by Sara Forbes
My whole body is thrumming with pent-up desire. All it would take is the slightest touch in a sensitive place to make me implode into a puddle of Felix-lust. This can’t be good.
We’re going too fast. April 17th is a whole two days away. The last thing I can afford to do is to disappoint him again and have him walk away on me.
“Let’s get away from these damn crowds,” he says, his hand gripping mine. Oh yeah, I’ve let him hold my hand as we wander down the street—something I never normally let anyone do—man, woman, or child. My sisters don’t call me Ice Queen for nothing. He just grabbed it as we walked away from those grumpy old French people and it seemed like the right thing to do to let him.
“Look.” I point at a sign in English. Boat excursions to the islands.
“Uh, hate to break it to you, but that’s hardly getting away from tourists,” he says.
“I’d still like to do it.,” I say. I don’t trust myself alone with you.
“OK, I got this.” Felix saunters ahead and is conversing with the guy in the ticketing office behind the sign. The conversation gets animated, the guy shaking his head. But Felix keeps chattering, smiling. I don’t want to give legitimacy to whatever Felix is saying by joining in, so I stay put. Besides, I need time to recover from that kiss.
And I need to stop thinking about how much I want him to do it again. And more.
Felix returns, his face bathed in smiles. “We got a boat.”
“That’s nice.”
“I mean, to ourselves.”
I glance at the boat which is unloading tourists. The ticket-office guy is gesticulating to a bunch of them who have been waiting on the pier and are shaking their heads. One is swinging a fist.”
“What did you say?”
“Not a lot. His English is as bad as my French. Luckily, money talks—in any language.” Felix rubs his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for money.
“You bribed him?”
He laughs. “Something you’d never contemplate, of course.”
“Only when necessary for my job.”
Jack must have blabbed about how I bribed the pilot leaving him stranded with Mia on Islas Las Aves last year. Well, ha ha.
“Are you sure you can trust me on an island with you?” I ask him. “You never know, I may just abandon you there.”
He grins, displaying his dazzling teeth. “I’d like to see you try.”
We stare each other down. His chest is heaving as fast as mine. The softness in his eyes tells me exactly what he thinks of the idea of being abandoned on an island with me, and I have to say, if I were to pick a human to be stranded with, he’d fit the bill.
“You’re not really what I expected,” I say, thinking aloud.
“Let me guess. You expected a blond version of Jack?”
“No. Yes.” I laugh at the truth of it. “Maybe.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Is he doing well?”
“He knows what he wants and he’s got the right woman in his life, so yes.”
“That’s the real trick, isn’t it,” I say softly.
He doesn’t counter that. We walk on. Every step seems to magnify the silence. Every time I think he’s going to remark on something—some plant, some passersby, he doesn’t. We make a wide path around a kissing couple and both of us glance away.
“Don’t you get tired of it all?” I ask him.
“Of what all?”
“The high life. The glitz, the glamor? Call it what you like. The endless money, the easy women.”
He shrugs. “It’s better than being poor.”
“And you have experience of poverty? Can you remember the time before you were fabulously wealthy?”
“Uh, vaguely.”
Someone from the boat office calls out from behind us.
“Come on,” he says. “Looks like we’re clear to board.”
I follow him, studiously avoiding any would-be passengers who are sending us dagger looks. We’re the one percenters—the people who can buy their privacy at the flash of a card and shove the ordinary folk to the end of the line or on to the next boat. I wonder just how much money Felix bribed the guy with. He seems so blasé about it. Probably because he’s used to it.
Felix is chatting away to the skipper in English—a mustachioed forty-something with a shaved head and interesting marine tattoos. I leave them to it as I’m happy to sit here and take in sights and sounds through my own filter. After a while, Felix turns to me. “Ile Sainte Marguerite’s a thirty-minute trip. It’s pedestrian-only; should be nice and quiet.”
“Sounds good.”
We’re onboard the wooden boat now. It’s a lot plainer than the luxury yachts we see marooned at the harbor but it’s comfortable. The seagulls joyfully follow us and a fine mist from the waves bathes my face. The skyline of Cannes fades out of view and I focus on the green shimmer of the island that seems to suddenly spring up from the ocean. Yachts sail past each other as in a regatta. Speedboats crisscross each other, drawing white lines on the water. The sea is so clear I can see the ocean bed with its pink and khaki seaweed and tantalizing blue fish.
I can’t remember the last time I went on a holiday and although this isn’t strictly a holiday, it’s close enough.
I feel a pang at the thought that with Dad now gone, me and my sisters are unlikely to ever vacation together. While we do get along fine, there’s not quite enough goodwill to organize the logistics of a vacation together, or even a house visit. And as eldest, that task would be left to me.
I could go on a girlfriend holiday but I’ve pissed off my best friend, Scarlett after the Isla Las Aves shenanigans with Jack last year, and my other friends are all out of touch.
The skipper’s face relaxes as he chats to Felix. He refers to me charmingly as “mademoiselle” I smile and nod back but I leave them to talk.
The island is covered by a dense forest. As the boat approaches, I make out the shapes of the leaves—some kind of pine and eucalyptus. The port area, where our ferry lands, is crammed with cheerful cafés and restaurants. It’s a far cry from the hot, arid Islas Las Aves. Staying here would be no hardship.
When the boat is moored in the harbor, Felix slips something to the skipper, judging by the happy reaction, more cash. Unnecessary, but when you’re that rich, why not be flashy? At least he’s not a miserly multi-millionaire. That would be disappointing.
The skipper claps Felix’s shoulder as if they’re old buddies and waves at me.
We stroll in the direction of the cafés. Felix turns to me. “It’s a short walk to the Fort Royal. There’s a little stone cell there where the Man in the Iron Mask was incarcerated. Do you know the story?”
“Know it? I love that story! My father read it to me as a girl.”
“I love it too.” Felix’s eyes shine. “It’s my favorite.”
“Ah, of course, the second born twin of King Louis XIV,” I say. “Banished by his twin brother in order to avoid any dispute over the throne holder. I guess there are parallels in your life?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Not too many people would have made that connection.”
“Probably because people see you as the more successful brother? I mean, especially now, with Jack having gone underground, kind of.”
His mouth quirks. “Uh, yeah.”
He looks so awkward that I reach out to him and run my hand along his shoulder. I must have overstepped the mark with my comment. Families are complicated. Just because I’ve met Jack, it doesn’t mean that I understand the dynamic between the twin brothers.
Felix smiles as if clearing away some serious thoughts. This time when he moves in, I’m expecting it and, I receive him with equal measures of joy and impatience. We’re pressed chest to chest, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath soft on my cheek.
“What are we doing?” I ask in a throaty voice, losing myself in the azure beauty of his eyes.
“Taking a break.” His clutch on my
arms tightens. “From life.”
“I like the sound of that.” I lift my lips to meet his and I let paradise in. Whatever secrets this man is hiding, there’s nothing but truth in his kiss.
There are too many tourists here and the memory of the pervious interruption is too fresh in my memory and I can’t fully relax. In unspoken agreement, we break off the kiss and walk on but we’re still holding hands and that is all I need to keep on the knife edge of delirious bliss.
We climb up a small path along a dense wooded path, with trees parting ways to give a glimpse of the coast. We pass the formidable Fort Royal.
“Actually, I do want to see the prison.” he says.
I squeeze his hand. “Let’s do it.”
Walking past the gate, the bastions, and the barracks, we enter the dark corridors which house the prisons. In one dingy room, we read the story off a plaque. No-one knows for sure who the man in the mask was—there are at least sixty theories.
“Only his jailer has apparently seen his face,” Felix reads off a sign. “Imagine, he could have been the rightful heir to the throne of France.”
I shuffle in close to him again. It’s cold in here. And eerie. “Imagine being locked in here with a mask over your face for so long.”
“When I first heard the story, I was eight. I-I was afraid that Jack was going to do that… to me.” Felix says. “Lock me up, that is, and put a suffocating iron mask on my face.”
I whirl around to face him. “Serious?”
“Very serious. I know it was irrational, but that’s how an eight-year-old thinks. We…didn’t always get along, you know. He was so bossy at that age and I had to do everything he said. You know yourself how he can be.”
I nod. “Yup. I’d call him Napoleon if he weren’t so tall.”
Felix smiles “Exactly. He was always the sensible one. Plus, he had Mom on his side. Things only got easier for me when Dad was home. Oh, he’s mellowed now and it’s water under the bridge. But there was a time after I first read that story that I was convinced he was planning a little dark cell for me and a mask.” He lets out a low chuckle. “You must think I’m crazy.”
“No, but you have to admit this conversation has taken a turn to the dark side.”
“It’s just…being there.” He points back at the cave. He shudders. “Lets’ just say, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Oh Felix. You’ve just confronted a past horror without expecting to.”
“At least there’s no one else here.” He surveys the low ceiling that his head brushes against, the cracked stone floor, the door with the bars in a little window. Finally, his gaze lands on me. I’m shivering, goosepimples all over, my nipples hard.
His face is bathed in shadow as he approaches me. “Guess this is where the restraints used to be. He nods at iron brackets attached to the wall at my shoulder height. “Looks more your size. Do you fit?”
Glad that the iron mangles are missing, I press my spine against the wall and place my wrists into the cold iron brackets, just to humor him. I wiggle my fingers at him. “Let me out of here,” I say in a silly, shrill voice.
He looks like he’s suppressing a grin as he steps back to swing the iron door of the cell shut. It makes an almighty clang as ancient metal meets metal. Felix resumes a position a foot away from me. Heaving in a breath, he slowly approaches me, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Never. You’re mine to do what I want with.”
My groin tightens at his words. I love the undercurrent of danger in his tone. As his chest presses into mine, I keep my hands held up in place either side of me to keep the fantasy restraint going. My thighs clench tight, as if compensating for my outstretched arms.
He tilts my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to lock gazes with him. Then he slides his other hand slowly down my neck, over my collarbone, down over one breast, one nipple, across my abdomen, in and out of my navel, and then begins a tortuously slow course towards the spot between my legs. I feel his fingertips through the soft linen of my shorts. I shiver, aching for his touch where I need it most. It’s a test to see if I move my arms or keep them in place. I keep them in place, though the effort makes me quiver. I widen my stance to give him access.
He’s watching me intently, relishing my every gasp as his fingers inch nearer. His eyes are completely dark.
“You like this, my little captive?”
“Yes,” I say. He’s pressing and caressing me everywhere but there. I want to talk my arms down and move his hands to where they have to go.
“Don’t struggle so,” he says, reading my mind. “Just close your eyes.”
His making me an active participant in this fantasy of restraint is erotic on so many levels, I’ve lost count. He’s making me take ownership of my desire. I close my eyes and imagine him yanking down my shorts and taking me, exactly in this position where I pretend to be fastened to the wall.
“Tell me what you want,” he says in a voice that’s raw at the edges.
My eyes pop open. He’s close enough for me to grind my hips against his erection. He lifts his arms and holds my hands in place, bearing their weight. Then he dips his head and kisses me hard. My head finds a comfortable groove in the wall to rest against while he plunges deeper with his tongue.
I thrash my hips against him, seeking the friction he won’t give me with his hands but he maneuvers his hips back so I can’t reach. I moan my protest into the kiss.
He frees his mouth from mine. “Now, talk.”
I gasp up at him, blinking. Blood pounds in my ears and all I can think of is that whatever he wants to know I may just tell him so he keeps going. “Do you mean—?”
“Tell me how much you want me,” he growls. “or I may just lose my patience.”
“Oh.” I lick my chafed lips. “That.”
He gives both my wrists a gentle squeeze reminding me I’m shackled. “Yes, that.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I find this so hard. I don’t do this with men. I don’t tell them. But when I look into his eyes, it hits me that no other man has ever paid this much attention to me before. No other man has demanded my full participation. But Felix, he can’t have less. That’s just who he is. If I want him, I have to make that leap of faith. And yes, I do want him. So badly that it hurts.
“I…want you,” I say. “I want you to…touch me.”
His face cracks into a smile of triumph. “Touch you, I will. I’ll never stop touching you.” He lowers my hands and cups my chin in his large palms. “Cara, you’re so fucking amazing when you give yourself over. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” He grunts and clasps me into his chest. I feel his heart hammering away, or is it mine? Then he slides his hand under my t-shirt, under my bra and massages and pinches my nipples with renewed vigor. When my breasts are hard and over-sensitized, he moves down with his magic hands slipping them straight into my shorts. One finger slides over my mound and makes immediate contact with my clit.
I buck forward, clutching his shoulder for support as he slides the finger in and out of me, making me even wetter.
“Already so wet for me,” he groans. “When did that start, I wonder?”
I’m in the mood for complete honesty now, my floodgates have opened. “Around about the time you kissed me on the promenade.”
“All that time?” He clucks his tongue and hooks his finger and hits an exquisitely pleasurable spot inside me. I make a keening sound and reach for his waistband.
He sides a second finger inside and I’m starting to feel explosions already at the sides of my mind. I’m nearing release and it’s too soon.
I fumble with his button but he slaps my hand away. “No, I want you to focus on you and how good it will feel when you climax. He enters me with a second finger and continues pumping and rubbing my clit in a mind-numbingly pleasurable way.
“But I want—” I protest.
“I know. But trust me. That’ll come soon”
I can’t respond because his fingers are pumpin
g in a rhythm that’s driving me to that point of no return. My body writhes in anguish, wanting it now. I clutch his waistband tighter focusing on my internal aches and yearning. I want his cock. His big, hard cock.
But now I’m floating in the frenzied agony of pre-prelease where I lose sense of what I’m saying or doing. “Felix, Felix, oh my god, yes.” Or maybe something else, I don’t know what. I’m babbling, crowing, pleading to him. “Press me more, yes, there, yes, yes, please just do it.”
And then I shatter, propelled into the higher plain of ecstasy, the white space of euphoria. I’m trembling as he holds me tight in his arms, shuddering in the waves of pleasure that keep tumbling over me.
“Oh Felix.” I grasp his shirt front. “Felix.”
“It’s you,” he breathes. “All you.”
He’s still hard as hell. More than life itself, I want to kneel before him and worship him, pleasuring him with my mouth. I’m about to admit this to him when there are voices in the corridor, echoing off the stone walls so there could be two or twenty it’s hard to tell. Either way, we don’t want to be caught.
We straighten up. Neither of us have shed clothes so we just smooth ourselves down. As the door to the cell opens, we’re standing primly three feet apart, pretending to read the information signs about the man in the iron mask. Lucky it’s so dark in here because my face is burning.
We greet a British family of four—parents with two boys who immediately fill the little cell with excited chatter. Then we get out of there.
The light is blinding when we walk out. A group of students is messing around with a beach ball and other tourists are posing for selfies against the sea backdrop. We stand staring at the yachts, their sails fluttering in the breeze, each of us speechless.
“Come on, let’s grab a drink at one of those gorgeous looking cafés,” I say.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet on the walk back down to the cafe. As we take our places in the first restaurant overlooking the port, there’s so much to say but too many people around us listening in on every word. So, we order two coffees and talk about the surroundings. The conversation meanders to the topic of family. With endorphins dancing around my system, I feel like I can share anything with him now.
