The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin

by Michele Renae

  Hollie lifted her book and resumed reading. And I drew in the scent of coconuts and sex. With one more pump of my erection against the towel...

  My spine stiffened and I sat up abruptly from my lazy drift into fantasy. The train rocked. I glanced around. No eyes on me. Hollie continued to snooze.

  And I discreetly adjusted my erect cock.

  ***

  I hadn't accompanied Jean-Louis into the will reading. Hadn't been invited. And had I, I would have refused. This was a private moment for him. He'd tell me about it later. And if he did not, I would have to accept that. Though, I knew he would tell all. In his own time.

  It was festival time in Marseille and the city center had been festooned and decorated to look like a quaint Christmas village, replete with straw manger featuring the baby Jesus, and everywhere le Pere Noel climbed chimneys. There was no snow, and it was actually quite warm. In the fifties.

  I'd tugged my winter coat open and kept my scarf wrapped about my neck, but gloves weren't necessary. Besides, I was wiping away tears, and it was easier to do with my bare fingers than a leather glove.

  Another teardrop slid down my nose and I sniffed at it. With all this time to myself, I'd gone from lamenting Jean-Louis's loss to wondering when he would break down and allow in the grief. And then, thinking about grief and its relentless attack, I'd drifted to that evening when I'd gotten the phone call about my mother.

  She had been killed in a car accident. Struck by a drunk driver who had two previous drunk driving convictions on his record. The impact had sheared off the front of my mother's Audi and had literally tugged her body out with it. She'd been killed instantly, or so I'd been told. The officer who had told me that had followed with the odd notion that I should be thankful for that.

  I don't know how any part of a person's death can be a cause for thanks. It doesn't feel right to make even a small part of such loss a positive.

  I had cried for months. Perhaps even years. Hell, I still cry when thinking of my mother. As I was now. If only I had been able to give her one more hug. If only we had gone to the movie that night instead of rescheduling for the next weekend because we hadn't wanted to stand in line on opening weekend and fight the crowds. If only I had been more comfortable with telling her I love her. All the time. Not once in a while.

  If only.

  There would always be if onlys. I knew rationally that death came to us all, in ways and manners for which we could never be prepared. It would never be perfect. It would always make us wish if only.

  I covered my face with my hands as a few glugging sobs escaped. There weren't many tourists walking near the bench across from the courthouse where I sat. But when someone gently touched my shoulder I almost shrugged them away and the words fuck off tickled my tongue.

  Until he spoke, "Mon abeille?"

  Ah, shit. He'd caught me crying. And not even about him.

  I dragged the side of my hand across my eyes, trying to squeegee off the tears. "How did it go?"

  "All is well. But you are crying. What is wrong, Hollie? Are you sad?"

  I nodded. Sniffed the mutinous tears that insisted on showing him how weak I could be, and—such a girl! Girls cried at everything. Men were so stoic. He'd not broken down and cried yet. And thinking that made me cry even more. I wanted to see him break down. There was something so wrong about that. Wasn't there?

  Sitting beside me, Jean-Louis hugged me, his leather glove wrapping about one of my shoulders. He smelled warm and like tobacco. Someone in the room must have been smoking a cigar. He may have taken a puff from it if proffered. I liked the oaky scent.

  "I shouldn't be doing this," I said softly. "I'm sorry, but I was thinking about you. And then I started to think about my mom. She died. I told you that. I miss her. But now is not about me. I should be comforting you. Oh. Sorry. I just..."

  He held me so perfectly. Not too hard, not too lightly. As if he were some kind of stoic rock that had been designed to bear my pain. Reassured, I tilted into him, sniffling against his chest. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and dropped onto his coat. He didn't say anything. I didn't want him to say anything.

  My mother would have loved this man. I suddenly needed her to know Jean-Louis. I wanted her to be there at my wedding someday. I wanted her to spoil my children and sneak them treats when I wasn't looking. I wanted to tell her I loved her.

  "I want her back," I whispered.

  Enfolded within his strength, I must have cried for another five minutes before my tears finally ceased. Jean-Louis stood with me, and we walked silently back to the hotel. He went immediately into the bathroom. I heard him run the water in the sink. Probably washing the day away. Then he took a shower, but following his ten-minute stint the water ran into the tub as if he were filling it.

  When he appeared with a towel wrapped about his moist hips, he said he'd run me a bath. But as I stood to head into the bathroom, he caught me in his embrace.

  Sky-gray eyes danced with mine. This trip had begun with a dance. A silly dance beside the Christmas tree that had ended terribly with a cold telegram. I didn't know what to say now. What was there to say? We'd shared our pain. Or I had shown him mine.

  "Thank you for coming to Marseille with me," he said. "You make it easier to pause."

  "To pause?"

  "Tears came to me in the shower." He looked aside. His nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. Then as quickly, he focused on me. "I will miss him."

  Compelled to wrap my arms about him, I gave him the hug that I wanted to give my mother. My arms wrapped about him forever and endlessly and into tomorrow. Our bodies knew one another and sighed in relief. We said I love you without words. I heard him sniff. I sensed a slight pull away from me, his pectoral muscles tensing against my chest. But he didn't let me go.

  "Give it time," I managed to say, though I wasn't sure if I was also comforting myself.

  His body moved as he shook his head. "I will order in while you take a bath, oui?"

  "Sounds good. Are we headed to Paris tomorrow?"

  "No, I'd like to spend another day here, looking around, doing the tourist thing, if you don't mind."

  "I would love that. I think we could use some fun."

  "We can." He kissed my forehead. "I'll rap on the door when the food arrives."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hollie lingered in the tub after I informed her room service had arrived. The wine was chilled and dry. The salad wilted. But the lamb showed promise. The view from our sixth floor room looked out over the blue-green Mediterranean Sea. I'd never gone sailing. It wasn't something that interested me. Slight fear of deep water. (Don't tell anyone.)

  Though certainly there were some excellent bike trails around here. And knowing that Hollie was a fan of Alexandre Dumas gave me an idea that we should visit the Chateau d'If out in the Bay of Marseille. It had been the setting for The Count of Monte Cristo and I was pretty sure they gave tours of the fortress.

  The bathroom door opened and Hollie exited in a cloud of lavender steam. It wasn't my favorite scent (soap provided by the hotel) but on Hollie it smelled glamorous.

  "Do you like biking?" I asked.

  She tugged the sash of the terrycloth robe and accepted the wine goblet. "Why do I sense your version of biking is far different than the pleasant summer roll through the park I envision?"

  She smiled behind a sip, and that was all I needed for my shoulders to relax. While I poured myself another goblet, she sorted about in her suitcase for something.

  The day had been long and trying. I'd not been disappointed to learn Pierre had left everything to his thirty-year-old third wife of eight months. She was also six months pregnant. Future half brother for me. Salut! (Er, not.) Pierre owned property by the sea and stocks and bonds. I'm quite sure there was nothing in his possessions I'd miss. And I was pleased that the unborn child's mother would be taken care of in the wake of his father's death.

  The widow had worn a hat with a black veil over her blonde hair.
And her low-cut black suit had exposed some serious cleavage. I wonder if Pierre had paid for that pair? I hadn't attempted to speak with her. It had felt weird. Not right, or even necessary.

  So now, to put this all behind me. The focus of Hollie would help me with that.

  "What about Chateau d'If?" I offered.

  "Oh, that's right!" She strolled over with a wrapped package in hand. "It's close, isn't it?"

  "Five miles out? Want to check it out tomorrow?"

  "Yes!"

  "I was hoping you'd say that. What is that? It is not a Christmas present, is it? You had rules."

  "Those rule did not indicate I couldn't get you something." She handed me the heavy object, which I guessed might be a book from the size and shape. "It's something I wanted you to have. I didn't give it to you on Christmas Eve because it was so lovely simply being the two of us that night, quiet and making love. But now, well, it feels like you need something to pick you up."

  I sat on the chair beside the table and tore away the gold mylar wrapping. I did enjoy presents, so I wouldn't argue the gift. And when I saw what it was, I gasped. Running my fingers over the fading gold lettering on the maroon spine, I could but gasp again.

  "The Three Musketeers," Hollie provided eagerly. "This edition was published in 1898. It's filled with gorgeous illustrations."

  The copy was exquisite. A shield with crossed swords on the front bore the title in more fading gold ink. I had not seen an old version of the book in such good condition. It was over a hundred years old! And indeed, the illustrations were gorgeous. It was printed in English, but that mattered little. I paused on an illustrated page that featured Cardinal Richelieu kneeling before the imperious Milady de Winter.

  "Hollie," I whispered. My heart swelled and tears wobbled in my eyes. It had been rare to receive a meaningful gift from my parents. Necessities such as school supplies and shirts had been the norm.

  "Do you like it?"

  I grasped her and pulled her into hug. Words were impossible. This moment was perfect. She knew me well. I would cherish this book endlessly. It felt more valuable to me than any figure in my bank account. This woman knew my heart.

  "Can we read it together?" she asked.

  I nodded and sniffed back silly tears. She'd made me cry, damn it. But the emotional display felt okay. "We will read it together. Thank you, mon abeille. It means much to me."

  "You mean much to me, Jean-Louis. Now, let's eat. I'm starving! Lamb? I haven't ever tried it," she said, sitting down and starting right in.

  I wrapped the book back in the mylar paper and set it in my open suitcase. I didn't want to get food on it. Wiping away another tear, I sat before the table. Wow. Talk about a surprise attack of emotion.

  "This is good," Hollie said. "Not as good as what you might make, but I'm hungry."

  "As am I." Whew! I could handle this. Wasn't going to think about any other reason to let the tears come. Hollie was cheery and so pretty. I would use her as distraction from the insistent tug within my heart.

  We ate quickly, chatting about the things we'd seen in town that we might check out tomorrow. Small talk. It felt odd, and yet I was comfortable with it. I didn't sense that Hollie was going to dive at me with questions about Pierre. Did I miss him? Was I sad?

  Of course I did and was. But right now even if I had wanted to wither into grief, I couldn't. I actually felt the same. And if I thought about that too much, that way lie madness.

  It was the gift that had brought up the emotion, that was all.

  "It would please me to bring you into town tomorrow and buy you some pretty things," I said. "You've only ever allowed me to buy you the dress. Maybe some shoes?"

  "I do love insensible shoes. Are you in a shopping mood?"

  "I believe so."

  "If it makes you happy. But here I thought you'd take me to a nude beach."

  "Your tits would freeze." She laughed, and I joined her. "But if you are determined?"

  "No, I think the weather helped me dodge a bullet because I sense you would take pleasure in watching me navigate a nude beach. You do like to watch me struggle with my comfort zone."

  I'd never thought of it like that before, but she was right. "I like to watch you no matter the situation."

  "Voyeur."

  "Exhibitionist."

  "Only for you. I would never flash a complete stranger."

  "You did once. Through our bedroom windows." I winked at her while sipping the wine. "It pleased me."

  "I like to please you, Jean-Louis l'Etoile. You know, that's the first time I learned your surname. When I read the telegram."

  "Huh." It hadn't occurred to me that we'd not done the official introductions. I offered her my hand across the table. "Monsieur Jean-Louis l'Etoile, ever ready to please you, Mademoiselle."

  She slid her hand into mine. "Hollie Peterson. And I am more than ready to please you, Monsieur."

  Twisting on her chair, she slipped off and onto her knees, and crawled around to kneel before me. Gliding her hand up from my bare feet, along my calves (I was wearing a towel) and up along my thighs, she leaned in and asked, "Tell me how to please you, Monsieur l'Etoile?"

  Mmm... There were so many answers to that loaded question. I glanced to the book lying on top of my things in the suitcase. Need I ask more? The most interested party perked up at attention in my lap. I did like Hollie on her knees before me.

  And then, I did not.

  "For starters, get off your knees."

  "But...?"

  "S'il vous plâit," I insisted.

  She stood and leaned forward, putting her lips close to mine but not quite touching. She had seduction in mind. And while I couldn't argue a preference for contact, I wanted something different from her right now. I gently pushed her back so she hovered over me expectantly.

  "It pleases me," I said, "when you know what you want, and do not balk to take it. Whether it be sex or the truth in a conversation. The thing that pleases me most about you, Hollie..."

  I stood and took her hands in mine. "Is your strength. You know who you are. You don't make excuses for that. Promise to never make excuses to me?"

  She nodded. Those bright blue eyes dazzled.

  "And promise to always ask me for what you want, need, or desire?"

  She nodded again.

  "Don't ever feel as if you can't talk to me. Because what pleases me is this connection we share. I can be quiet with you and feel safe. And I can be silly with you and know you are not judging me. And...I can be sad with you and know that you understand me."

  "I do. Jean-Louis, I do understand you. You are my sexy Frenchman, who is stoic and proud, yet also kind and soft. You feel, just as I do. And you ache and hurt. Thank you for being open with me."

  "I'm probably not so open as I should be."

  Her grin warmed my soul. "You're learning."

  I kissed her then because there was nothing else to be done but to communicate with our bodies. To enter one another and share those unspoken things that might never come to voice, but could be interpreted through skin, scent, and heartbeats.

  Pushing Hollie's robe from her shoulders to drop onto the floor, I led her to the bed and climbed onto the plush temperpedic island frosted with fluffy duvet and crisp cotton sheets. We nestled within the cloud, our bodies spooning together as if the magnetic attraction between our electrons demanded it. Her thigh nudged my erection but I was content to simply lay with her in my arms, wandering into the teasing pleasure that rubbing my cock against her skin would produce, but then not needing that kind of satisfaction from her right now.

  It was her heartbeats against mine that focused me and lured my head against her chest to listen. To close my eyes and embrace the life beside me, and to know I was safe.

  And loved.

  ***

  I woke to the nipple-tightening sensation of a man's tongue venturing up the inside of my thigh. I had a flash of Jean-Louis and I falling into bed together naked last night, but then n
ot having sex. Holding one another, we'd fallen asleep. I don't think I'd stirred once during the night.

  But now, with the sun teasing my closed eyelids, and an expert tongue landing on my clitoris, I was thankful for the arousal. I spread my legs and my lover hummed his approval.

  Mm, yes, right there. I arched my back, and pressed my fingers into his thick, curly hair. The heat and wetness slicking my clit brought me to instant horny. I bent a knee, drawing my legs wide, hoping he'd dive in completely and never surface.

  What a way to wake up.

  "Drink me," I murmured, sleep husking my voice. Biting my lip, I moaned and tilted my hips upward, silently insisting he go deep.

  He concentrated on my clit, dancing his tongue down each side of it where the firm pressure radiated tendrils of effervescence within my pussy. A thumb pressed the head of it, rubbing it softly, then a testing squeeze as if to keep it from slipping away. That is what did it. That exacting pressure lured the coils of orgasm to focus there at the power point. Was it the place of my superpowers?

  The thought of it made me giggle prematurely, and my lover glanced up to see what was the deal.

  "Don't stop," I gasped.

  And with but a lash of his tongue down the seam of my labia, and yet another firm press to my clitoris, he launched the orgasm and I blasted off into the stratosphere. Head thrusting back into the pillow, I cried out to the morning, a cock announcing the day.

  And thinking that word made me reach down and grasp for his steely cock. But he lay between my legs, his tongue still working the landscape of my pussy, as I bucked and spilled wet upon him. I couldn't reach the goal.

  "Bon matin," he murmured and nuzzled his mouth over my shivering labia. "I love you."

  ***

  Bags in hand, we headed down the hallway toward the elevator, Hollie in the lead. She passed the lift and went straight for the stairway door.

  "Why do you never take un ascenseur?" I asked. "Are you claustrophobic?"

  "We've discussed this." She held the door for me, and I stepped through. "I have a fear of getting stuck in a tiny Parisian elevator and being trapped like a corpse in a coffin."