French Kiss (Decadence Nights Book 2)

by Maddie Taylor

  “Spill, Mari, because that was one red hot Frenchman.” Dramatically, she fanned herself with her hand while batting her eyelashes.

  “He’s no one, really. Let’s get back to work.” Mari reached for the steamer and resumed what she was doing, ignoring the rapid beat of her heart and the nagging wetness of her lace panties.

  “Okay,” Katy said, disappointment clear in her voice. As she walked away, she tossed over her shoulder, “But, if he’s only a no one to you, can I get an introduction? Damn, woman! He is fine.”

  Chapter Seven

  At five past nine, she rushed through the main front doors in a flurry, her nerves on edge, first from a flat tire about thirty miles outside of Houston, and later from a slowdown on I-10, which had made her even later. When she’d come upon the reason why—rubberneckers gawking at a burned out car as though they’d never seen such a sight before—she’d growled in frustration. That had made her already frazzled constitution even more stressed and she was surprised she hadn’t pulled an illegal U turn and high tailed it back home.

  As it was, having stood him up for dinner, through no fault of her own, she might have to anyway. When it took the auto club over an hour to get there and put on her spare, she’d called the club and left a message with Mara, the sub that answered, explaining what had happened. She’d been assured that they had Master Arturo’s number on file and would notify him at the unavoidable change in plans for the evening. Then when stuck in traffic, she’d called again, this time having to leave a voice mail which she had no idea if anyone would get before the next morning. If no one checked messages during club hours, she was assured of facing a very ticked off dominant when she finally arrived. Another reason to throw up her hands and go home. What had she been thinking in coming, anyway? Plainly it hadn’t been with her head.

  Now, as she stood in the entrance, trying to spot him through the throng of members that was the norm for a Saturday night at the club, she rubbed her sweaty palms down the sides of her new dress. It had arrived at the shop yesterday. In sapphire blue, the long sleeve, boat neck sheath appeared ultra-conservative at first glance. It wasn’t until she turned it to check the label that she noticed it was missing a back, other than a drape of material that would dip all the way to the top of her ass cheeks, maybe lower, and a short mid-thigh hem; she’d be naked from the rear. Still, it was stunning, with pearl embellishments at the shoulders, neckline, and wrists. And, by Dior, she knew it hadn’t come cheap.

  The note inside was hand written in a flourishing script. Too bad it resembled the last prescription she’d gotten from her doctor. As best as she could decipher, he’d written:

  Marilee,

  I prefer color to ubiquitous black. This jewel tone will bring out the brilliance of your lovely eyes. Wear your hair up to show off the features of the dress. Shoes are at your discretion. They won’t be worn long, anyway. I look forward to seeing you Saturday.

  Avec beaucoup d’impatience,

  Arturo

  Katy, who had watched her unwrap the dress with barely contained glee, gushed over the beadwork. “I’ll want explicit details on Monday.”

  “What does avec beaucoup d’impatience mean?”

  “With much anticipation, I believe,” she replied with a waggle of her brows. She’d then added in a stage whisper as she went back to work, “Acquaintance my big fat derriere.”

  “Master Arturo is awaiting you at the bar.”

  Her head snapped around to find a waitress at her side, shouting in order to be heard over the band. Instantly, her eyes shifted to the long bar that encompassed nearly all of the back wall and half that again, around the far end of the room. “All the way to the left near the dungeon,” the server added helpfully. “And might I say, you are one lucky girl. Master Arturo is in demand and to snatch him up twice is unprecedented. I won’t wish you a wonderful evening, I’ll just dream about it and live vicariously through you.”

  With her message and then some delivered, she sauntered away, Mari noticing that she wore a corset and a skimpy thong, her generous buttocks jiggling as she wound through the club members crowding around the dance floor. It was nice to see that there were real women here with real women’s bodies. It was another thing she found welcoming about Club Decadence, the crowd wasn’t college age as many of the clubs in the city, but older, more sophisticated and they came in all shapes and sizes. Even plus sizes, which made Mari more comfortable about baring her curves and her approaching-forty, mother of two body.

  Taking a deep breath, she began making her way through the crowd. Her eyes were unavoidably drawn to the medieval looking dungeon doors. Apparently, he didn’t want to waste any time, which suited her just fine.

  As she came to the end of the bar, she frowned, not seeing him anywhere. Fingers gliding down her spine had her turning and meeting Arturo’s intense green-eyed gaze that glimmered with appreciation. He didn’t say a word, flattening his warm hand between her shoulder blades as he pulled her against him. The same hand slowly slid down her bare skin, made possible by the deep plunging vee of her backless dress. Although not fetwear, it was bolder and far more revealing than anything she’d worn to the club to date. She’d been right about the back dipping to the top curves of her bottom, what’s more, if she sat, she’d show the very tip of her, um… ass cleavage, something she’d never thought to have or show, in a designer dress before. Mari hoped there wouldn’t be much sitting required.

  As his hand continued its slow descent, goosebumps popped up, spreading across the path he followed all the way down to the soft inward curve of her lower back.

  “You’re very late, ma colombe.”

  “Did you get my messages?”

  “I did, and it’s why you aren’t already over my knee.” He dipped his face into the side of her neck, bared by her updo, and added, “But you followed all of my other orders to the letter and look so exquisite, I might be convinced to forgo a punishment if you greet me with a kiss.”

  “You’d spank me for car trouble and traffic?” she questioned, her outrage diminished by the slow drag of his lips across his skin.

  “No, I’d punish you because it pleases me to do so.”

  Having anticipated this night since their last meeting, Mari didn’t think, she reacted, tipping her head to the side for the hot lick of his tongue, which quickly replaced his lips. His head came up and he gazed down at her, his eyes homing in on her parted lips.

  “Must I ask twice for my kiss, ma soumise?”

  “I usually don’t—”

  “Right or wrong, I obliterated that limit last time, there is no going back.”

  And she didn’t want to. His last kiss had been thorough and demanding, sending shivers of desire racing clear down to her toes. It had shattered her resolve and carefully constructed shields, and she wanted to experience more of it. At this rate, she’d be tied to his whipping post and flying, all of her rules and restrictions shredded beyond recognition. Realizing how vulnerable she was, she still tipped her head back, lifting her mouth to meet his.

  The initial soft brush of their lips prompted an immediate response. With a growl of approval, he speared the fingers of one hand through the carefully pinned curls high on her crown and positioned her head to his liking, taking full advantage of her eager offering. Open mouthed, their lips and tongues melded hungrily right there in the midst of the crowd. Despite the rapidly mounting fog of desire that encompassed her, she didn’t fail to notice his other arm encircling her waist or that it bent up along her spine, his hand flattening along her back, the heat of his palm searing into her skin. Once her body was plastered against his from breasts to thighs, he didn’t hesitate before dipping into the back of her dress and palming a cheek as he deepened the kiss. He squeezed heartily and she suspected if his hand hadn’t been encased in poly/spandex, he would have given her a lusty smack. Instead, his fingers molded her flesh, the tips dipping into the cleft between the rounded halves making her gasp for air against his rapa
cious mouth.

  All too soon, he eased off, dialing the intensity back several notches. For Mari, going from hard and demanding, to leisurely but excruciatingly thorough left her mind and body in a needy spiral.

  “You make me forget my plans for the evening.” His lips brushed hers as he murmured softly. “I thought to dance, have a drink, and chat a bit before I do wickedly imaginative things to your body.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t dance.”

  “Pardonnez-moi?” he rejoined, a mild reprimand in his tone at her denial.

  “I don’t mean I was refusing to dance, sir,” she hurried to explain, “it’s that I don’t know how. I never learned.”

  “With this body? It is a crime! But it will be my pleasure to teach you.”

  Releasing his grip on both her bottom and her hair, he turned and with his hand in a more circumspect, but still quite possessive position low on her back, he guided her out onto the dance floor. His right arm encircled her waist as he pulled her snugly against him.

  “Your left hand goes on my right shoulder,” he instructed, waiting for her to do as instructed. When it curved over the taut black silk, her fingers taking in the bunching, rippling, defined muscles underneath, he brought her in closer, curling his arm around her waist until not a glimmer of daylight could be seen between them. His free hand clasped hers and held it curled in his much larger one at his side. Effortlessly, he began to move them both, slowly, seductively to the sounds of John Legend’s “All of Me.”

  “Relax and follow my lead, Mari. Dancing is sensuous, like making love, oui? Our bodies touching intimately, moving in rhythm, soon the pace of our heartbeats will elevate and our breathing will become more rapid. As we get more daring,” with a subtle touch he spun her out and reeled her back in as if they’d done it hundreds of times before, “our bodies will heat and become fluid.”

  She blinked up into his handsome, grinning face as he plastered her once again against his chest, his hand moving lower and gliding along the upper curves of her ass, molding their hips together as they swayed side to side.

  “And you said you couldn’t dance.”

  “That was all you.”

  “Mmm, perhaps.” He dipped her then, bending her over his arm briefly before popping her upright again. Nose to nose, he held her close, his eyes surveying her flushed face and the tendrils of hair that came loose from her clip and fell around her shoulders in disarray. Trailing down to her throat, his eyes paused, making her wonder if her rapidly beating pulse was visible there, then they moved lower to the unmistakable rise and fall of her chest, breathless not from exertion, but from the press of his hard body against her softness, and the control he exerted, easily taking ownership of more than the dance.

  “Très bien, ma belle, but when I dip you again, I want you to trust me to not let you fall. Relax in my arms and let your head arch back.”

  Rocking their hips for a moment, he maneuvered them into several graceful turns until he located a less crowded spot on the floor. This time, he released the hand he held, guiding it up to his shoulder before dipping her once again. As he did, his hand slid down her side and curled around her thigh, cocking her leg up high alongside his hip. Putting them in intimate alignment, she felt the long, hard ridge of his arousal press into the soft cradle of her thighs. He held that pose longer, running his lips up the line of her throat as her head fell back, more hair tumbling free and brushing the floor.

  “Parfait! You are a natural.”

  Not even close, it was Arturo that was perfect. For several more songs, she was swept up in the pleasure of dancing with such a skilled partner. Slow or fast, he made it seem she knew what she was doing. At one point, when the music changed to Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music,” he spun her around, and with her back to his front began to grind against her, keeping pace with the twenty-somethings on the dance floor even as the older couples bowed out.

  Smiling and enjoying herself as she hadn’t in years, she let herself go, letting his hands guide her hips as his erection rubbed suggestively against her soft behind. His arm slid around in front, and with his hand splayed over her belly, in a long slow sweep of his hand, he moved upward, between her breasts until it wrapped around her throat. It seemed automatic to lift her arm and wrap it around the back of his neck as he turned her face up to his. With fingertips grazing her chin and his thumb riding her jaw, he opened his lips over hers, his tongue exploring the recesses of her mouth, sending waves of arousal rippling through her.

  At the end of the too short song, he didn’t release her, holding her clasped close, his touch firm and persuasive, inviting more. “Having fun?” he asked, only slightly breathless.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The choice is yours then, a drink and more dancing, or we can go play, if you’re ready.”

  Her brain cried stay, drink, dance where it’s safe, but she found her lips moving on their own accord. “Play, sir, please. I’m more than ready.”

  His gaze met hers, the smoldering flame of desire she saw there making her pulses leap with excitement.

  “Moi aussi, ma petite. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Butterflies took flight in her stomach as she looked around the room, asking herself for the hundredth time what she was doing here. Coming alone to a sex club was ballsy for her, going off to a private room for bondage games with a man she hardly knew was crazy. The fact that he was gorgeous, charming, and unerringly dominant, and also so sexy that a flash of his white teeth against his swarthy skin, or a heart stopping glance from his penetrating green eyes, or an order given in his low smooth as silk baritone made her panties practically evaporate shouldn’t factor. But how could it not?

  Her rational mind screamed that she was insane that this was unsafe. It was the reason she had never played anywhere except in the main dungeon. Then again, it wasn’t lost on her that the rational, non-emotional, intelligent side of her brain was no longer in charge, but rather her raging, long neglected libido. It was the ruling part of her that took one look at Arturo Durand and craved him beyond all sense of safety and self-preservation. She wanted him, the whole gorgeous, captivating, sadistic package.

  So here she stood, barefoot in a short slinky dress, sans panties—he hadn’t ordered it, however, there was no way to wear even the skimpiest thong in that dress—her heart racing, her body still heated and aroused from the phenomenal dancing, watching him move around the room from where he had deposited her, just inside the door. Dragging her gaze from the man who was driving her mad with lust, she glanced around the room, taking it all in while he made preparations, pulling wide heavy drapes to allow moonlight to stream in through the high, arched windows, and adjusting dimmer switches to lower the lights in the wrought iron wall sconces so they flickered, mimicking candle light. The brightly lit room was now cast in long shadows except for one spot, the focal point of the room, an ornately carved, heavy wood, four-post, canopied bed, which glowed invitingly as if under a spotlight. It was massive, and draped as it was in velvet and satin, quite magnificent.

  Everything was, for that matter, appearing authentic to the era, which to Mari seemed Middle Ages, or thereabouts. No detail was overlooked, right down to the heavy brocade stitching on the bedspread or in the drapes that were tied back in welcome. As with all the private theme rooms on the second floor, or so she’d heard, the owners had spared no expense to set the scene for the perfect fantasy role-play. She’d never been upstairs before, but it was hard to block out the gushing subs in the women’s locker room who repeated every decadent detail of their scene, recounting the many delights that could be found in the likes of the Victorian sitting room equipped with tufted couches and satin chaises, perfect for naughty maids to be bent over for a sound birching, or the schoolroom with its rack of canes ranging in size and intensity from light and snappy, to heavy and thuddy, or the shibari room where the ceiling was equipped with suspension rigging, and the doctor’s office complete with exam table
and stirrups, the thought of which made her shiver, and not with anticipation.

  Then there was the most popular theme room, the Sultan’s chamber, described by so many and in such detail that she had a clear image of it in her head: low couches, abundant pillows, scantily clad women prostrating themselves at the grand master’s feet—this description had come from one of the group enthusiasts—and the free standing Turkish bath big enough for the master and at least four of his concubines.

  She’d also heard many things about this room, the medieval bedchamber, but she didn’t see any of the special features the subs had whispered about, certain the decadent amenities they were referring to didn’t include the luxuriant linens, frosted windows, or the richly textured wallpaper, though the padded prayer bench in the corner was more along the lines of what she’d expected.

  Most of the action, no doubt, took place on the huge bed. Still, she looked around the room for more: stocks, a pillory, or at the very least, a bondage chair. Her face must have shown her surprise at not finding what she thought she would.

  “Looking for a torture rack or an iron maiden, perhaps?”

  She had the grace to flush. “Um, would you be offended if I said yes?”

  Arturo chuckled. “Exactly what one would anticipate from a sadist, so no, I don’t take offense, although it is quite clichéd, n’est-ce pas? Besides, I like my comforts as much as the next dom, though you, ma chérie, can expect otherwise.” The teasing wink he sent her way gave her an uneasy feeling at the same time it raised the temperature of her body at least five degrees. “This room contains hidden treasures and gives the phrase ‘positively medieval’, which has a negative connotation for a reason, a whole new meaning, so don’t get too content just yet.” Having paused at the foot of the enormous bed, he looked at her, a wicked glint in his eyes and gave a definitive order. “Viens ici, Marilee.”