“Your wager is nothing without a time limit. I’ll give you a week, starting tomorrow.”
“What am I, a miracle worker? That’s hardly fair.”
“Who said this was fair?”
“I’m barely in Paris this month. Four weeks,” he countered.
“Fine—two weeks.”
“Not enough. Three.”
Sera took a sip of her wine and tried not to smile. She knew what she wanted to wager. “I’ll give you your three weeks, but...” and she paused to make sure she had Marc’s full attention, “...if you lose, you’ll pay off my debts and give me enough to live on for half a year.”
Marc scoffed. “That’s excessive.”
“So is three weeks. It makes me think that you don’t have much confidence in your abilities.”
“D’accord. But if you lose, ma chère, you’re mine for those six months.”
“Yours how?” The wine was hard to swallow against the sudden tightening of her throat.
“For whatever I wish. You’d be bound to do what I required. I might make you clean my flat every day, or take dictation. I could use someone for when the receptionist at the firm is ill.” He became serious. “Or you could be tied to my bed for hours to serve my pleasure.” He gave her a keen look. “Do you agree?”
She stilled, not daring to take another sip of her wine. She could imagine it all too easily, but she wanted something more than just pleasure. “To become your indentured servant? No.”
“I’d still pay your six months living expenses,” he said. “I’d just be getting something for my money. And I might even pay your debts.”
“Six months is too long.”
“So make it three. With the appropriate reduction in your living expenses.”
Three months. She thought about how Sophie and Edouard had looked together, and weighed her chances of winning. Marc was a nearly unstoppable force when it came to women, but he’d have a strong rival in Edouard, along with Sophie’s accompanying reluctance. She took a deep breath.
“Oui, d’accord.” She held out her hand. He took it, but instead of shaking on their wager, he pulled her forward until they were inches apart. His hand cupped her cheek and she had to stop herself from leaning into his touch.
“We should seal this wager with something a bit more substantial, don’t you think, ma chère?” She met his gaze. There was something in his eyes that was more than just desire. He leaned forward that last inch and kissed her. She stiffened, but only for a moment. His lips teased hers, familiar and captivating. What would it hurt? She responded to his kiss and he took it deeper, conquering her mouth. If she’d been standing, her knees would have given out. She pressed forward, and when he broke off the kiss, she felt cheated. “But that’s not all. It’s been too long since we’ve played. I’ve missed you. On y va?”
Had he really missed her? She could still feel the imprint of his lips. She shouldn’t, but if it were only one night, she could fulfill her desire without getting attached. “Only tonight.”
“Until I win,” he said, giving her that amused half smile again. He rose, laying a few bills on the table to cover their tab. She let him escort her from the club, ignoring the stares from Jean and Edouard as they left. Marc kept a hand on the small of her back as they walked towards the boulevard to the cab rank.
There were a handful of people in front of them, and Jeremy Gordon stared at her from the front of the line. Jeremy! She’d forgotten him entirely once Marc had touched her. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He gave her a wry smile, and to her surprise, got in a cab without even attempting to speak to her. She looked away, disappointed, but only for a moment. Marc slid his hand down her back and up under her shawl, caressing her bare skin. Only tonight, she repeated to herself, even as Marc’s touch sent shivers up her spine.
The cab ride was quicker than she remembered, and soon Sera followed Marc up the stairs to his second floor apartment. Her high heels echoed on the marble, slightly concave from the thousands of feet that had climbed the stairs over the years. The stillness of the late hour amplified the sound and even the turning of the bolt carried in the quiet.
She had not gone home with Marc in months, but his apartment was as familiar to her as her own. In earlier years she had spent many hours working her way through the massive collection of books that lined the hallway. Each shelf was organized in its own fashion, but Sera had never been able to figure out its logic. She suspected that their places moved according to his whim. Tonight, however, she barely gave the books a glance.
Marc had gone on ahead of her but she knew he would soon emerge from the bedroom. The living room was as she’d remembered it—oddly modern for such an old building. The classical plaster ceiling moldings were pristine; their pale paint glowed in the low light from a lamp perched on a slender side table. She moved across the room to one of the long windows, stepping around a low leather armchair. The latch on the window gave easily and she pushed it open. The night air rushed in.
“It’s very tempting to take you right here.” Marc’s hand slid into her dress, pushing the strap off one shoulder. If anyone had looked up just then, they would have seen the barest flash of her breast before he covered it with his hand, pulling her back against him.
“But what would the neighbors think?” He laughed at her quip as he turned her around. He slid the remaining strap of her dress from her shoulder and it fell in a dark puddle at her feet.
“They don’t matter. It’s been too long.” His touch on her skin was gentle and she watched him trace the line of her hips and up over her breasts. It reminded her of the first time, when he’d learned her body by touch. “You know what I need.” He lifted her chin and his mouth came down hard on hers, demanding her surrender. She wanted it all tonight. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, rising on her toes. She had missed him, even if she’d pretended otherwise. His fingers tangled painfully in her hair.
He drew back from her and let her take a gasping breath before he strode towards the bedroom, dragging her along with him. He brought her to the foot of his bed, where a set of handcuffs dangled from the iron rail. He let go of her hair to fasten the cuffs around her wrists. He pulled the hair away from her eyes and plaited it into an untidy braid. The gesture seemed kind, but she knew that he preferred to see her face when he was fucking her.
“Those stockings are a nice touch,” he remarked. “I wasn’t expecting them. I hope you don’t want them to last the evening.”
Sera couldn’t help but smile. “If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have worn them.”
“Did you miss me while I was gone?” He caressed her cheek. She looked down at her hands, not wanting him to see the answer in her eyes. “Did you?” When she didn’t look up at him, the caress ended in a pinch to her nipple that made her flinch.
“Yes.” She hated admitting it. All those weeks she’d had to try and forget him were fading. All she could think about was him.
“And how long has it been, ma chère? Remind me.” He lifted her chin so she couldn’t look away.
To her shame, she knew. “Sixteen weeks.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but he heard her.
“I’ll have to make up for neglecting you for so long.” Marc bent her over the rail. He stripped her of her underwear and stockings. She heard the rustle of cloth and glanced up to see Marc removing his suit jacket, hanging it in the wardrobe. She felt like a voyeur, laying there as he unbuttoned his shirt. While he removed his cufflinks she imagined tugging off his shirt and running her hands down his nearly hairless chest. The urge to touch him was so strong her hands moved involuntarily, rattling the steel against the rail. Marc looked up.
“Restless?” He shrugged off his shirt and tossed it aside, coming back to the bed in just his pinstriped trousers. She nodded. He parted her thighs, pressing two fingers inside her. She pushed back against his hand, letting out a satisfied moan. He added a third finger and she wanted to sob. She had missed
this. He had such familiarity with her body and it was too easy to submit to a man that could bring her to orgasm in a dozen ways. Marc curled his fingers inside her and rubbed across her clit with his thumb and she came with an intensity that surprised even her.
“You have missed me, Seraphina.” She could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
His hands spread her open, and she felt his breath on her back, and then lower. His tongue delved into her. She squirmed to get closer but he held her fast, pressing her hips into the rail. She knew she would have bruises in the morning, but it didn’t matter. His tongue rasped against her clit and he took her in his mouth. Whenever he took her like this it never took long before she was on the edge, and he knew that. She tried to think of something else—anything else—but it didn’t work.
“S’il vous plaît?” He paused, and she caught her breath. “May I?”
“Oui, Seraphina. You may.” He resumed his attentions and she spasmed against him, feeling the wetness soak into the duvet.
Sera sprawled limply against the bed, her legs dangling over the rail. He moved her onto her side and she felt the handcuffs slide from her wrists. Gentle, again. She watched him strip off his trousers. She sat up and reached for him, but he caught her hand before she could touch him. She looked up at him beseechingly and finally he pointed to the floor. Sera knew what he wanted. She let herself slide to the floor at his feet, ending up on her hands and knees on the cool parquet. She rested her forehead briefly on the arch of his foot and let her body relax before her fingers circled his ankles and she began kissing a slow path up his legs. By the time her cheek brushed his cock, he was hard, and his hands in her hair indicated his impatience. She took him into her mouth, remembering just how he liked it—varied—and she never had to fear that she was being too rough. She let her teeth graze the underside and his answering groan was her reward.
Marc pulled her back before she would have finished. He lifted her to her feet and scooped her up in his arms, where she luxuriated for a short moment with a contented sigh.
“We’re not done yet, ma chère.”
“Good,” she told him, her voice faint and dreamy. He chuckled and lowered her to the bed. Sera leaned back against the pillows and watched as he took a wrapped condom and lubrication from the drawer of the night stand. She hadn’t forgotten what that meant. She crawled over to him, her knees sinking into the duvet. She waited, listening keenly to the tearing of the wrapper and the soft click of the bottle. His hand smoothed over her back and down between her legs. The coolness of the lubrication gave her goose bumps, but his fingers were there, spreading it over and into her as his other hand toyed at her clit. She rested her head on her bent arms, arching up towards him.
Sera felt him press between her buttocks and he was inside her in a smooth, practised stroke. Her breath caught in her throat. She trembled as he held her down with one hand and pressed her clit in small hard circles with the other, timing his thrusts to his hardest strokes on her clit. She gave a small moan and suddenly she was pulled upright against him, his hand in her hair once more. Her scalp ached, but if it meant she was in his arms, the pain didn’t matter.
Marc’s touch on her clit ceased and she could hardly bear the loss. He thrust into her deeply, pulling her back against his hips. His breathing began to quicken.
“Please, Marc,” she begged. She didn’t care if she sounded pathetic. She needed it. She needed him.
“No.” His thrusts grew rougher and her wetness dripped down her thighs. She was desperate. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and their eyes met. She put all her wanting into her gaze and heard him say “Oui” just before he crushed his lips against hers, rolling her clit between his fingers. He swallowed her cry as she came hard. He thrust into her one last time and she felt him shudder against her.
He pulled out of her and she collapsed into a heap on the bed, euphoric and dazed. She barely registered him shifting her until she was under the covers, tucked up against him in a cocoon of warmth.
“You can still make it six months.”
As what he said penetrated the layers of bliss, she shivered.
“No.”
“Truly?” He sounded surprised and disappointed. She lifted her head.
“You won’t win.”
“You underestimate me.” Marc wasn’t the least bit concerned. It was Sera’s turn to chuckle.
“You underestimate Sophie. I would never have made the wager if I thought otherwise.”
“Why do you need the money so badly?” She lowered her head back to the pillow. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.
“You’ll have to tell me eventually.” Marc reached over and turned off the lamp. Sera closed her eyes, but a hand sliding between her legs made her realize that he wasn’t anywhere near finished with her.
Sera woke alone. The apartment was still. Only a quiet hum of traffic could be heard from the nearby avenue Wagram. She pushed the hair from her eyes and sat up in bed. The handcuffs were gone from the rail and Marc’s clothes had been removed. The wardrobe door hung ajar and she saw her dress on a hanger. The trousers and shirt that she had worn to the club last night were neatly folded at the end of the bed. Her bag was on the floor.
She got out of bed and picked up her bag, digging through it for her watch. It was after ten. She opened the wardrobe further and pulled one of Marc’s crisply pressed shirts from its hanger. He’d be annoyed with her, but she’d always liked wearing his shirts. It smelled faintly of him as she buttoned it up the front and rolled up the sleeves that flopped over her hands.
Marc wasn’t in the living room, but the drapes had been drawn back and the window left open. Nor was he in the kitchen, though a faint scent of smoke lingered and an empty cup of espresso had been left on the counter. A paper bag stamped with the name of the pastry shop and café a few doors down sat on the counter, and she opened it, hoping that he had left her some breakfast.
There was a pain au chocolat—a croissant filled with chocolate—and she grabbed a plate from the cupboard. As she nibbled the croissant she snooped through the kitchen and into the fridge to see what else he had to eat. The cupboards held little in the way of food and the fridge was nearly empty. Two bottles of white wine and a bottle of tonic water held court next to a carton of orange juice.
She decided to browse Marc’s book collection as she ate, wandering up and down the hallway. A book-shaped parcel wrapped in paper was laid at an angle and she set her plate carefully on a stack of literary magazines to pick it up. The parcel wasn’t taped shut and she was able to unfold the paper easily. A receipt fell to the floor and curled up at her feet as she pulled the book from its wrappings. It was an art criticism text and she flipped it over to read the back. Oxford University Press. How dull. She stooped to pick up the receipt as she placed the book back into the paper wrapping. It was for a bookstore in London and someone had written on the reverse, “Please come again! Madelaine” in a neat, girlish script. Apparently Marc had gained another admirer. She laughed to herself and replaced the book.
After taking her plate to the kitchen and leaving it beside Marc’s cup, she went into the bathroom. She stood before the mirror as she worked to untangle her hair from its messy braid. She dropped her arms and unbuttoned the shirt. There were bruises on her hips, and shadowed marks from where he’d held her, reminding her of why she had tried to stay away from Marc. It was too easy for her to lose herself.
Sera stepped into the shower. The last of her Marc-induced euphoria fell away. She washed her hair quickly and was relieved to step out onto the tile. She wrapped a towel around herself after drying her hair and went to the bedroom, leaving damp footprints on the parquet. She pulled on her trousers and shirt.
As she waited for her hair to dry, she went back to the bookshelves. She touched the spines of several favourite books, greeting them like old friends. She hadn’t noticed last night that his collection had gotten larger in the past few months; there were books t
hat had been turned and stacked in columns, and several places had double-rows. She braced one of the columns and tugged a paperback out from mid-stack. The bright color of the spine had caught her eye, but reading the back, it wasn’t as interesting as she had thought. She went to put it back in its place, but the stack of books toppled over, sliding to the floor in a heap.
She bent to pick up the books, holding them against her chest as she reached up to put them back. Instead of another stack of books behind, as she had expected, there was a dark box. If she hadn’t been looking right at it, she might have missed it altogether. She set the books down on a lower shelf and pulled the box from its place.
There was nothing very remarkable about it; it was smooth and cool, slightly heavier than it looked, metal with a small catch on one side. She pressed the catch and it popped open.
A folded sheaf of papers protruded from the open box and she pulled them out. She knelt and set the box on the floor and unfolded the papers to get a closer look. Museum hours for d’Orsay. A brochure with the full layout of the exhibits. A tourist’s map of the area. All the material looked recent, and she couldn’t figure out why he would have bothered to tuck it away. She set the papers aside. They hadn’t been weighing down the container.
Underneath a book about the museum, which she had to pry out of the box, she found a handgun. It lay over a box of ammunition and was tucked in next to a switchblade and a roll of bills. She reached out to touch the gun, but drew back, sitting on her heels. It wasn’t illegal to own a handgun in France; her father had owned several in his lifetime. But her father had never kept them hidden away.
What was going on? She knew that some of Marc’s dealings weren’t entirely above board, but this seemed several steps further than that. She didn’t dare ask him. With careful movements, she put everything back in the box as she found it and re-stacked the books. She shouldn’t be here. She returned to the bedroom to collect her things, pulling her damp hair into a tight ponytail. She took her dress down from the hanger and folded it, putting it in her bag on top of her high heels. She slipped on the comfortably old pair of suede lace-up shoes that she’d worn to work yesterday and then stood. She wouldn’t come back here again. She should never have come back.
The Paris Game Page 4