Читать книгу Naughty Paris - Jina Bacarr - Страница 11

Running from the beast they call Monsieur Renard, I’ve never been so scared as when I saw him spring toward me like a wild animal. I swear I saw him pull out his dick, dark and meaty, and wave it at me. The pungent smell of his sweat overwhelmed me. Repulsive. Because of him, I’ve lost Paul Borquet.

You fool.

Okay, so the artist is sexy, gorgeous, and has a cock that lives up to his reputation, if it’s as big as it felt pressing against my hip. And when he spanked me, I squealed with both surprise and pleasure, arcing my back up toward him. I’ll never snicker at those SM personal ads again. There’s something about a little whack on the butt that sets off a girl’s libido like a vibrator on autospeed.

But if you think I’m going to tell you what he whispered in my ear when he was playing with my cunt, dream on. I can’t think about it now. I gotta haul my butt outta here before that creepy Monsieur Renard finds me and turns me into his own private peepshow. Why do I get all the corpulent creeps? Why don’t I get the Disney dream with the dorky dwarves and cute little elephants?

You got the handsome prince, kiddo. What more do you want?

Yeah. I can’t keep a smirk from crossing my lips. What hands that artist has. Stroking, rubbing my clit in perfect rhythm. I imagine him licking the insides of my thighs until I can no longer stand up; then I collapse into his arms and he catches me; before I can think of the right French idiom for fuck me hard, he kneels and puts his mouth on me and makes me climax un, deux, trois.

Yes, I’m willing to believe I’ve traveled back in time, if that will keep this scenario going and help me find Paul Borquet.

First, escape.

Inside the Black Beau bistro I’m surprised to find it so small it has no table. And no customers. Only a bar and a couple of chairs stacked in the corner. Heavy steam pours out of the big pots cooking on the stove. I pull back to escape the hot vapors before they scald my exposed skin. I hear the angry stomping of leather boots outside. Close, too close. I take one step backward, then a second, and find myself flattened against the back wall of the tiny bistro.

Crazy. I’m hiding out in a deserted restaurant in a market demolished long ago, the dark, worn wooden chairs and dented pots casting distorted images of a past where I don’t exist.

Until now.

My heart races; my body is flushed.

“Where’s the girl with the red hair?” I hear a man’s voice yell, the crack of his whip cutting through the still morning air. I peek through the tiny hole in the door. It’s Monsieur Renard.

“She went into the Black Beau,” someone says.

I look around. Where can I hide? There’s no back door, and no one attending to the steaming pots of hot liquid boiling on the stove. Talk about lousy customer service. I wish I knew what to do next, but I don’t. I’ve used up my smart chick trick quota for today. A wave of fear washes over me as I grab a big, heavy broom to defend myself. I’m not going down without a fight. I will never allow that thug to snatch me, grab my breasts, his yellow teeth closing around my nipples, biting hard.

I begin whacking a big pot of boiling soup across its belly, sweating and grunting, until the kettle starts wobbling back and forth on the stove and the steaming hot liquid splashes out onto the floor. One more push. I strain with a loud grunt and over goes the pot, crashing and splashing over the worn, wooden floor.

“Attention! Watch out!” someone yells outside as the flood of scalding liquid spills out of the tiny bistro.

I protect my face from the hot steam with my hands, peeking through my fingers to see what’s happening. Outside I see the angry crowd, including the black-bearded man and another man, jumping and bumping into each other, shrieking and cursing. A melody of yells, then accusations.

“It’s your fault, monsieur!”

“Not so, monsieur—you started it.”

I’ve got to make a run for it. I take a deep breath, lower my head, gather up the soft folds of my red cloak, when I hear—

“Over here, mademoiselle,” whispers a man’s voice. “Hurry!”

Who? What? I can’t believe it when I see a trap door in the floor rise slowly like a musty clam opening its shell and a hand beckons me.

What have I got to lose?

Without hesitation, I run toward the trap door and peer down into the hole. A rich, velvety darkness awaits me below. Okay, so it’s not a good idea to jump into a black hole that could lead me to nowheresville. I should have thought about that when I imagined this madcap adventure. I didn’t, so I don’t have much choice. It’s that or be ripped apart by an angry mob, my body bucking against the intrusion of more than one vile cock.

“Jump, mademoiselle,” urges the same voice from deep inside the cellar. “Jump.”

I hear a crackling sound as a bullet shatters a hanging oil lamp, splattering the thin glass everywhere. Someone’s shooting at me! I take a deep breath and jump…

…and land unhurt on top of what I think is a large wine barrel. I can’t see much. Carefully feeling my way in the dark, I let my legs dangle over the side. Only a faint sliver of light beckons me into the darkness. Before my eyes can adjust to the dim light, a breeze skirts past me, making me hold my breath. I smell strong liqueur.

“Shut the trap door, mademoiselle, before they find us and we go together to claim our place in hell,” orders a man’s voice. Impatience slurs his words, but I get his drift. I pull the cellar door shut, fasten the handle in place, then turn my attention to the caped figure holding a candle in one hand, a cane in the other.

Paul Borquet.

I smile. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.

“I owe you my life again, monsieur.” Our eyes meet and I begin to understand the flurry of emotions engulfing me. From the first moment I saw him, I was wildly attracted to his gallantry as well as his cock.

“Mais non, mademoiselle, it is I who owe you. Your beauty inspires me, fills me with passion to paint.”

We face each other, and in that breathless moment, I recognize he’s more than a dark and mysterious superhero clone in a black cape and crotch-hugging tights. We are artist and model, a creative work of art yet to be defined that defies time and rationale. I lean into him and he strokes my neck, his fingers working at the fastening to my cloak, then stops. I sense his pleasure and something else. Fear. We’re not out of danger yet.

Nibbling on my lip, I ask, “How did you find me?”

“No time for questions, mademoiselle,” the artist says, the light making a halo around him as he extends his hand out to me. “Take my hand. We must move quickly. It won’t take that beast Renard long to start tearing up the floor, looking for you.”

His strong, muscular hand grips mine as quivering candlelight guides me down to the dirt floor below. Then, wrapping his cape around him, the artist leads me through a twisting, underground tunnel barely big enough for him to crawl through on his knees. Pulling my cloak around me, I follow him, crumbling dirt hitting the top of my head, the tip of my nose. I keep his tight butt in sight. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees with David, but the view was never this good.

Then, without warning, the candle flickers and goes out. I panic, but instead of being thrown into blackness, I’m surprised to see a spotlight of sunshine greeting me like a warm smile. I look straight up. The way out of the tunnel is an old, dry well laced with rusty, iron rings and small stone steps spaced about a foot apart on the cracked stonework.

“I’ve used this escape route many times when my taste for liqueur overrides my taste for a woman’s pussy,” the artist says with amusement. “Every sharp cut of stone is an old friend.” He clasps his hands together and bends over to give me a boost. “After you,” he urges.

I lift my eyebrows. “So you can stick your fingers up my rear end?”

“You have a sharp wit, mademoiselle.”

“Not as sharp as the end of your cane.” I cast my eyes downward. He’s sliding his cane up and down my butt. Sensuous. Provocative. No mistaking his visual cue. I wet my lips.

He laughs. “Allez, go!” he calls out, insisting I start climbing up the wall whether I want to or not. To my delight, I find it easier than I thought as I grab onto the rings embedded in the scaly stone wall and climb up the side of the well. My heavy breathing mixes with that of the man following me, the sound of our feet scraping over the broken stones filling the echo of the empty water hole.

“I love the smell of freedom,” Paul says, taking in a deep breath of air when we reach the top and vault easily over the side of the well. He turns and looks at me with a sensuality I find not at all disturbing. “But not nearly as much as I love the smell of a woman.”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t smell so good after crawling through that old tunnel,” I say, dusting off my cloak.

“Let me be the judge of that, mademoiselle.”

He leans down, his clean-shaven face so close to mine I breathe in the lingering odor of the strong liqueur. It makes me dizzy. His lips brush my cheek as he pushes aside my cloak and kisses my shoulders, then delicately up the sides of my neck. Little shivers of pleasure flow through me. I have to steady my nerves, slow my racing mind, get some answers.

God help me if he comes any closer.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. He shifts his attention lower. He caresses my breasts, taking the time to rub my nipples in such delicious circles, I can’t catch my breath.

“Where you will be safe, mademoiselle.”

Safe? With his hands doing this to me?

“To your studio in Montmartre?” I ask.

“How do you know I have a studio on the hill, mademoiselle?” He gives me a look that is neither friendly nor hostile, but probing.

Don’t stop circling my nipples! I want to cry out. Coward that I am, I don’t. Instead I say in a shaky voice, “Someone told me.”

“Who?”

He slides his hand down to my waist. He fumbles with the metal clasp on my petticoats. Damn this ridiculous outfit.

I say, “An old artist. He showed me your self-portrait.” I don’t tell him about the statue of Min and its prophecy. Why spoil his fantasy?

“Where did you meet this artist, mademoiselle?”

Still fumbling. Has he lost interest in my clit? Or is he more interested in his own self-portrait?

“In an art gallery in Marais,” I say, not giving away when I saw the painting. “The House of Morand.”

Paul shakes his head. He’s not even touching me. Oh, the frustration. “I know of no such gallery in Marais.”

I frown. My breasts feel cold without his touch. Is the whole thing a dream after all? Okay, let’s try again, appeal to his male ego. Better known as his dick.

“I did see such a painting,” I insist. “Life-size, in every way.” I can’t resist letting my gaze drift downward to the bulge between his legs. A movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by the handsome artist.

He moves closer to me, then whispers in my ear, “Ah, you mean the self-portrait I gave to La Comtesse du Chalons. Hélas, you must be mistaken, mademoiselle. La comtesse took the portrait with her to London.”

“No mistake, Monsieur Borquet,” I say, playing the game and enjoying it. Evidently the portrait I saw in the modern art studio traveled from one owner to another through the years. “I like the real thing better.”

“Pardon?” he says, not quite understanding me.

“American humor.”

“Ah, so you’re une Americaine, mademoiselle.”

I nod. “Autumn Maguire from—”

No, don’t tell him any more. Not now.

Paul raises his eyebrows, then laughs. “It doesn’t matter to me where you’re from, mademoiselle. You’re not like the English girls who raise their skirts in the dance halls. Cheap and bawdy with a smirk on their lips and fat arms and legs.” He leans closer, looking at me curiously. “You have the body of a goddess, made pour faire l’amusette, love play.”

He lifts my petticoat with his cane and rubs the inside of my thigh with his walking stick. What took him so long? I tingle all over, warm and happy and very aroused. I don’t pull back. I try taking slow, deep breaths. Instead, my breathing becomes wildly ragged.

Don’t get turned on, kiddo. You don’t even know where you are.

My eyes dart around the ancient courtyard. I can’t deal with this insane situation until I find the courage to accept the fact I’ve traveled back in time. I have to do it quickly before my angst swells into a panic I can’t control.

Face it.

This is Old Paris.

Grime-crusted towers and turrets, broken cobbles. A medieval atmosphere hangs in the air like an old tapestry fraying at the edges, its faded glory begging for a second look. I see several ramshackle town houses huddled together around a small square of broken stones with piles of rags neatly lined up in a row around the perimeter.

Suddenly the rags move, and tiny, taut faces peep out from underneath their dirty shells of clothing. The smell of unwashed, diseased bodies overcomes me. The scene is like a curtain opening on the final act, where the near-dead play at living.

This is Old Paris.

In a instant where I am, who I am, why I’m here, are all erased in one breathless sweeping moment when Paul draws me into his arms and does what I’ve been wanting him to do again. Kiss me. Hard. Deeply. Like a man who doesn’t like his pleasure to be hurried. A man who knows what he wants. It isn’t like any kiss I’ve ever experienced. His mouth moves slightly over mine, his tongue touching the insides of my lips, exploring. Damn him. I can’t move. Arms pinned behind my back. Breasts pressed up against his chest. My whole body is tense. I feel breathless but for all the wrong reasons.

I try to wiggle free but he pulls me closer.

“Don’t be afraid, ma belle.” The handsome artist laughs, spreading his arms wide, opening his black cape like angel wings reaching up to the heavens. “No harm will come to you with Paul Borquet as your protector.”

“Who’s going to protect me from you?” I look hard into his dark blue eyes. They hold secrets I must know, but they’re impossible to read.

“When the time comes for you to fulfill your part of our bargain…

That lascivious act I mentioned earlier.

“…I will arouse you to such heights you will feel no pain.”

“Why would I feel pain?” I have to ask. A whack on the butt, okay, but let’s not get carried away.

“Your cunt is hot and tight, even for a girl so young.”

Young? Can’t he see I’m a woman, not a virgin schoolgirl? Though I admit, I’m a woman falling ridiculously in love with a man younger than myself. Much younger. He can’t be more than his midtwenties. I haven’t given it much thought until now, due to the lingering effects of this entire fantasy on my brain.

Yet I have to admit I feel different. I put my hands on my waist—it is smaller—place my palm on my stomach—flatter. Damn, I wish I could find a mirror, find out if the Egyptian god Min worked his magic on me.

Paul has no idea what’s going through my mind and thinks I’m teasing him.

“Mademoiselle feels sexual excitement, n’est-ce pas?” he says, placing his hands on mine, squeezing my waist, moving his hand over my stomach, down…down…lower. Is he counting the rows of ruffles on my petticoat hiding my pussy from him? If he’s not, I am. Okay, I’m stalling. I can’t let myself get carried away. Who knows who’s watching us? All I have to do is part my legs and he’ll move his head between my thighs to my cunt. And you know what happens next. Tickle and tingle. Big-time.

I shake my head. “Not with everyone watching, monsieur,” I say firmly, looking around. “Where are we?”

“These are the homes of the truands, the beggars, the lame and the blind. They’re my friends.”

As if on cue a tiny rag-covered child—or is it an adult?—hurries up to Paul and whispers in his ear. I watch silently as he draws a coin out of his pocket and gives it to the beggar. Then he grabs me by the arm and pushes me into a tiny alleyway.

“Vite, quickly,” he says, “we must leave here.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Word is out on the streets Monsieur Renard is looking for a girl with red hair wearing only a red velvet cloak. They will look for you here among the beggars. Vien, come—”

“Where are we going?” I ask. I won’t listen to the little voice in my head, telling me if I am young and beautiful, then I’ve sold my soul. Telling me what I don’t want to believe. All I feel is the sting of the artist’s kiss lingering on my lips.

I have no choice but to follow him, hugging the doorways and staying close behind the artist as he heads down the twisting rue des Halles toward the Seine. Everywhere I look citizens attend to their daily lives—going to the market, the cafés, the shops, their offices, cleaning the streets. I slip in and out of reality, a worrisome fear bobbing up and down in my stomach. A fear that grows with each moment.

After a few blocks, Paul slows our pace, though I stay close behind him as we walk along the edge of the Seine near the Pont Neuf. Standing on the quay under the trees shading the banks of the river, I look out over the Seine, puzzled. In my time, the river is filled with foam plastic cups, ducks, even used condoms. Now it ripples along its mile course through the city filled with boats carrying cargoes of grain going upstream, wine going down. Heavy traffic of brightly painted barges, bateaux-lavoirs for the city’s washerwomen, as well as commuter boats, congest the canal. People scurrying about, everyone is caught up in their daily lives.

I grow cold all the way through my cloak to my petticoat to my bones. I hug myself, shivering all over. “Tell me, monsieur, what year is it?”

“Alors, mademoiselle, it’s 1889.”

1889.

I start to laugh, choke on the laugh, then seek refuge in incessant babbling. I’m alive in 1889 Paris and the artist in the portrait is also alive and here with me.

Silly words, meaningless words to Paul Borquet. Puzzled, he takes a flask out of his jacket and the violent whiff of alcohol pushes through the stale air, its scent making me dizzy. The artist holds the flask of strong liqueur out to me, its heady bouquet making my eyes water. He passes his hand over it, as if to make it disappear, then sniffs it with approval.

“You need a drink, mademoiselle.”

“Why not?” I say. Something, anything that will help the throbbing in my head go away so I can think out this whole crazy situation.

I inhale deeply, then take the flask Paul offers me, drinking the liqueur down quickly, noting its bitter though licoricelike taste, hoping it will take away the chill in my bones and put some sense back into my head. I must play my part in this Parisian soap opera, though I wonder when I’ll wake up.

I blink several times, swallow. My head feels woozy, funny…

I want Paul to hold me again…in his arms…play with my clit.

Oh, I’m dizzy. My legs rubbery. A tingling sensation scrambles down my arms, running like trickles of rushing water to the ends of my fingers. I start breathing faster, yet I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue grip me and not let go, as if my body is shutting down, exhausted by everything I’ve been through since that electric current zapped me. I can hear Paul’s voice talking to me, but I can’t see his face clearly. Fuzzy shapes—he looks blurry…so blurry. But, oh, so handsome.

“What is this stuff?” I ask curiously, licking my lips. Peppermint. Licorice. And something else I can’t identify.

“Absinthe.”

Absinthe. A strong anise-flavored liqueur illegal in my time because of its druglike properties. Powerful stuff. Addictive and known for causing madness. Toulouse-Lautrec, Baudelaire, Degas. They were all absinthe drinkers, as was Oscar Wilde. Didn’t the Englishman say something about absinthe making you see things as you wish they were, then as they really are?

I blink. Once, then again. It doesn’t do any good. Everything around me starts to move. Dizziness overcomes me, then a pounding in my head. I feel consciousness slipping away from me and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop Paul Borquet from suddenly pushing his fingers in between my labes, thrusting up into me. He’s caught me by surprise again, and the throbbing sensation blocks off my thoughts, my ability to enjoy the pleasure of his thumb rubbing my clitoris. What’s happening to me? Am I waking up? Is the dream over?

No, I don’t want to wake up, not when it’s getting this good. Oh, damn—

—damn!