Paris Pleasure: Paris Trilogy: Part One

by Lila Dubois

  “I’m planned to do more than date her,” James added. “I intend to marry her.”

  “No. Do not do that.”

  “I’m not currently able to, as she keeps refusing me.” James looked at Christiana. “Will you marry me?”

  “Nope.” She smiled up at James, then turned her attention back to Solomon. “Solomon, you really think people can’t be both romantically involved and in a BDSM relationship?”

  “It can’t be done. I know a lot of people who have tried, and it never works. You need to pick. Dom and sub, or husband and wife.”

  “Never?” James scoffed. “There are several people who—”

  “One of two things happens. Either the BDSM relationship starts to bleed over into the vanilla relationship—the guy uses his Dom voice to end an argument, or spanks the woman in the middle of the kitchen.”

  “There are plenty of people outside of BDSM relationships who enjoy a little spank and tickle,” James said.

  “But for them the spanking doesn’t mean anything.” Solomon shifted his attention to Christiana. “If he pulled you over his lap right now and spanked you, what would you think?”

  “That we were playing. That he was spanking me because he wanted to, maybe because he knows I need it. Want it.” Christiana licked her lip and James shifted, probably adjusting for his hard-on.

  “Because we’re in a club.” Solomon gestured to their left where three spanking benches were set up beside each other. “What if you were in the kitchen, making dinner, and all of a sudden he spanks you? Would you be annoyed he interrupted what you were doing? Would you resent him? Would it feel like abuse?”

  “I would just ask him what he was doing.”

  Solomon shook his head. “You think you would, but you wouldn’t.”

  Christiana looked at James, and she was again frowning.

  “The other possibility is that your vanilla relationship bleeds over into the BDSM one. How can you submit to a man who forgets his keys every morning, or can’t remember to take out the trash?”

  Around them people were transitioning from mingling and drinking to getting serious about the night’s activities. The ballroom was large, but given the amount of equipment they’d brought in, the room felt full, save for the empty space in the middle of the floor. There was a crack, crack, crack as someone tested out a crop.

  “Solomon.” Christiana brought his attention back to their little grouping. “That won’t happen to me and James. We know how to be Master James and sub Christiana, and we’re working on being just James and Christiana. They’re separate things.”

  “You can’t keep them separate.”

  She snorted. “You’ve clearly never had to code switch.”

  “What?” Now he was confused.

  “I am not the same person with James that I am with my friends, or my abuela. Everyone compartmentalizes. Everyone changes what part of themselves is in front depending on who they’re to. I talk differently at work than I do with James or with my friends. It’s called code switching. There are some great podcasts I can—”

  A hush had fallen over the room, spreading slowly. Those closest to the doors quieted down first. As voices dropped to murmurs, a few people sent glances their way.

  Solomon’s blood turned to ice.

  “Paris,” James breathed. “Oh fuck.”

  “What’s going on?” Christiana scrambled off the cushion back onto James’s lap. It might have been about seeking comfort and protection, but based on the way she was craning her neck, she was actually looking for a better vantage point.

  The sound of the double doors closing seemed to reverberate through the room. The crowd parted, and they caught a glimpse of the woman who’d caused the hush.

  If the gods of regal elegance and pure sex appeal had a love child, it would be this woman. She walked with a surety of purpose that made people get out of her way. She was, of course, gorgeous, with a soft cloud of dark hair, honey-brown eyes framed by dark lashes, and a full mouth. Those tempting lips were the color of the wine in his glass.

  She wore a black gown that seemed to both reveal and conceal. Her shoulders and delicate collarbone were bare. Her breasts were concealed, but the beads on the bodice caught the light with each breath she took. The long sweep of her midnight half-skirt on the floor behind her only made her seem all the more regal, despite the fact that it did nothing to conceal her legs, which were sweetly curved.

  Solomon turned his back to the woman and slumped low in the chair.

  Christiana looked from the woman to Solomon to James. “Who is that and why is Solomon hiding from her?”

  Damn it, he was hiding, and he wouldn’t hide. Not from anyone, and especially not from her.

  “That,” James said, “is Vivienne Deschamps.”

  Christiana waited, then made an aggravated sound. “Who? Wait, actually that name is familiar.”

  James chuckled, then leaned in to nuzzle Christiana’s breast through the tenuously clinging fabric of her dress. He kissed her cleavage, then sobered, looking at Solomon. “I’m sorry, Solomon. I should have remembered.”

  Solomon tried to reply, but couldn’t get his jaw to unlock. He should have known she’d still be a member. He’d assumed that in the bloody aftermath of their relationship she’d have walked away from the Orchid Club the same way he had.

  He’d walked away, but not given up his membership. He’d attended only a handful of the parties over the years, an infrequent occurrence that became all the more rare once he finished remodeling and outfitting the dungeon on his private island.

  Just because he hadn’t seen her at the rare events he’d attended didn’t mean she wasn’t still a member. Vivienne was nothing if not stubborn. And beautiful. And a selfish bitch.

  Solomon hated that he had his back to her. He’d feel safer with his back to a wall.

  “Vivienne Deschamps is the reason Solomon doesn’t believe love and BDSM can mix,” James explained.

  “Oh. Wait, that doesn’t explain why I know her name. Is she famous?”

  “Do you follow fashion?” James asked.

  “You…remember that I wear a hardhat to work, right?”

  Solomon pushed to his feet and tossed back the last of the wine in his glass. Then he turned on one heel.

  She’d stopped in the center of the ballroom. The rich light made her dark hair gleam; her skin seemed to shine with the luster of a pearl.

  James sighed before softly saying, “And Vivienne Deschamps is the reason for his scar.”

  Behind Solomon, Christiana gasped. As if that small sound had drawn her attention, Vivienne looked toward them.

  Their gazes met.

  Held.

  Vivienne’s eyes went wide with shock, but the expression was fleeting, quickly mastered and hidden behind an enigmatic smile.

  She grasped the sides of her skirt, held it out, and executed a perfect curtsey his direction.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd and all eyes turned to him.

  He really, really hated Paris.

  CHAPTER 4

  Solomon was here.

  Solomon.

  Vivienne was acutely aware of the eyes watching her as she rose from her mocking curtsey. She’d seriously considered turning and fleeing the ballroom—she would have looked suitably dramatic with her overskirt flowing behind her, and bare feet meant running was actually an option.

  But that wasn’t what her grandmere Celeste would have done, so Vivienne didn’t flee.

  After all, you couldn’t run from your past.

  Vivienne finished straightening, but didn’t meet Solomon’s eyes again. Instead she focused on a spot just over his left shoulder.

  Solomon offered her a mocking bow, one arm across his waist. As he bent forward, a strand of his hair fell forward across his cheek.

  Vivienne turned away, breathing harder than she would have liked. She slid back into the dubious safety of the crowd. The murmurs followed her as she walked blindly. Bar. The
re would be a bar somewhere around here. Standing at the bar would give her something to do while she figured out how she was going to get out of here with her dignity intact.

  She caught sight of the bar and adjusted her course. She felt men and women alike looking at her. Normally she would slow her steps, give people time to assess and measure her so that when she did stop, available and interested Doms would approach her. She’d come here hoping—needing—to submit, but there was no way that was going to happen. Not with Solomon here.

  Damn it, she’d needed the release of a good scene, not more wearying anxiety.

  The gray-veined marble-topped bar was several meters long, with three tuxedoed bartenders expertly pouring wine and mixing cocktails. The wall behind the bar was dominated by a large oil painting of a pale woman lying supine on a bed of thorny vines instead of a mirror. Vivienne veered toward an open space near the corner. There were no stools for her to collapse onto, so she leaned against it, the stone bartop cold against her palms.

  Solomon was here.

  Why?

  Why would he be at an Orchid Club event? Last she’d heard he was hosting parties on some island.

  The bartender set a glass of red wine down before the large man beside her. He and his sub—a slender, androgynous-looking person—were both casting the occasional glance her way.

  Vivienne ignored them, attention on the bartender as he stepped in front of her to take her order. “Chartreuse and tonic, please.”

  He nodded, and she watched to make sure he picked up a bottle of yellow rather than green Chartreuse.

  Why would Solomon come to the event in Paris, of all cities? He’d sworn never to come back, and he was the kind of man who meant it when he swore never to do something.

  The kind of man who never looked back once he started walking away.

  “Mademoiselle, do you need help?” the Dom beside her asked. He was in his early fifties, and had a salt-and-pepper crusader beard, and hints of gray at his temples. He wore the tuxedo well, and spoke French with an Austrian accent.

  Vivienne waited for her cocktail to be delivered before turning to reply, “No, but thank you very much.” She kept her gaze on his bowtie, in deference to his being a Master, though she was feeling far from submissive.

  “I am Master Moser, and this is Jordan.”

  “Master Moser, Jordan.” She inclined her head in acknowledgement of each, still not entirely certain of Jordan’s gender. A wide leather collar covered Jordan’s neck, obscuring an Adam’s apple if there was one. Vivienne didn’t care what gender the person identified as, but they were speaking French, and it would be very difficult to avoid using a gender pronoun. “I’m Vivienne.”

  “I know you,” Master Moser continued. “I have been a member for nearly fifteen years.”

  Fifteen years. He’d been a member long enough that he would know her history, know her drama.

  Vivienne took a sip of her drink. Master Moser eyed the glass consideringly. “If, perhaps, you do not wish to, ah, leave—”

  It was very clear he’d been considering saying retreat, or flee.

  “—you are welcome to join us, and kneel at my side for the night.”

  It was a generous offer, and tempting. She would save face by staying, but could avoid talking to anyone, because they would have to approach Master Moser first.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything of you, except appropriate deference and conduct.”

  That made the offer even better. He wouldn’t expect her to perform or serve, perhaps beyond fetching drinks. She wouldn’t find the blissful emotional release she so needed, but she might achieve some small measure of release watching scenes and giving up control of her actions and decisions, if not her body.

  It was a kind offer. An easy offer.

  And she’d be a coward to take it.

  “You are very kind, Master Moser, but I cannot accept.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  Vivienne’s lips quirked. “Are they not the same thing?”

  Master Moser sighed, and Jordan, who’d been quiet, wrapped their arms around him from behind. She could tell Moser was fighting his Dom instincts, which would no doubt be telling her she needed to be mastered, to be taken care of. That there were things she needed that only a Dom could give her.

  He was right, but still, she couldn’t accept. Not with Solomon here. Not with everyone watching to see how she’d react. Anyone who didn’t know their story most likely would by the end of the night. All members signed NDAs and abided by strict rules to never discuss what happened at the events with outsiders. That meant the chance to tell a good story, to gossip about what had happened all those years ago, was rare.

  Vivienne raised her glass to Master Moser. He lifted his glass in turn, tapping it to hers. They both sipped, then Moser took a second sip, grabbed Jordan by the back of the head, and pulled them in for a long kiss, no doubt passing the wine mouth to mouth.

  Vivienne turned to face the bar, ignoring the ache inside her. Minutes ticked by, and when his wine was done, Master Moser and Jordan left, to be immediately replaced by another couple. Vivienne did her best to ignore the naked sub’s blissed-out expression and the pretty red lines that striped her ass, and ordered another drink.

  Though she had her back to the room, she could hear the sound of palms and paddles meeting flesh. The screams and shrieks of pleasure or pain were audible even over the slightly ominous classical music playing and the murmur of voices. She didn’t dare even turn around to look, because she might catch sight of him. If she saw him playing with someone…

  Vivienne studied the oil painting of the woman lying on the bed of thorns. There was a slight smile on her face, even though in a few spots on her ass and thighs the thorns had pierced flesh.

  As Vivienne finished her second drink, the couple beside her left, off to enjoy themselves while she assiduously stood at the bar and drank.

  As the other couple walked away she could see down the length of the bar out of the corner of her eye. There was only one other person there, a man midway down the bar.

  The dark-haired man was watching a bartender pour his shot with the intensity of someone who didn’t just want, but needed, the alcohol. The minute the shot glass was set down, he snatched it up, raised it to his lips and tossed it back. For a moment deja vu gripped her. She’d seen a man—no, she’d seen this man—take a shot like that before—with grim determination and an economy of movement that spoke of need rather than pleasure.

  Solomon.

  Vivienne gripped her glass so tightly her nail beds started to ache, and closed her eyes. She was a fool not to have realized that he’d probably done the exact same thing she had—made a beeline for bar. They’d taken different routes through the crowd but ended up at the same place.

  The relative security she’d felt standing here had been an illusion. All this time he’d been a mere two meters away, and now that everyone else had gone to seek their pleasures, the line of bodies that had concealed his presence was gone.

  He set down the shot glass with a snap of sound.

  She knew in a moment he’d notice her. If she turned away now she might be able to disappear into the crowd. She might be able to run.

  Run away from him.

  The way he’d run away from her all those years ago.

  Vivienne turned, but not toward the exit. She turned to Solomon and fixed a smile on her face.

  Her movement must have caught his attention, or maybe he’d just now realized that he wasn’t the last person left drinking.

  He glanced her way. She knew the moment he realized who she was, because his shoulders stiffened, his back militarily straight.

  She raised her glass in salute.

  Solomon made a disgusted sound. “I hate Paris.”

  Vivienne wished those words—and all they implied—hadn’t made her feel something, but they did. Her stomach was tight, her heart heavy.

  But she kept smiling. “I assure you that Paris n
either notices nor cares you are here.”

  “You’re Paris’s spokesperson now?”

  They were speaking loudly—a necessity given nearly two meters of space between them.

  “Paris needs no one to speak for her.”

  The undamaged side of his mouth pulled up in a cruel smile. “I agree—”

  “I doubt that.”

  “—because anyone with more than ten fucking brain cells can see this place is a cesspool.”

  “Ah, there it is. Such eloquence,” she mocked.

  Two of the bartenders had slipped away, probably to assist with the party. Lillian would have the servers helping out wherever, and however, they were needed, be it cleaning up after guests or climbing onto an unoccupied St. Andrew’s cross.

  The lone remaining bartender looked between them, a bit of his professionalism fading as he realized he was the closest bystander to a potentially deadly situation.

  Solomon took two steps toward her, closing the distance to a mere meter. She considered matching his movement—stand toe to toe.

  Prove to him, and to herself, that she wasn’t afraid or ashamed.

  Solomon leaned in, and when he spoke it was a conspiratorial whisper. “You might not know this, but there’s a big world out there, and ninety-nine percent of people don’t give a shit about this city, or what happens in it.”

  “Too bad you’re not one of them.”

  He snarled at her. With his scarred face it was truly menacing, and she wasn’t able to stop herself from swallowing hard and shifting her weight away from him.

  “Oh, trust me, I am. It may have taken me a while to learn to hate this place…but I had a good teacher.”

  Vivienne inhaled sharply and turned to face the bar. She raised her glass to her mouth, forgetting it was empty.

  “She needs a drink,” Solomon said to the bartender.

  The man reached for the bottle of yellow Chartreuse to make her another Chartreuse and tonic.

  “Get her a shot of whiskey,” Solomon said. “Jack Daniels if you have it.”

  Whiskey. Not just whiskey, but cheap American whiskey. Her drink of choice in her recalcitrant, romantic youth. Whiskey had been her rebellion.