Chapter Fourteen
She sat at the table watching as he prepared dinner. Her left hand sparkled and she couldn’t help but stare at the rings encircling her marriage finger. Bling had never been her thing, but now that it dazzled under the lights, she loved how it glittered.
“So, where to tomorrow?” he asked as he set a plate of pasta before her.
Wearing only one of his button-up shirts, the tantalizing scents of tomato and garlic made her mouth water. “Are you going to cook this good when we get home?”
“I’ll prepare you some delicious French cuisine,” he promised.
“You have many hidden talents, Mr. Chevelier.”
“In the kitchen and in the bedroom,” he boasted with a wink.
She laughed. The dish turned out to be quite tasty, the sauce a nice blend of sweet tomatoes and spices.
Max poured two glasses of red wine and clinked hers. “You never answered my question.”
“About tomorrow?”
He nodded.
“Hmm. The D’Orsay. And Picasso. Oh, and I read there’s a Dali exhibit near the Sacre Coeur...”
Max gave a half-strangled choke as he chose, at that moment, to take a drink. “All in one day?”
She only grinned and shrugged.
He raised a brow. “What about the Eiffel Tower? Most people who come to Paris hit that first.”
“Of course, but not tomorrow. How about the Louvre? I mentioned it earlier, but I really meant I want to see the Mona Lisa.”
“How about we take the long way there? Anything you for you, baby.”
She placed her elbow on the table, then rested her chin on her palm. “Anything?”
“There’s a devilish glint in your eye. So, what do you want?”
“I want you to take a shower with me.”
Max immediately dropped his utensils and darted toward her.
Laughing as he scooped her up, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed his jaw.
Once he reached the bathroom, he dropped her legs and turned on the shower.
Steam swirled around them. He lifted the shirt over her head, letting it fall to the ground.
He lifted her and sat her bare bottom on the counter ledge near the sink.
The mirror fogged. All thought disappeared.
Their breaths mingled as their mouths met, tasting, twisting.
He cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing along her nipples before slipping lower to tease her thighs open.
Both thumbs rubbed her cunt, pressing into her slit with circular movements.
He wasn’t gentle but at that moment she didn’t want him to be.
She needed him—quick, urgent and rough. She urged him on with breathy sounds of pleasure, skimming her own fingers over his chest and down that delicious ass of his.
He had on silky pajama pants and she pulled impatiently at the soft material.
He must have understood her unspoken need because he moved slightly away to push them down, freeing his hard cock.
“You’re mine, Quinn.” He gently bit her shoulder, then licked at the sting. “My lover. My partner. My wife. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
He kissed up her neck to nibble on her earlobe. “Damn right you are. Just like I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Quinn, from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
His possessive declaration sent a jolt through her body, and it lit her world up.
This was how it was meant to be. How it was supposed to be.
The reason her old boyfriends never worked was because she never wanted their ownership.
With Max, though, a little voice had whispered in her ear long ago that she wouldn’t mind being his.
The only reason she never acted on her attraction was because she wasn’t a cheater and he was her boss.
He took hold of his big dick and lined it up against her slit.
They stared into each other’s eyes as he pushed forward.
Slowly, he eased inch after inch into her pussy, stretching her like no one else had before.
She took every inch of him and loved it because there was something sinfully sexy about the way he thrust into her, keeping her on the cusp of a climax, that drove her crazy.
Over and over, he plowed into her, and she pushed back. She flung her head back as he rode her, hard, on the counter between his shaving cream can and her toothbrush. A hand went behind her, against the mirror, steadying them as she raised her legs to wrap around him.
“God, you feel good,” he rumbled into her ear. “Yes ... squeeze me... Mon Dieu...”
He returned one thumb to where they joined, hitting the soft nub of her and stimulating that with every thrust. She moaned as she exploded in a gazillion pieces.
“I’m going to come,” he hissed in pleasure. “I’m going to fill you up, wife.”
He grabbed her hips, holding them as he moaned deep in his throat, almost guttural, and stiffened.
Their spasms rocked together and he collapsed against her, his sweaty forehead dropping onto her shoulder and her own head leaning back against the mirror.
She wanted so badly to say she loved him, and had to bite her bottom lip to hold it in.
Her world was almost perfect.
****
The best way to get the full scope of the Arc de Triomphe was to stare at it straight on, except that angle lay directly in the middle of the busy road.
Many tourists crossed the road to stop and take a picture and that’s exactly what she did.
The day was warm, sunny with big fluffy white clouds, a perfect summer day.
People lined the sidewalk, moving like a school of fish. Tourist season was in full bloom.
He led her to the Champs-Elysees, where shops lined the avenue, luxury designer brands like Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Dior.
With eyes wide, she didn’t know what to stare at or admire first. It took her a bit to realize that anything she admired, Max immediately bought it and had one of his men carry the bag.
Any time she protested, he wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her.
Though he was a native Parisian, Max took it all in stride, holding her hand as they strolled along one of the world’s most famous boulevards.
He pointed out little things, like how the Grand Palais and Petit Palais had been built at the same time for the 1900 World’s Fair, and housed a major police department in the basement to help protect the exhibits on display.
Currently the buildings were under construction with large scaffolding covering much of the glass and iron domes that made up the ceilings.
At the end of the street was the Place de la Concorde, basically a large roundabout, where Max warned her it was imperative she not jay-walk.
For the most part, drivers in Paris tended to watch out for the pedestrian even if the pedestrian crossed on a red light but a few exceptions applied and Place de la Concorde happened to be one of them.
Housed inside the square stood several interesting features, including a red granite Egyptian obelisk in the center that had originally resided in front of the Luxor Temple.
The tall column was decorated in hieroglyphics and adorned with a gold triangle cap at the top.
It had been erected on the very spot where a guillotine of the revolution had stood.
From there, Max directed her safely to Rue de Rivoli, through the Jardin des Tuileries gateway.
If possible, twice as many people walked through the pretty gardens than the streets.
Circular ponds decorated both ends where ducks could swim and little boys could sail their hand-built sailboats with the aid of a stick.
Statues of mythic gods stood on their pedestals watching with empty, scornful eyes.
Of all the arts, she found sculptures the least pleasant.
She did not deny the skill and craftsmanship of those artists who labored over the material of marble or bronze, bringing forth their imagination, but to her, a sculpture felt lifeless.
No warmth or color existed in them, and they made her mostly think of pious deities judging mortals through their sightless eye sockets.
As they walked, they passed several places selling overpriced sandwiches and drinks, past a pretty, geometrically-formed flowerbed, and up some steps to the entrance of the Louvre Museum.
The building was unbelievably huge. Stone upon stone, gray with age, rose straight up to form a ‘U’ shape.
The courtyard was lined with ancient stone tiles where a water fountain bubbled high.
Quinn had seen pictures of the Louvre, of course she had, but photos could not give the breathtaking impact it had on first sight.
“Only in Paris could they have something so massive,” she murmured in awe.
“Mm,” he agreed. “When I was a kid, every chance I got, I came here. Either by sneaking in or paying for a ticket with money I pinched.” He tugged on her fingers. “Come on.”
Much to her surprise, they didn’t head for the massive line of people winding in and out and around.
Instead, he pulled her through an archway leading to a side entrance.
In French he greeted the guard standing on duty and held out some money.
The guard smiled and answered back with a friendly wave, pocketing the money.
Then he stood back and waved them in. Max held her hand as he escorted her down a long corridor to emerge in the museum.
“You bribed him?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That was Felice. He’s been letting me in for years.”
Quinn shook her head in amusement but soon found herself lost in paradise.
All tales of not having enough time to see the Louvre had been absolutely true.
The main hallway alone, lined with paintings, could eat up a day with her.
And with Max by her side, talking about style, technique, color and composition in each one, hours clicked by rather quickly, under the works of Le Brun, Vouet and Friedrich.
Of course, she had a list of must-see works—the Venus de Milo, Winged Liberty, and the Mona Lisa.
The latter hung by herself behind a protective case.
Two guards flanked on each side keeping a watchful eye on the gathered tourists.
A wooden barrier forced people to maintain a distance.
She and Max stood back until an opening presented itself where she could step up to the bar.
“She was stolen from here once,” he murmured.
“Really?”
He nodded. “In 1911. She was taken by an Italian named Vincenzo Perugia who thought he stole her out of patriotism. He believed such a piece by an Italian should be brought home to Italy, but he didn’t realize that de Vinci had sold it to King Francis the First.”
“So it didn’t belong to Italy after all.”
“Correct.”
“How did he get it out?” she asked, looking around.
“He had been a worker and hid while the museum closed for the evening. Since the Louvre was closed the next day, he stayed hidden and removed her by cutting her out of the frame. I think it took them something like ten months to get her back.”
Gazing upon the painting was amazing. Not because it was an exceptional painting, not because of the mysterious smile the lady held, not because of anything really .
.. except the fact that it was arguably the most famous painting in the world.
Quinn had grown up knowing about the Mona Lisa, even before she had decided to make art her life.
Words couldn’t express the emotions flashing through her and Quinn didn’t want to take her eyes off it, not even to blink.
It was a moment to savor, as if she connected to the artist of long ago.
A silly tear formed in her eye, and she quickly brushed it away.
Max placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “It’s okay, I understand.”
Suddenly it wasn’t so silly anymore, to feel humbled in front of one painting that wasn’t even her favorite. This moment Max could understand, because he understood her.
They stayed inside, walking, looking, talking, exploring, all day.
The crowd eventually started to thin out as they made their way toward the exit.
Quinn winced with the knowledge she now had to walk all the way back to Max’s place, and she didn’t even know where that was.
She couldn’t help her long-suffering groan.
“I’m exhausted and my feet are killing me. How far do we have to walk back to your place?”
He tsked and pulled out his phone. After a quick conversation in French, he glanced at her. “How much are you going to love me now that I have my driver coming to pick us up?”
It was meant to be a simple funny quip, but once the words came out, it was like her whole world just came to a screeching halt.
The l-word reverberated through her head as her equilibrium shifted sideways, leaving her shaken and terrified.
No, she couldn’t love him. The do-you-believe-in-love conversation she’d had with him flash-flooded her memory, making her heart race in a terrible gotcha way.
She couldn’t love him.
Because he didn’t love her. He’d even told her it didn’t exist. What did exist between them was supposed to be stronger than fickle emotions.
A foundation which benefited both of them.
But, as she stared at him, she knew deep in her soul that what she felt was love.
There wasn’t any other word to describe it.
It was the need to laugh with him. Be with him.
Take care of him. Fuck him as well as make love with him.
Be the mother of his children, and his partner in life.
Afraid he would see too much, she turned away.
She would have to safeguard her heart. The last thing she wanted was his pity.