by Elsa Holland
Chapter 15
The elevator chimed and the door opened to the aroma of breakfast: cinnamon pastries and roasted apples coming from the Hotel’s dining room they had been in earlier. Demetri stood alongside her father, both dressed as she was, for a day’s sightseeing. Stony faced, the Demetri of the day before was gone. The tension in him whenever he was in her father’s company was escalating.
Together, they visited the Louvre, a carriage tour of the sites which included riding under and around the Arc de Triomphe. Lunch overlooking Notre Dame de Paris where her father excused himself relaying, he had a visit planned with colleagues and not to expect him for dinner.
Their train left in the morning for Copenhagen where they would spend a day and night before taking a ferry to Stockholm for an overnight stay before boarding a train to St Petersburg. Three short days to spend with Demetri and she intended to make every one of them count.
After a visit to the Musee D’orsay Demetri escorted her back to the Hotel to rest before dinner saying that he also had business to attend to.
“Say hello to your brother.” She’d showed him her teeth and received a warning look in return. But he whispered, “Meet me in the parlor at five.” Her cheeks warmed and her body did its usual fluttering at the promise in his voice. “We’ll have an aperitif before we go to the Moulin Rouge,” then he’d escorted her to the elevator.
Now, as she rested in her room, the reality was harder to keep away. She was behaving as if Demetri were the man she was to have…and he wasn’t. He was the brother of her betrothed and part of a family who had made it very clear they didn’t not want her joining it.
Georgie reached into her skirt pocket drawing out the small frame and looked on the features she had loved all her life. That was the truth. She had fallen in love with her betrothed through these miniatures, yet they weren’t of him, they were of Demetri. Could she help but fall for the man they depicted in person? She had whispered the secrets of her heart to his image since she was a young girl. He knew everything about her without knowing her at all and yet it felt as if he did. It felt as if they had known each other forever. As if they belonged together…forever. She turned her face into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut against frustrated tears she would not spill. What if she were free? What if there was no betrothal and no loan?
Georgie sat up and swung her legs off the bed, went to the mirror, tucked the expected errant curls back in with pins and slipped out. Down the hall, she knocked on her father’s door.
“Enter.”
Her father sat, reading the paper at a small desk overlooking the window and the street below.
Georgie sat in the small upholstered chair beside the desk. “The columns?”
“As always. Seems Paris has a thing for the Russians as well.”
“Vodka and Caviar?” she asked.
He nodded still scanning the newsprint, “exactly!”
“Father?” He was underlining words here and there.
“What is it sweet-cheeks, things not going well with you and the General?”
“I need to be released. How are the funds going?”
Her father simply waved a hand in her direction in a there-there gesture.
“You have seemed happy these last few days.”
“That is no thanks to my betrothed.” That wasn’t strictly true, she hadn’t given her betrothed much thought these days, not in the way she used to. No. She saved her wistful longing for his brother. Her betrothed had become a faceless man, with the poor character to avoid seeing her, even here in Paris. Through these events and what it said about him she didn’t care for him. She simply wanted to see him to wrap things up, have her say and get things off her chest. Besides, while she was waiting for her father to fix his side of things, she wouldn’t be able to break it off even if she did meet him. So perhaps this no-mans-land was a kind of blessing.
Her father patted her knee. “The world is not always as it seems. That Demetri seems to be a good sport though. Very personable.” He was giving her his astute speculator assessment.
“Don’t try to read me, father. I am not a prospect.” Yet she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, feeling all of a sudden that he knew about the kisses, the postcards.
“You like him.” He announced.
Eyes rolling to heaven. “Father!”
“It is my job to look over you, Georgie.”
“Then let me step out of the betrothal, find another way to cover the loans.”
There went that there-there hand again. “I am busy working on it. Yet you haven’t answered my question.”
“It was a statement.” She folded her arms.
“And?”
Georgie thought about Demetri, the way he was all kinds of silent and hard to read and then could make her laugh, be light and oh so sensual.
She nodded. “I do…very much.”
He nodded satisfied. ”Very good.”
“You will allow me to call the betrothal off?”
“Oh no.” he said with too much inflection. “The loan is still there. I am working on this, Georgie, but there is nothing yet to alleviate the obligation. If you call it off now, who knows what we’ll lose.” Her eyes narrowed. He was up to something.
“Why don’t you talk with Demetri about it? Maybe he can help given the Prince is not interested meeting with either of us?”
Her father nodded. “It may come to that, but I’ll try to resolve it myself first. In the meantime, enjoy the trip. Get to know the young Demetri and we will see what we need to do once we reach St Petersburg.”
Her father turned and she drew her courage together.
“Father… Demetri implied you forced his father’s hand for the betrothal.” She swallowed. “Is that true…even remotely.”
He rushed to her side and drew her up. “No, no absolutely not. I would never give my most prized beauty in that way. It was as I said, his father who suggested it, who wanted our families to be closer. It is true I had helped him out of a tight spot, but it was not because of that. We had become friends, he met you as a young girl, can you remember that?”
She shook her head no.
“No, of course you were far too young, I had your mother then and he was simply captivated by her, by our genuine affection for each other and you, the gem of both our lives. He wanted that for himself but his wife… well she was not as he had hoped. When he found out that he was dying, he insisted that I consider a betrothal to you and his eldest son, the son he said was like him in every way. If there is one thing he would have chosen for himself, it was a marriage like I had with your mother. So that was what he wanted for his eldest son. The youngest he said he loved dearly, but he was of his mother’s ilk.”
Demetri was like his mother…
“I don’t think they know any of this.” Georgie said.
“I have evidence, letters between the two of us. I wanted to give them to his eldest son as a gift in memory of his father, to know his father’s heart and wishes for him. But, as we can both attest, we have, as yet, not met the Prince.”
Chapter 16
At five that evening, with a head full of questions and uncertainty, Georgie entered the parlor. Two glasses of sherry glowed in ochre tones on the table, the fire behind them had already warmed the room. And. The postcard of the man kissing a woman’s breast with his hand up her skirt lay on the table causing excitement to race under her skin in anticipation.
“You look sumptuous.” Demetri gave her a very appreciative perusal as he leaned against the mantelpiece, eyes caressing, lingering, causing her body to warm and tingle.
“Thank you.” She wore burgundy, the color Maria insisted was perfect for the season and the Moulin Rouge. In fact, she wore pantaloons, chemise and a corset to match.
He pushed away from the mantel and walked to the small table. “You are preoccupied.” Demetri handed her one of the glasses.
“I talked to my father about what you implied in London, that my father
coerced yours…”
His face became that unreadable version he was so good at wearing. Over the last few days she had come to look to him for answers. Yet she knew what he would say, that of course her father would reassure her. But that didn’t mean that he was correct.
His arm slid around her waist, warm and comforting. “Do you really want to talk about that now?” He pressed his face into her hair. “I know, I don’t.” He drew back, looking at her lips in a way that made all her insides turn upside down. This man forever… or at least for the next few days.
Georgie leaned closer and kissed him. A warm soft touch of lips that nibbled and pressed until it turned into open-mouthed kisses, tongues, sliding and dueling, setting her ablaze. When they drew apart, right there on the table next to them was the postcard. She picked it up, looked at it intently and then looked at him over the top of it. He took a sip of sherry and she tapped the image against her lips. His eyes hungry, he downed the remainder of his sherry, took the postcard from her hands and placed it in his suit pocket.
“What’s your first question, Georgie?”
She, swallowed. “Does a man really want to touch a woman here?” Her hand hovered above her sex. “Should I permit it?” The warm pulse between her legs told her she would if the man involved was Demetri.
The corners of his eyes creased, he crossed the parlor and locked the door. Her breath hitched and her heart thumped faster. “What if someone comes to take the glasses?”
“I asked for privacy.” He led her to the sofa, sat with her, took her hand as he always did and kissed her palm. “Does a man want to touch a woman intimately?” He repeated her question as he held her gaze as she waited for his answer.
His lips curled up in a smug smile.
“Absolutely. And should you permit him?” Another kiss to her fingers, “if a man has any skill at all, you will beg for it,” he said in a thick delicious voice.
A ragged exhale told them both she’d held her breath and that smug expression deepened, making her scowl.
“Are you making fun of me again? People are not born knowing these things.”
He reached out, she stiffened, and he drew her closer, kissed her brow so she released the glare. Naturally, she melded against him.
“I think you enjoy prickling me.”
His eyes creased, “Maybe I do.” And, of course, he kissed her. Kissed her so that her body burned.
“Now,” Demetri muttered against her lips. “Tell me when you want my hand to touch you … here.” He pressed lightly on her sex, pressed through the burgundy dress and the burgundy pantaloons. She unfurled. Once touched, that area of her body awoke crying like a newborn for love and attention.
Instead, his attention returned to her neck, kissing and nibbling as his hand cupped her breast, his fingers set to work squeezing and tweaking first one breast and then the other until she wanted to curse her burgundy dress and burgundy chemise for existing, for separating her naked flesh from that oh-so-attentive hand.
All the while her sex pulsed, ached, hankered for another touch. She struggled to concentrate. Struggled to think of how to tell him what she wanted without sounding like a total fool. Impossible.
“How will I know that you want this as well?” she panted as he tugged down her bodice to expose her breasts and, for the strangest reason she was all too delighted for him to do it, had no feeling of exposure, just an ache that would make her beg for him to continue if he stopped.
“Trust me, I want too.” The back of his fingers brushed over her chest, soft exploring strokes as he trailed his touch over her breasts, under, then around her nipple. Touches which sent heat to her core and pebbled her nipples.
He bent down and the heat of his mouth encircled her nipple. He sucked. His mouth pulling on her breast, taking it in a hard-full-mouthed suck. She forgot everything except the searing pulling hotness that tugged deep between her legs.
“Demetri,” she moaned, her breasts alive and burning with sensation, her legs moving restlessly as her sex screamed to be touched.
His hand slid down her side, nerves rioting and flaring in its path. Her legs inched wider in anticipation, in hunger to feel his touch at her core. His palm slid over the curve of her waist she panted; over her hip she groaned; and then he clasped her bottom, clasped and squeezed. Squeezed and pulled her closer. She pressed her hips against him, ground against the weight of him as he continued to squeeze and tug.
He shifted. She growled. He trailed his hand up her thigh under her skirt, looked down at her as her chest rose and fell, breasts bare, nipples hard, and her sex weeping.
“Demetri….” She implored as his hand came toward her sex.
Then excruciatingly passed it by and smoothed over her belly. Her mind snapped.
“Touch me. Touch me, please.” She ached.
His hand travelled upward, gliding over her breasts, his fingers leaving trails of fire over her bare skin then up her throat before he cupped her chin. She sobbed as he brushed his thumb over her lips.
Her fingers curled into his hair as she dragged him down to her. “Touch me.” She growled at him, taking a nip of his lip.
He chuckled, murmured something nonsensical and twisted both of her nipples making her back arch.
It was some time before she came back to her request, clutched his shoulders and shook them, “Demetri, now!”
He drew up, eyes dark orbs of desire, lips shining from the attentions he had given to her breasts.
“Be explicit Georgie, your breasts, your neck, your mouth?”
She leaned up toward him and he moved away so she had to grab him to pull him close. She kissed him, nibbled on his throat, little bites traveling up to his ear and whispered.
“My sex,” she growled, her skin on fire, the heat and ache between her legs unbearable. “Deep in my… in my sex.” In my sex, in my sex…the words panted out of her as her hips undulated with the need he’d set in them.
A hand clasped either side of her face and he kissed her with such passion her head spun. Deep thrusts of his tongue set her keening, her head held for his pleasure, for his taking, he tasted, he took, and she was totally undone. Demetri pressed his thigh between her legs and pushed it against her sex, tongue deep in her mouth as she rubbed shamelessly against him, undulated as she sucked on his tongue, the pantaloons finally being of value as the bunched up fabric rubbed against her sex in the most delicious way. The pleasure twisted tighter and tighter until she tore her mouth from his, gasping in a breath, tensed. She was on the precipice.
He pulled away. Thigh removed; body lifted.
Georgie lurched after him. He evaded her. Stood up.
“Demetri?”
His hair disheveled, he panted, his face like the cat who got the cream.
“No!” She growled at him.
His hand reached down and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
He grinned tugged up her bodice and adjusted himself. She growled. He spun her around and fixed her hair.
He meant it.
Demetri bundled her into the carriage, dazed, body aching. They watched the Moulin Rouge as she wriggled in her seat while he smirked, pressed his thigh against hers, then his shoulder moved against her. And those hands, always touching, clasping her hand, her lower back. By the end of the performance she was sweating.
“Come on, we’ll walk for a while…cool off.” She hit his arm with her purse.
They walked, they stopped at a café and watched as music played and people sang and still her body sang, the tension climbing higher with every glance, every knowing smile. And of course, he made sure to touch her, hold her, whisper to her until she was sure she had lost all reason and turned into a beast of sensation wanting one thing and one thing only.
At last, thank the gods that presided over Paris, they jumped into a carriage, only to find every bump and sway as they travelled the uneven narrow streets conspired with him to drive her insane with need. They spoke of small thin
gs, nonsense things she struggled to keep up with.
Eventually he tapped his cane on the roof and called out in French. The driver opened the door and Demetri helped her out.
“This is not the hotel.” She would not be able to take much more of this.
“It’s only a block away, let’s walk along the Seine,” he casually suggested. “We can take the river promenade; one leg and it should bring us up near the hotel. Besides,” he steered them to the steps that led down to the pathway along the river. “We will be protected from the wind.” There was no wind, just the softest flakes of snow.
“It’s about to snow.”
He shrugged.
Georgie shook her head in disbelief yet slipped her arm through his as they walked down the stairs to the river promenade. They were the only people walking there. Lights twinkled on the inky water and somewhere there were carolers.
“How are you feeling?” he asked like an innocent.
“I am going to kill you. I’m just planning how to draw it out,” she bared her teeth at him.
He chuckled. “It’s been hours.” He looked behind them.
They stepped under the bridge, stepped away from the light flowing under it from the promenade lamps and he pounced. Arms around her, he dragged her against him and back against the wall deep in the shadows. She moaned in pure bliss; the sound amplified by the arch of the bridge.
“Yes?” he asked
“Yes,” she panted.
In one swift movement he tugged down her bodice and sucked her burning breasts into his mouth. She cried out, the sound filling the air.
“Touch me, touch me, touch me,” she begged, dragging up her own skirts the air cold on her legs.
“Bite my glove.”
Her teeth clamped on the seam of his leather glove as he wriggled his hand out of it letting it fall as it map. And then his hand was exactly where it should be, between her legs, fingers pressed through the gap in her burgundy pantaloons sliding through the folds of her sex. She sobbed.
“Bushka, Bushka” He kissed her ear whispering in Russian, “so soft, so wet. Have you been thinking of me all night, Georgie? Are you damp with want for me?” he crooned as his fingers moved over her.