by Alix Nichols
And this office is flooded in light.
Raphael glosses the back of my thighs and my derriere. Murmuring encouragements, he grasps my hips and pushes my butt higher while his knee nudges my legs wider apart. I let him. His right hand reaches around me and his fingers rub, then delve inside. Just as I begin to moan with need, he takes a step back.
The ticking of the clock on the wall and his ragged breathing are all I hear. And I don’t need to look at his face to know what he’s staring at.
“You’re a joy to behold, Mia,” he says.
I flush.
Part of it is gratification.
His compliment is my reward for the dreadful Brazilian waxing appointments I’ve been putting myself through since January.
I hear him unbuckle his belt and draw down the zipper of his pants. By the time the sound of a condom foil being ripped reaches my ears, I’m not just ready for what’s coming—I crave it.
He grasps my hips once again and plunges into me.
The sweetness of it wrings a low-pitched, raspy aah from somewhere deep in my chest.
Raphael begins to pound into me.
I push back to meet his thrusts and help him penetrate me even deeper. My breasts are crushed against the warm surface of the desk, and my mind is wonderfully empty. My body is so drunk on what he’s doing to it, I find myself wishing he could go even deeper, fill me even more completely.
I’m wild with lust.
“Oh oui,” I breathe out with every push. “Oh oui. Oh oui. Oh oui.”
“Sounds like you like it,” he grunts, leaning forward.
Like it? I think I might die with pleasure.
He straightens up, and then a sharp smack lands on my backside.
“What about this, Mia?” he asks. “Do you like that, too?”
Actually, I don’t.
But there’s a lump in my throat preventing me from uttering those words.
He smacks me once more.
I stiffen.
He stops thrusting.
A few seconds later, he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the desk and me ensconced on his lap.
“Mia, baby, are you OK?” He strokes my face, holding me to his chest. “You didn’t enjoy the spanking, did you? Was I too heavy-handed?”
He wasn’t. His taps were light and playful. They were certainly not meant to hurt. They didn’t hurt.
So, why did they kill my arousal?
And why do I feel so… cheap?
Maybe it’s because of the calamity, coupled with my being his subordinate, bent over his desk, and clueless as to with whom he’s going to spend next week…
Raphael tips my chin up so that I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Please, Mia, I need to know. Was it the spanking?”
I nod. It’s easier to say yes than to try to explain what I don’t really understand myself.
His expression becomes solemn. “Hit me.”
I blink at his strange offer.
“Kick me anywhere you want, twice,” he says.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Please.” He gives me a pleading look. “We’ll be even, and we’ll both feel better.”
Will we?
Oh, what the hell.
I draw back and slap his face.
“Ouch.” He rubs his cheek.
“Give me your arm,” I say archly.
He holds his left arm up.
I run my hand over his bulging biceps—any pretext to touch his biceps is always welcome—and then pinch as hard as I can.
He winces.
I let go of his arm. “I’m done.”
“Do you feel better?”
“Surprisingly, I do.”
“Good. Me, too.” He delves his fingers into my hair and strokes. “Next time I wanna try something kinky, I’ll be sure to ask if you’re into it first.”
“Do you enjoy kink?”
“No,” he says before adding, “Thing is, I’ve never been with a woman this long.”
“We’ve hardly been together five months.”
“As I said, I’ve never been with a woman this long.”
“How is that related to kink?”
“I thought I’d spice things up a bit.”
My heart sinks. “Are you getting tired of me?”
“Not at all.” He searches my face. “I had the impression you were getting tired of me.”
What? “Why would you think that?”
He shrugs. “You’ve been reserved and… a little distant lately. I thought you were cooling off.”
I sigh. If only he knew how far that is from the truth!
My being reserved is the result of the growing preoccupation with the Australian letters. I can’t help it. Every time I open my mailbox or check my office pigeonhole, I expect to find a new letter. What will it say? Will my “secret admirer” state what he wants from me? Will he ask for money? How much? Will I be able to afford it?
I wish I could tell Raphael about my looming blackmail. But that would require explaining the grounds for it.
And I can’t.
Telling him about the calamity would push me even lower than I already am on the social food chain. I’d plummet from the “little assistant with academic ambitions” whom he bangs when he has a spare moment straight to the slutzone. And not just your average garden-variety slut, but an advanced one with a gang bang and a sex tape under her belt.
That sort of confession won’t just widen the gap between us. It’ll turn that gap into a chasm.
“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’re still as attractive to me as when I first saw you in your fleece onesie.”
He smiles back, but the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t go away. “Then what is it? What’s bothering you?”
Maybe I can give him a part of the truth. “It’s my finances,” I say. “I need to find a second job.”
“I can lend you—”
I clamp my hand over his mouth. “No way.”
“All right.” He nods, sucking his teeth. “How about I offer you that second job?”
I wrinkle my nose. “As what?”
“Waitress.” He gives me a bright smile. “Seb and I own a bar in central Paris, Le Big Ben. It’s an English-style gentlemen’s club.”
I smirk. “How chic.”
And how revealing that he’s never mentioned it before. Or taken me there.
“The manager said the other day he was looking to hire another server for the evening shift.”
“So you plan to go nepotist on the poor man and impose me?”
“Have you waitressed before?” he asks.
“Plenty.”
“Then, yes, I’m going to go nepotist on him.”
I open my mouth to say he shouldn’t when we hear loud voices right outside the door.
It’s Anne-Marie and a man.
They’re arguing.
Chapter 12
“I’m sorry, Monsieur d’Arcy, but Monsieur d’Arcy isn’t there,” Anne-Marie says from behind the door.
I give Raphael a puzzled look.
“It’s Seb,” he explains.
Woah.
Standing behind the door is Count Sebastian d’Arcy himself. Arrogant. Antisocial. Ruthless. A man whose bad side you don’t even want to imagine, let alone be on.
At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
A commanding bass rumbles, “Oh, I think he is in there.”
“You’re mistaken, monsieur. He isn’t,” Anne-Marie persists, but there’s a quiver in her high-pitched voice.
“Then why don’t you open this door and let me see for myself?”
Sebastian’s tone is so icy it sends a chill down my spine. I don’t envy Anne-Marie right now.
“I cannot do that, monsieur.”
She sounds like she’s about to burst into tears.
“Poor thing.” Raphael screws up his face in sympathy. “I’m not sure how much longer she can hold down the fort.”
I begin to pa
nic. “You think she’s going to let him in?”
“Seb can be intimidating at times.” He pauses before adding, “Frequently.” He sighs. “Always.”
I jump to my feet and begin neatening myself as fast as I can.
“I’m going to open the door,” Raphael says, standing up, “before Anne-Marie has a heart attack.”
“Is there a back door or something so I can sneak out?”
He shakes his head, tucking his shirt into his pants.
I adjust his tie. “I don’t want your brother to see me here.”
“Why do you care? He doesn’t even know you.”
I smirk, decoding the message between the lines: Don’t worry—to Sebastian, you’ll be just another faceless conquest of mine he won’t even try to commit to memory.
To be honest, I’m not sure why Sebastian’s seeing me here matters. Maybe it’s the remains of my dignity thrashing about in final spasms.
“OK, I have an idea.” Raphael points to the floor-to-ceiling closet running along one of the walls. “Why don’t you go hide in there, and I’ll get rid of Sebastian as fast as I can?”
I nod and scurry to the closet.
Raphael opens the office door.
“You’re alone.” Sebastian sounds surprised.
“I was doing some strategic thinking,” Raphael says. “Which is why I had instructed Anne-Marie not to let anyone in.”
“You locked your door to do strategic thinking,” Sebastian parrots with a tangible note of mockery in his voice.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Raphael says.
“OK, whatever.” Sebastian’s tone becomes conciliatory. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I need your legal training again to help me with my nuptial arrangement.”
“So you’re moving forward with your crazy scheme.”
“Yes, I am,” Sebastian says drily.
There’s a brief silence before Raphael asks, “How’s my future sister-in-law doing, by the way? Haven’t seen her since the dinner at Genevieve’s.”
“She’s fine. How is Genevieve?”
Who is Genevieve?
Is she a longtime fiancée waiting patiently for Raphael to let off steam? Or a crazy wife he keeps locked up in the attic of his house in the country like Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre?
I gasp as a light bulb goes off in my head. What if Genevieve is his child? How little I know about the man whose body I’ve explored so completely over the past few months!
“Her usual indomitable self,” Raphael says. “She just started a new project.”
“Another documentary?”
“No, this time she’s producing fiction. A remake of a forties noir.”
“You think she’ll manage to sell it?” Sebastian asks.
“Who knows? They say third time’s the charm.”
There’s another short pause.
“Here’s the paperwork,” Sebastian says. “I’d appreciate if you could take a look.”
“Will do. So… um… see you around?”
“Any headway with Noah?” Sebastian asks.
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
“He’ll come around,” Raphael says. “He just needs time.”
“It’s all Maman’s fault.”
“Will you leave our mother out of this?”
“Why?” The permafrost is back in Sebastian’s voice. “It’s the truth.”
“Yeah, sure.” Raphael sounds peeved. “Just like your theory that she’s somehow responsible for what happened to Papa.”
Silence.
“The man dug his own grave,” Raphael says.
“I’ve never blamed her for it.”
“Oh yes, you have. You still do.”
“Do I? I don’t know…” Sebastian hesitates. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m too hard on her.”
They’re both silent for a long moment, and then Sebastian says, “But you can’t deny she’s responsible for setting Noah against us.”
“I don’t know about that—”
“Oh, come on! We find out by accident that our little brother left Nepal and has been living here in Paris for six months now.”
Raphael doesn’t offer a comment.
“He won’t answer or return our calls,” Sebastian says.
No reaction from Raphael.
“He goes by Maman’s maiden name.”
“Not everyone is as proud to be a d’Arcy as you are, bro. We’d better accept that Noah would rather be a Masson.”
Sebastian doesn’t respond to that, and I almost give in to the temptation to sneak a peek at his face. But I resist. I don’t want to risk being caught.
The brothers say good-bye shortly afterward.
Raphael locks the office door and lets me out. “I’m sorry you had to listen to that. I shouldn’t have let Sebastian in.”
“No, it’s OK. I learned more about your family in those ten short minutes than over the past five months.”
He gives me a humorless smile.
“Besides,” I say, “your conversation was interesting from a scientific perspective.”
“How so?”
“It proved my theory that blue bloods produce just as much dirty laundry as everyone else.”
“We certainly do.” His smile becomes genuine. “Is that a good thing?”
I shrug. “It makes you my equal in dirty laundry, at least.”
“I still have twenty minutes,” he says taking hold of my hand. “How about we finish what we started?”
I frown.
“Minus the spanking,” he adds quickly.
“How about we finish it after you’re back?” My eyes dart to the door. “And preferably, someplace where we won’t get interrupted.”
He nods.
We kiss good-bye, and a few minutes later I’m back in my office to finish up the day’s work.
Delphine gives me a meaningful look as she applies her lipstick before heading out. “He is from the office.”
“Who? I was just—”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” she says. “But when I figure out who he—or she—is, you’ll have to be more forthcoming, ma cocotte, like I was with you about Alberto.”
“Or else?” I ask, trying to sound playful.
“Or else I might not be able to keep the scoop to myself, regardless of his—or her—marital status.” She gives me a consider-yourself-warned look and sashays out the door.
Threatening me is becoming à la mode these days.
Somehow, I manage to focus on my work and finish it a little after nine.
As I step out of the building, the air is so pleasant it’s hard to believe I’m in Paris. With the rush hour over, the smell of gas and diesel is replaced by the springy scents of flowers and buds. The temperature is as perfect as it gets in this country—somewhere between mild and warm—with winter’s chill gone without a trace and summer’s sticky heat still far away.
According to to the weather forecast, it’ll be like this all week and through the weekend, which I’d been hoping to spend with Raphael.
What a shame he chose to spend it with someone else! Probably Genevieve, whoever she is.
As I walk toward the métro station, jealousy and bile team up in my head to ruin the beautiful evening. For the umpteenth time, I promise to try harder to end my affair with Raphael.
And to never, ever have sex in his office again.
The first couple of months, we religiously kept our trysts out of the DCA premises. Raphael seemed as keen on it as I was. The downside was that we’d go days without seeing each other, even when he was in Paris. Raphael d’Arcy is an important man. His calendar has weeks where every single evening is taken up by a social event he can’t bow out of.
I suspect some of those social evenings spill over into his nights.
But I’d rather not ask.
We broke our no-sex-at-work rule for the first time about a month ago after ten day
s apart. Considering that Raphael was in town only for a day, we “visited” in his office under the protection of his loyal gatekeeper, Anne-Marie.
Then we relapsed after he returned from his business trip the following week before leaving again later that day.
And then we slipped anew this afternoon.
Each of those “quickies” left my body sated—and my soul a little dirtier than before.
Because despite his unwavering interest in my person, I am not Raphael’s girlfriend.
I’m his sex mate.
We are two single people having a secret affair. Our relationship doesn’t move forward. I wouldn’t even call it a relationship. It’s a one-night stand on a loop. It’s as if we were reenacting a porn spoof of Groundhog Day.
It’s called Groundhog Lay.
Raphael seems happy with his part in it.
I’m not.
But then I’m not the one in the director’s chair.
Chapter 13
As I enter my apartment, I’m struck by how clean and tidy it is. My hands itch to grab my phone and immortalize this rare condition. When Màma and Eva are gone and my place returns to its usual “creative mess,” I’ll look at those pictures and the urge to clean will consume me.
Or not.
But it won’t hurt to try.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” Eva calls from the kitchen.
“What is she cooking?” I ask Màma, who’s fluffing the cushions on the couch.
“Lasagna.”
I close my eyes and smile beatifically. “Yum.”
“She thought you’d be pleased.”
Màma unfolds the ironing board and dumps a pile of colorful clothes onto a chair next to it. Looks like she did my laundry while I was at work.
Again.
She leaves me no choice but to carry out my threat to lock up my dirty laundry inside a suitcase before her visits.
“How are you, Mia?” she asks.
“Great.”
She picks up a white blouse and lays it on the board. “Can you be more specific?”
“Sure.” I start unfolding my fingers. “The thesis is on track, the job doesn’t suck too much, and summer is coming. As I said, everything’s great.”
She shakes her head. “Why is it that when I ask Eva the same question, she always has a lot more to say?”
“She’s chatty.” I shrug. “It’s her nature.”