by Alix Nichols
Traitor!
“The closest to a visit I envisioned,” he said, “was to bare your chest for a sec and see if your breasts are shaped as I imagined them. I’ve done a lot of imagining after the Christmas party.”
So had I. About the shape of his… thing.
“You’re blushing. It’s sweet.” He brushed my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Did I scandalize you?”
No, I did that myself, thank you.
“You make me sound like an ingenue.” I sneered for more effect, even as my cheeks flamed under his touch, which now involved more than just the tips of his fingers.
“Because you’re not,” he said, stifling a smile.
“No, Raphael, I’m not.”
And someone has proof of it.
I removed his hand from my cheek. “Your ten minutes are up. I’m leaving.”
“Wait!” He blocked my way. “Now that I know you like me and that you enjoyed our first kiss, I must kiss you one more time.”
“Not happening.”
“One last time.”
We stood so close to each other we were almost touching. His masculine scent invaded me, making my toes curl in my boots. Summoning what was left of my willpower to push desire back into the shadows where it belonged, I shook my head.
“Please?” His dark eyes held a genuine plea. “One kiss, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Forever.”
Just one kiss.
One delicious, hot, Olly-tasting kiss…
As if my body was detached from my brain, I leaned forward ever so slightly. Suddenly, his hands were in my hair and he was kissing me. There was nothing tentative about this kiss. Crushing his mouth against mine, Raphael held me tight and pushed his tongue between my lips.
He devoured me, his touch raw and blistering hot.
I kissed him back, hard, desperate to savor his taste. Closing my eyes, I tangled my tongue with his in a frenzied pas de deux. Blood pounded in my brain. Raphael’s tongue stroked against my palate, my tongue, the insides of my cheeks. He pulled it out to caress my lips and teeth and then penetrated my mouth again, making me moan with pleasure.
I was on fire, ravenous.
His mouth roamed my face and my throat, his lips searing my skin. I arched my neck, desire licking through me as I became aware of his bulge pressed against my tummy.
My breaths grew shallow.
Raphael’s were just as ragged when he backed me against the strip of wall between the two glass doors. I didn’t resist when he slid a hand under my coat and cupped one of my breasts. My vision blurred as I let him fondle and stroke it through the thin layers of my shirt and bra. When he rubbed my nipple with the pad of his thumb, I whimpered.
“The other one, too,” I begged.
He obliged.
When, long moments later, he grabbed my wrists and shackled them above my head, my core tightened, heavy with need.
He pressed the full length of his body against me, and I reveled in the heat coming off him, in his hardness, his strength. I quivered and groaned into his mouth when he took my lips again in a savage kiss.
But it wasn’t until his knee nudged my legs apart and I rubbed myself against his thigh, wild with lust, that I knew I couldn’t walk away from his offerings.
This wouldn’t be our last kiss.
Womanizer Raphael d’Arcy would add another trophy to his collection, and that trophy would be me.
Game over, Mia. You lost.
Chapter 8
I stare at the ten-page Middle East article I need to summarize for today’s bulletin and wonder what marked the point of no return in my fall under Raphael d’Arcy’s spell.
A bird twitters something incomprehensible but resolutely upbeat outside the window.
You’re not helping, little friend.
The obvious culprit for my undoing was the “last” kiss Raphael sweet-talked me into back in January. More specifically, my unexpected passion for it.
But it’s also possible that my fate had been sealed in December, when a snowman who went by Olly made my heart flutter. His banter made me laugh, and his sweet kiss made me giddy. I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.
Not since the calamity.
In fact, it doesn’t really matter which of Raphael’s kisses did me in. What matters is that I couldn’t resist him then and I can’t resist him now.
Once a wench, always a wench, as medievals would say.
“What is your opinion, Mia?” Delphine asks, interrupting my musings.
“About the Middle East?”
“No, silly, about beauty.”
“Er…”
“She wasn’t listening to us,” Barbara says to Delphine. “She was focused on her work.”
Ahem.
“Barbara was saying beauty is useless in this day and age,” Delphine recaps for me.
“Not exactly.” Barbara raises her index finger. “What I was saying is that beauty was more important back when women had no rights.”
“Do you agree with that as a historian?” Delphine asks.
I smile. “Archival records and troubadour poetry would support that hypothesis.”
Barbara pushes her hair back and gives Delphine a smug little shrug. “Ha!”
“Fine,” Delphine says. “Maybe beauty is less important these days than it used to be, but it’s still great to have.”
“Sure,” Barbara concedes magnanimously.
“True beauty is like a Chanel bag,” Delphine says. “Very few own the real thing. Most of us can only afford counterfeits.”
“What do you mean by counterfeits?” I ask.
Delphine makes a sweeping you-name-it gesture with her hand. “Bleached hair. Contouring. Nose jobs. Breast implants.”
“Which only proves my point,” Barbara says. “Beauty is a nonessential luxury item. Like you said—a Chanel bag.”
“Except some women would die for it,” Delphine says with a wink.
Barbara shrugs a perhaps. “But I’m sure more women would die for a career or a legacy.”
“Pff.” Delphine waves dismissively. “Nobody’s willing to die to leave a good name, ma cocotte.”
I just might.
There’s little I wouldn’t I do if I could turn back the clock and make sure a certain drunken gang bang never happened. Or that it could be erased from my real-life timeline. And from the memory of everyone involved.
That fateful night had started innocently enough with some college kids drinking (OK, binge drinking), smoking pot, and having a good time. We’d finished our second year and were celebrating the achievement in a huge shared apartment in central Strasbourg. As the hour grew late and the bottles emptied, most people—including all of my friends—either left or dropped off in one of the bedrooms.
I was sleepy, too, and plastered under the combined effect of wine and weed in a way I’d never been before.
Why didn’t I just conk out like the others?
But no, I stayed awake, albeit teetering on the edge of consciousness. I didn’t even puke until after three young men undressed me and had sex with me on the couch. Consensual sex. Wasted as I was, I did participate—or, should I say, made pathetic attempts at participating—in the “fun.”
That I remember.
What I don’t remember is who those men were, if there were other people present, and whether anyone filmed our antics.
It would appear someone did after all, judging by the letter I received last week.
It’s no biggie, I tell myself. We’re not in the Middle Ages or in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Even if some a-hole posted my foursome online for everyone to see, there’d be no Morality Police bursting in to arrest me and no outraged mob to stone me for slutty behavior. We’re in France, Toto. A country where women may get fined by gendarmes for showing too little skin on a public beach.
I must stay calm and carry on.
It’s the only sensible thing to do.
Rationalizing like this helps… somewhat, un
til notions like shame, public humiliation, and ruined academic career pop into my head. They attack on a level that’s too base for logical arguments.
But even those I can deal with.
What unravels me beyond the salutary reach of reason is the image of Màma and Pàpa receiving a tape from a “well-wisher.” Watching it. Recognizing their daughter. Taking the measure of the abyss between what they thought of her and what she is.
I plunge both hands into my hair and muss it, trying to reshuffle my thoughts.
Middle East, Mia. Concentrate on the Middle East!
That’s what pays my rent and makes sure I can stay in my PhD program and still be able to afford best quality Bolognese and carbonara for my spaghetti.
Raphael’s attention span in regards to women is about as long as Dory’s in Finding Nemo. He’ll get tired of me any day now. If, in the meantime, my work becomes sloppy, I’ll lose my job on top of losing my lover.
And, bam, no more enchanted nights and no more carbonara.
Speaking of carbonara, I had the best one ever the other day in a discreet Italian restaurant close to Raphael’s place. That sauce had the perfect ratio of parmesan, bacon, and pepper. As if that wasn’t enough, the fettuccine it accompanied was so good I would’ve enjoyed it with no sauce at all.
Eva will never hear this from me, but the carbonara they make in that place is better than hers.
I can make that affirmation because it’s the third time I’ve had it since the original epiphany back when Raphael and I were “dating.”
True to his word, he had taken me to dinner five times and then to a Daft Punk concert at L’Olympia. Only after that was I invited to “visit with the President of DCA” in his spacious penthouse apartment near Odéon.
That was on January 30th.
In February and March, I “visited” with Raphael in his humble abode some more. A lot more, in fact. But whenever I suggested we go to my place for a change, his answer was a polite no. Instead, one Friday night in February he whisked me off to a charming hotel in London. Another Friday in March, he flew me to Venice. And this month, he drove me to Deauville and to Tours in his flashy Ferrari.
Those trips were lovely, and I’m truly grateful for them. But I can’t help wishing we’d gone to Ninossos instead. Raphael owns an unspoiled little island south of Crete in the Mediterranean Sea. It’s rocky with a narrow strip of sand, an unusual-looking villa up on a hill, and a plantation of magnificent olive trees.
I know all that from the large prints that adorn nearly every wall in Raphael’s apartment, showing the island in every season and time of day.
Looks like that place is really special to him.
Maybe that’s why he’s never offered to take me there.
Chapter 9
I sit back in my roomy armchair and survey the cabin. It’s flooded with soft light, all milky leather, pearl-gray carpets, and pale wood panels. The epitome of luxury.
I smile, recalling the disappointment I felt when I first set foot in this jet that Raphael co-owns with his older brother Sebastian.
It seemed small.
Not that I’d had any personal experience with private jets before. In fact, my point of reference had been movies like Air Force One and TV shows like House of Cards, both featuring the designated aircraft of the president of the United States.
No less.
Now that I know what a regular private jet looks like, I find this twelve seater perfectly sized. Big enough to be able to stretch your legs, yet small enough to feel comfortable.
We’re flying back to Paris from a lazy weekend in Costa Brava. Well, relatively lazy because whenever we weren’t in the pool, restaurant or bed, we worked in the luxury spa’s outdoor cafe, enjoying the perfect early May weather. When he wasn’t on the phone with his aides, Raphael studied some highly sensitive file, and I toiled on my thesis.
My inner nerd loved the quiet companionship during those studious hours just as much as my inner strumpet enjoyed kissing him on the beach.
But everything good comes to an end.
This flight included.
Reminding myself it’ll be over before we can say “Paris,” I get started on my mouth-watering breakfast of poached eggs, stir-fried mushrooms, smoked salmon rolls, and maple syrup pancakes. Next to me, Raphael skims a report and types an email while sipping his double espresso.
Who says men can’t multitask?
“Eat while it’s warm,” I say.
“Oui, maman.” He puts his tablet aside.
I pick up a bowl of mixed berries. “Just because you can have this kind of breakfast any time you want isn’t a reason not to enjoy it.”
“True.” He digs in. “It’s going to be a hell of a week.”
“Work?”
“Uh-huh.” He gives me sideways look. “I won’t see you much.”
I fold my napkin and arrange the remains of the food on the tray, avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t need to know how dismayed I am at the prospect.
Raphael turns away from me and begins to fumble with the controls on his armrest. Suddenly, we are shut off from the rest of the aircraft by a felt partition. Neat. He presses another button, and my seat slides into a reclining position. A second later, so does his.
He leans over me. “We could put the next twenty minutes to good use.”
Except I can’t. My period started this morning. The problem is my upbringing won’t allow me to say this to a man. Even a man that’s intimately familiar with every inch of my body.
“That trick you did with the seats,” I say instead, “was cheesy.”
He nods. “And cheap.”
“Exactly.”
“And childish,” he adds.
“That, too.”
“And Chinese.”
I frown. “Why Chinese?”
“Because… I ran out of pertinent ch-words.”
I burst out laughing.
He unbuttons my shirt and pushes the cups of my bra under my breasts. The feel of his hand against my skin is too pleasant to resist, so I let him caress me from the waist up.
He begins to stroke my left breast, his palm scooping and kneading it. At the same time, his mouth descends on my right breast, and, after swirling his tongue around my nipple, he captures it between his lips. A shiver runs through me. His eyes on my face, Raphael draws the nipple into his mouth and sucks on it. I moan and arch my back as he rolls my other nipple between his fingers, pinching it gently.
This is so damn good.
I mean, not good.
Because he clearly doesn’t intend on stopping at my waistline. He’s just unbuttoned my jeans and is drawing the zipper down.
“I should’ve warned you to wear a skirt,” he says, sliding his hand under the lacy front of my panties.
I grab his wrist. “What if the attendant comes in to collect the trays?”
“She won’t,” he says, halting nonetheless, “as long as the partition is up.”
“What if there’s an emergency? What if we’re crashing and the pilots need to let us know?”
“If we’re crashing, we’ll know.”
As I look for another reason why we should stop, he moves his hand between my legs.
I jerk his wrist. “Stop!”
“Why? What’s wrong, baby?”
OK, to hell with good manners. “I’m on my period.”
“Oh.” He looks a little confused. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“No, I’m good. But I don’t what you to… you know.”
He puts his hands on my lower abdomen. “Cramps?”
“A little.”
“Poor sweetie.”
Before I can catch his wrist, his long fingers slip inside my panties and find the string of my tampon. “Wonderful invention, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Can you just… return to my breasts?”
“Here’s a deal.” He gives me a crooked smile. “My mouth returns to your lovely tits, but my hand stays where it is.”
>
“I don’t think—”
“Without moving.”
“You’re such a… dickkopt,” I say.
He widens his eyes. “Did Mia Stoll just use a swear word?!”
“It means ‘pigheaded’ in Alsatian.”
“Phew.” He drops his head to his chest in fake relief. “For a moment there, I thought the end of the world was upon us.”
I smile, and Raphael gives me a tiny stroke down there, his touch featherlight.
I squeeze my thighs. “Your hand stays only if you can control it.”
“I promise I’ll do my best,” he says. “If I fail, slap me.”
“Oh, I will.”
He blows air across my nipples and resumes his ministrations. But I find it impossible to relax, too aware of his hand between my legs. In particular, of his fingers that begin to stir again. When he presses them against my bud, I open my mouth to cry foul, except the pleasure turns out to be stronger than my inhibitions and taboos.
Encouraged by my permissiveness, he starts to rub in earnest.
My lids grow heavy.
He applies more pressure, and soon I’m writhing under his touch. I forget I’m menstruating. I disremember I have cramps. My brain doesn’t even know what cramps are anymore.
Raphael rubs faster, whispering against my lips, “Mia, baby, you’re so beautiful.”
I peak the moment his tongue pushes into my mouth. As he kisses me hard and deep, wave after wave of sweet pleasure washes over me.
I abandon myself to it.
When I come down from the high, I realize my fingernails have dug into his back, hard.
“I’m sorry,” I say, letting go of him. “Did I hurt you?”
“A little.” That panty-dropping smile again. “But I loved it.”
I grin back. “Well, that makes two of us with self-control issues.”
“Isn’t it weird,” he says and blows softly against my stiff nipples, “how I have no problem exercising control in every sphere of my life, except this?”
“It is weird.”
“I can go days, sometimes weeks without thinking about women, until I see something that tempts me. And then I’m toast.”
“Some-thing?”