Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I feel that familiar rush of heat and delight, the thrill of how close he is, and the unspoken tension building between us. “Even yours?” I ask, teasing but with my pulse racing.
“Even mine,” he says, his eyes locking on mine in a way that makes me momentarily forget the terrace, the street, the entire city.
The sun has climbed higher, painting the terrace in golden light. I notice how it catches the subtle glint of gold in Axel’s green eyes, how the warm light plays off his jawline. And I realize that this, this playful, teasing, intimate connection, is exactly the kind of moment that Paris was made for.
“Next time,” I murmur. “I’ll do you the next time we come back here.”
“Okay, next time it is,” he echoes, and I catch that glint in his eyes, the promise, the thrill, the spark. I know there won’t really be a next time, that we only have this weekend, but I play along because if all we have is this weekend, then I want to savor every second.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
AXEL
The air is warmer now, the afternoon sun climbing over the rooftops and spilling into the narrow streets of Montmartre as we step off the terrace at Le Comptoir du Relais. The opulence of the beef bourguignon still lingers on my tongue, and I know it’s going to be a battle to focus on anything but the heat in my cock every time Jo brushes against me.
“Ready to get lost in Montmartre?” she asks, slipping her hand into mine, and looking up at me with a mischievous, almost childlike smile.
“Lost? I think you mean led around like a trusting fool,” I tease.
“Touché,” she murmurs, her fingers squeezing mine. That little reaction, so subtle, yet so loud in the way it reverberates up my arm, is the kind of thing that makes me want to keep her close all the time.
Montmartre greets us like a living postcard. The cobblestone streets are narrow, winding, and stubbornly steep, lined with tiny shops, cafes, and ateliers that spill their contents onto the sidewalk, showcasing canvasses stacked against walls, sculptures perched on shelves and delicate jewelry glinting in the sunlight.
There is the aroma of roasting coffee beans from the little cafés tucked into corners, the faint yeasty sweetness of boulangeries, and something earthy and green that I think is coming from the potted plants struggling for sun between the buildings. I inhale deeply, letting it sink into me.
The city is alive, vibrant, intoxicating, and somehow every perfect sight, every perfect sound and smell are all amplified a thousand times because Jo is here with me. She pauses to peer into a tiny gallery tucked between two taller buildings, the wooden door propped open to invite the curious inside.
“Look at that,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost reverent, and I can almost feel her longing to see what is inside up close.
From here, I can see that the gallery is almost claustrophobically small, but charming in the way that makes it feel as though you’re discovering something no one else knows about. The walls are a patchwork of canvases, each one telling its own story.
“Do you want to go in?” I ask, glancing at her, pretty sure I already know the answer to my question.
“Of course. You’d never forgive me if I didn’t give you the chance to see this mysterious artist’s masterpieces, would you?”
Indulgently, I play along. “I might, but I’d sulk silently for hours afterwards.”
Inside, the smell of fresh oil paint and turpentine mingles with wood and varnish. Jo drifts forward, her eyes scanning each canvas with intent curiosity, her fingers curling lightly around the strap of her bag. I watch her, marveling at the way she leans in close to study brush strokes, the subtle arch of her brow, the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating. It’s dangerous the effect she has on me.
“What do you think?” she whispers, nodding toward a small canvas of a Parisian street in the rain, blurred figures moving through the puddles like ghosts.
“It feels lonely,” I murmur. “Like a memory you can’t quite touch anymore, but it has left a mark on you all the same.”
She tilts her head to the side, studying me curiously. “That’s actually a very good interpretation. Are you sure you’re not secretly a painter?”
I grin wolfishly. “If I were, would you be my muse?”
“Muse, huh? I don’t think you’d survive having me as a muse. I’d demand all your attention.”
“Attention is exactly what I was planning to give you,” I drawl.
“Flattery and charm…” she says impishly.
I let my gaze linger on hers, and I see it then, the quickening of her pulse, the playful spark in her eyes.
We drift back into the streets, slipping past a café with tiny round tables and bright red chairs. Street musicians play nearby, a violin and an accordion. I catch her humming softly under her breath, and I can’t resist teasing her.