by Lauren Smith
Red and yellow. She could handle that. She would have to trust that he would respect her decision if she had to use those words. It dawned on her then just how much trust she would have to give him in order for this to work.
“Today we’ll spend some time exploring Paris. Anything you want to see, we’ll see.” He kept stroking her, pressing soothing kisses on her skin that sent frissons of pleasure through her. In his arms she felt safe and secure, almost content herself.
“Did you have enough to eat?” He reached for her plate and her stomach grumbled in response.
“Thanks.” She took the plate and finished the last of her omelet and biscuits. Only after she was done did he eat the rest of his food and then he turned the TV to a news station. She shifted in his lap and her bottom singed with pain, but to her shock that zing of pain made her clit throb. Did pain turn her on?
Wes massaged her neck and leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“Pain and pleasure are often a fine line. That’s why it’s important to have safe words.”
A very fine line indeed.
After she set her plate down, she got off his lap. “I’ll go shower.” Her legs shook a little and her bottom burned from his spanking, but she wasn’t going to show any more weakness, not when she’d shown so much already. The sound of his soft chuckling didn’t help her self-esteem one bit as she left the room.
* * *
Wes watched Callie flee. She was always running and more often than not she was running from him. He’d pushed too far too fast again, but her words had drawn out a dominant’s anger in him. She thought she was a quick fuck and nothing more? It was an insult to both of them. He’d never worked so hard in his life to take his time with a woman because it was the right thing to do and she deserved it. It was as close to romantic as he got.
He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was feeling some measure of peace. Because of her. But there was so much more to it than that. He felt excited again, watching her fall in love with Paris as he had done all those years ago. The look on her face as she’d touched the sphinx, the way she’d handled Dimitri’s subtle flirts at Fouquet’s. She was coming into her own. A fierce, powerful artist who would take the world by storm if the right person guided her. And he was going to be that person.
A little chuckle escaped him as he bent to collect the plates. She had cooked for him. A little rustic meal of omelets and biscuits. In Paris, the land of fine cuisine. And it had rocked him to the core. To wake to the smell of something mouthwatering and to come downstairs and find her covered in flour and adorably fuckable. He had lost his mind. No woman he’d ever been with had cooked for him. It was always a chef or a restaurant.
The women he’d dated in the past had expected that of him, and likely didn’t know how to boil water themselves. But Callie had been cooking for years. She had to in order to feed two grown men working on the ranch. She was a fighter, his little cowgirl. And he planned to reward her for her sweetness. That simple act had meant so much more to him than he’d ever let on. And it turned him on, too. Bad. He’d come in his jeans just from dry-humping her sweet luscious ass. That had been a first for him.
There hadn’t been a moment in his life since he’d left high school when he hadn’t had total control over his body’s responses around a woman. Living in the BDSM lifestyle had taught him how to use that control to bring a submissive to pleasure. If a dominant reached his fulfillment before his submissive because he had no control it hurt the sub. Subs deserved to have a dominant who had control.
Until this morning he’d never lost control with a sub before. But Callie was a firecracker in his hands. Kissing her was like celebrating the Fourth of July. Burning beautiful heat and passion. She set him ablaze with her responses to him. And there was so much she could still learn. Once she opened herself up to him fully, there would be no stopping either of them from embracing the greatest heights of pleasure.
Walking back to the messy kitchen made him smile and shake his head. He rinsed the plates and then scribbled a note for Françoise, apologizing for the mess. Then he headed upstairs to shower himself. He had a big day planned for Callie and he didn’t want to waste any more time.
Chapter 10
The neighborhood of Montmartre was a place of colors and living dreams. Topped by the Byzantine-style white domes of the Sacré-Coeur, the Sacred Heart Basilica, the cathedral felt like a holy place both of the spirit and the heart. Artists were everywhere, their easels set up along the streets, their bohemian little stands full of life as they courted the tourists who flocked to the center of Paris’s art district.
Callie stood next to Wes, taking in the main square, the Place du Tertre.
“Did you know that this square was a famous haunt of the artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec?” Wes waved at the eclectic mix of tourists and artists. It was easy to picture an artist haunting this place for inspiration.
“It’s amazing.” She wanted to study all of the sketches and the portraits around her.
“It’s a bit busy with the bourgeois bohemian.”
“What’s that?”
Wes laughed. “Think of it as the French word for hipsters.”
“Really?” She laughed, too.
“Yes. But this is your first time in Paris and you have to experience it. Especially from an artist’s perspective.” He curled his arm around her waist and guided her to the nearest row of artists.
Callie breathed in the air, which smelled of chalk dust. Wes had stayed close to her ever since they had left the apartment. He had actually relaxed in jeans and a light sweater, as though finally at ease enough to leave behind the suits. His dark masculine scent was heady and addictive.
They halted at the front row of artists and Wes spun her to face him, a possessive gleam in his eyes.
“You are getting your portrait done,” he announced. “It’s a rite of passage.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and they walked down the row of artists.
Wes paused behind each artist, examining their styles and examples of past works intently. He was in his element, like last night when he’d bent over the Sargent and examined its details for Dimitri. He was focused on the art, and she was focused on him. That itching in her right hand, the need to sketch, to channel that creative pulse which was humming like rich wine in her veins. She wanted to draw Wes, to put his likeness on paper, to own a part of him, how she saw him, in whatever small way she could. The temporary madness born of mutual passion would pass someday and they’d go their separate ways, but she knew now that he would be her first lover and she never wanted to forget him.
Artist after artist, Wes wasn’t satisfied until he peered over the shoulder of the last man sketching at the end of the row. He was a man in his midforties, a pair of slender glasses resting on the bridge of his thin nose. His brown eyes studied Wes right back with the clarity reserved only to artists and the lovers of art.
“Monsieur, je voudrais un portrait de la jeune dame.”
The man nodded. “Bien sûr. Ça coûte soixante-dix euros.”
“Seventy euros?” Callie gasped. “Wes, that’s way too expensive for a street portrait.” She tugged at his sleeve, but Wes nudged her toward the small wooden stool.
“He’s the best. I want only the best.”
Callie sighed, seeing that an argument wouldn’t get her anywhere. Wes played with her hair, settling it in a particular way over her shoulders that seemed to please him. He and the artist shared a knowing look and then the man lifted his hand in a universal gesture she understood and she responded by lifting her chin an inch and tilting her head to one side.
Over the next half hour the man worked at a steady pace with Wes directly behind him, observing the artist’s progress. The serious expression on Wes’s face made her feel a little silly and she couldn’t stop it when she started to giggle.
“What?” Wes glanced around, as if expecting to discover the
obvious source of amusement.
“I’m sorry,” she said half giggling, half laughing. “You look so serious. Smile or something, otherwise I’ll keep laughing.”
Wes’s solemn expression softened and a glint of wicked humor filled his gaze.
“Oh, I know plenty of ways to stop your laughing. Want to hear?” The scorching burn of his gaze showed her just how serious he was. Her breath caught in her throat and heat flooded her face.
“C’est fini, monsieur.” The artist sat back, resting his hands on his charcoal-stained pants.
“Bon, c’est magnifique.” Wes’s gaze was rapt as he studied the sketch.
“Can I see?” She leaped up from the stool and hurried around the tall easel so she could see what the man had done.
Her heart stopped. It was only when Wes caught hold of her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her temple as they stared at the sketch together, that her heart finally jolted back into a steady beat.
The piece was done on gray paper. The man had used white charcoal to accent her cheeks and the flash in her eyes. He’d used the paper’s darker color to let the shadows form rosy blushing cheeks and deepen the fall of her hair interspersed with light. It was done entirely in shadows of charcoal, yet rendered with such precision that she felt as though she was staring in a mirror. Yet what held her fascinated was the expression on her face he had somehow managed to capture. Slightly parted lips, slumberous eyes, a woman in the midst of lovemaking—that was how she appeared.
“He captured it,” Wes murmured in her ear. “The most sensual expression I’ve ever seen. What were you thinking about, I wonder?” He asked the question almost rhetorically.
“Ice cream. I was thinking about ice cream.”
He laughed. The vibration of his body behind hers was wonderful.
“You’ve spent way too much time around my sister. What were you really thinking about?”
The natural command in his tone was not loud but had just as much of an influence over her. She had to answer. There was no denying him what he wanted.
“You.” The single word was breathless and he went rigid behind her, his warm breath making her shiver.
“You know how to torture a man, Callie.” The warning was clear. From the way he pressed hard against her and pushed his fingers into her, she knew he was on the verge of losing control.
The artist, with his back to them, sprayed a finishing spray on the charcoal to protect it from smears. Then he placed a sheet of wax paper over it and rolled it up and slid it into a white cardboard tube.
Wes finally released her and pulled out a thick wad of money in a silver money clip and slipped seventy euros into the artist’s hand.
“Merci, monsieur. Vous avez une belle femme. Vous êtes un homme chanceux.”
“Je sais. C’est la chance en effet.” Wes shook the artist’s hand.
“What did he say?” Callie asked as they continued their walk along the street.
“He said you were beautiful.”
Callie raised one eyebrow. “I understood that part. What did he say after that?”
Wes wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He said I was a lucky man.” His lips curved into a body-melting smile. “And I agreed with him.”
Her heart fluttered a little with nervousness but she realized it was a happy fluttering. She’d never really felt that way before. With Fenn she was either happy or nervous. Never a mixture of both. This was new…and a little startling, but she liked how it felt. There was a warm buzz in her heart when she looked at Wes and let him cradle her against his side.
Yes…this was…nice. She liked nice.
“What’s next? The Louvre or the Eiffel Tower?” he asked.
She was about to respond when she caught sight of a small corner shop with a dozen birdcages hanging just inside the shop window. An olive-skinned man with a colorful shirt was tending to the cages. The birds in the cages were colorful and chirping excitedly. Something about the sight enthralled Callie. The man seemed to notice her fascination and waved a hand for Callie to come closer for a better look.
“Callie, he’s one of many Paris gypsies,” Wes said, but he followed her as she crossed the street to get a closer look at the little shop full of birds. She walked through the open door and came over to the birdcages.
“Oh, Wes, they’re beautiful. Look.” She shot him an excited smile before gazing at the nearest cage, which had a pair of lovebirds. Their warm tropical-colored feathers and little curved beaks made them irresistible. Hopping from wooden bar to wooden bar in their cages, they fluttered and chirped, moving as a pair, always seemingly aware of each other. Like two sides of a perfect coin. Her heart squeezed in her chest as she watched them. Their sweet notes, the little coos and chirps, and the trills of their songs were enchanting.
“You like my birds?” The man’s voice was heavily accented but he spoke English well.
Callie couldn’t resist nodding eagerly and slipping one finger between the bars. One of the lovebirds gave a delicate exploring peck at her finger. The sensation tickled and she laughed.
“They’re wonderful,” Callie said. “Simply wonderful.”
“Then they are yours.” The man reached up to unhook the cage.
“Oh no! I couldn’t, but thank you,” Callie said and sighed. There was no way she could bring the birds home to Colorado.
Wes was watching her, a curious expression on his face. He held out a handful of euros and placed them in the man’s palm.
“Thank you, Monsieur. We will take the birds.” He helped her remove the cage from its hook on the stand and he handed it to Callie, who took it, mouth gaping open. The man had just bought her a pair of lovebirds in Paris. He must have written the book on seduction.
“Wes—”
“You want them. I want you to have them,” he answered simply.
The gypsy man’s dark eyes glinted with mischief and an ancient knowing.
“Mates for life.” The gypsy patted her hand with a secretive smile. Callie grinned and carried the birdcage outside. When she glanced behind her she saw Wes was still inside.
He lingered in the shop a moment longer, studying the jewelry and other odds and ends the gypsy was selling. A basket of bangle bracelets caught his eye. They were gold on the inside but the outside was dark blue with golden chain links painted into the blue. A little grin curved his lips. He slipped the gypsy a few euros to buy the bracelets, and then exited the shop. He caught up with Callie, who was only a few feet away, still focused on the lovebirds.
“Here.” He slipped one bangle on each of her wrists. “There, those look beautiful against your skin.” He stroked her flesh where it met the metal of the bangles.
Callie lifted one hand up to study the gilded bracelet on her right wrist, admiring the painted chain links. Something inside her shivered at the thought of Wes and chains together in the same sentence. They were just bracelets, yet the way he’d put them on her, the possessive gleam in his eyes. Heat blossomed in the pit of her belly and farther down. Was this a prelude to something else, a darker hint of what Wes wished to do to her? There was so much about him and his desires that were still a mystery to her.
“Let me call Michel. He’ll take the birds back to the apartment and then take us to the Eiffel Tower.”
Callie picked up the cage and followed him as he began to walk out of Montmartre to an easier spot for the car to pick them up.
“I can’t believe you just bought me birds,” she said. She had never made an impulsive buy in her life, except maybe one black bra that she never wore because it didn’t belong on the ranch and she was always working.
Wes laughed. “If you had seen your face when you looked at those birds you would have bought them, too.”
She tugged his sleeve, forcing him to stop. “Wes, you can’t keep buying me everything I want.”
“Why not?” He stroked the cardboard tube that held her portrait and focused a pensive s
tare on her.
“What?” His question completely confused her.
“Why can’t I buy you everything you want?” His question came out as a challenge and for a second Callie just stared at him. She hadn’t thought that far ahead about the point she was trying to make in this outlandish discussion.
“Because…because I don’t deserve it. I like to pay my own way and if I can’t afford it then I don’t buy it.”
Wes’s lips slid into a sinful smile. “Darling, you deserve a lot more than you know. And I can do whatever I want with my money. If I want to buy a private island just for you, then I will.”
Callie crossed her arms over her chest and glowered. “I wouldn’t go to that island.”
For some reason he burst out laughing. “Oh, you’d go. I’d carry you there over my shoulder if necessary.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” Callie muttered.
Her words lit a feral spark in his eyes that made her worried and aroused at the same time.
“Someday you and I will play a capture game. Do you know what that is?”
Callie’s throat was suddenly dry and she shook her head.
Wes cupped her chin, then slid his fingers along the column of her throat, not even attempting to hide the blazing hunger in his eyes.
“A capture game is where I let you loose in a controlled space. You have to run from me, but when I catch you…I can do anything to you, except cross your hard limits.”
Hard limits. She knew what that was. Anything she absolutely would not do. At least that was how hard limits were discussed in the novels she’d read. Maybe she should have Wes explain for clarity’s sake.
“What are hard limits?” She inwardly cringed at how soft and husky her voice was. She was still mad at him for buying everything for her. They’d have to return to that subject soon.
“Hard limits are what a submissive absolutely refuses to do. These are serious things that are well beyond ‘the red zone’ we discussed. You will need to think about what your limits are. Things that aren’t just uncomfortable, but unthinkable. Things that terrify you to the point of panic where you can’t think. I never want you scared. Nervous anticipation is different and can be very rewarding later when you finally come apart in my arms.” He continued to stroke her throat.