostly with the acoustics of the magnificent entryway. Built from Lutetian limestone, so unlike the red brick of my home in Minneapolis, it had a slightly wild and historic look to it.
The finely wrought stone rectangles were beautifully pointed, and the vast tapestries that hung from the walls, as well as the oversized modern artworks—one was of a man lovingly feeding a woman lying on a divan—made me feel more at home than I ever did my suburban house.
I was a professional cellist who’d played for the Minneapolis Philharmonic Orchestra for almost ten years. The Minneapolis Phil was the best orchestra in…well, one of the best orchestras in…well, it’s a pretty good orchestra. Their cello section was definitely the best in the Midwest, and it is owed, in no small part, to me. I worked myself up from fourth desk to principal cellist and led them for nearly five years, during which time they had recorded the Mahler First and Second symphonies, to great critical acclaim.
I had known from an early age that I was brilliant and gifted, but I wore my destiny like an ill-fitting gown. I was not comfortable with my brilliance any more than I was comfortable with my beauty, which was undeniable to everyone except me. And possibly, (I had never asked, and he had never volunteered) my husband Bill. But I was a beauty, and it had been acknowledged for years by my best friends, if not by my husband.
I married Bill Palmer fifteen years ago. It was one of those May-December romances that sometimes blossom in cold climates; places where December is seen as something to be endured, while May is something to be cherished. Bill Palmer was a strong man whose Swedish roots were undeniable. A large, tow-headed giant, Bill towered over me—Cecilia Winter, the gi
rl he met when he handed me a plaque and a check for three hundred dollars, a reward for winning the St. Paul Music Festival as a sixteen-year-old-girl. He was a successful employee of the Swenson Insurance Corporation, and because of his regal Viking bearing, he was chosen to present this little dark girl the award.
Bill was a convincing man too. After the ceremony, there had been a reception, and he made a point of congratulating all the winners, and most particularly the one to whom he had awarded the plaque and the check, that little girl who had appeared so mature and so poised, making him look like a thick fingered lout in his dime-store seer-sucker suit.
Bill approached me, admiring my blue satin mid-length gown, hugging my petite frame, and had talked to me about the music I had played—“The Swan” from Carnival of the Animals by Camille Saint-Saëns.
“You played a lot of that up on the neck,” Bill said. “Is that because you were thinking of the swan, you know, with the long neck?” he laughed, thinking himself witty, but I, not thinking the way he thought, was confused.
“Oh, no, sir. I did that because I was trying to bring out the plaintive cries of a beautiful animal trapped in silence.” This brought Bill up short, looking at me with a mix of confusion and admiration. He knew, as he heard me say this, that I was empathic and kind; he also knew that, as inappropriate as it may have been, he was desperate to date me. He was smitten, and tongue-tied. He had tried to talk to others at the reception, but nobody entranced him the way I did. I was, in fact, the only one of the winners who didn’t make him feel like a fool.
Bill had bided his time, building up a little nest egg and working on his position at the firm. He was on track to be a partner, driven to work hard by the idea of wooing me, a teenager, whom he thought was his ideal. But he didn’t do anything until the day after my birthday in October, and so that day, he phoned my home number and asked to speak to me. When I came on the line, he heard my voice, very much younger sounding.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” he began.
“Of course, I remember you. You were that nice gentleman who gave me the check,” I said to him, causing him to fall in love with me again. He proposed a dinner, and I accepted.
Over dinner, he tried as gently as he could to let me know that he was interested, and I was flattered…and flustered. He couldn’t get a read on me, on whether I was horrified or interested. In the end, he just went for it and asked me out again. Slowly, to the background of the beautiful Minnesota fall colors, he wooed me with dinners and flowers and gentle talk about my dreams. And it worked. Before long, we were going steady. He took it all in stride, as slowly as he could, and soon we were discussing what to do when I went away for school. I’d been accepted into Julliard and Stanford and was leaning towards Julliard.
“It’s all the way up in New York,” he protested. But this is where I came into my own.
“Well, Bill, I’ll tell you this: I love you, but I have a dream, and I need to fulfill my desires, you know. I would love it if you came with me—I don’t think long-distance relationships work—but if you can’t because of your career, I’ll understand.” I looked at him with my plaintive eyes, love filling every corner of my body.
“I’m going to look into a transfer to New York City,” he announced.
But it was not nearly as easy as he had thought. He had made himself a valued commodity here in Minneapolis, but he leveraged that power into a position—a lower position, but a position nonetheless—at the New York office, and come August, the two of us set off in his station wagon for the big city.
Chapter 3
(Cecilia)
Our first night in New York was marked by my jubilation at being in the center of the universe, artistically, and Bill’s fears for his future. I wanted to go out to dinner, and he wanted to order in. We couldn’t find a place that would deliver pork chops, and so we headed out onto East Fifty-Seventh to find a place that would provide Bill with the comfort food he so craved.
I had no idea how to cook and had virtually no interest in learning, and so when we found The Midwest Grill, Bill’s eyes lit up. He ordered the pork chops and applesauce with mashed potatoes and green beans while I searched the menu for something that would not remind me of home. Not that my parents would ever have served pork chops and applesauce. But there was a tortellini dish that seemed relatively Italian, and I ordered this with some trepidation.
My fears were unfounded, though, and I thoroughly enjoyed the meal. So did Bill. In fact, it filled him with energy and vigor.
We kissed on the corner of Broadway and Fifty-Seventh as the crowds rushed around us. We walked hand in hand along the broad sidewalk to our walkup, and when I closed the door, he pinned me against the wall and smothered me with passionate kisses. I was taken by surprise.
Bill was not what I would call a passionate man, and this display was surprising and out of character. But I responded to his kisses with passion. The kind of passion I had reserved, until then, for my music.
He fumbled with the buttons of my dress but managed to get them open; I pushed off his shirt, getting his arms temporarily stuck behind his back. An idea flashed through my mind, and I jumped on it; I pushed him backward, and he stumbled toward the unmade bed. This was not a large apartment, and the bed was only a few feet away.
And he toppled—there was no other word for it—onto the bed. I leaped on top of him, undoing his jeans and pulling them down, exposing his erect member. The rush was sudden for me; my gratefulness for his support turned into a raging passion, my desire for him unquenchable. I grasped his hard cock and squeezed it. “Let’s have a shower,” I whispered. His eyes lit up. Something new!
In my small hand, he became even harder. Before I let him rise from the bed, his arms still pinned by the half-off shirt, I climbed onto him like a rodeo rider on a wild bucking bronco. He was fascinated by this new side of the until-now demure girl.
“Cecil! What’s come over you?” he asked, glowing. I smiled, lowering myself onto my Western saddle and riding him gently at first, and then increasingly wildly until he gasped with astonishment. What I felt was a new awakening: a depth to our lovemaking that had never happened in all our time together—something that opened new possibilities for our love and relationship.
This was the man I wanted when I met that older man in the restaurant all those months ago. He was mature and stable, able to inspire me to become the greatest artist I could ever be.
This knowledge and the passion that was coursing through my blood made me ride him like a world-class equestrian. I pushed him into me as far as I had ever done, feeling the tip of his huge cock touch my g-spot. This sensation, totally unknown to me before this moment, gave me a burst of energy that made me double down on him.
He tried to wiggle free of the shirt but was unable, and I made sure he was powerless. He was nothing more than a vehicle to be ridden, and I rode until sweat poured from my body, and shudders began to come from my deepest parts.
I suddenly felt jolts of electricity blasting through my body like ball-lightening. I felt something rise in me, some monster that took over my body and caused me to heave with the stress of our exercise. He, too, was panting like a horse at the end of a race, sweat drenching the bed around him, and a look of bliss on his face. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to thrust into me.
“Oh, my Lord, Cecilia,” he panted. “I’m coming!” I kept on him long after he was exhausted by my ministrations and allowed myself the freedom to release my inner animal for the first time. I had never had an orgasm in all the time that we were together, so this was something new for me. Exciting beyond comprehension. While his orgasm was accompanied by sudden wetness inside me, it only slowed me down for a second; I bucked on him, grabbing his shoulders, and felt the orgasm wash over me like a tidal wave. I was spent.
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “Oh my fucking God!” Then I collapsed. All thoughts of a shower had drained from my body, and I was helpless, lying on him, unable to r
ise. His chest heaved with his exertion, and I rose and fell on him, feeling his body in ecstasy. A smile broke over me, and I began to laugh. “That was the most amazing experience I have ever had in my life!”
“Almost as good as the pork chops,” he retorted, trying to be funny. This statement, along with his bulk, made me return to the girl I had been until seconds ago. A demure, Midwestern girl. All the joy was forgotten—I had been compared, and found wanting, to a pork chop. A joke perhaps, but a tiny hairline fracture in bliss. I closed my eyes and went to sleep, feeling his body like an enemy.
The next morning, I rose and showered alone. I dressed and slung my cello over my shoulder and trudged through the New York morning to the Julliard School of Music, where I was about to experience the true ecstasy, the true love of my love, perfecting my technique.
That day, I had my first lesson with the brilliant and temperamental Dmitri Yakovsky, and I experienced the bliss of playing for hours and hours in a room all alone, of creating perfection out of my bow and its voyage along my strings. This was my true love, I concluded, and last night was just an aberration.
