The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  It was the kind of rain like God had sent to flood the earth and wipe from it every trace of life outside of my gorgeous gargoyle and me. It was a torrent of tongues and teeth, neither shy or demanding with what they wanted. No church. No secrets. No lies. Only the truth of desire rather than devotion that crashed like lightning between his lips and mine.

  The feral growl of his capitulation followed by the warm invasion of his tongue, and the coaxing of mine to draw its velvet deeper.

  The hand on my throat had served its purpose and now dropped to the island of skin between the two seas of fabric at my waist. His grip there was possessive, pulling me flush against the hard wall of his body. And though I was unclaimable. Untethered and independent. A flight risk. I found myself clinging to the chains of his grasp, wrapping them around me and willing him to never let me go.

  “Is this what you wanted, Gypsy?” he growled against my mouth. “Did you want to see what it was like to kiss the monster? To play with fire and see if you could escape the burn?”

  Anger surged and I sank my teeth into his lip until I tasted blood before drawing it into my mouth and sucking. The length of his cock swelled between us, and I began to rock myself against it, daring him to stop me.

  Next I knew, I was pinned against the nearest column as his mouth devoured mine.

  My hands conquered everything of him in their path, roaming every inch of his hard chest before spearing through the silken midnight curls on his head, pinning his punishing mouth against mine.

  Each slash of the tongue, each bite that we inflicted upon the other was pieces of the veil being torn between us; it was the tearing down of secrets that were drawn between us.

  “I wanted to see if your bark was worse than your bite.”

  I slid my tongue along his teeth as they opened and clamped down on the tip for a second just to make a point.

  One hand dropped to the curve of my ass, and the other that had been around my neck skated down to cup my breast that spilled needily out of his palm.

  His fingers pulled together until they caught around my nipple piercing, using it to pull the very tip of my tit toward him and send moisture soaking through my underwear.

  “And is it?” He rolled the metal-infused flesh through his fingers like he was rolling dice, taking a dangerous bet on giving into his desire for me.

  Moaning wantonly, I arched against him, into his hand, ravenous for the pleasure that was dipped in the erotic burn of pain. I felt my need consume me like never before—the way I ground against him, my aching clit riding along his straining cock, desperate to get off.

  My head dropped back against the stone, losing myself in the sensation of submitting to my gorgeous gargoyle.

  His teeth pinned the tender flesh at the base of my neck, and I let out a small gasp. This time, he pressed into me, driving the granite length of him right where I needed it.

  “Is it worse?” He bit down again, a little higher and a little harder, and I felt the first rush of electricity through my body signaling my impending orgasm.

  “Esme…” I heard the strain in his voice. He needed to hear my answer like I needed to come.

  “N-No.” My breathless answer spurred him to claim my breast with a possessive grip, branding me with his palm.

  “Neither is my fuck,” he grunted as his hips drove against me, right where I would’ve sold my soul to the devil to have the massive length of his cock buried inside me instead of just dry humping me.

  But it was too late to make that deal as I came with a strangled cry that he devoured with his mouth as though my orgasm belonged to him, too. He swallowed every moan and shudder as though it was his sustenance.

  Fire rained from my sex up through my body and, far from being afraid of it, I welcomed it as it flooded my panties and melted the muscles off the bones of my body.

  I couldn’t stop myself from sagging against him, dragging in air as though he still had a hand locked around my throat.

  Even though I was hot, I felt the heat from him, too—a different heat as his cheek warmed against my neck.

  He hadn’t come.

  And that just wouldn’t do. Not for my gorgeous gargoyle.

  I angled my face toward his, searching for his mouth again. Releasing my grip on his hair, I returned my palm to his chest and began to slide it down between us to where his arousal still throbbed between us.

  I made it just to the first set of ridges on his abdomen before he reared back.

  “Fuck.” And then he was far—too far—and I was supported by one, far less warm, stone wall at my back.

  I stared at him, my lips parting. Chest panting, muscles straining, and his black pants no match for the shadows his cock created as it fought against the fabric. Rabid, yet restrained. Grotesque, yet gorgeous.

  He was the most beautiful beast I’d ever seen, and I wanted more than just his bite. I wanted his fuck. And then, I wanted him. Secrets and lies and every shadow of gray in between.

  “Satisfied?” he half taunted, knowing I was still incapable of moving away from the pillar that held me upright.

  “No.” His eyes rose to mine, brimming with unfulfilled and angry need, as I continued to murmur, “I want to know your name.”

  In truth, I think there was a part of him that would rather have come back and fucked me than told me who he was.

  But I caught the faintest glimmer in that black stare that wanted to tell me—that realized he’d crossed so many lines already tonight, why not cross one more?

  “Quinton.”

  My heart stopped, unsure that I’d heard him correctly—unsure that I’d heard him at all.

  “My name is Quinton Bossé.”

  “Quinton,” I whispered slowly, like I was saying a prayer for the very first time. “Quinton.” I let the syllables of his name linger on my tongue, hoping it would keep the taste of him trapped there for longer.

  His head ducked, as though this was the first step in his downfall. “Goodnight… Esme.”

  Was that it?

  I had a million things to say, a million questions—and kisses—to be answered. But my brain was too fogged to be able to find anything except his name.

  “Quinton,” I called after him and stepped away from the column.

  He only partially looked over his shoulder, as though if he turned back to me, he’d never be able to turn away again.

  “I don’t think you’re a monster.”

  There was a long pause, during which I didn’t even see him take another breath. And then he looked away and disappeared into the shadows.

  My breath released in a whoosh, expecting a reply from him like one pulled out a chair expecting to sit in it, only to find nothing in its place.

  Just as I turned back to all of my equipment that I still had to clean up from earlier, I heard it. Echoing from every shadow in the cavern, came his reply.

  “Not yet.”

  I pressed my fingers to my lips as they tipped into a small smile, feeling the pull on the already swelling flesh.

  Maybe he was.

  But then again, maybe I preferred monsters over men.

  Esme

  “Esme!”

  I jerked my head to the side just as Giselle took a seat in the chair next to me.

  “Are you okay? I yelled to you from across the courtyard, but you looked like you were a million miles away…”

  I winced.

  It wasn’t a million miles. It was probably less than a mile where my mind was—back in the cathedral, back in his arms.

  Quinton Bossé.

  My gorgeous gargoyle.

  It seemed like he’d given me his name in exchange for his presence.

  No longer did I feel myself being watched as I worked. No longer was there any reply when I took a chance and queried the musky silence surrounding me.

  And after days of his absence, I had to face the fact that, had I known asking for his name would close off the unconventional relationship between us, I would’ve b
een happier referring to him as Monsieur Gargouille for the rest of my life.

  “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

  Her smile accepted my apology. “Is everything going okay over at the cathedral?”

  Soon, I’d be the one hunchbacked for how many knots were being tied inside my stomach.

  “Yeah,” I nodded, looking away from her and out into the small table-filled courtyard behind the school as it began to fill with students and faculty for a networking social.

  I hadn’t planned on coming, being that I was only a visiting professor, however, Giselle messaged me and asked me to come so she could introduce me to a few people. And, since I’d been spending far too much time locked in a sanctuary and searching for sin, or out on the streets with Khal and the gang, I felt I had no choice but to agree.

  “I’m making a lot of progress, though I’ve only rendered very few of the scans I’ve taken, so I haven’t put all the pieces together, so to speak.”

  “Oh.” She eyed me curiously, and I was glad I’d left my sunglasses on, the vintage round black shades protecting me both from the sun and the heat of her forthcoming inquisition. “Is that all?”

  “What else would there be?”

  She shrugged, the sleeves of the pale yellow, off-the-shoulder blouse she had on inching just slightly lower on her upper arms. Once again, Giselle appeared as the model of seductive professionalism. Her makeup present, but natural. Her hair in sculpted waves, pinned discreetly back on either side. And every inch covered, but in the way that cellophane covers a fruit, sticky and clinging to each curve like it was molded to it

  Meanwhile, half my hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. A black scarf decorated with red and orange leaves that I’d folded into a headband separated it from the rest of my hair that draped down my back. I had to be especially careful with how I wore my signature scarf here, knowing universities were the next frontier in the advancement of laïcité, and the last thing I needed was someone mistaking my hair accessory for a Muslim headscarf.

  I brushed the trailing ends of the scarf, along with the few strands of beaded hair that had been decorated by the girls from the orphanage yesterday back over my shoulder, revealing my plain white T-shirt.

  Because we were meeting at the school, I’d chosen a pair of burnt-orange flowing pants and a high-necked shirt that knotted at my waist in the back to pull it snug against my front; it’s only decoration was the necklace I wore that hung not only low over the swell of my chest, but also had chains that slipped underneath my arms and up over my back.

  Sometimes, I wondered if my fashion sense had evolved from the notion that I would stand out no matter what I wore, or if I tried to stand out so the stares I would draw regardless wouldn’t seem so out of place.

  My idea of fashion, fueled by limited funds and a foundation in foster life, dictated that I’d probably never know the answer to that question.

  “I just thought it might have to do with a guy.”

  My gaze swung rapidly back to hers.

  “Why would you think that?”

  The dimple that appeared in one corner of her smile suggested my question was confirmation enough.

  “Because you look confused.”

  My eyebrows shot up and my mouth fell open. “Confused?”

  She chuckled and nodded to confirm. “You’re one of the most confident people I know. Even from the first day I met you when you’d just started playing with Khal. I spoke to you because you looked like you didn’t need me to—like you were there to play for you and no one else. And it was fascinating—No, it was refreshing.” She paused with a sigh. “Too many people nowadays do things for every other reason than because it sustains their soul.”

  “So, I can’t be confident and confused?” I looked up and nodded my thanks to the waiter who’d served us both glasses of iced tea from his tray.

  She laughed. “Maybe. But I’ve never seen it. Not in your passion for music, nor for your professional projects.” She took a sip from her straw. “Which leaves only one thing left.”

  I shook my head and fingered the strand of beaded hair on my chest absentmindedly. “I don’t get confused over men,” I insisted almost defensively as I lingered over the growing crowd, searching for the rest of our party who was going to be joining us. “Why would I?”

  “Perhaps this isn’t just any man.”

  I tensed.

  Quinton.

  He wasn’t just any man. He was a monster. My monster.

  My gargoyle.

  My deep purple stained lips tipped up to one side with confidence as I looked back to her. “If he was just any man, I would’ve demanded his name before I kissed him rather than as an afterthought.”

  She stared at me for a beat, registering my words, though not being as surprised by them as I’d hoped.

  I wasn’t a whore. I wasn’t even promiscuous. Though many who saw a woman who enjoyed casual flings might term me as such. Then again, I would lump those people in with the group who thought wearing too short of a skirt meant a woman was asking for it.

  I could stand naked in front of the Eiffel Tower, that didn’t mean I was asking for it.

  Just like I could have casual sex with men I desired, but that didn’t mean I was a whore.

  Giselle hummed, the circumspect glint in her eyes worrying me. “You can’t fool me, Esme.”

  My smile splintered and broke apart. It fractured like the façade of casual desire I tried to convince myself I had for Quinton.

  I craved his company. His surliness and silence. I craved the feel of his eyes on me, watching with both desire and distrust, spurring me to not only prove his misconceptions wrong, but break down any other barriers that kept him from taking me the way his eyes savagely wanted to.

  I started at the squeal and grunt of Giselle’s chair against the decorative stone patio as she stood to greet the two men and younger woman who’d approached our table.

  “Esme, you know Mathieu.” The head of the department who’d invited me here was just as put-together as Giselle, and for some, just as attractive. For me, he was too pristine. “This is Léo Baudin and his fiancée, Troian, who graduated from here.”

  I rose to greet the newcomers, taking in the couple I’d heard rumors about. Student and professor. I admired their audacity.

  “Esme St. Claire.” I extended a hand, first to the young woman who looked at me with a subtle reverence in her eyes. Instantly I could tell that Troian appreciated anyone who stood out against the norm in whatever way they chose.

  When I turned to her future husband, a man with dark, messy hair and startling blue eyes, I found them staring at me with something altogether different. As though he knew about me before this moment—altogether possible if he was friends with Mathieu and Giselle—yet, there was an element of intrigue they couldn’t have planted.

  We all took a seat at the table and drifted into comfortable conversation about classes and projects, everyone involved with the school and with art in one way or another.

  To my surprise, a majority of the students who approached our table were those wanting to speak to me about my seminar, about my work with laser renderings and the possibilities for the future.

  Only once the light lunch was served did there seem to be a respite from interruptions and I could turn my attention back to my friend and her colleagues.

  “I’m glad you could come today, Madame St. Claire,” Mathieu acknowledged as I took my first bite of the beet salad.

  “Please, call me Esme.” I didn’t like formalities.

  Except when they came from Quinton’s lips—because then I heard in them the mockery of the far-from-formal feelings he tried to mask.

  “And I’m grateful Giselle invited me.” I sent her a warm smile.

  “In two weeks, there is a fundraiser—a masquerade fundraiser—hosted by the Ministry of Culture that I think, given your expertise, and your… work here, it would be incredibly beneficial for you to attend,” he remarked, picking
neatly at each piece of lettuce on his plate. “President Macron will also be in attendance.”

  I glanced at him and then over to Giselle who regarded me with eager eyes.

  I set my fork on my plate and swallowed down my shock. “Wow. That is… That would be a huge honor.” I was unused to the chill of nervousness that swept over me. “I won’t be finished by then,” I added, wanting to make clear that my work took time and I still had a lot of footage to scan yet before I could comfortably make any conclusions.

  He waved me off. “I don’t need you to present your findings. But I would like your support and your firsthand knowledge of the state that things have been left to deteriorate into.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you don’t mind sharing, Esme, what are you working on?” The familiar American lilt of Troian’s voice filtered in from the other side of the table.

  I’d been asked to keep my work to myself. Sometimes, politics doesn’t always have the best interests of the country’s national treasures at heart, and Mathieu, along with my other sponsors, felt the less who knew about my project until it was completed meant the easier it would be to progress without hindrance or political backlash.

  However, the slight nod I caught from Mathieu before I turned my eyes to Troian indicated I was okay to discuss it with our small group.

  “I’m in the process of using laser scans to complete an accurate 3D rendering of Notre Dame, both to understand and corroborate some of the literature already published on its construction, but also to assist with any future work or proposed renovations,” I informed her, though it appeared as though her husband seemed to already know that.

  I caught the unique way her eyes changed from green to gold as they widened. “That’s quite a task, and very impressive.” She hardly looked away as the waiter came to retrieve our plates. “I’d love to see it when it’s finished. I studied art restoration myself, though not architecture. It’s incredibly difficult to walk the line between preserving a piece of art and yet doing it with the technologies that will help it live longer without detracting from the character inherent to the time and tool with which it was created.”