by Haley Pearce
“Here we are,” I agreed. “And may I ask where we’re going?”
“All over,” Girard said, “I want you to see Paris at its finest.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
* * * * *
And that is exactly what he showed me. We spent hours traipsing around the city, arm in arm. Though I’d explored the place with my friends all summer, it felt like a completely different city with Girard leading me. He stayed well away from any tourist traps, and instead showed me the nooks and crannies of the city that he loved the best. We tripped along the sidewalks, stopping to peer into store windows and shops. In his company, every little thing we came upon felt absolutely magical.
We came to a stop outside a particularly beautiful bookshop, and I simply had to stop and stare. I had been an avid reader all my life, having first learned to escape into books when my parents’ fighting became too much to bear. I bore down upon the shop’s selection of literature, wanting to scoop it all up into my arms at once. My eyes fell upon a beautiful tome in the corner of an outdoor rack. Gingerly, I took the book in my hands and marveled. It was an old edition of War and Peace, leather-bound and gorgeous. Reverently, I opened the book and brought it toward my face. I breathed in the old book smell, taking the wonderful scent deep into my lungs. There was no better smell in the world, I was sure. I caught a look at Girard out of the corner of my eye as I smelled the pages, and suddenly felt silly.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I must look like a lunatic.”
“No,” Girard said, “I was just thinking that I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life.”
“I...Oh...” I sputtered, “Thank you. I just love this novel.”
“Would you like it? That copy, I mean?”
“It must be terribly expensive. It’s an old edition.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Girard said. And with that, he took the book from my hands and marched toward the front counter, paying the storekeeper promptly. He returned to me and handed over the book, bounded in brown paper and tied with string. I stared up at him, moved by his generosity.
“I’ll treasure it,” I said softly, hugging the book to my chest.
“I hope you will,” he said. “Come. Let’s keep going.”
We made our way through museums, more shops, and every park we came upon as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. At midday, Girard announced that he had developed quite the appetite, and asked whether I might enjoy a picnic beside the Eiffel Tower.
“Are you kidding?” I’d said, rather inelegantly, but he’d gotten the gist.
We stopped at a little food shop to gather some supplies. The array of smells as we walked through the doors was intoxicating. I hadn’t realized up until that moment just how hungry I really was. We made our way through row after row of delicacies, and Girard snatched up item after item as we went along. I felt drunk on the heavy scents of a hundred fine cheeses, pungent olive oil, and savory spices. The food in Paris had spoiled me rotten. I didn’t know how I would ever go back to one-dollar slices of pizza from food trucks in New York.
With arms full of food stuffs, Girard led us toward the grass that stretched out before the Eiffel Tower. I made myself comfortable as he spread out the goods. He produced a long, crispy baguette, a wedge of brie, a little pot of honey, three green apples that he sliced with the pocket knife I didn’t know he’d been carrying, a jar of black olives, and—
“Is that caviar?” I asked, amazed.
“Yes,” he answered simply, “Don’t you like caviar?”
“We didn’t really have much caviar in the house, when I was growing up,” I laughed. “It was mostly Doritos and Ben and Jerry’s.”
“Would you like to try some?” he asked.
“Well...Sure,” I said, hesitant about putting fish eggs in my mouth.
Girard spooned a little of the stuff onto a thin cracker and held it out to me. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I took the proffered bite from his hand, savoring the gesture as much as anything else. The caviar was surprisingly salty in my mouth, and surprisingly delicious. I smiled at Girard as he helped himself to our bounty.
“There are so many things you can teach me,” I said happily.
“Oh, Madison,” he smiled, “You don’t know the half of it.”
I blushed mightily, thinking about all the instruction that I’d like Girard to bestow upon me. And I could tell from the way he smiled that his mind was in the same place as mine. I hoped that he wouldn’t be put off by my lack of experience with men. Suddenly, I found myself worrying that I might not be sophisticated enough for him, as far as sex was concerned. Ashamed as I was to admit it, I really didn’t even know what I wanted out of sex, or what I liked about it. I’d never really been with a man, just a pimply boy and someone I had been too drunk to remember the next morning. With Girard, I felt like a virgin again.
We happily partook of all the food that Girard had provided, filling our bellies and sating our hungers. It wasn’t until we had torn through most of the provisions that I realized how low the sung had sunk once more. We had been out and about all day together, just enjoying the other’s company. I had never been on a date like this before, one where I wasn’t secretly counting down the minutes until I could be alone again. With Girard, I simply didn’t want the evening to end. And maybe it didn’t have to.
“Where is your apartment, Girard?” I asked, as casually as I could.
He smiled at me, stretching out on his side in the grass. “Not too far, actually. A few blocks from the tower.”
“Prime location,” I said, trying not to sound as awkward as I felt.
“Would you like to see it?” Girard asked.
“Um...Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I would.”
“Lovely,” Girard said, beginning to gather up our things. We disposed of our trash and dusted the grass off our clothing. Arm in arm once more, we made our way the short distance to Girard’s home.
I could feel a pulsing need begin to build in my belly, something that I had never felt before. My cells seemed to be charged with an unfamiliar energy. I felt hungry, even though we’d just eaten. I realized, as we neared Girard’s apartment, that it wasn’t food I was hungry for. It was him—this mysterious man who had materialized into my life out of nowhere. This man who had saved me more than once, opened the world to me without even knowing it. This man whose apartment I was about to walk into. And after that...Well, who could say?
We came to a stop in front of a painfully charming old townhouse a stone’s throw away from the park. I gaped at the fine details in the facade, the beautiful brick and mortar elegance of it all.
“This is yours?” I asked.
“Yes,” Girard said, fitting his key into the lock. “More of a house than an apartment, I know.”
“I’d say.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Very much,” I said, “It’s probably the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.”
“Wait until you see the inside,” he smiled, and pushed open the front door.
I stepped over the threshold after him and blinked against the dim light. Girard flipped on the foyer light and immediately the home was bathed in a warm glow. I felt my eyes grow wide as I took in the ornate beauty of Girard’s abode. I would have expected such a wealthy man to go for the high-tech, sleek look in his home, but not Girard. He had gone for elegance and class, rather than flashy, gauche gadgets. The wood floors were a beautiful shade of cherry, as were the tall bookcases that lined every other wall. A crystal chandelier hung down into the foyer, casting dappled light all over the room. And the artwork...that was the most amazing part of all.
On every stretch of blank wall hung the most beautiful paintings I’d ever seen up close. Impressionist, pointillist, surrealist, Girard had it all. I was amazed at how well the pieces worked together, how perfectly they cohered. But as well chosen and beautiful as they were, something about them made me want to cry. I realized,
looking at one and then the next, that they were all united by a sense of sorrow that shone through them. It hurt to know that this pain is what resonated with Girard above all else. I wondered, fleetingly, what depths of sadness this wonderful man had known. It didn’t seem fair that someone as kind as Girard should ever have to know doubt, or fear, or pain.
Without realizing I was doing it, I grabbed for his hand and squeezed tightly. He pulled me toward him, and I suddenly found myself pressed against the front of his body. I looked up into those soulful eyes, those deep pools that I’d be happy to drown in, and I earnestly raised my lips to his. Our mouths met hard, opening to each other, as I felt Girard’s arms wrap themselves around my body. I threw my arms over his shoulders, standing on my toes to better reach him. As I felt his tongue flick tantalizingly against mine, a persistent pressure nudged against my belly. I realized suddenly that Girard was hard for me. For me. A sort-of pretty American girl ten years his junior. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve any of it, but I certainly wasn’t going to let it slip away without making the most of it.
We broke away from each other, and Girard smiled down at me. He didn’t want to rush me, I could tell. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, “Do you have any wine?”
“I do. Follow me,” he took me by the hand and led me further into the house. We stepped into his state-of-the-art kitchen, and he quickly produced a bottle of red from the cabinet. He poured us each a modest glass and handed one over to me. He raised his wine and smiled at me, and said, “to whichever god felt it was his duty to bring us back together.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I grinned. As I lifted the glass to my lips, I realized that my fingers were trembling. As excited as I was to be alone with Girard like this, I couldn’t deny that I was a bit nervous about the outcome. He would obviously know more about sex than I did. Even the times I’d had sex it had been pretty vanilla. Marc had only ever been interested in his own pleasure, so all I had to do was lie there while he had his way with me. Something told me that sex with Girard would be far more engaging than that. I took another sip of wine at the mere thought of it.
Girard was looking at me intently, as if trying to puzzle out my thoughts. I noticed that he wasn’t really drinking the wine he had poured himself.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” I asked.
“Oh, probably not,” Girard responded. “I don’t really drink.”
It was music to my ears. My father had been a huge drinker, and it had all but torn our family apart. I thanked my lucky stars that Girard wasn’t overly interested in booze. I suppose he had poured himself a glass as a courtesy to me. I was indeed grateful for the liquid courage. Now that I had a better handle on how much I drank at once, I could enjoy it. Savor it. The wine was very fine, aged and complex. Of course Girard had excellent taste in wine, whether or not he drank it often himself.
Those deep eyes of his were boring into me from across the kitchen counter. I could feel my whole body being drawn to his, like there was a magnetic force at work between us. How could one man have the power to render me so senselessly lustful? I’d never been this way before, not with anyone.
I think that some part of me knew that whatever happened between Girard and I would be significant in more ways than one. I downed the final sip of my wine and set the glass down on the counter. I realized, with a brief wave of self-consciousness, that I had no idea how to continue. I’d never seduced a man, nor had I been seduced. I was entirely in Girard’s sway. He would have to show me the way in this new chapter of our story.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
* * * * *
He straightened up and took one swinging step after another towards me. I leaned back against the kitchen island as he approached, steadying myself. My heart was pounding in my chest like a timpani, and my breath was coming faster and faster. Girard stopped in front of me, placing his hands on either side of my body on the counter. As he leaned in against me, I could feel that bulge in his slacks, that urgent and pressing hardness. It felt so good to have him hard against me, right in the place where I wanted him most.
“Madison,” he said, looking so far into my own eyes that I could feel his gaze on my heart itself, “I want to be perfectly clear with you now. I want you. I want to make love to you until the sun begins to rise. From the moment I saw you on that subway train, I knew that one day I needed to take you. To make you mine. I want to touch you, to feel you open to me. I want to feel myself inside of you, pressing into you as deeply as I can. Is that something you want, too?”
My mouth fell open, wordlessly for a long moment. Finally, I managed to whisper “Yes.”
“Good,” Girard said, “I was hoping that’s what you would say.”
His mouth was back against mine in half a breath. His firm lips brushed against mine, and my mouth opened to him. His tongue slid and rubbed against mine, exploring every corner of my mouth. I brought my teeth down on his bottom lip, unsure of where that impulse could have originated. He drew in a sharp breath as I nibbled his full lower lip, and I felt myself hoisted into the air. My ass came down against the cool marble counter where Girard placed me. I gasped at the sudden flight—I hadn’t expected anything like it. But the force that Girard had shown me made that throbbing need between my legs beat more aggressively than ever. I pulled myself to the front of the counter and spread my legs so Girard could stand between them. He stepped into me, and I could feel his long erection right against the thin cotton of my panties. I could feel myself soaking the flimsy garment through, and wondered if he knew how wet he was making me.
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer. I dug my fingers into the linen shirt and let my head fall back in ecstasy. He brought his mouth to the tender skin of my throat, kissing up and down my neck, letting his lips linger here and there. I rocked against him, writhing beneath his searching mouth. I let go of any ideas I had about how this was supposed to play out. I couldn’t formulate a single thought while his arms were around me. My desire for him drowned out everything else.
I hooked my ankles behind Girard’s back, stunned by my own bravery. I never knew I could be at all adventurous, sexually. Girard tightened his grip around my body and pulled me forward off the counter, taking me fully in his arms. I wasn’t a big girl, per se, but I was no waif either. Still, Girard held me as if I weighed nothing. I brought my mouth back to his as he began to carry me out of the kitchen. As our tongues twisted around each other, I realized that we were heading for the stairs. This was it.
Girard all but flew up the twisting staircase, and I clung ever more tightly to him. I could practically feel the lust coursing through his veins, and his entire body seemed to be growing in my arms. He was focused, and powerful, and I wanted him more than ever. He strode down a long hallway at the top of the steps and kicked open the door at the end of the stretch. I peered into the room and made out a huge, king sized bed standing at the far end. The entire space was made of ornately carved details and stately furniture. It was the sort of room that women far more sophisticated than I were used to. I could hardly believe that I had found my way there, let alone in the arms of such a man.
He carried me straight to the bed, laying me down on the soft, downy comforters and pillows. I smiled as I luxuriated in the plushy layers—I half expected him to prefer a stone slab to sleep on, manly as he was. I watched as he closed the bedroom door and made his way over to the wall. With the flip of a switch, a fireplace I hadn’t noticed roared to life. The flickering light cast deep shadows across the room, and I felt my breath catch in my chest as each muscle and feature of Girard’s body was accentuated beautifully. His cheek bones and jaw line were in high relief, his muscles defined one by one.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered, as he walked slowly toward me.
“I’m just a man,” he replied, letting his fingertips trail along my bare knees. I let my legs fall open once again as he stoo
d before me. “Madison,” he went on, his fingers traveling the tender lengths of my inner thighs, “I just want to make sure...”
“Yes?” I asked breathlessly, as my need for him was stoked by his touch.
“You’ve been with men before, haven’t you?” he asked.
That wasn’t what I was expecting him to ask. “I’ve been with boys,” I answered.
He grinned at me in the flickering light. “Very well,” he said. “Then I will consider this a great honor.”
I gasped as he pushed me back against the bed and lowered his body onto mine. As his lips found my throat once again, I could feel the hardness of him pressing against my inner thigh. It was driving me mad to have that thick, earnest pressure so close to where I wanted it. I dug my fingers into his back and felt a moan escape my throat. The sound surprised me, and egged Girard on all the more. His body was covering mine, enveloping mine—I’d never felt more secure, more cared for, in all my life.
He took my hips in his powerful hands and flipped me over on the bed. I gasped at the sudden movement, but found that the authority with which he handled me only turned me on more. I stretched out before him, completely at a loss as to what he might do with me. But in that moment, I didn’t care. He was free to do whatever he wanted, and I knew that I would gladly follow. Girard kneeled over me on the bed and slowly, deliciously, untied the red ribbon around my waist. The sound of my dress’s zipper as he slid it open sent chills of anticipation dancing through me, mingling with the hot lust I felt for him.
“Take it off, now,” Girard growled. Those low tones in his voice were staggeringly sexy. I wiggled out of my white dress and sat before him at the center of the bed. His eyes raked along the length of my body, dwelling on my breasts, encased as they were in the finest lacy bra I owned. He drank in my bare stomach, the length of my legs, the tumble of my hair that had been so carefully done at the beginning of the day. In that moment, sitting bathed in the firelight in the home of the most gorgeous and charming man I had ever met, I felt truly beautiful for the first time in my life.
