by Jani Kay
With the camera now in his possession, Alain took pictures of me in all sorts of silly poses. I giggled and laughed like a carefree teenager, his obvious pleasure helping me overcome my shyness at being the subject of the photos. I’d much rather be the one behind the lens.
“Stop doing that,” he said suddenly. My head jerked up. What was I doing wrong?
“Every time you lick your lips, it drives me crazy. You don’t know what that does to me,” he groaned, shaking his head. He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I want to take you right here, right now.”
Take me? Did it mean what I thought it meant?
“My...my lips are dry,” I stuttered as I bit into my lower lip, digging in my bag for my lip gloss.
“No, ma cherie, that makes it worse.” He smiled as I applied the lip gloss. “Now I have to kiss that off your lips.” I just couldn’t win.
“You are impossible.” He pulled me into his arms; I sensed the hunger in him as he crushed my breasts into his chest and kissed me passionately, completely taking my breath away. I threw caution to the wind. My hands were in his hair, pulling him to me and I kissed him back, with equal fervor.
“Very bold, Mademoiselle.” He smiled down at me, his eyes dark with lust.
But then, he suddenly let me go, grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the elevator. This time I stood close to the door, right beside the operator, who I immediately engaged in conversation so we didn’t have a repetition of the last elevator ride.
Alain rolled his eyes at me, pouting. I grinned at him sweetly and he just shook his head.
“Touché,” he joked, good humor returning to his eyes. Was that a glint of admiration I saw there?
Back in the limo, I turned to Alain. “Thanks so much for the lovely gift Alain; it is very thoughtful of you. I am sure it will bring me much pleasure on my journey.” I held his face between my hands and softly, gently kissed his lips.
“It gives me pleasure to give you pleasure,” he said simply, repeating his earlier statement.
But what surprised me more, was that he wasn’t trying to get into my panties right at this moment, he was behaving like a true gentleman. I like that. It made him even hotter, if that was at all possible.
Chapter 9
Our next stop was the Sacre Coeur. I was in awe. It was more beautiful up close than any picture I’d ever seen.
“The Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris is located at the summit of the butte, the highest point in the city at one hundred thirty meters.” Alain taught me a new French word: butte which meant hill.
We joined a group of people lazing on the stairs as Gaston brought a bottle of chilled grape juice and two ice-cold crystal glasses. This was true style. The grape juice was refreshing; I learned it was from the vineyard owned by Alain’s family. “It's originally made for children, before they learn to drink wine.”
“It's delicious,” I complemented him, as I sipped the cool liquid and drank in the beautiful vista of Paris.
“Ready to go inside?” he asked.
“Yes, show me,” I said, eager to see more of this glorious building.
Inside he lit a candle. “For my mother,” he said reverently. “Anyone you would like to light a candle for?”
“Yes, I would like to light a candle for my father.”
I loved that we could share this meaningful and spiritual moment, lighting a candle for our loved ones who have passed on. It was very intimate. We walked slowly, holding hands.
He pulled me out through the side door just as we came full circle.
“Let’s take a walk back downhill and you can show me more of the area,” I coaxed.
“Many artists had studios or worked around Montmartre.” He rattled off some names even I had heard of. “As impoverished artists they usually lived and worked in communes.”
I imagined how the area must have been when alive with electric creativity and I wished I could have been a part of that era. It resonated with me; I was an everlasting hopeless romantic. Montmartre was also the setting for several hit films. I had seen Amelie and Moulin Rouge, both movies about finding true love. If I could make only one wish, it would be to find my true love. And what better place than in Paris?
“Come, see the artists.” He pulled me toward the square. “It's called Place du Tertre.” We ambled a short way, downhill. From a small kiosk, he bought us each an ice cream, and we were like two kids, strolling hand in hand, savoring our gelatos, pressing our noses against the little shop windows. He caught me looking at the souvenirs and dragged me into the shop. Five minutes later we left with a pair of fridge magnets; one of the Eiffel Tower, and one of the Sacre Coeur.
Happiness filled my chest as I stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll start a fridge magnet collection. Yes, that’ll be a lovely way to remember my journey.” My heart felt the lightest it had been in a very long time; I never wanted this afternoon to end.
An artist on the sidewalk winked at me and called us over. “Mademoiselle, let me draw a picture of you.” I tried to shrug him off, but Alain insisted I pose for a drawing. I straddled the chair the artist pointed to, resting my arms on the chair back.
“Look up at me, ma cherie,” Alain coaxed. The man sketched as Alain peered over his shoulder, nodding and grinning, talking rapid-fire French as he indicated to my hair. Finally they called me over. The likeness of me was impressive; I was speechless that the artist had captured my essence in such a short time. Alain paid him and he rolled the picture into a scroll and placed it into a protective tube.
“This is for you, to remember today,” Alain said, as he handed me the tube.
I pouted, disappointed that he didn’t want to keep the picture.
Alain pinched my ass and laughed. “I only need to close my eyes to recall your beautiful face. It’s etched into my memory, forever. I don’t need a drawing to remind me.”
Really? No wonder women loved French men, and the way they spoke so poetically. Some would even say flowery. I giggled. I couldn’t imagine an Aussie man saying something like that without it sounding corny. But when Alain said it, it was sexy and romantic. Especially in that accent.
Was it weird that just the way he spoke had my panties permanently damp? Throw in the killer smile and the way those smoldering eyes pierced right through me, and I had no chance in hell.
He pulled me into a quiet side street. Before I could question his actions, he pushed me against the rough plaster of a graffiti-filled wall and placed himself squarely between my legs. He pulled my leg up to his hip, grinding the shaft of his erection against my stomach, his eyes glowing.
“Ah, just thinking of those beautiful ripe lips...I want to taste you.” His lips were at my ear, kissing and sucking my earlobe. Deliciously sensuous, my knees felt weak. He groaned as his tongue plundered my mouth, as if imitating what he would like his erection to do to me. Caressing my breast, his thumb roughly flicked over my hard crest.
“I can see you like me too.” His breath was hot on my skin.
I kissed him back, matching his intensity, so aroused that I really didn’t care who saw us. My heart beat furiously against my ribs and my breath quickened as his hand glided up my leg and disappeared under my skirt, cupping my sex. My blood was at boiling point, I really didn’t want him to stop.
His fingers traced the edge of my lace panties. I pushed my mound unashamedly into his hand as a moan escaped my lips. I wanted more.
“So hot for me. I want to take you—”
“Take me?” I croaked.
His voice rasped in my ear. “I want to fuck you so badly, right here.”
But before I could object, he pulled away. “Oh no mademoiselle, even though I am burning for you right now, our first time together will be very special. Everything will be perfect, just like you. As much as I want to fuck you now, I am a patient man; I will wait for my prize.”
So poetic. Relief and disappointment washed over me at the same time. The crazy thing was, I wanted him
to fuck me—hard—against this wall. When had I become so wanton?
Groaning, Alain bit into my lower lip, as if he couldn’t wait to possess me.
Chapter 10 - Alain
Our final stop for the day was the Musee d’Orsay on the left bank of the Seine, housed in a former railway station. There were so many other places I planned on showing Rebecca, but I thought it wise to spread it out over a few days. It was a lot to absorb, and I didn’t want to overwhelm her. Besides, it was the perfect reason to see her again.
Gaston pulled up outside the ancient building. Often visitors to Paris missed this museum, opting for the Louvre instead if they had limited time. Although the Louvre was spectacular in its own right, the artworks in the Musee d’Orsay had a magnetism that drew me to it.
As we entered the large hall, Rebecca spotted the magnificent clock, clapping her hands like an excited schoolgirl. I loved that she was so much a woman, yet could be childlike in her enjoyment of life.
Her pure delight and joy at the beauty and history of the city humbled me. I was so used to women who were jaded and cynical. It was refreshing to see Paris through her eyes.
Eagerly pulling at my hand, she couldn’t wait to explore works of the great masters. In reality it was I who couldn’t wait to explore more of her. She was delicious in every sense of the word. Her soft skin, the taste of her mouth, her ample bosom, everything about her pleased me as much as these artworks. Except that she was real—a flesh and blood woman.
“Look, women knew about Brazilian waxes even back in 1856,” I joked.
The sensuous painting of a curvy naked woman pouring water from an urn, had my imagination running wild, images of Rebecca naked, making my cock twitch. Her dewy skin and soft full lips were any man’s dream. And her fiery red hair, that fell around her shoulders and down her back like a lion’s mane, made me just want to entwine my fingers in those locks and fuck her hard.
She smiled wryly. “I would’ve fitted in so well in that era. Curvaceous bodies were desirable then.”
If only women realized that men actually liked a woman’s curves. We men are simple beasts: we want to feel the softness of a woman’s skin, the curve of her back, the fullness of her breasts. Healthy child-bearing hips had attracted men for centuries. Most men wanted a woman who could bear their children with comfort. It was primal instinct.
Standing behind her, I enfolded her in my arms and kissed her neck, feeling her softness yield against me. “My God, as desirable as you are now,” my cock throbbed against her ass, “I want to fuck you so badly,” I croaked into her ear. She responded by pushing her ass back into me.
Goddammit, I’m going to lose my mind. The thought of fucking Rebecca in a public place was beyond erotic, I wanted to bury my cock deep inside her and didn’t give a damn about the consequences.
At thirty-one, I’d been labeled as one of France’s most eligible bachelors. That was because I’d very deliberately managed to escape the snares that had been set by eager parents wanting their daughters to marry well.
Besides my considerable fortune, my long line of nobility seemed to be equally enticing. I’d dodged quite a few traps over the years from desperate females who’d declared they loved me, but all the while just wanted to be mistress of the chateau.
I wanted a woman who loved me for who I was, not for my heritage, or my wealth, or what I could give them—other than my heart.
Ever since I was a young boy, my mother said I was a hopeless romantic. Like her. She told me it was OK to listen to my heart in matters of love, to follow my instincts. She was the one who taught me the value of real love. That it was worth waiting for.
My father and I, on the other hand, didn’t get along as well. He believed it was my duty to marry well, to carry on the long line of nobility; whatever it took. He wasn’t in love with my mother when he married her, his affections were elsewhere. But when the time came to marry, he sensibly chose my mother for her beauty, and above all, her aristocracy; but also because she loved him unconditionally, and promised him, that one day he would love her too. He never did. Not the way she wanted him to.
I planned to marry for love. I didn’t want to be indifferent to my wife, like my father was most of his life toward my mother. It pained me to watch her suffer, knowing how much she loved him. I wanted passion and fire in my marriage.
Was the fiery redhead who made my cock throb and my head spin the one to offer that? Could I really feel this way about someone within such a short amount of time?
I loved that Rebecca was so feminine, yet so completely unaware of her sexual magnetism. It made her even more desirable. She didn’t use it to trap or ensnare a man, she had no hidden agenda. She was just herself, down to earth and fun to be with. Her sense of humor was downright sexy, too. I loved when she giggled spontaneously, and her megawatt smile melted my heart. I found myself wanting to do things that made her laugh more, just so I could see her face light up.
I couldn’t get enough of the way she made me feel when I was around her.
There was one problem however: I could hardly keep my hands off her. Every time she responded to my touch with such volatile reactions, it stoked the desire in me even more. I had a hard time keeping my fucking cock calmed down.
How the fool she was in love with hadn’t claimed her permanently and made her his wife, was something I couldn’t understand. I really wanted to know more. I wasn’t fooled by the story of a new career. I’d have to do a bit of digging into her past and hopefully she would tell me what had made her cross a continent. There was definitely more to it.
If she were mine, I would make damn sure no other man could lay a land on her.
Chapter 11
“I’m staying in the penthouse at the same hotel,” Alain said, with a wicked grin. Hotels have penthouses? And was it purely coincidence that Alain was staying at the same hotel or was he really stalking me?
Outside the door of my hotel room, Alain pulled me to him and kissed me till I was breathless.
“Goodnight, my beauty,” he murmured at the corner of my mouth.
I was tired, yet after all the flirting, I was totally shocked and certainly disappointed that he wasn’t trying to get me into his bed. He was behaving like the perfect gentleman. He wasn’t going to remove the decadent new underwear after all.
Doubt filled my mind. Is it me? Was there something wrong with me? Maybe he wasn’t really that into me? One minute he could hardly keep his hands and mouth off me, the next he was all polite and civil. God, it was frustrating.
Back in my room, I just wanted to have a quick shower and jump into bed. Physically and mentally exhausted from the flight and time difference, not to mention the sightseeing and excitement of being with Alain, I felt worn down.
On my pillow lay a single long stem yellow rose. Beautiful. The delicate fragrance filled the room. I opened the card.
Dear Miss Clarke,
I hope you had a very pleasant first day in Paris.
Enjoy the conference tomorrow.
Sleep well,
Maxwell Grant.
Surprised that he would go to the effort of having this done for me, I thought it rather sweet, and placed the flower into a glass of water next to my bed. It was probably all arranged by his personal assistant, and just the company’s way of welcoming new contractors.
I smiled as I drifted into sleep. It had been a good journey so far; I hoped it kept going this way. I hadn’t had a moment to think about Julian Palmer since meeting Alain. The sexy Frenchman was exactly the distraction I needed right now.
The next morning after breakfast, I signed up for the conference which was being held at the same hotel I was staying at. Happy that I could avoid peak-hour traffic, I hummed a tune as I made my way to the elevator; I hadn’t felt this upbeat in a long time. Was it something in the Paris air? Or was it the sexy man I’d hoped to see at breakfast?
Even though I was somewhat disappointed that Alain hadn’t shown up for breakfast, I was sti
ll in a positive frame of mind throughout the morning events. But, I often caught my mind drifting to my sexy tour guide, and the way he made me feel when I was with him.
Just as we broke for lunch, a smartly dressed hotel staff member handed me a note. Was it from Alain? My heart fluttered as I opened the note with trembling fingers.
Miss Clarke,
Have dinner with me tonight.
It was an order rather than a request. I drew in a sharp breath when I recognized the now familiar signature of Maxwell Grant.
He’s here, in Paris? Seriously?
My stomach twisted into a tight knot. I’d only ever communicated with him via email and Skype; I had yet to meet him personally. Even on Skype he appeared intimidating, self-assured to the point of arrogance. The type of man I avoided at all costs. Besides, I was hoping to spend time with Alain tonight.
I had no choice. If I wanted to keep my job—and I definitely did—I had to accept his invitation. After all, he was forking out an outrageous amount of money for me to deliver a series of workshops. In addition, his company had paid for my first-class flight and this luxurious hotel. And so far, I was really enjoying the Paris experience. I wanted to stay.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, so I scribbled a reply on the note and returned it to the man who had been waiting patiently. It was a local number. I answered hesitantly.
“Ma cherie, I have missed you,” Alain’s husky voice greeted me. My heart skipped a beat, before pumping erratically.
“Alain, I’d hoped to see you at breakfast— ” Was I sounding too eager?
Too bad.
“I couldn’t join you for breakfast. I had an urgent business meeting early this morning. I can’t wait to see you again, but I will have to wait till dinner. Please, say yes.” His voice was full of expectation.
I bit into my lip. “Um...I can’t...my new boss is in Paris. He insists I meet him for dinner. It's all business,” I said, keeping my voice light, hoping I sounded convincing.
“Sacrebleu.” I jumped at the loud curse in my ear. Clearly he was not happy. Neither was I, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. This contract was important to me; it was giving me the opportunity to live my dream. I had to please the man signing my paychecks for now.