The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (40 page)

I'd been standing there for two or three minutes, considering him.  He must think me mad.  Well, he knew I thought too much.  But could he be aware of the thoughts racing through my mind?  Maybe the same nervous thoughts stormed his brain?

When he held out a black-gloved hand, trimmed in white lace, I sighed.  A fantasy stood before me.  The unattainable image of a musketeer I'd often used to stir my nights into deliciously sexy dreams.  Only this one was real in a way I could not explain to anyone else.  Because I knew he had a thing for musketeers, as I did.  As a kid he'd fallen in love with
The Three Musketeers
, and now read it once a year.  He'd taken his first fencing lesson because he'd wanted to be a musketeer when he grew up.  Now he gave fencing lessons.  And while he'd never dash away at an enemy in real life, I knew he was fierce and would protect me should I require protecting. 

I should walk over to him.  Take his hand.  Begin the next chapter in this weird and slightly abnormal relationship that had started without sound, smell, taste or touch—only sight—and had now slowly worked its way to the beginning.  Where normal couples began.  Standing before one another, delving into each other's gazes.

Do it.  Move your legs.  Walk over to him!

I…couldn't make my legs move.  My stomach flip-flopped.  And I was thankful for the gown because it concealed my nervous compulsion to imitate a statue.

I held out a hand and stretched my arm as if that could bring us together.  It activated something, because he walked toward me.  Eyes fixed to mine; he breached the distance in seconds.  Stopping before me, he tugged off a glove and slipped his bare, warm hand into mine.

"Hey," he said.

I sighed out a heavy breath.  I'd spoken to him for hours at a time online.  Hadn't stopped gabbing, except to strip and have hot and sexy mutual masturbation sessions with him.

Everything changed with a few steps of his boots and the slide of his hand across mine.  The glint in his eyes reassured my silly nerves.  He was real.  Warm and alive.  Reality felt so right.  Yet, I admit, it was also a little scary.

"Hey," I managed. 

He took my other hand, the glove still on his, and held them between us.  He leaned in, not to kiss, because his trajectory moved his face alongside mine.  And there, his nose nudged my earlobe.  Shivers traced along my neck.  My nipples grew so hard I thought they would burst through the fabric.  The hush of his warm breath along my neck where the hair had been pulled up felt like a summer breeze.  But even more?  I wanted him to invade me, to completely own me.

"I'm glad I decided to come here," he said.  "I was nervous about this."

"You were?"

"After all that has been revealed between us? 
Oui
."

And his nose nuzzled along my skin.  His subtle moan crept into my soul.  His hands squeezed mine.  I closed my eyes.  I couldn't fight the crazy thunder of my heartbeats, but I did have to stay focused so I wouldn't crash and faint in his arms.

Because of all that had been revealed. 

He was a married man.  Albeit a married man in the process of getting a divorce.  More on that later.  Right now I didn't want anything to taint this moment. 

"You smell better than I imagined," he said at my ear.  "Vanilla.  I had expected honey,
mon abeille
."

His pet name for me.  It meant my bee. 

Focus.  Don't pass out from utter joy
. 

I tilted my head toward his, our noses moving closer, our lips still too far away to kiss.  The cloves I could smell everywhere hung on his hair and skin.  I didn't know if it was his cologne or this ballroom's sensory milieu.  I'd take it.  A spicy scented man was my favorite kind of treat.

When he moved his face away from mine, I released a murmur that I hoped he hadn't heard.  A greedy noise. 
Don't take my treat away from me, please
.

But he didn't step back, and stood before me, my hands in his, his thumbs gently stroking my skin.

"I could stand before you all night," he said.  His eyes twinkled and his smile seemed irrepressible.  "Just drink you in.  Your skin is so soft."  He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it.  The warmth of his mouth and the tickle of his moustache would undo me. 

Would?  Hell, I was undone.  Falling.  Into him.

"You okay?"  His eyes narrowed as he studied my face.  "Your cheeks are flushed."

Did I look like I was ready to faint?  Probably.  I think I could faint.  The corset had grown tight.  But no, I wasn't about to topple. 

Maybe.

"I'm good.  It's just…"

"Overwhelming?"

I shrugged and nodded.  "So real.  Here you are.  Standing before me.  My musketeer."

"You like the costume?  We match, eh?"

I realized this was the first time I'd heard his voice right next to me and not filtered through a computer speaker.  It was richer, more full and deep.  The French accent felt like a decadent arabesque upon his exquisitely seductive tones.  Mercy, but he could fuck me with that voice.

He had fucked me with that voice.

"
Mon abeille
?"

I had to stop letting my mind wander.  He was here.  Now.  And we had to begin. 

I confessed, "I think I'm a little lightheaded."

"Let's go out on the balcony,
oui
?"

"Yes."

He clasped my hand and I followed him up four stairs and out through the two-story-high glass doors.  Three other people stood on the balcony, all quietly chatting near a table that glittered with pumpkins and rhinestones.  I didn't notice the fall chill.  My body was on fire.  Because Jean-Louis held my hand. 

Pausing before the balcony railing, he turned, and again we held each other's eyes for long moments of silence.  It was something we were accustomed to, for we had established this relationship through glass, silently observing one another.  Speaking with our eyes.

I stroked my fingers along his cheek.  "You are my musketeer, and I am your lady."  He dipped his head into my palm and kissed the center of it.  "No tunic?"

"I couldn't find one.  And I wanted it to be authentic, not like that other musketeer I saw walking around earlier."

"Wrong style," I agreed, sharing a knowing nod with him.  The musketeers had worn black tunics for a time, not blue.  "This is you."  I swept my gaze down the rich damask coat.  Gold buttons dotted one side of the opened coat.  "I…"  Should I say it?  I'd been brazenly open with him online.  Why edit myself now?  "I want to take it off of you."

His smile grew and he bracketed my face with both his hands.  "There's my sexy Hollie who tells me what she wants.  I was wondering for a moment if I had lost you.  Nerves, oui?"

I nodded and clasped his wrists as he held my face.  Would he kiss me?  I desperately needed to know his kiss.  His mouth on mine.  I'd dreamed about it so often I suddenly wondered if the real thing would be a letdown.

And then I realized he'd said my name.  It was the first time I'd heard him speak it.  And he'd only learned it a few days ago as I had his.  I'd left him a note in his mailbox.  My name scribbled on a piece of paper.  It had been his choice to look at it.  And he had.

"Jean-Louis," I whispered.

"Hollie."  He tilted his head down and our foreheads met. 

This closeness was exquisite.  He smelled like my dreams.  His warmth lured me closer as if a river current.  I wanted to dive in and float with arms spread out to my sides. 

I also wanted to run my hands all over his body, to finally touch every part of him.  I needed...  I needed privacy where I could rip off his clothing and explore and taste and touch and suck and...

"I want to kiss you," he said.  "May I?"

I nodded, and my reply came out as a wanting gasp, "Yes, please." 

My heart thudded.  My toes became springs as I bounced subtly, wishing I was as tall as him to be able to meet the kiss.  My hands glided down the front of his damask coat.  The fabric was rich and authentic to the time period, which made the whole experience surreal and so, so exciting.

I opened my eyes as his mouth landed on mine, and closed them just as quickly.  Focus zoomed to my mouth.  The light, yet sure, brush of his lips.  Testing.  That first tentative touch.  Yes, I am here.  Yes, I want to taste you.  Yes, yes, and oh...yes.

He tilted his mouth against mine and the kiss grew more confident.  It was rich and exquisite.  Sure.  Like he'd been there many times before and knew his place. 

The tickle of his moustache teased my upper lip.  I gripped his coat with my fingers and clung to him, standing on tiptoes because he was taller than expected.  And he swept an arm around my back to hold me against him.  To claim me. 

I had dreamed about this kiss.  And then I had tried not to imagine what it would be like because I feared I'd concoct a fantasy that couldn't possibly be recreated.  I needn't have worried.  Jean-Louis's mouth on mine was heaven.  His breath tasted like the champagne I'd sipped upon arrival at the party.  His body heat lured me closer.  The smell of him sank into my very soul and found its home.

And then he opened my mouth with his and danced his tongue along my teeth, the inner sides of my lips, and to my tongue.  Mmm, I loved this.  Falling into him.  Losing myself in this exquisite connection. 

I reached up, spreading my fingers through his soft, dark hair and felt a curl tickle about one of them.  He groaned into my mouth and held me tighter.  As if he never wanted to let go.  I breathed his air, taking life from him and giving back my own.

And then he gently, slowly begin to pull away, he kissed me quickly at the corner of my mouth, then yet another deep and delving kiss, and then one to my lower lip that suckled for a moment.  He pressed his forehead to mine, and we both must have sighed.

"That was..." I realized there was no way to put it into words.  And why should I?  So instead I kissed him again.

I've placed Angelina's hot chocolate on the top of my favorite treats list.  No more.  Jean-Louis's kiss was number one.  I devoured it, feasted upon his sensual taste and the smell of his skin against mine.  Mmm... 

Happy All Saints Day to me. 

"
Mon abeille
," he breathed against my mouth.  "Très bon.  You cannot know how long I have desired this."

"As long as I have, surely.  You taste so good.  Don't let me go."

He still held me in a tight clutch, our faces but a breath away from one another.  We'd fallen into one another's eyes, the music in the adjoining ballroom but a distant melody to our thumping hearts.  In my peripheral vision the city lights twinkled, a glamorous backdrop to our embrace.

I was in Paris standing in the arms of a sexy Frenchman who had kissed me silly.  And all I wanted was another kiss.

"Another?" he asked, but didn't wait for my approval.

He kissed me soundly.  Then a dash of his tongue teased my mouth open and I felt so light and free that I must have grown an inch because I didn't have to reach so far to meet him.  The curls at my neck were clasped in his fingers.  His leg pressed against my skirts, a solid stance that claimed me, held me. 

Owned me.

I had become the musketeer's woman.

"Let's find a private corner," he whispered at my ear.

My heartbeats skipped and the vixen inside me sang like some kind of love-struck heroine in a Disney cartoon.

His hand stroked my cheek and down my neck to land on top of my breasts.  "There is somewhere else on you I wish to put my mouth."  He leaned in to whisper at my ear.  "I crave to taste your pussy."

The giddy nerves I'd felt upon first sighting him had simmered to a steady gush of urgent need and desire.  Fuck the looming divorce situation.  We'd been good.  We'd denied ourselves one another for too long. 

The time had come for touch.  And to give him the taste he craved.

I gripped his waistcoat.  "I know the perfect place."

Chapter
Two

Jean-Louis grabbed my hand and we dashed through the crowd of revelers.  Light falling from the chandeliers glimmered on masks and painted faces.  Champagne glasses tilted into melodious tings.  Lush spice and musk tainted the atmosphere.  Together we rushed toward adventure and the erotic play that we'd been feeding for too long.  It had boiled to the top.  Time to let it spill over. 

The coat check was a vast closet walled in red velvet.  Rows upon rows of coats held court.  Jean-Louis spoke to the valet in French, who then handed him a key.  My cyber lover tugged me inside the room.  The valet called out something.

"What did he say?"

"He's taking a break," Jean-Louis said. "He'll be back in half an hour.  There's an employee room here."

We navigated the tight rows of coats hung on a rotating track such as you'd see at a laundromat until we spied a door.  Jean-Louis stuck the key into the lock.  Boots lined the floor.  Cubbies held street clothing.  Employees must change in here.  He turned the lock on the door and tucked the key into a pocket in his musketeer breeches.  (Okay, so pockets were not period correct but I couldn't argue that faux pas.)