After a bit of mumbling, Archer joined her and they crossed the busy street together, avoiding cars, motorcycles, pedestrians, buses and pigeons. None of them necessarily in their right places either. She loved Montreal’s chaotic beauty and energy! So much better than her native rainy old Vancouver.
A narrow black door sandwiched between the nightclub with its purple bricks and dormant neon signs and a tiny sushi bar gleamed with the wet quality of black marble when they approached. Without hesitation Archer pushed down the brass ducktail doorknob and let Joan pass. Narrow stairs of solid oak—she could recognize solid oak a mile away—glistened up into near darkness. Heat from his body transferred to her when she squeezed by. His hip brushed hers. Their eyes met.
“You come here often?”
Arghhhhhhhhhhhh! Joan Blair, you did not say that!
Smirk rising to new heights, he cocked his head. “Did you just ask me if I come here often?”
Joan felt her cheeks flush and could just imagine the shade of red they’d get. “I meant…you know, you—it’s not very obvious, that door…so I thought… You must’ve been here before…” She sighed.
“I’ve come here a few times,” Archer replied with the magnanimous air of someone who’ll put a wounded horse out of its misery and just shoot it. “But I hope that’s not part of your material to get guys. ‘You come here often?’ Pfft! Even we have standards.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
She climbed the darkened stairs without a backward glance. Each step creaked a different tone.
Seventeen creaks later, Joan reached another door, this one open and leading to a cute little mezzanine with a potted lemon tree under a long narrow window that opened out onto the street below. To her left was a narrow corridor that must have led to the back of the place. The word feminine came to Joan. Everything was decorated, stenciled, pochoired or sponged, sometimes all at once, in reds and ambers with the occasional black accents here and there. It definitely could’ve been tacky to the highest degree. But all in all, she found it very nice, very Old World. A gilded ceramic plaque reading Chez Frou Frou glimmered in the soft light coming in from the window. Not at all the sexy lingerie boutique she’d expected. No novelty toys, no see-through black lace teddies, no boxer briefs with logos of shiny chili peppers on the front. Joan turned toward Archer and caught him staring at her intently.
“So?”
“Well, it’s…” She looked around again, smiled. “Very nice actually.”
“Merci,” a woman said from down the hall to Joan’s left. The old wooden floor’s creak, creak, creak preceded a tall, dark-skinned woman with the most glorious body Joan had ever seen. Toned. She was toned.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” Archer said, presenting each cheek in turn.
Joan hadn’t been in Montreal long enough to develop the two-cheek salute and just stuck her hand out to the woman, who took it with a smile and a gauging look. Not hostile but penetrating just the same. Joan raised her chin, smiled wide.
“Bonjour. Nice to meet you.”
“Raphaëlle, this is Joan. Joan, Raphaëlle. She trains at my studio.”
Raphaëlle nodded, released Joan’s hand. “And you still owe me a free lesson.”
Oh?
Archer’s face, which Joan had come to view as a perfectly polished mask, twitched. His pale eyes narrowed while he cleared his throat.
Heat flared out of Joan’s T-shirt at the woman’s comment. Or more aptly, at what she’d left unsaid. His claim that he never slept with his students came to jab her again. Was he really not sleeping with other students? Even a looker like Raphaëlle? And what sort of woman would train around Archer and not send a few tentacles out to test the waters? She would. But then again, she was the kind of loser who wondered if a guy she wasn’t dating was having sex with other women. As if it concerned her. Man, was she jealous? Her? Nahhh!
A free lesson in thanks for what though?
“We need to get an outfit for a performance this Saturday,” Archer began, smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “Something exotic. Like those Turkish dancer penny belts.”
Raphaëlle nodded. “We have that. Come with me.”
She led them back the way she’d come, each floor plank greeting Joan with a different tune, held a blood-red velvet curtain aside so her customers could follow and escorted them to the far end of a narrow room filled with overflowing clothes racks from floor to ceiling. A three-tiered privacy panel made of darkly stained bamboo blocked off a section of the room near the window. They must have made alterations on the spot too for there was a sewing machine in a corner with a pouting mannequin—not an old-fashioned one with the conical boobs and grotesquely narrow waist. This one must have come from a boutique catering to punks, complete with acrylic flattop and nightclub makeup in vivid colors. A wide window gave the room natural light and a very modish feel. Joan felt the girly-girl in her clapping her hands excitedly. All those shiny, shiny clothes! Oooh, and shoes too!
Archer smiled wide. “You have the best inventory in town.”
A lopsided grin pulled Raphaëlle’s luscious mouth to one side. “You’re such a gentleman, Archer.”
For some reason she couldn’t explain, he blushed beet red, cleared his throat. “Yeah, don’t tell everyone. I have a reputation to protect.”
After a quick laugh that sounded like crystal bells, the owner nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.” Raphaëlle backed away. “I have another client in the next room. Just come get me if you can’t find what you’re looking for.”
When she turned, Joan couldn’t help but admire the woman’s gorgeous ass in those frayed, low-riding jeans. The turquoise top she wore had no back except for tiny strings. No bra either.
So those boobs, they were hanging up there all by themselves? Whoo damn!
“I think I’ve already found what I’m looking for,” Archer replied, staring straight at Joan.
As a heat wave rose to her neck and cheeks, Joan watched him approach then walk right by her.
Um.
She felt like a Chihuahua puppy about to be adopted but then the mean two-leg just kept on walking to pat a vile poodle on the head. What had she hoped for anyway? That he’d come give her a hug and talk about marriage? Of course he’d meant the outfit and not her. He hadn’t been looking for anything as far as she was concerned. Neither had she. She shouldn’t expect from him or from herself to invest anything more than friendly sex for a couple of days. Then it’d be over. He’d go back to his world and she to hers.
She attempted to ignore the blade of disappointment trying to find a weak spot in her armor and turned to watch him reaching for a particular piece amidst the rest and pulling it out gently. Small beads dangled from a pair of black thong and matching bra.
Archer turned, eyebrow arched. “This is nice. You like?”
She tried to stifle the long sigh, partly succeeded. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Try it on. I’ll get other pieces while you change.”
So for the next half-hour Joan stood behind the privacy panel and tried everything from the black-beaded ensemble that didn’t “hang right” according to him, to something fit for Xena, Warrior Princess, and oh, let’s not forget the silver getup Barbarina Empress of Galaxy Zorx would wear. Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe each piece. Some of them rode so far up her ass she was afraid she would require the Jaws of Life to pull them out again. She made sure all of them had the hygienic sticker in the crotch even if she tried them over her own underwear. No thong today, just plain old sports panties.
She heard Archer exclaim and was about to peek over the panel when he burst into her “corner”, brandishing something glittery and metallic.
“Argh, not another Xena outfit.”
Archer froze as he watched her standing there in her sports panties with red serpent-skin thong over it, a tiny, tiiiiny bra barely covering the essentials. Joan’s first reaction was to shoo him off. She forced her hands down, breathed semi-normally as she put up a br
ave front.
You’ve had brain-melting sex with the guy. Just breathe.
She looked down at herself, cringe-smiled. “So? Is this better?”
“No. It’s not—”
He stopped. His gaze riveted to hers then slid below, triggered a frisson as if his eyes had suddenly become ray beams. She felt her nipples harden against the faux leather.
After swallowing hard, he shoved the mass of metal discs into her hands and left. “Try this on. I think it’s the one,” she heard from beyond the panel.
What’s up with him now? Moody men.
She took the red cobra off, slipped it back on the hanger and spent a full minute figuring the golden set of bra and skirt-shawl. Both were obviously handmade and embellished with tiny discs that really did look like new pennies, only golden. Gorgeous. For an intimate party with a lover, not to wear in public at a club. Ugh.
As soon as she slipped the bra on, Joan nodded. Yup. Perfect fit. The belt-thing, if she could call it that, followed and fit snugly over her hips. Good. She didn’t want any “wardrobe malfunction” during her routine. It was enough that she’d be half naked. She didn’t want to pull a full frontal on the audience. For some reason, she suddenly felt self-conscious about coming out from behind the privacy panel. She’d never been a shy girl. And she’d already had sex—against a firemen’s pole too—with Archer and so couldn’t explain the sudden feeling of awkwardness, the reticence she presently experienced about showing him this outfit. Maybe because he’d looked annoyed. Or stressed. Or whatever other reason had made him act all tensed and huffy.
Maybe he’s just sick of passing clothes back and forth.
Actually, he’d been very good. Had seemed to be having fun even. So why the sudden temper flare?
Joan poked her head beside the panel, caught him staring expectantly in her direction.
“It fits well. Comfortable too. Surprising, considering I’m wearing miniature CDs held together with fishing line.”
“Come out so I can see you.” He hadn’t laughed at her joke.
Trying to regulate her breathing proved a waste of time so Joan slowly stepped out from behind the bamboo panel, kept a hand nonchalantly hooked over the top edge and shook a leg so the belt-thing would jingle.
“Ho, ho, ho.”
He didn’t laugh at that joke either.
His gaze just devouring her, Archer crossed his arms over his chest, ran his tongue quickly over his bottom lip. “Move a bit.”
Joan bounced once on the balls of her feet, looking down at herself to see how the thing fit when she moved. Not bad. She caught him still looking at her like a tiger would a gazelle.
“And?”
“Do the bounce. You know the one? If you hang on to the panel, it should feel pretty close.”
She couldn’t even keep her gaze on his when she bent her knees, bounced on her heels once then snapped back up with a fun little jingle to accentuate the move. Joan snorted a laugh that quickly died in her throat when Archer shook his head. His eyes flashed.
“Don’t make this a joke,” he said through his teeth. “You have to tease the audience, share yourself with them. Fill the place with your energy. When you laugh, you burst the bubble and all your hard work is wasted.”
She rolled her eyes, shook her head. “Ah, come on. It’s shaking your ass to music.”
Archer left his spot and drew near. Not threateningly in the least, his hands at his sides, yet he charged the air between them with energy crackling, coiling, pulsating outward with each of his steps to encompass the tiny room. His gaze never left hers. And when he stopped in front of her, all Joan could look at was him.
He wore all his clothes—a crisp white shirt tucked just so into stone-washed, straight-cut jeans—and there was no music either.
Just shaking your ass to music, eh, genius?
“See what I mean?” he murmured.
Behind her, sunlight stabbed through the window and hit his pale eyes at an angle, casting half of his face in amber shadow that played with his chiseled features, underlined his aristocratic nose and perfect mouth.
He leaned into her, very close. She could feel his breath. “Now do it again, and pin me to the goddamn wall.”
He retreated by a couple of steps and waited.
For the first time since, hell, in her life, Joan couldn’t think of a funny thing to say. There’d be no hiding behind her sense of humor, there’d be no goofing around. She’d have to come out and do this thing. Fill the place with her energy, as he’d said. But how could she do that? She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, not like he was! She was a big kook, a walking disaster. Murphy’s Law come to life. She could question a suspect and make him tell her all his secrets just by buying him lunch and coming up with a few jokes, could defuse a situation with her wit and oftentimes silly ways but had never once used her body to “speak” to people. Not seriously anyway.
Pin me to the goddamn wall.
‘Kayyy.
She planted her gaze on him, put it all out there through her eyes and stance. All her energy, all of herself. She opened her body to him, her audience of one, faced him squarely.
And then it happened. Just like that. It only lasted a split second but she felt the difference.
Joan bounced once on her heels, snapped back up, legs straight and parted shoulders’ width. Her gaze never left his. She felt it as acutely as if she’d physically framed his face with her hands and held him there.
She’d pinned him.
The effect was immediate. He stopped doing that thing with his mouth, which parted on a silent gasp while his eyes flared. A wicked, wicked grin pulled his lips to one side. The pennies on her bra and belt-skirt-thing still jingled when Archer strode up to her. But Joan pressed her palm against his chest to keep him at arm’s length.
“Whoa, there. I’m not done.”
He wanted her to pin him? She would. And she’d make damn sure he’d remember it too.
Archer swore he was having a heart attack! His chest felt tight, as did his throat. His jaws wanted to lock together. A drop of sweat rolled down his spine, followed a teasing course right into the waist of his jeans. He shuddered. Hot damn!
Despite the very real urge to get his hands and mouth all full of the hot goofy chick with the Turkish penny belt over her gray sports underwear, Archer stopped pressing his chest against her hand and took a step back to let her do whatever she’d decided to do. He didn’t care as long as he got to watch.
And did he ever!
She executed all of the moves from the routine he’d created for her. Those she could do without a pole anyway. Archer recognized the reverse knee spin for what it was when she rose on the ball of one foot and spun backward once, one hand up to simulate an overhead hold and one near her waist for “counterbalance”. Perfect poise. Perfect eye contact. The rest of the moves were a bit conservative, a tad too quick but fuck if he cared! And those little cling, cling, clings from the glorious outfit just about made him want to tear out of his clothes and start her dancing on his personal pole.
She didn’t pin him. She blinded him.
Joan was all he could see, all he wanted to look at. When she finished the last move—a two-foot “Cabaret” stance with her butt sticking up defiantly while she held the panel’s edge as she would a pole, hands together in front of her lower belly—Archer’s blood pressure hit an all-time high. He had crossed the distance and plastered himself against her and that little glittery number that cost a fortune before his brain had screamed, “You break it—you buy it.”
“Joan,” he murmured through her hair, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to him. “Joan, Joan, Joan. You hot thing you!”
She chuckled while he kissed her neck, her denuded shoulders. “So I guess it worked?”
“Did it ever. Now I’m horny as hell. Gotta do something about that.” He pressed his hips forward so she’d get the hint.
Behind her, the window called to him. He knew his smile to be more preda
tory than nice but Joan didn’t seem to care and let him back-walk her against the wall.
“Look at them,” he whispered, turning her around so she could see people going by below their feet, across the street, carrying on their daily business. “They’re your audience. Right there.”
She spent a while looking out the window as he kissed her nape, pulled her hair out of the way and licked the shells of her ears. A frisson visibly stiffened her nipples. He wanted a taste of those bad enough to beg.
“They are my audience,” she murmured, nodding. “People like them will watch me do my thing.”
He slipped a hand inside the halter bra, under the triangles of crocheted ribbon holding the pennies in place. With a collection of heart-stopping little clinks, it slipped over a breast, revealed the glorious nipple underneath, and if the sight of that pink candy didn’t deck him in the next two seconds, he didn’t know what would.
“I want to do things to you, Joan,” he murmured in her ear. Cupping her exposed breast, he weighed it gently. “You have no idea.”
She cocked her head. “Oh, I think I have some idea.”
“No,” he countered, “you really don’t. I want to do things to you I’ve never wanted to do before. I want to make love to you here and now, right in front of that window for all to see. I want you quick and dirty, slow and tender.” A faint pelvic thrust in her lower back made her gasp. Such sweet music to his manly ego.
“Having sex in a public place is illegal.”
“No, it’s not,” Archer replied, hooking his index finger in the string of her halter bra to denude her other breast. “Getting caught is.”
“You’re bad.”
“You have no idea.”
“Again, I think I’m getting a pretty good idea,” Joan replied then sighed when he cupped both breasts. So warm, so soft.
“Do you enjoy it when a man talks sexy as he’s making love to you?”
A grin lifted her cheek against his. “Like how he’s going to fuck me right into the carpet?”
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