Chapter 29
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.
“Do you have a voice like that in the shower too, or is it just for Montmartre?” I ask as we pass the musicians.
She laughs, batting at my arm. “Cheeky. It’s just for Paris. You’ll have to earn a private performance elsewhere.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Eventually, we reach the Place du Tertre, the square where Montmartre artists display their work.
The square is buzzing with color, chatter, and the aroma of street food, the sweetness of crepes, and the saltiness of fresh fries in paper cones.
Artists sit on fold away stools, sketching or painting, tourists meander around with cameras.
Musicians play lively tunes that carry across the square.
Jo glances around, her eyes wide, drinking it all in.
“This is insane. I love it.”
“I thought you’d like it here,” I say as I steady her on the cobblestones. “It’s chaotic and vibrant, like someone captured a heartbeat.”
She looks at me. “You’re full of metaphors today, aren’t you?”
“Only for you,” I declare.
She laughs softly, shaking her head, but I see it - the slight darkening in her eyes, the warmth spreading across her cheeks.
We wander past the artists, peeking into tiny galleries, smelling the faint scents of oil and canvas.
Our voices blend with the chatter and music, playful, teasing, intimate.
At some point, we start bumping elbows intentionally, laughing at how absurdly close we’ve gotten.
“You know,” I remark as we pass a small fountain. “I thought we were coming to Paris to catch a thief. Instead, I’ve found a whole new adventure.”
Her eyes dance with happiness. “Good. That means you’re ready for Sacré-C?ur”
I realize that I would follow her anywhere right now. Even to the top of Sacré-C?ur, which looms above the square, waiting for us to tackle it.
The climb is steep, the cobblestones replaced with stone steps that curve like a spiral up the hill. Occasionally, Jo leans into me for balance. I luxuriate in the feeling of protecting her and that delicious tension between us.
“Slow down, Axel,” she huffs, laughing. “I only have short legs, you know.”
“They didn’t feel short last night when I opened them wide and ate you out,” I say as we pass a wrought iron railing.
She shoots me an outraged look. “Oh, I’ll get even with you for that. Just you wait.”
I grin. “Can’t wait.”
By the time we reach the lookout spot, the city spreads beneath us in a glittering patchwork of roof tops, bridges, and winding streets. Jo gasps, leaning against the railing, as we take in the view together.
“You see,” I murmur, my voice low, my words just for her. “This is what I mean. Paris is magnificent, but it’s nothing compared to …”
She interrupts me with a nudge. “Compared to me? Axel, you’re such a flatterer.”
“I was going to say compared to Rome, but we can go with you too,” I say.
I try to keep a straight face, but Jo looks so shocked I can’t help but laugh.
Then she joins me, our laughs mingling and going out into the city together.
We stand there for a while looking out over the city, with the afternoon sun painting everything gold.
The laughter and hum of chatter and the music from the square below drifts up to us.
I feel electricity between us, and I know this is the moment where everything feels possible, where a glance, a touch, a shared breath could tilt everything.
And I think, not for the first time today, that I don’t want it to end.