"Surrender?" he challenged, blade tip to my heart.
"A musketeer never surrenders," I defied, with a lift of brow.
"I am the musketeer."
"No, I believe you are the evil Cardinal's guard. Take that!"
I dashed away his blade and swung to deliver a deadly slash across his thigh. The blades were not sharp along the length and the tips did have the red plastic button on them. And yet...
Jean-Louis yelped and grasped his thigh, falling to his knees. He was a good faker. But never in bed. Nor was I. A woman who faked orgasms was asking for a lifetime of disappointment.
What was I doing? Right. Defeating the enemy.
I nudged my opponent's shoulder with the toe of my shoe and he collapsed onto the floor, rapier clattering across the hardwood and imaginary blood spilling in a crimson pool beside his leg.
"I win!" I announced, and strolled toward the rack on the wall to replace the fencing foil.
Suddenly from behind, I was grabbed about the neck. My palms slapped the wall. Jean-Louis's erection nuzzled against my ass through the clingy brown leggings I wore.
"You are too cocky," he said. "Definitely musketeer material. But you must never leave the enemy bleeding. Always pierce him through the heart and watch him die."
Yikes. That was macabre. Bloodthirsty, even.
"I still win," I whispered, and jutted out my ass to rub against his cock. "You know why?"
"Why?" Now his hands cupped my breasts.
"Because having been defeated by the finer swordsman, as part of your punishment you have now agreed to be my willing slave. Over there." I nodded toward the ottoman before the window. "Sit down. Wait for me."
Jean-Louis collected his rapier, returned it to the hook on the wall then strolled over to the ottoman and sat, falling backward, arms spread. He wore comfy jersey pants, and from my vantage the sun shone across his lap, highlighting the thickness in his lap beneath the fabric.
I traced my upper lip with my tongue. Instead of going to him, I strolled to the sofa and knelt on it, propping my elbows on the back. I faced him. "I want to watch you care for your sword," I cooed. "Make it nice and hard for me."
He sat up, answering me with a wink.
"And then make it drip for me."
His hand eased over the bulge in his lap. "I can do that."
He tugged down the pants—no boxer briefs beneath—and his penis sprang up, hungrily seeking attention. He slid down the pants and kicked them aside.
"Shirt, too," I directed. I wasn't about to be deprived the scenery of those ripped abs.
The tee shirt flopped onto his pants and he gripped the main stick. A musketeer took great care with his sword. It was as if a third arm to him. Always there and at the ready. Monsieur Eiffel was ever ready.
His penis straightened with a gentle glide of his curled fingers up the shaft. Each up and down direction tugged the foreskin over the crown, and then down to reveal the head that grew deeper in color as his erection engorged with blood.
Eyes closed and head tilted back, he leaned against one palm, while falling into a sort of meditation of sensual experience. We'd watched one another get off for weeks at the beginning of our relationship. And when we'd graduated to cyber sex that, too, had been one-sided sex. Since then, we'd spent so much time mingling limbs and tasting skin and touching legs, breasts, asses, and hair, that it felt new again to watch this singular practice.
My nipples hardened and I rested my breasts upon the back of the leather sofa. Fingers playing over my tee-shirt, I lightly grazed a hardened peak. "Mmm..." I said out loud. "That ottoman sees a lot of action."
He smirked and said, "You have an ottoman fetish."
So I did. Sounded weird. But seriously? Sprawled across a large round piece of soft velvet furniture in the middle of a room, stranded with my attentive lover, was my kind of fetish.
Jean-Louis hissed and squeezed his cock. His hand now rapidly milked his shaft, coaxing it toward lift-off. His gaze met mine. A quirk of brow. His wink devastated. He liked it when I watched him. I—ouch!
I'd bitten my lip and my cry had paused Jean-Louis in his intent motions. "What?"
I tasted blood. All I could do was laugh and shake my head. "Don't stop. You're almost there."
"Come help me." He patted the ottoman. "What is it you always say? Pretty please?"
He didn't need to ask twice. Pulling my shirt off as I approached displayed the sheer black bra beneath. My nipples were dark peaks. I dropped to my knees before him and glided my hands alongside his thighs on the velvet. He spread his legs, inviting me in closer.
"You want a kiss?" I asked, looking up sweetly into his sky-gray eyes. They were a subtle blue. The color of the sky after the rain. "Or just a lick?"
"Both," he said. His cock, the head red and engorged, bobbed before me. Teasing me. Tempting me. "S'il vous plâit."
Pressing my lips to the head of him seared his heat against my mouth. He was hot and smooth, a wicked tool that we could both use to our own means. I gripped his shaft; the veins bulged against my palm. My thumb rested along the thick underside vein, and it squished when I put gentle pressure on it. So full.
Dashing out my tongue I licked the tip of him. He swore softly and lay back, stretching out his arms. His fingers touched each side of the round cushion. Gliding a palm up his belly and across the soft dark hair that curled about his cock, I took my time licking down to the root where I detoured and painted thick strokes over his testicles. The tender jewels hugged up tightly against his body. He was so ready.
I wanted him inside me.
Shuffling out of my leggings, I almost stumbled, but caught myself above him. He smiled that knowing Frenchman's grin. I have you entranced, it said. You are weak around me.
Oh, yes, I was.
Mounting him, I directed his cock between my folds, slicking the head until it glided effortlessly up and down, over my clit. Right where it counted most. I rubbed the power spot with his heated rod, using it as if it were a vibrator. But the real thing was so much better than steel or silicon and a power button. Pressing hard to him I worked up and down in small, deliriously delicious movements, then with a shift of my hips to redirect him to my slit, I plunged down upon him, taking him in deeply.
He hissed again. The man was on fire and that heat radiated within me. Every part of me tightened. All my muscles, my skin, my jaw, my pussy grew tense.
And with but a few determined thrusts from him, he coaxed away the tension and I released, as simply as that, and came in a shuddering, shouting, laughing victory.
***
Snuggled on the sofa under a blanket, Hollie and I watched a movie that streamed from the laptop. La Femme Nikita was one of our shared favorites. An oldie but a goodie, I loved the heroine's growth from hardened criminal to self-assured yet even harder assassin.
The scene where she leaves her boyfriend was playing now and Hollie nuzzled her head against my chest and looked up to me. "This can work," she said.
"This what?"
"Us. I mean, for a long time. I love you, Jean-Louis. More than I ever thought I could love someone."
I kissed her. Sometimes hearing it felt so good. Like a reassurance I hadn't known I'd needed, but did. "A long time sounds good to me."
Did that mean we were destined for marriage? Possibly. But I didn't bring it up. It wouldn't be fair with my wife still lingering on the sidelines. My lawyer reported she was back in town after an extended stay in Greece. With a lover? Most likely with a number of lovers. I suspected that was one woman who could never mutter 'This will work for a long time'.
"I called my realtor yesterday," I said, touching the remote to turn down the sound on the laptop. "As soon as the divorce goes through I want to start looking for a place in the country."
"That would be some kind of dream. A chateau in the French countryside."
"Then I will get a dog, and maybe a cat."
"I'd visit you if you owned a cat. I'm holding out
judgment on the dog."
"Visit me? Hollie, if I find land, I want you to live with me. In a chateau that has vines crawling up and down the outer walls. Like, happily ever after."
She lifted her head to gaze into my eyes. A wrinkle impressed along her temple from lying on my chest. She was cute. So pretty. And possessed of a gorgeous soul. And I felt as if, no matter what we went through, she was the one meant for me.
"Happily ever after sounds perfect," she decided, and laid her head back on my chest. "Tomorrow is Valentine's day."
"I know. I have a surprise for you."
"Goodie. I considered making you dinner, but that wouldn't be a satisfying present. I have my own surprise for you. Should we make it a date?"
"Oui. It's a Friday, so I'm taking the afternoon off from work. You can do the same?"
"Deal. I'll come over around four, after I've finished my work."
I hugged her. We fell asleep on the sofa as the movie credits rolled, then I startled awake and carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. I loved the way she moved as if a cat, stretching her body along mine, pressing her breasts against my ribs, and tucking her head between my arm and chest. Mon abeille.
Happily ever after?
I honestly believed we could have it.
Chapter Eighteen
Today is a day a majority of people abhor. The hearts and kisses day. The 'if you don't get chocolates or flowers you suck' day. Been there. But, you know, it's not like the masses understand we are actually celebrating a Roman saint. And if he was a saint, would he condone all the sex and hookups we engaged in in his name?
I think this was the first Valentine's Day I'd been in a great relationship that actually made me want to do something a little crazy. Like wrap a winter coat over my naked body (artfully decorated with glitter) and head out to surprise my lover.
I did say a little crazy. Wasn't like I was striding through a public venue with the intent of flashing my lover. Been there. Don't want to think about that one. Ever again. I was just dashing across the street and keeping this adventure between the two of us.
My Louboutins protested the wet tarmac as I strolled across the street. But seriously, they had been through worse. After the New Years Eve fiasco I'd decided to wear these puppies to shreds. I had to get my thousand euros worth out of them, didn't I?
What little snow Paris had gotten was melting thanks to the nearly fifty-degree temp today. I smiled at the building concierge and entered behind a tall woman who wore an elegant gray wool top and skirt set. After admiring the swing of her blonde hair, my eyes fell to her shoes. Sleek steel heels and a black patent leather pointed toe. Killer.
I wished I could wear gray. Gray was such a classy color. Kudos to her for making it look uber-stylish. Ah, Parisian women. They possessed je n'est ce quoi in spades.
And then I did something out of character. Or rather, long overdue.
Having gotten over my elevator fears thanks to my fast fuck with Jean-Louis in the train lavatory, I followed her into the tiny box because—what was that entrancing scent? Mm... Must be a spendy perfume. Chanel No. Seduce Everyone In Your Vicinity. Score another point for the Parisian chick.
"That perfume is lovely," I offered as the door closed. My muscles didn't even clench in terror. She'd get off at the next floor so I could handle a little elbow-to-elbow in the contained space. "What is it?"
"Lanvin, darling."
Her thick accent was not French. It was throaty and coarse. German?
The elevator glided past the second floor. "Oh. You should have pressed the button for the first floor," I provided. "The next floor is residential only."
Her thick-lashed summation of me suddenly made me feel like I wasn't wearing the coat. And this chick was not impressed by the glitter. Did I have some sparkle showing at my neck? I should have taken the stairs. See what happens when I tried to be adventurous?
The doors glided open and out she stepped, striding with purpose toward Jean-Louis's door.
You know that expression: I have a sinking feeling? Yeah, it's really like that. My heart plopped on top of my stomach and I think my lungs even dropped an inch or two as I struggled to breathe calmly. But each inhale drew in her pricey perfume and I was on the verge of passing out from Lanvin overdose.
The woman paused before Jean-Louis's door and actually sneered at me. "Who are you?"
"I'm Hollie. I live across the street," I stupidly provided.
"You are here to see Monsieur l'Etoile?"
"Yes." How I adored his last name. My own French star. "Are you sure you have the right floor?"
"American," she stated with so much disgust I was inclined to believe it myself. "Jean-Louis knows you?"
I nodded. And as fast as a lightning strike, my brain computed the situation, and I suddenly knew who she was. My ankle gave out and I actually wobbled before catching myself against the wall with a palm.
"Stupid Americans. You cannot stand in your expensive shoes? Ha!" She reached for the door buzzer, but paused. Black eyeliner emphasized her evil glare. "You should leave."
How I found the courage to stand upright on my overly high and slightly tattered Louboutins, I don't know. But I did. And I pushed before her and tapped the digital code into the lock. "No, maybe you should leave," I said, and called out Jean-Louis's name as I entered the apartment.
The German followed on my heels, though I sensed she paused in the doorway. A glance found her with hands to hips, glossy red lips parted seductively. Really? She was going to try that shit with me standing right here?
Jean-Louis strolled down the hallway from the bedroom in jeans and nothing else. Sunlight flashed on his abs, and emphasized the Adonis arches that lured my eye toward the crotch bulge that always satisfied me. He smiled—and then stretched his gaze over my shoulder.
"Greta?" fell out of his mouth like a piece of bad sushi.
The wife. She had to be. Who else could it be? I knew he didn't have another lover.
Just the wife.
"Who is this American slut, Jean-Louis?" The German bitch crossed the room and stalked right up to the man who looked as if the carpet had been tugged out from under his bare feet. "Are you having an affair on me?"
"On you?" He chuckled. Stroked his jaw with a swipe of his fingers. His abs flexed as he stabbed the air with a finger. "Greta, we are separated. I can fuck whomever I choose. A condition you took to heart but months after you said I do!"
I clutched the back of the leather sofa. This was going to be war. And I wanted a front row seat.
No, I didn't. This was private. It was between Jean-Louis and his gorgeous soon-to-be-ex wife. She looked like a freakin' model. I couldn't figure his taste in women. Stand me next to her and no man would notice I had eyes, let alone a perfectly nice rack.
"I should come back later—"
"No!" Greta said, fisting a punch through the air as she turned to me.
"Yes, you should," Jean-Louis said. He swung around to grab my hand and led me toward the door. "I am sorry about this, Hollie. I didn't know she was coming."
"Does your wife need an invitation to stop by and visit her husband?" the German growled. She thrust up her fists and blurted out an oath that I hoped was German and not some demonic invocation that would send me to Hell.
"I don't want to be in the way," I said.
But.
But for some reason, Jean-Louis tugging me toward the door felt oh-so-wrong. I was the woman who loved him. Who cared for him. Who made him happy. Why should I be the one to leave? "But maybe you should introduce me to your, uh...her first?"
"Hollie, really? She will only scream and yell at you. It is what she does."
"I do not!" The wife clicked across the room and put herself right up in our space. "Yes, Jean-Louis, introduce us."
"Greta, you have no right."
"No right to what?" She thrust out her hand toward me. "I am Greta l'Etoile. You are Hollie the American slut?"
My fingers cle
nched and if I'd been slightly less nice, I would have swung a slap at her model-thin cheek. But I was nice. It's what we Midwesterners were so proud of. Niceness, and, apparently, stupidity.
"You see?" Jean-Louis wrapped a hand about my arm, his intent in pushing me toward the door. "You don't know Hollie, Greta. Be decent."
"Really? I'd guess the last thing she subscribes to is decency. Got anything on under that ugly wool coat, slut?"
Now I did lunge. Jean-Louis caught me by both arms. My fingers were fisted, swinging blindly before me. Why was I defending myself from this low piece of je n'est ce trash? She was intolerable. And plain mean.
I wouldn't sink to her level. I couldn't.
"I'm sorry." Releasing my fists, I flexed my fingers at my sides. I turned and hugged Jean-Louis, knowing it must drive Greta mad to see her husband, whom she hadn't respected enough to stay out of other mens' beds, holding another woman.
Albeit, a woman who wasn't nearly as glamorous and sexy as his wife.
No, I wouldn't go there. I would not compare myself to...that.
"Give me a call when she's gone," I said and then kissed him on the mouth.
He pulled from the kiss as quickly as it happened. I couldn't be sure it was because he hadn't wanted the kiss or he simply wanted to show his wife some respect. Not that she deserved any.
Fuck St. Valentine. This is what I got for wanting some flirtatious fun on a day that celebrated the old man's death? Thanks, Karma. Been awhile. Fine time to show up.
Jean-Louis held the door open. Walking through it was the worst walk of shame. Ever. In all recorded walks of shame. This one was it. Because I was leaving my lover alone with his wife after she had called me a slut more times than was necessary.
The door closed without so much as him calling goodbye to me. Not even an adieu. No, I didn't want adieu. That was a final sendoff, 'go with God', as in, see you in the next life.
Adieu, Greta.
Greta. Now that I knew her name I would never get it out of my brain. It stuck up there like a cockleburr. Greta. Greta. Aggh!
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 43