"It’s strange to hear you speak of love, Felix. You’ve always been the one to restrain himself from expressions of emotion when it came to women,” Francois replied. He sighed and looked out on the city, or at least what we could see from our barge berth. "What about our next job?"
I shook my head. “I’m not interested in anymore jobs, for a while at least. We have enough money, and we don’t need the rush. Besides, now we have Jordan.”
Francois huffed. “Maybe I want more than that, Felix. Papa died a very rich man."
“He died a very lonely, bitter old man," I reminded him. "Unless you count the bastards Papa probably left in quite a few countries. Or did you forget Sergei three years ago in Lithuania?"
"Of course I didn’t forget Sergei," Francois said. It was a sensitive subject for him, which amused me. The logical disconnect for him between our father being a playboy and yet Francois expecting us to be his only children was confusing to me. Our father had never hidden his past from us, and as soon as I figured out how men and women made children, the assumption had been academic to me. "Still, don't you want to be more than what you are?"
"I do," I said quietly. "I want to be a good man. So far, I can’t lay claim to that."
Francois had no answer and only stared out at the river. I watched him for a moment until the winter chill caused me to shiver. "I'm going inside. I’m sure Jordan would like it if you did too."
I went back inside without waiting for him to answer, thinking the whole time. I knew that Francois cared for Jordan as I did. Unfortunately, his personal ambition meant that there was something else he loved as well. He wanted recognition, and, if it could be said for men in our profession, a bit of infamy. It’d worked well for us so far, as I could be entrusted to be the level-headed one, to see the pitfalls in any plan and to secure us against the unseen dangers. Meanwhile, Francois was the one who would push us, trying for challenges that I wouldn’t have initially accepted. I’d found his ambition to often be a good thing, pushing me beyond what I thought my limits were. He had this sort of wild, instinctual genius that allowed him to make connections that I didn't see until after the fact. Still, after meeting Jordan, I was ready to move on. Maybe I was thinking of retiring too early, at the top of my game, so to speak. Jordan was certainly one to retire for.
Shrugging, I made a mental note to think about it more the next day. I went into the bedroom, where the dim light from the living area revealed a pleasing curved lump under the blankets. I quickly stripped to my underwear, a habit I’d gotten into in Mexico first because of the warmth and then for other reasons, relishing the anticipation of feeling Jordan's body pressed against mine, even though she wore pajamas usually.
My first surprise was the feeling of Jordan's bare skin against me when I slid in behind her. Not questioning my good fortune, I slid my arm around her waist to rest against the soft expanse of her tummy. I kissed her lightly behind the ear and smiled. "Good night."
Jordan surprised me when she reached down and took my wrist in her right hand, pulling it up to cup her breast. "I've been unable to sleep," she whispered, squeezing my fingers around the soft flesh. Her nipple, already hard, poked against the palm of my hand, and she pushed back against me. "I need you, Felix."
"And if Francois wants to join in?" I asked, smiling as she turned her desire filled but still sleepy eyes towards me. I kissed her neck, tasting the silky smoothness of her skin. "He’ll be jealous that I have you to myself."
"Then he'll have to get used to it," Jordan whispered, “we can’t all be involved every time.”
Turning over to face me, Jordan's fingers traced through my hair while we continued to kiss, my thumb brushing over her nipple. We stayed that way for minutes, kissing and caressing one another, just enjoying the touching and the simple caresses. She brought her knee up to rest on the outside of my thigh, and I could smell the heady scent of her arousal through the gap in the blanket. "Make love to me, Felix," she whispered, reaching down to fondle my cock. "Show me the tenderness you’re so good at."
Our kisses grew deeper, Jordan's tongue coming out to tease mine, her lips molding to my mouth. I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her on top of me to let me use both hands to explore the wonderful curves of her body. I traced each and every inch, loving it all, from the dimple on her right shoulder blade to the natural hollow of her spine. Her hips slid back and forth, grinding against my cock which was still trapped inside my underpants, aching to escape.
"Hold on," I whispered, reaching down. I didn't need to push my shorts all the way off, I just needed to free myself enough for both Jordan and me to be able to do what we both needed.
She sat up high, her breasts beautiful as she slipped her hips back and forth on me, riding me and relishing in the pleasure it brought her. Reaching up, I laced my fingers with hers, holding as still as I could. It was difficult, Jordan was so beautiful and she gripped my cock so wonderfully, but this was for her. I wanted her to feel totally fulfilled, and that meant at first letting her pleasure herself. There would be time for me later.
Her hips started to lift up and down some, thrusting herself over and over onto me in short little jabs that combined with her hypnotic back and forth to rub her deep inside. A joyful little smile spread across the angel's bow of her lips, and soft little whimpers came over and over from inside her chest as her breasts quivered in front of me. "Yes, yes, yes . . .”
I echoed her cries, my cock throbbing with every little slap of her hips against mine. Jordan looked down and grinned, bending down to capture my mouth in hers. She pulled me over on top of her, her legs spreading to give me deep, full access to her body. My hips took over for hers, driving in and out of her. Still, I didn't go too hard. Not yet.
"What are you waiting for?" Jordan asked when she realized I was holding back.
"Taking my time, and the luxury of you," I said, demonstrating by slowing my hips down to the point it felt like I was dragging myself in and out with agonizing slowness. I wallowed in that luxury, smiling as we both slowly built the release within ourselves.
Jordan's cheeks and neck flushed, pink traveling all the way down to between her breasts, her hips lifting to meet me. Her eyes grew darker, begging silently, but still I teased her until I could stand it no longer. With a soft grunt of warning, I drove in harder and harder, giving in to the need inside of me. Our souls co-mingling, separated by only a hair's breadth from a perfect union, I pushed to close that last gap, knowing that when I did, our release would be cataclysmic.
"Felix . . .” Jordan moaned, clutching at my neck and pulling me in for a deep kiss. I felt her body tense, on the edge, and I gave myself over, filling her as fast and as hard as I could, chasing that sensation that was mind blowing yet always just out of reach. With a sharp gasp, Jordan came, squeezing down on me, and I found it. Paradise flooded my body as I found my own release, tears coming to my eyes at the intensity of it all.
Chapter 17
Francois
The next day, Felix went to the bank to deal with some of the financial issues we had pressing after months overseas. The Internet is a wonderful tool, but there are certain things that must be done in person, especially when so many of our investments and bank dealings are not always ones we wanted Interpol to know about. Leaving as soon as breakfast was finished, he told us as he’d be gone for some time. "Spreading the cash around takes a lot of effort sometimes," he explained to Jordan.
All it really meant was that I got to spend the entire afternoon alone with Jordan, something I was more than ready for. “You ready?” I asked her as she was fussing with her sweater. "Don’t worry, you look beautiful."
"I feel frumpy," she complained, tugging at the hem. "French girls are supposed to look glamorous and sexy. You know, skinny jeans and slinky cuts and all that. I feel like an American girl from the Midwest."
"You are an American girl from the Midwest," I reminded her, coming around and wrapping my arms around her waist. She was bigger than
the average girl in Paris, but that was perfect for me. "As for your sense of fashion, it doesn't matter. Your beauty isn’t dependent on the drape of some Merino wool off of your shoulder or on it."
Jordan looked at the two of us in the mirror and smiled, taking my hand and kissing it. "Thank you, Francois. You know just how to make me feel better. So where are we going, anyway?"
"Notre Dame. It is about three kilometers away if you want to walk along the river, if not we can take the Metro," I said, sneaking another kiss on her earlobe. Jordan moaned, and I brought my hand to cup her full breast through the soft fabric. "Or we can stay here."
"Tempting, but later," Jordan said regretfully. Seeing my disappointment, she turned and kissed my lips. "You know I want to, but I want to see Paris too. Besides, don't be in such a rush — we have all the time in the world.”
“I’m going to pray at the cathedral for just that," I said, confused when her expression darkened. "What is it?"
"I . . . I have no need for the church in my life," Jordan said.
I nodded and kissed her forehead, noting that there must have been some tragedy in her life. I didn’t press the issue and just let it go. “No worries, my love. It was just a turn of phrase."
We headed for the hatch on the barge, and I helped her up the last two steps. Sometimes they’re slippery in winter. On deck, I stretched and enjoyed the weak afternoon sunshine. "I’m baptized, confirmed even. But growing up the way I did, there was plenty that I learned that wasn’t strictly according to Roman Catholic tradition."
“I’m sure," Jordan noted wryly. "I doubt your parents were ever married in a Catholic church."
I nodded, keeping my words to myself, and smiled. "Along the way we can get some lunch. It’s not a proper introduction to Paris without a stop at a street stall for good food. Paris has the best street stall food in the world, even better than the food trucks of New York or street sellers in London."
Jordan grinned and patted her stomach. "Careful, you’re going to fatten me up."
I laughed and kissed her cheek again. "I'm sure we can find plenty of ways to burn off any extra calories," I teased. "Come, let's go."
There’s nothing quite like walking along the River Seine through the oldest parts of Paris, especially after spending nearly half a year in America. "Even the Nazis were not so craven as to destroy Paris," I said as we strolled. "Despicable in every other way, they could still appreciate that which is the City of Light."
Close to the bridge that leads to the island that Notre Dame is built upon, we found the exact type of street stall I was looking for, serving pommes frites, or French fries, and a sandwich in a baguette. "Here, nothing beats the way they do it here," I said, handing Jordan a large cone filled with the fried potatoes. “I’m sure the British would disagree, but who cares what they think?"
The vendor, who apparently understood more English than he let on — like many Parisians — grinned and nodded. Jordan laughed and smiled. "Merci."
The man grinned in appreciation, charmed by her attempt. We continued on, Jordan relishing the potatoes, which in the French tradition had been covered with a mayonnaise based sauce instead of ketchup. "I don't think I'll ever eat a fry the same way again," she said, licking a blob of mayo off her finger in a very arousing yet unladylike way. “Geez, how do you stay so thin with stuff like this around?”
"At our place in the Rhone, we have our ways,” I promised her. "It’s one of the ways that Papa trained Felix and I. Anyway, we’ll be doing a lot of walking today, I’m sure. I’m glad you chose tennis shoes instead of something more chic and fashionable. I knew one girl who insisted on wearing high heels for almost everything, and walking in Paris cut her ankles to shreds."
"I'm sure you had no qualms about tending to the young lady's wounds," Jordan teased, causing me to blush. Laughing, she kissed me on the cheek. "Don't worry, Francois, I'm not jealous."
Notre Dame is probably the most famous church in the world, and even in the middle of winter it was crowded with tourists. Flanked by old trees, the plaza in front was neatly trimmed, the shrubs waiting for the coming of spring. "An important place to people of my background," I joked as we admired the outer decorations. We passed a group of Americans who sounded like they were from Alabama or Georgia or someplace like that, and I looked up at the bell towers. "Sanctuary, and all that."
"Yet I’m the Esmeralda this time," Jordan replied, "although you hardly look at all like Quasimodo."
We joined a tour group, staying within earshot as the guide explained various things to them in passable English. I felt bad for the tourists, though, as the guide seemed to have forgotten every adjective other than 'famous.' In the course of the ten minutes we were near them, she used the term 'famous French' to describe at least half a dozen different things. Jordan noticed too, and on the way back to the barge, we both descended into utter silliness. "Ah, it is the famous French street lamp," I noted, causing Jordan to giggle helplessly.
"Along the famous French river," Jordan laughed, leaning on my arm. We continued on, until both of us nearly breathless with laughter. We rested against a building, Jordan in my arms, and she turned her eyes up to mine. "And what of the famous French kiss?"
* * *
That evening, after Jordan had gone to sleep, I left the barge again, this time taking the Metro to Stade Charlety. Underneath the larger soccer and rugby stadium I found what I was looking for, the small indoor arena. Inside, the Paris Volley volleyball team was practicing, the stands mostly empty except for a few dedicated fans and my contact.
"They’re not shit compared to Dynamo Moscow," my contact said in a heavy accent.
"You didn’t come here just to watch men in overly tight uniforms jump around playing volleyball," I countered. "Besides, women's volleyball is much more entertaining."
"Spoken like a man who’s not in a new relationship," my contact said. "Are things not as I was led to believe?"
I glowered and shook my head. "Things are fine there, not that it’s your business. On the other hand, your business is telling me you have your eyes on a special item.”
"There’s an item within the Institut du Monde Arabe that my employer wishes to have," he said. "A twelfth-century illuminated copy of the Quran, one of the most valuable copies in existence. It belonged to the great Saladin himself, according to legend at least. What would a fair price for such an item be?"
"If you assist me with my problem I spoke to you about, it wouldn’t be much," I said. “Just one condition.”
“And what’s this condition?" he asked curiously as I gathered my few items and prepared to leave.
"This is a deception, so you must approach Felix as if we’ve never talked. I have an easy way to get him involved without it looking like a setup. If your employer can figure out a way to get him alone, that would be best."
"Agreed. We’ll contact you in about a week. Until then, have a pleasant day."
I left the arena, heading back towards the Metro station. Along the way I stopped at a late night chocolatier, picking up fourteen truffles, a dozen for Jordan while I enjoyed two on the way back to the barge. Getting back on board, it was my turn to find Felix sitting on the deck watching the lights. He was sipping at a large mug of coffee, a habit he'd picked up in America, favoring huge cups over the tiny flavor-packed sips I preferred. "How was your walk?"
"I picked up some chocolates for Jordan," I said, showing him the box. Felix inhaled the aroma and nodded in appreciation. "Think she’ll enjoy them?"
“Who doesn’t like chocolate? Anyway, I heard you two had a great time today. Jordan even said you were the perfect gentleman.”
"You sound surprised, Felix,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe I have been rash in my judgment of you, Francois. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that you’re not me, regardless of how similar we are."
"More similar than you'd like to think, in my opinion," I replied. "Or perhaps Jordan is just that special of
a woman." It was true, the only other person who could keep the two of us together on a consistent basis was our father.
Chapter 18
Jordan
The drive south toward the Rhone district was picturesque. Along the way, Francois sat in the back with me and helped me with my French, which I struggled with constantly. Despite both of the brothers telling me that I was doing fine, I knew they were just trying to make me feel good about it.
"I feel like a fool, and my tongue keeps tripping over itself," I complained as we passed a sign on the road for Avallon. We'd been on the road for about two hours, and I was ready for a pit stop. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to sound fluid."
“I think you just need some wine," Francois said with a grin. When I looked at him like he was crazy, he chuckled and nodded. "It’s true. Not the wine specifically, but the loosening of the tongue. You’d be surprised at how much you actually know. After a glass or two of wine, the alcohol helps you relax, and you'll find yourself just speaking without worrying about if you’re saying it correctly. Just don't overdo it, or else you end up singing drunkenly in a language you don't know."
"Speaking from personal experience I take it?” I asked, and Francois shook his head.
"No, but Felix can, can't you brother?"
I was shocked and looked up at Felix in the front seat. "Really Felix? I totally can’t imagine that.”
He blushed and glowered at Francois, who laughed quietly. “Maybe another time," Felix muttered. "I could use a drink and a trip to the restroom."
We pulled in and I looked at the map on the gas station wall while Felix did his shopping. I was shocked at the amount of cities and places that I could identify.
After a couple minutes, Felix came out carrying two cans. "It’s cheap plonk, but you might like it,” he said, handing me a can of wine. “Don’t like it too much, though.”
Double Dealing: A Menage Romance Page 12
