Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ