Читать книгу Naughty Paris - Jina Bacarr, Jina Bacarr - Страница 9

As slippery with his sweat as with her hot juices, Paul sniffed his fingers, reveling in the aroma of her youth filling up his nostrils. Such delights energized him with renewed passion, vigor and sustenance to indulge in his art.

I must be alone with her. Taste her cunt, wet with her jus de miel, her honey juice, a few inches above my mouth.

First he must seduce the redhead to go with him to his studio in Montmartre. He would tell no one about her, not even the other artists he often painted with at L’Atelier Gromain. Who knew how they’d react when seduced by her opulent beauty?

His gaze traveled up and down her body in a long, continuous curve, the delightful journey beginning at the top of her silken red hair and ending at the tip of her button shoes. She could never compare to a mere mortal. Tall and regal looking, she held her head up with pride, like a goddess carved in white Carrara marble. She was perfection in a world of imperfect flesh, driving men mad.

She was safe only in his hands, he thought, inserting his fingers into her again and massaging her clit with an expert touch.

The girl squirmed in his arms, the smell of her female scent assuring him she was real and not an hallucination induced by his indulgence in absinthe. Breasts, round and firm, responded to his probing fingers, her nipples puckered and dark. He was surprised she wasn’t laced up in a whalebone corset, yet she was slender with a natural waist so small he could almost span both his hands around her.

He wanted desperately to seduce her, grab her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. Never had he dared to imagine he’d find her in Les Halles, the rumbling central market of Paris. He had meandered around the market, smelling the unpleasant odor of sea snails on the fish counters while looking for her, before wandering into a small restaurant to partake of a bowl of gratinée to cure his hangover. He had almost given up hope of finding her when the flash of her red velvet cape caught his eye. Racing after her, he’d sobered up quickly.

Now he couldn’t let her go. He suspected she hadn’t savored what he could teach her. He imagined her nipples, hard and pointy, pierced by silver rings. Her pussy framed with a delicate blush of raspberry curls and glistening with the moisture of her juices, waiting for his tongue to lick her essence, savoring the taste of her. She moaned and sighed with so much joy, as if she were discovering sex in its purest form with his fingers probing her. Inexplicably, each thrust of her lower torso into his hand heightened his anxiety.

What if she wouldn’t pose for him?

“Does mademoiselle agree to my proposition to save her from the humiliation of the wheel?” He looked up toward the high, high ceiling at the big, horizontal wheel attached to the flat roof of the hangman’s stone tower. How many times had he seen thieves and unscrupulous merchants imprisoned in the rim of the medieval torture device with only their heads and hands showing, the hangman turning the wheel tighter every quarter hour?

The girl followed his gaze, then shivered. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Word spreads around Les Halles faster than a careless indiscretion of l’amour, mademoiselle. Come with me.”

“And if I don’t play your lascivious game, monsieur?”

“Les Halles is swarming with gendarmes, mademoiselle, eager to wield their sticks. Apprehending a thief is great sport for them.”

She grinned. Or was that a smirk on her pretty pink lips? “But I have you to protect me, monsieur. Lucky girl that I am.”

“You won’t smile so easily, mademoiselle, if they stretch your beautiful naked body out on the wheel, your legs spread so far apart to reveal the delicate inner pleats of your pink pussy lips, your breasts pointing outward, your nipples sucked on at the whim of the hangman, his ugly tongue licking you wherever he wishes.”

A bad taste lingered in his mouth. The wheel was too cruel a punishment when the girl’s only crime was foolishness. He remembered how many years he had suffered pain, stiffening in fear, never knowing how long the blows from his stepfather would last.

In his mind now, his thoughts went back to Giverny, to his childhood home with heavily fringed lace curtains keeping out the light and sending him scurrying out into the fields to paint. He could see the soft fields of poppies, azaleas, peonies, begging for him to take up his brush, hours he spent painting, knowing when he returned home, his stepfather would try to beat this “painting nonsense” out of him. Sometimes he couldn’t paint at all. The years of beatings by his stepfather took away his sight and set off a painful emotion that pressed upon his artist’s soul, dragging out the mental effect of the beatings long after the physical pain had ceased.

The girl knew nothing of his pain. Innocent of life’s harshness, she blinked, running her long fingers up and down her cheek. Such soft skin, untouched. “You are a pervert, monsieur, though a handsome one—”

He dug his fingers into the soft flesh on her buttocks, squeezing her until she squealed. “I promise you, mademoiselle, I won’t hurt you. I wish only to pleasure you.”

A saucy laugh escaped the redhead, but unlike the girls he met up with in the brothels of Paris, she didn’t lower her eyelashes or coyly turn her cheek to allow the morning sun streaming through the glass roof to highlight her bone structure. This girl was the exception, and that intrigued him even more.

She said, “If you only knew what pleasure you bring me.”

“Zut alors, mademoiselle, you surprise me with your boldness.”

She laughed, throwing her head back. Her voice was low and husky. His cock hardened with desire, straining against his pants. “But if you try to fuck me, monsieur, you’ll be limping home. I know karate.”

Kay-rah-tay? What the hell was that? A devil’s curse?

“Pardon, mademoiselle?” Paul blinked, frustration slowing down his exploration of her cunt. He removed his fingers from inside her, but that didn’t stop her from pressing her slim hip up against his thigh. He suppressed a groan. He was never a man to let his physical needs override his reason. He’d been nurtured in a society where manners were more important than emotion. This little firebrand, he noted with wry amusement, had no manners.

“No man ever dared proposition me as you have, monsieur, asking me to…to…it’s so unbelievably erotic, so sensual, it takes my breath away.” She pulled away from him, but he held on to her. “Are you real? Or are you a dream?” She squeezed his forearm. “Mmm, you are real and ripped.”

“Ripped, mademoiselle?”

“Buff. A hunk. Pumped-up.”

Her words sounded strange to his ears. A country dialect? She spoke with a peculiar accent, lapsing into English, using words he didn’t understand, although he knew a little of that barbaric language.

“I’ll rip ‘off’ your clothes, mademoiselle, and make love to you not once but twice before the cock crows at dawn.”

She laughed. “I love the B horror movie dialogue.”

Ignoring her, he continued, “I’ll make you beg for mon mandrin, mademoiselle.”

“Mandrin?” she asked, not understanding. “Dick, penis?”

He pulled her closer to him. “You fascinate me, mademoiselle, with your choice of words. Parisian females need very little language to get their meaning across, using the elegance of their bodies to let a man know what they want.”

“I know what I want, Monsieur Borquet.”

He drew in his breath. “You know my name, mademoiselle?”

She smiled. “I’ve seen your work, monsieur. Very impressive.” Her eyes moved downward. She squeezed his crotch. “Like the rest of you.”

Gritting his teeth, he ignored her squeeze and her sarcasm, his hands moving up and down the slender form of his captive with an experienced touch. “Obviously, mademoiselle can’t wait to experience the pleasure of my cock in her.”

“I warned you, monsieur,” she said, bringing her knee up to his groin, but his hands were faster. Not only was he a master with a paintbrush, but he had the hands of a boxer. Big. Strong. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his face so close to hers he felt her breath on his cheek.

“I can’t wait any longer, mademoiselle. I want to taste you.”

He bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Kissed her hard. He parted her lips easily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, and he felt her body shudder. A more delicious sensation reveled through him as the half-dressed young woman struggled like a wildcat. He sensed in her a fiery passion that could make the night sparkle. Like a sweet, pink champagne.

Finally she let her body relax, her anger fading. “None of this is real, so why am I fighting you?”

“C’est si bon, mademoiselle. Good, because I’m not letting you go.”

“Don’t get so cocky, monsieur. I haven’t agreed to your insane proposition.” She squeezed his crotch again. Harder this time. “Not yet.”

“Who is that dirty-looking harlot in your arms, monsieur?” Lillie asked, her eyes blazing.

Paul spun around, twirling his cape, but he didn’t let go of the redhead. “How did you find me, Lillie?”

“Everybody in Les Halles is talking about the girl in the red velvet cloak and how you stole her away from Monsieur Renard.”

He could see the blond prostitute fighting to keep the muscle at the side of her mouth from twitching. The look on her face told him she’d been following him from one tiny bistro to the next, looking for the redhead.

“I dismissed you earlier, Lillie. Be on your way.”

“Not until I have a look at the slut.”

Before he could stop her, Lillie yanked the hood off the redhead and, seeing the girl’s beautiful face, slapped her.

“Bitch!”

“Keep your hands to yourself, sister!” yelled the redhead, slapping Lillie’s face. Hard. The blond girl’s hand flew up to her cheek, already burning red.

“Quel cockatrice,” Lillie said, spitting at the girl.

“What did she call me?” the redhead asked him in English.

Trying not to show his amusement, Paul said, “An old, worn-out whore.”

“I’ll tear her hair out by its dark roots,” the redhead threatened, making Paul wonder if he should let her do it. It would be quite a show, these two beautiful women tearing the clothes off each other, grabbing hair, their nude breasts heaving up and down, pulling on each other’s nipples, the smell of their fury mixing into an erotic musky perfume. But les chipettes, women such as Lillie, could attack their victim with a knife as easily as they plucked their eyebrows. Not a pretty sight.

“Not so fast, ma belle,” Paul said, trying to keep the two females apart. “Mademoiselle de Pontier isn’t a woman to be tampered with. She is a calège, a high-class woman of pleasure, from one of the best brothels in Paris.”

That didn’t impress the redhead. She started laughing, then wet her lips before she said, “Where I come from, women who sell their bodies are known by the same four-letter word, whatever their price.”

She glared at the blonde, making Paul uneasy. Trouble of a female sort was brewing. Silently he shot Lillie a glance that told her to keep quiet. She paid his warning no heed.

“Alors, mademoiselle,” Lillie shot back, hands on her hips. “A girl of your sort would never be accepted at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“Oh?” the redhead challenged. “And what sort is that?”

“I’ve heard gentlemen at Madame Chapet’s say women like you are like a cheap sauce—once you find out what they’re made of, you don’t want to taste their pussies.”

The redhead bolted toward Lillie, muttering, “Is that so? Well, I’ll take the puff out of your French pastry—”

“Cochon, you little tramp!” Lillie yelled, ready for a fight. “You’re nothing but a marcheuse, a streetwalker haunting the boulevards, stopping in front of a shop and playing with your cunt to entice a man to follow you.”

“Me? From what I can see, mademoiselle, you do a good job soliciting with your hips,” the redhead said with a flippant attitude. Paul noticed she had lost none of her courage.

“Zut alors, you know nothing about pleasing a man, mademoiselle,” Lillie said, wiggling her body and emphasizing her catlike litheness that hinted at the claws hidden under her cloak. “I’m the most popular of all the girls at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“I don’t care where you live or who pays you to moan when you’re lying flat on your back with a dick in you,” the redhead said, her frustration spilling over. “I don’t want any trouble.”

She looked very confused, and in that moment, Paul wanted only to take her in his arms and hold her. To do so, he knew, would anger the beautiful blonde, and that would make matters worse.

“Enough of your silly jealousy, Lillie. Be on your way!”

It was Paul who spoke, his voice cutting through the heat of the moment. The look in her eyes told him she knew he meant it. Although the cool morning mist mixed with the lingering night chill, Paul began to perspire. He turned to the redhead. She smiled at him, and was that surprise, then gratitude he saw in her eyes when he smiled back?

He didn’t have time to find out. Lillie claimed her rights, insisting Paul pay her extra francs for her services, which he did, then fretted about how he’d be sorry he didn’t let her ride the stallion tonight.

Lillie also had parting words for the redhead. “It’s not over between us, mademoiselle,” she said. “I never forget a face.”

“I, on the other hand, find your face utterly forgettable,” the redhead returned.

Paul could see Lillie barely holding herself in check, but she knew when to retreat, especially with the extra francs he stuffed in her bosom. Parting her pouty carmine lips, she hissed at the girl, though the redhead refused to flinch. Then Lillie was gone, her scent tagging along on a breeze, subtle but strong enough so Paul couldn’t forget it.

“Merci, monsieur, thank you,” the redhead said, her face flushed. “I let my anger get the better of me when that girl insulted me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I feel like I’m starring in the French version of a bad slasher movie.”

“‘Movie,’ mademoiselle?”

“Yes, a film, a flick.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess movies haven’t been invented yet.”

She offered no further explanation, and he didn’t ask for one. A strong wind heavy with anger ruffled the cape between his legs. More trouble, he knew instinctively before he turned.

“There’s the thief!”

Paul saw the big, ugly Monsieur Renard push his way through a small group of stall keepers huddled around him, his stubby finger pointing to the redhead.

“I will capture the beautiful thief, monsieur,” another man said, “then strip her naked and put her gorgeous body on display for all to see!”

Paul looked to see who had spoken, the threat made in very bad French with an English accent. It was a curious young gentleman, dressed in fine broadcloth, obviously very drunk, and arm in arm with a luscious young woman, her bare shoulders rubbing up against his white shirtfront.

The young Englishman wiped his mouth then rubbed his crotch, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the redhead. Paul gripped his cane tighter. Stupid fools. Couldn’t they see the girl was with him?

He held her hand tighter, shielding the girl from their eyes with his heavy cloak. Her hand was warm, the pulse in her wrist beating rapidly. She was his to protect, to keep safe on a distant plane in a faraway place where only he could travel.

“Let me go, monsieur, before my dream turns into a nightmare,” the redhead demanded, begging him to listen to her with her beautiful green eyes.

Paul studied her face, fascinated by the way her perfect lips formed the sounds of her strange accent.

“As long as you’re with me, mademoiselle, no one will harm you. I promise. Quickly, follow me.”

Paul ignored the ranting of Renard, along with the Englishman’s wailing, threats and bad French as he walked purposefully through the tarpaulin-covered stretch of stands in the market, his cape fanned out around the girl like a cloak of invisibility as she moved in tandem with his step. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. Their eyes met and her look set his heart racing. She drew him inside her like the green enchantress, the name given to the heady absinthe that gushed through his veins, arousing him out of his black depression.

He exhaled slowly as his eyes swept over the girl’s blossoming curves, experiencing a rising surge of creativity bubbling to the surface and spilling over into a bluish pool of desire. Desire to possess the girl’s soul on canvas. The whiteness of her skin bedazzling him, the erotic pout of her lips tempting him to kiss her again. The lingering desire in her eyes,, arousing him. Her face an alluring shade of pale. His fingers skipped playfully over her slender neck, then toyed with the curling red hair sticking to her forehead, her face an alluring shade of pale.

“Arrête, monsieur, stop!” shouted the Englishman, close behind them. Where did he come from?

“Ignore him, mademoiselle.”

“You don’t have to ask twice, monsieur,” she said. “I’m outta here,”

“Stop, I say!” the Englishman called again. “You’re shielding a criminal, monsieur. In England, you’d be hanged for that!”

Paul turned and noted with dismay that despite his tipsiness, the Englishman was quick on his feet and nearly upon them, all the while thoroughly enjoying the entire incident.

More disturbing to him, where had Renard gone? Paul didn’t trust the man. Though he was rumored to have a cock as limp as the rotting asparagus in his vegetable cart, he had a reputation around Les Halles for seducing young girls, then raping them. Tearing apart their pussies with the black leather shaft of his long whip. He was probably waiting in the shadows somewhere in the vast market to grab the girl the moment he let her out of his sight. This Englishman, however, with his wild accusations, was an immediate threat. Alors, he’d have to change his plans.

Paul spun around, folding the massive swirl of his black cape around the girl. He couldn’t hide her completely from view as the foreigner cut them off between the meat stalls, his goblin face lit up with a grinning smile of white teeth, a lustful snarl rolling over his lips as he reached out to grab the girl’s bare breast peeking through her cloak.

Paul was tempted to use the sharp knife concealed in the end of his cane to convince the man to go about his business. A dryness caught in his throat at the thought of her pure, lovely skin being touched and tainted by the overly eager Englishman. Pampered and smooth-skinned, the gentleman probably hadn’t had his balls stroked by a woman since he was an infant at the breast of his wet nurse.

“Run into the Black Beau, mademoiselle,” Paul whispered to the redhead, indicating with a nod a tiny bistro nearby.

“Monsieur?” she questioned.

“Do as I say or the Englishman will cause enough commotion to have your beautiful ass hanging upside down on the wheel.” He opened his cape and cleared a path for her between the stalls. “Run, now!”

The redhead rushed past him, so close to him his fingertips brushed up against the exposed skin on her neck and a hot flush warmed his groin. She must be his.

“Stop that thief, monsieur!” shouted the Englishman.

“Thief, what thief?” Paul mumbled, twirling his cane and gracefully pirouetting around in a circle, his wide cape swirling around him. “I see no thief.”

“That one, monsieur.” He pointed to the redhead pushing through the crowd and heading toward the tiny bistro. “She won’t get far.” He elbowed past Paul, shoving his shoulder into the artist.

“Quel bâtard,” Paul muttered under his breath. “Mongrel.” Such poor manners. The Englishman deserved to be taught a lesson.

Quicker than the flick of a brush, the artist thrust his long, ebony cane out in front of the Englishman’s feet and tripped him.

The Englishman cried out, tumbling onto the ground, his arms and legs flailing in the air in all directions before he landed with a loud thud.

Paul smiled, wiping his cane on the ends of his black cape with the tips of his fingers. The dirty hands of the Englishman would never touch the girl, he swore, sweeping the cane under his cloak with little effort. It disappeared like grains of sand caught on the wind.

“You tripped me, monsieur,” the Englishman accused, struggling in his drunken state to stand up. “I should call you out for that, except I’ve already sent my bodyguards home for the night. And I refuse to dirty my hands on the likes of you.”

“Me, monsieur?” Paul couldn’t help but snicker. The man resembled a pot of jellied consommé, dumped onto a saucer. “I am but a poor artist.”

“I don’t believe you, monsieur,” demanded the Englishman. “You’re a magician. What have you got in your hand?”

“Nothing, monsieur—” The artist feigned a look that clearly said he was insulted. Adding to the effect, a muscle in his neck twitched and his eyes loomed large in his handsome face, casting a surrealistic, dangerous twist to his features. Smiling, he threw open his cape, his muscular chest straining against the thinness of his white shirt, “—but this!”

With a grandiose gesture he pulled out a faded handkerchief and waved it under the man’s nose. The Englishman reeled backward, caught off balance by the heady smell of patchouli, a minty perfume from India that spoke of long nights of exhaustive pleasure.

Paul bowed slightly. “Your servant, monsieur.”

The Englishman shook his head in disgust. “You and your magic don’t fool me. You helped that girl to escape.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur.”

“You have insulted the Duke of Malmont, monsieur. Next time we meet, it won’t be under such unsavory circumstances in front of peons. And when we do, I swear I will kill you,” the Englishman threatened, squaring his shoulders and wiping the dust off his coatsleeves. He stalked off in another direction, his battered British pride flattened in front of the market jammed with porters, commissionaires and wholesale and retail buyers stocking food on their hand carts.

Paul tapped his cane on the sawdust-strewn floor in an uneven rhythm, a mental fear engulfing him. He was rid of the Englishman, his threat meaningless to him, but the redhead wasn’t safe with Monsieur Renard looking for her. He must get her out of here, this goddess who couldn’t be more than nineteen, not yet a woman.

Where did she come from?

He often frequented the back doors of the cabarets and theaters where the women he met were victims of lascivious upper-class diversion long before he stroked their feminine egos with compliments and money. These women had succumbed to a living death on the silken sheets of sexual perversion and greed. One fed off the other. He merely provided a way out for them, indulging in their fantasies, giving them the joy of his cock for one night.

Unless he helped her, he had no reason to believe the future for this redhead would be any different. He tried to imagine her life on the streets. Begging for a sou might buy bread, but the day would come when her pitiful plea would buy nothing but an offer to take from her the one thing she could sell but once: her virginity.

He wondered what hope she would have then when she lay on her back with languid eyes turned away from the stranger thrusting inside her so deep, the walls of her cunt grabbing for him hungrily, betraying her. Hope that died with each thrust, each sweaty moan, each careless fondle. Paul knew the darkness of perversity came next. It always did.

He rubbed the handle of his cane between his fingers. Sticky sweat imprinted his fingerprints on the smooth ebony. He must save her from that darkness.