In the darkness, I placed a hand on Sébastien’s knee and pressed a kiss to his lips.
“Get a room!” Marian demanded, looking pleased with herself for having caught us in the middle of something.
“Not a word, Marian.”
“Jaysus! When’d you get so uptight?”
“Four days ago!” I announced, hoping she realized that was the day she’d arrived.
***
When the performance of Feerie finished, the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Marian smirked at Hillary, who was energetically clapping. I placed a finger over her lips, signaling for her to not ruin the moment by drawing attention to Hillary’s enthusiasm. Marian playfully harrumphed. Undoubtedly, this was an ace that Marian would keep in her back pocket for another day.
We gathered our things and began walking out.
Tiziana gushed in appreciation, “Darlings, that was perfetto. And the costumes! My favorite was the pirate costume. I must say that I am surprised they have a clown act. Who likes clowns? Marian, which was your favorite act?”
We had made our way to the sidewalk in front of Moulin Rouge, underneath the windmill that was on the roof of the building, one floor up. Two enormous lights, mounted on the roof of the adjoining building, bathed everything in red light—the entrance, sidewalk, and populace.
Clearly fascinated by her surroundings, Marian belatedly answered, “The python act was fabulous! Did you see the size of the bloody thing! Imagine being in a tank of water and having it slither all around you. Keep in mind, it might feel quite nice. After all, she—the woman, not the python—was mostly naked. If I have something that size slithering between my legs—”
“And this is why Marian isn’t the CEO of a major corporation!” I preempted whatever else she had to say.
“I think she’s quite entertaining,” Sébastien reassured me, pulling my hair from the confines of my coat. His voice became raspy. “May we say goodnight now?”
Without hesitating, I bid everyone goodnight.
“Okay, darling. We’ll see you at Requiem,” Tiziana said, with a twinkle in her eye.
“Sorry, I might not make it until the Akhmadullina showing.”
“But you will miss Jean-Charles de Castelbajac,” Hillary pointed out.
“And Yohji Yamamoto,” Marian added.
I looked at Sébastien with eyebrows raised. “One wants elegance, the other wants to wear a coat embellished with teddy bears. And I wonder why they argue?”
Jazzy Blues
I was freakishly nervous. He had invited me up, and I had said yes. I was pretty confident as to what I’d said yes to, but now I felt ridiculously shy. I wanted to throw myself at him and take it slow, at the same time. God, the nerves.
As he slid my coat off my shoulders, he calmly (much more calmly than I could have spoken) said, “I need to check on something. You can give yourself a tour while you wait.”
I nodded after he gave me a gentle kiss while I stared into his expressive brown eyes. Right now, they were blessedly serene, but I knew they could bounce between lover and diplomat in less than the blink of an eye.
As he wandered down the hallway, I blew out a nervous breath and shook off my nerves. I glanced around. His apartment wasn't at all what I had expected. First of all, it was massive in comparison to mine. Sheer elegance stretched from one wall to the next. A bank of windows along the main road was dressed in off-white heavy fabric; the walls in the living room were painted dove gray; and the furniture was modern and boxy. A large, dark, peacock-blue sofa dominated the room. Two black leather side chairs faced each other across a blond wood coffee table. Large, retro, metal floor lamps with gold fabric lampshades flanked the sofa. The large, charcoal-gray area rug anchored the room, while a large abstract painting dominated the wall opposite the windows.
Bluesy jazz music wafted through the air just before he reappeared. “You’ve got style,” I complimented him.
“Are you disappointed?”
“Why would I be disappointed?”
“Je ne sais pas. Perhaps you wanted to ‘fix’ me.”
“I’ve no desire to ‘fix’ anyone. I am my own work in progress.”
His brows briefly lifted at the comment and then he caressed my cheek. “I believe we all are. May I say, you complement my home.”
This could be a standard pickup line from anyone but him. He was the real deal. Nonetheless, I was utterly sucked in. “Thank you!”
A tiny dimple in his cheek came and went when he smiled. He asked, “Would you like to see la cuisine?”
Not a pick-up line. “Absolutely. Maybe I’ll find inspiration.”
The kitchen was spacious, neat, and well-fitted, with a large stainless steel island in the middle of the room, white cabinets against walls painted the same deep peacock-blue as the sofa, black granite countertop, and stainless steel fixtures. It would have been a dark space but for the fact that the kitchen was located on the corner, so there were two walls of large, mullioned windows.
While I looked around, he had poured us each a glass of wine. After passing me mine, he leaned against the counter, relaxing, while I endeavored to appear as calm. I felt hot. As in warm, not sexy. I was excited to be alone with him again and felt like a giddy teenaged girl who didn’t know what to do with her hands. Part of me wanted to play it cool and another part of me wanted to pounce on him. Looking at him, he was so calm and collected that I felt even more awkward. His confidence was charming and intimidating.
I stretched over the counter to look out the window, knowing my bottom was barely concealed by my short skirt. I had hoped he’d leap at me or something. Instead, he raised his glass. “Salut!”
The glass in my hand was as elegant as everything else. I took a sip, and the tapered rim delivered the wine across the length of my palette. It tasted exceptional. I took a bigger sip, hoping it would help me loosen up.
“Would you like to continue the tour?”
“I’d love to.” Smooth. My blood sizzled. There were only bedrooms left to see.
He motioned for me to lead, adding, “As long as you don’t peek into any cupboards. One of my secrets, I hate organizing.”
With a solemn promise that all cupboard and closet doors would remain closed, I wandered about, my heart thundering, leaving me wondering if he could hear it pounding. I walked toward the four doors. He pushed the first one wide open—his study.
The bathroom was next. Good to know where this is. My nerves were stretched thin, and I was going to have to use the facilities soon. The very modern, double-headed, glass-encased shower set my fantasies in motion. Simmer down.
The next room was dark. He leaned in and pressed the light switch. Inside, I was surprised by the very feminine space. I couldn’t imagine that this room had been decorated for a college-aged art student. It was far too formal and impersonal. An ornately framed mirror on the wall above the bed drew my eye. It was mercury glass, a material I’d long found fascinating. My eyes settled on the sumptuous raw silk bedding, and my heartrate picked up again. I turned to find him watching me. There was one room left.
Pulling the door shut behind me, I walked to the last door, which had to be his bedroom. Stepping inside, what I found was unique. Enough so, that my clickety-clacking heart slowed down so that I could somewhat appreciate the exquisite setting. The bed was positioned low to the ground in the middle of the space in front of a wall of glossy, varnished wood that offset a brown leather headboard and two dark, wood bedside tables. The two opposing walls were painted a wheat color with three large, green, glass panels etched with bamboo images. The wall beyond the bed was pea green, while the facing wall was a paler shade of green with built-in wooden dressers. The dresser tops were empty, except for two large lamps. Above it, painted in soft colors as if obscured by mist were undulating lines, reminiscent of a landscape. A very calming space.
I walked behind the wooden panels to find closets that created an organized dressing area. Everything was neatly laid out;
no casually-thrown bathrobes or day-old clothes.
“What do you think?” His voice was low and husky, barely above a whisper.
I focused hard and managed to say, “Whoever designed your home did a fabulous job.” My chest rose and fell quickly, and, in my increasingly labored breathing, I inhaled the scent of him and his desire.
“I must admit, I have fantasized about you being in my bedroom.”
His comment caused warmth to surge through me, making me weak in the knees. I found my eyes riveted on his bed, fantasies flitting through my imagination.
He set my glass of wine on the nearby nightstand. “I will be certain to pass along your compliments to Clodagh.”
“You mean the Clodagh, the Irish designer? The one who gets written up in all the magazines, who lives in New York City?” I asked excitedly. While it was extraordinary that she had something to do with it, it was his closing the distance between us that really excited me.
From Dusk ‘Til Dawn
I walked self-assuredly into his embrace. His arms snaked around me hungrily. It was powerful and provocative to confidently wrap mine around him and melt into him. I inhaled his faded cologne, the faint scent of citrus and spice lingering upon the warm and tender flesh of his neck. The aroma of the wine on his breath beckoned me, and I found myself wandering kisses from his neck to his mouth. My thoughts flitted between what was more tantalizing: his scent, the taste of him, or the feel of him. He released a deep growl as he nipped at my neck and gave in to pent-up desire.
I was eager to surrender every part of myself to him. The passion of our kisses rose and fell, at times inquisitively tender, at others, demanding, and for every ebb and flow, I felt the perfect syncopation of our touch, our breath. When he pulled back to look down at me, I didn’t retreat; I wanted to see the need I knew he felt in his eyes, to show him mine.
Silently, we searched each other’s gaze. He kept our bodies pressed firmly together, one hand pushing our hips together as it rested on my lower back, the other gently and hypnotically trailed down my arm, wandering from my waist to the lower curve of my breast. When his thumb traced the swell, etching patterns through the fabric onto my tender flesh, I held perfectly still, not wanting to break his quest, just wanting him to continue this journey forever.
In response to his wandering hand, my breath hitched, my body ached, and the intense desire I felt for him seeped into every cell of me until all I wanted was to pull him inside of me, to feel all that he was. His hand slipped to the belt that cinched my jacket shut. His fingers, running back and forth along it, hypnotized and tantalized me. The knowledge that he wanted to undo the belt while he kissed me was exquisitely painful. My hands, itching to feel him—the him beneath the fabric—wandered restlessly over the planes of his chest, the angles of his shoulder blades, the taut muscles of his belly, finally resting on his hips, hooking into his belt loops. A moan escaped our kiss. I’m not sure who made the sound, but I felt it. I felt the desire and drought of physical and emotional deprivation behind it.
With a few shuffled steps, the back of my legs made contact with his bed. His voice broke as he spoke against my lips, “Kathleen?”
“What?” I breathlessly wondered. I waited only briefly, because, as he pulled the pins out of my hair, freeing it, he murmured enrapturing words of longing and desire. His eyes, when they held mine again, left me speechless. In those beautiful brown eyes was an intensity I had never seen.
I wondered how long it had been since he had been vulnerable to someone else, and it was the length of this thought that confused him, led him to say, “Please don’t say no. Want me. Want what I have to give.”
He’s asking me if I’m sure.
I gave him the only answer I could. I hungrily kissed him while I fumbled with the belt at my waist and kicked off my shoes. When I stood before him, wearing my bra and my skirt, he dropped to his knees and pressed kisses upon the skin at my waistline. His restless hands slid up and down the zipper along my thigh. Never lowering it, just stroking it. Unthreading my fingers from his hair, I tugged the zipper down as his hands moved upwards to cup me through the lace covering my breasts. His hands trailed their way back to the zipper. He inhaled deeply as he tugged my skirt to the floor.
“My god, you’re beautiful.”
His words thrilled me, calmed me, excited me, and captivated me. I pressed my belly against his cheek, enjoying the feeling of his stubble against my stomach, luxuriating in the intimacy of the gesture. He sprinkled kisses wherever his lips landed as he rose to his feet. I quickly worked at the buttons of his shirt, wanting the fabric gone. When he was shirtless, I pressed the length of myself to him, my breath catching as our flesh met. With the flick of his fingers, the catch of my bra was released, and the delicate material fell to the floor.
When he went to push me back on the bed, I shook my head but didn’t say a word. Instead of lying back, I pulled at his belt buckle, freeing him. I watched my shaking hands work the enclosure of his trousers. I felt nervous and excited as I pushed them to a puddle at his feet. Only when we were equally naked did I lie back, drawing him with me, enjoying the exquisite pleasure of him against me.
What I saw in his expression was raw, demanding lust. Somewhat gently, his lips sought mine. There was just enough friction to leave mine burning. I met his passion equally, out of need and the desire to leave him in no doubt as to what I felt and wanted.
When all but the final garment remained between us, I took a deep breath and felt tears form in my eyes.
“Chérie?”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. It’s just that it has been a very, very long time since I’ve done this.”
Softly, he asked, “Should we talk about ‘this’?” He rested his weight on his forearms, bringing us nose to nose.
I shook my head. “No, I’m not sure why I mentioned it.”
“I believe in ghosts, that, if we let them, they will haunt us. I wonder, does your ghost still haunt you?” I shook my head slightly but definitively. He dropped a kiss just below my eye before continuing, “Then, if I were going to do something I hadn’t done for a very long time, I would want to know that I am special and the risk I am taking is worthwhile.”
His words spoke clearly of his past and his sorrows. And mine. “Yes, that and the fact that I’m worried I might have forgotten what to do.” I gave him a flirty, albeit watery, grin that made him gently laugh.
He rolled onto his side and stared at me a moment, his hand resting on my cheek. “You, your endless list of abilities, your beautiful eyes, your body—you are extraordinary. You are the most naturally sensual woman I know. That you are here with me amazes me.” I felt surprised at his words. His hand wandered at will. “You do not know this about yourself? You are so sexy.” I blushed while he continued speaking. “I hope it doesn’t make me sound arrogant, but that I am here with you makes me feel… significant.”
Tears burned in my eyes as I reached up to kiss him. He captured my lips, gnawing gently on the tender flesh. “Chérie, you are a natural at ‘this.’” He spoke as he nibbled the shell of my ear and then began a languid exploration of my body, marking his way with kisses and gentle bites.
When he had greater access to me, I arched against him, unwilling to let the thinnest whisper of space come between us. He released a deep groan as he rolled on top of me and pressed me down into the mattress, his legs nestling between mine. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his, holding him where I wanted him, enjoying the blatant symbol of his passion as it pressed hot against me. His moan told me he enjoyed the sensation. My reward was the shivers that covered my flesh as he swirled his tongue around my nipple.
Whatever else may have been happening in Paris, I didn’t care. This room, this bed, this man—this was my world.
7:00 AM, Saturday, October 3
Une Lettre Bien Écrite
FACEDOWN IN BED, I woke abruptly and searched for what had brought me out of a deep sleep. I uncoiled th
e sheet from around my hips and lay on my side, facing him. I smiled, absorbing him, his bedroom, and the unfamiliar noises of his apartment and the street below. I lay quite still, observing the boyish quality his features took while he slept. His long, lean leg slid across the white linen and rested against me. I was lying there, happily reliving making love with him, when I heard a clang.
I quietly called his name a couple of times, which proved useless. I ran and got his bathrobe, gathering up the excess fabric and knotting the belt as I stealthily crept down the hall toward the kitchen. I heard another clang. It was the distinct sound of pots being knocked about. With a gulp, I took a deep breath, quickly peeked around the corner, and found an absolutely exquisite young woman trying to brew coffee while she muttered and cursed under her breath.
Hmmm. How to proceed? Pop out of nowhere? Flush the hallway toilet? I stood there, dithering, when suddenly the girl and I were eye to eye. My heart jumped into my throat as I clutched the bathrobe tightly shut while she drew in a quick breath and came to a complete stop. Utter surprise was painted across her face—heavily fringed brown eyes popped wide open beneath unruly brown hair, and dark red lips parted in an “o” across flawless white skin. Features so unlike her father’s. What gave her away as his child was her self-possession. Even shocked, she stood poised, calm.
Keenly aware that I must have morning breath, I walked around her, saying, “You must be Chantal. I’m, er, Kathleen,” while I hunted down a glass and drank a huge glass of water.
I was completely unprepared to be enveloped in a hug. So not French. “Kathleen, I am so pleased to meet you.” Apparently! “Is he still asleep?” she asked. I nodded. “Get dressed. Let’s go for coffee.”
In unfamiliar territory, I agreed. Not exactly how I thought this morning would go.
If the French had the concept of “the walk of shame,” I hadn’t heard about it. Leaving the apartment with her, wearing the same clothes I’d had on yesterday—a complete tell that my sleepover had been unplanned—wasn’t too awkward. I secured all the buttons down the front of my knee-length, slightly too formal Proenza Schouler wool coat then swirled a silver cashmere scarf around my neck.
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 12
