The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin
Page 28
The music was loud, but it was a slow dance and the lights had dimmed measurably. Spicy cloves and sweet pumpkin emanated from the lit candles on the tabletops. Bright orange candles nestled inside miniature pumpkins bedazzled with rhinestones. The French could dazzle up any holiday.
I bypassed a particularly large sheet-covered being who had drawn dripping blood from the corners of his ghostly sheet eyes. Did ghosts bleed? The semantics of every costume would drive me batty if I thought too hard. Which I did.
I always thought too much.
My costume, on the other hand, was as historically accurate as it got when a girl had but three days to find a rental close to the biggest costume holiday of the year. I wore an elegant seventeenth century gown. The hips were wide, but not plumped out with wooden panniers. I hadn't wanted to struggle in the crowd with that impediment.
The fabric was pink silk damask that sheened silver under the light. The three-quarter-length sleeves were dusted with white lace. And the stays, or corset, were laddered from gut to breasts with white velvet bows that matched the bow I'd pinned in my hair.
Yes, I'd gone to the salon and had the stylist curl my hair and pin it up. When I'd told her about the costume party, she said she could do the flour-puffed look, but we'd decided against that after seeing how pretty my chestnut hair had turned out. Simple, elegant, and with a few ringlets dangling down my neck and near my ears.
I felt like a princess. But I wasn't wearing the glass slippers, or my sexy black beribboned Louboutins. The costume shop had offered matching shoes that resembled the seventeenth century style. They were actually comfy.
Take that, bleeding sheet ghost man.
A line queued along the wall and I decided that must be where the dessert bar hawked its sweet temptations. Indeed, orange neon pumpkins suspended from spiderwebs lit the chocolate fountain below, behind which zombies served up chocolate treats as fast as their shambles would allow.
I scanned the line for the end, and as I turned, I gasped. Standing not ten feet away—before the line, but not in it—was a real musketeer. Framed by the vast opened doors that led to the balcony, his silhouette stood out. He didn't wear the tunic with the cross and fleur de lis emblazoned on it. Instead he was dressed in a rich black damask doublet and breeches. Beneath the unbuttoned doublet peeked a silver threaded waistcoat, and the spill of white lace from his shirt sleeves hit me right there where my geeky love for historical fashion bounced for joy. Brown suede bucket-topped boots slouched below his knees. And at his waist and across his shoulder slanted a leather sword belt. I wasn't sure if the sword in the sheath was real, but who the hell cared?
It was him. Monsieur Sexy. The man who had seduced me through a window. The lover who had claimed me via Skype. The man who had seen me at my most vulnerable, and yes, even at my silliest. I knew things about him. We'd shared our most intimate selves with one another.
"Jean-Louis," I whispered. I didn't know his last name. Didn't need to. As if some kind of mantra, I'd whispered that name countless times over the past few days.
Never had we stood in a room so close and without a barrier between us.
I met his gaze. His smile was already there. Bright in his sky-gray depths and nestled in the faint lines at the corners of those eyes. His grin was capped by a moustache, and beneath his bottom lip a triangle of stubble heightened the musketeer appeal. Dashing, slightly curly, dark hair had been pushed over his ears with a hand, as was his habit, and an unconscious movement I knew he often made.
"Oh, my God," I whispered. The world slipped away. Sounds ceased, save for the thud of life gushing through my veins.
My hand soared to my breast. Trying to stop my thundering heartbeats? Or maybe even holding the stays in place for fear that those crazy heartbeats would burst through and bleed all over the costume.
There he stood.
And here I stood.
We'd done it. We'd shattered through glass and computer screen to bare ourselves before one another. Nothing remained but to touch.
Could I do that? Actually touch a man whom I'd known for over a month, but had yet to know so intimately? I didn't know what he smelled like. I didn't know if his skin was soft or roughened from the sun. I did know the scent of sable and spice lingered on his clothes (I'd watered his plants and snooped about his place when he'd been in Berlin). But that scent had only offered a pale remnant of him, not the actual man.
I'd been standing there for two or three minutes, considering him. He must think me mad. Well, he knew I thought too much. But could he be aware of the thoughts racing through my mind? Maybe the same nervous thoughts stormed his brain?
When he held out a black-gloved hand, trimmed in white lace, I sighed. A fantasy stood before me. The unattainable image of a musketeer I'd often used to stir my nights into deliciously sexy dreams. Only this one was real in a way I could not explain to anyone else. Because I knew he had a thing for musketeers, as I did. As a kid he'd fallen in love with The Three Musketeers, and now read it once a year. He'd taken his first fencing lesson because he'd wanted to be a musketeer when he grew up. Now he gave fencing lessons. And while he'd never dash away at an enemy in real life, I knew he was fierce and would protect me should I require protecting.
I should walk over to him. Take his hand. Begin the next chapter in this weird and slightly abnormal relationship that had started without sound, smell, taste or touch—only sight—and had now slowly worked its way to the beginning. Where normal couples began. Standing before one another, delving into each other's gazes.
Do it. Move your legs. Walk over to him!
I…couldn't make my legs move. My stomach flip-flopped. And I was thankful for the gown because it concealed my nervous compulsion to imitate a statue.
I held out a hand and stretched my arm as if that could bring us together. It activated something, because he walked toward me. Eyes fixed to mine; he breached the distance in seconds. Stopping before me, he tugged off a glove and slipped his bare, warm hand into mine.
"Hey," he said.
I sighed out a heavy breath. I'd spoken to him for hours at a time online. Hadn't stopped gabbing, except to strip and have hot and sexy mutual masturbation sessions with him.
Everything changed with a few steps of his boots and the slide of his hand across mine. The glint in his eyes reassured my silly nerves. He was real. Warm and alive. Reality felt so right. Yet, I admit, it was also a little scary.
"Hey," I managed.
He took my other hand, the glove still on his, and held them between us. He leaned in, not to kiss, because his trajectory moved his face alongside mine. And there, his nose nudged my earlobe. Shivers traced along my neck. My nipples grew so hard I thought they would burst through the fabric. The hush of his warm breath along my neck where the hair had been pulled up felt like a summer breeze. But even more? I wanted him to invade me, to completely own me.
"I'm glad I decided to come here," he said. "I was nervous about this."
"You were?"
"After all that has been revealed between us? Oui."
And his nose nuzzled along my skin. His subtle moan crept into my soul. His hands squeezed mine. I closed my eyes. I couldn't fight the crazy thunder of my heartbeats, but I did have to stay focused so I wouldn't crash and faint in his arms.
Because of all that had been revealed.
He was a married man. Albeit a married man in the process of getting a divorce. More on that later. Right now I didn't want anything to taint this moment.
"You smell better than I imagined," he said at my ear. "Vanilla. I had expected honey, mon abeille."
His pet name for me. It meant my bee.
Focus. Don't pass out from utter joy.
I tilted my head toward his, our noses moving closer, our lips still too far away to kiss. The cloves I could smell everywhere hung on his hair and skin. I didn't know if it was his cologne or this ballroom's sensory milieu. I'd take it. A spicy scented man was my favorite kind of treat.
But he didn't step back, and stood before me, my hands in his, his thumbs gently stroking my skin.
"I could stand before you all night," he said. His eyes twinkled and his smile seemed irrepressible. "Just drink you in. Your skin is so soft." He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. The warmth of his mouth and the tickle of his moustache would undo me.
Would? Hell, I was undone. Falling. Into him.
"You okay?" His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. "Your cheeks are flushed."
Did I look like I was ready to faint? Probably. I think I could faint. The corset had grown tight. But no, I wasn't about to topple.
Maybe.
"I'm good. It's just…"
"Overwhelming?"
I shrugged and nodded. "So real. Here you are. Standing before me. My musketeer."
"You like the costume? We match, eh?"
I realized this was the first time I'd heard his voice right next to me and not filtered through a computer speaker. It was richer, more full and deep. The French accent felt like a decadent arabesque upon his exquisitely seductive tones. Mercy, but he could fuck me with that voice.
He had fucked me with that voice.
"Mon abeille?"
I had to stop letting my mind wander. He was here. Now. And we had to begin.
I confessed, "I think I'm a little lightheaded."
"Let's go out on the balcony, oui?"
"Yes."
He clasped my hand and I followed him up four stairs and out through the two-story-high glass doors. Three other people stood on the balcony, all quietly chatting near a table that glittered with pumpkins and rhinestones. I didn't notice the fall chill. My body was on fire. Because Jean-Louis held my hand.
Pausing before the balcony railing, he turned, and again we held each other's eyes for long moments of silence. It was something we were accustomed to, for we had established this relationship through glass, silently observing one another. Speaking with our eyes.
I stroked my fingers along his cheek. "You are my musketeer, and I am your lady." He dipped his head into my palm and kissed the center of it. "No tunic?"
"I couldn't find one. And I wanted it to be authentic, not like that other musketeer I saw walking around earlier."
"Wrong style," I agreed, sharing a knowing nod with him. The musketeers had worn black tunics for a time, not blue. "This is you." I swept my gaze down the rich damask coat. Gold buttons dotted one side of the opened coat. "I…" Should I say it? I'd been brazenly open with him online. Why edit myself now? "I want to take it off of you."
His smile grew and he bracketed my face with both his hands. "There's my sexy Hollie who tells me what she wants. I was wondering for a moment if I had lost you. Nerves, oui?"
I nodded and clasped his wrists as he held my face. Would he kiss me? I desperately needed to know his kiss. His mouth on mine. I'd dreamed about it so often I suddenly wondered if the real thing would be a letdown.
And then I realized he'd said my name. It was the first time I'd heard him speak it. And he'd only learned it a few days ago as I had his. I'd left him a note in his mailbox. My name scribbled on a piece of paper. It had been his choice to look at it. And he had.
"Jean-Louis," I whispered.
"Hollie." He tilted his head down and our foreheads met.
This closeness was exquisite. He smelled like my dreams. His warmth lured me closer as if a river current. I wanted to dive in and float with arms spread out to my sides.
I also wanted to run my hands all over his body, to finally touch every part of him. I needed... I needed privacy where I could rip off his clothing and explore and taste and touch and suck and...
"I want to kiss you," he said. "May I?"
I nodded, and my reply came out as a wanting gasp, "Yes, please."
My heart thudded. My toes became springs as I bounced subtly, wishing I was as tall as him to be able to meet the kiss. My hands glided down the front of his damask coat. The fabric was rich and authentic to the time period, which made the whole experience surreal and so, so exciting.
I opened my eyes as his mouth landed on mine, and closed them just as quickly. Focus zoomed to my mouth. The light, yet sure, brush of his lips. Testing. That first tentative touch. Yes, I am here. Yes, I want to taste you. Yes, yes, and oh...yes.
He tilted his mouth against mine and the kiss grew more confident. It was rich and exquisite. Sure. Like he'd been there many times before and knew his place.
The tickle of his moustache teased my upper lip. I gripped his coat with my fingers and clung to him, standing on tiptoes because he was taller than expected. And he swept an arm around my back to hold me against him. To claim me.
I had dreamed about this kiss. And then I had tried not to imagine what it would be like because I feared I'd concoct a fantasy that couldn't possibly be recreated. I needn't have worried. Jean-Louis's mouth on mine was heaven. His breath tasted like the champagne I'd sipped upon arrival at the party. His body heat lured me closer. The smell of him sank into my very soul and found its home.
And then he opened my mouth with his and danced his tongue along my teeth, the inner sides of my lips, and to my tongue. Mmm, I loved this. Falling into him. Losing myself in this exquisite connection.
I reached up, spreading my fingers through his soft, dark hair and felt a curl tickle about one of them. He groaned into my mouth and held me tighter. As if he never wanted to let go. I breathed his air, taking life from him and giving back my own.
And then he gently, slowly begin to pull away, he kissed me quickly at the corner of my mouth, then yet another deep and delving kiss, and then one to my lower lip that suckled for a moment. He pressed his forehead to mine, and we both must have sighed.
"That was..." I realized there was no way to put it into words. And why should I? So instead I kissed him again.
I've placed Angelina's hot chocolate on the top of my favorite treats list. No more. Jean-Louis's kiss was number one. I devoured it, feasted upon his sensual taste and the smell of his skin against mine. Mmm...
Happy All Saints Day to me.
"Mon abeille," he breathed against my mouth. "Très bon. You cannot know how long I have desired this."
"As long as I have, surely. You taste so good. Don't let me go."
He still held me in a tight clutch, our faces but a breath away from one another. We'd fallen into one another's eyes, the music in the adjoining ballroom but a distant melody to our thumping hearts. In my peripheral vision the city lights twinkled, a glamorous backdrop to our embrace.
I was in Paris standing in the arms of a sexy Frenchman who had kissed me silly. And all I wanted was another kiss.
"Another?" he asked, but didn't wait for my approval.
He kissed me soundly. Then a dash of his tongue teased my mouth open and I felt so light and free that I must have grown an inch because I didn't have to reach so far to meet him. The curls at my neck were clasped in his fingers. His leg pressed against my skirts, a solid stance that claimed me, held me.
Owned me.
I had become the musketeer's woman.
"Let's find a private corner," he whispered at my ear.
My heartbeats skipped and the vixen inside me sang like some kind of love-struck heroine in a Disney cartoon.
His hand stroked my cheek and down my neck to land on top of my breasts. "There is somewhere else on you I wish to put my mouth." He leaned in to whisper at my ear. "I crave to taste your pussy."
The giddy nerves I'd felt upon first sighting him had simmered to a steady gush of urgent need and desire. Fuck the looming divorce situation. We'd been good. We'd denied ourselves one another for too long.
The time had come for touch. And to give him the taste he craved.
I gripped his waistcoat. "I know the perfect place."
Chapter Two
Je
an-Louis grabbed my hand and we dashed through the crowd of revelers. Light falling from the chandeliers glimmered on masks and painted faces. Champagne glasses tilted into melodious tings. Lush spice and musk tainted the atmosphere. Together we rushed toward adventure and the erotic play that we'd been feeding for too long. It had boiled to the top. Time to let it spill over.
The coat check was a vast closet walled in red velvet. Rows upon rows of coats held court. Jean-Louis spoke to the valet in French, who then handed him a key. My cyber lover tugged me inside the room. The valet called out something.
"What did he say?"
"He's taking a break," Jean-Louis said. "He'll be back in half an hour. There's an employee room here."
We navigated the tight rows of coats hung on a rotating track such as you'd see at a laundromat until we spied a door. Jean-Louis stuck the key into the lock. Boots lined the floor. Cubbies held street clothing. Employees must change in here. He turned the lock on the door and tucked the key into a pocket in his musketeer breeches. (Okay, so pockets were not period correct but I couldn't argue that faux pas.)
I had to take a moment to succumb to a costume orgasm over the two of us. He in his damask coat and breeches a la the seventeenth century, with lace dripping from his wrists and tied at his throat, plus the billowing ostrich plume on his hat. It screamed swashbuckler!
And I in my silk dress cinched tightly to push up my breasts. We made a dashing pair.
Bracketing my face with his palms, he kissed me again. Too quickly, he pulled away to gaze into my eyes. His breath, tinted with champagne, hushed over my mouth. The spices on his skin mulled the champagne into a sweet treat.
I wanted him to touch me. Everywhere.
"I know where I'd like you to put your mouth," I said. The vixen that had blossomed within me over the past month fluttered her lashes and stepped back from the musketeer. My skirts shushed the carpeted floor.
"Tell me, Mademoiselle. I am at your command." He swept a dashing bow that would have reduced any damsel to a swoon.
I turned and strolled to a long table set along the back wall. It was half-covered with purses, backpacks, and messenger bags. They could be easily moved.