Chapter 43 #2
The Palais Garnier is too much and not enough all at once.
Marble staircases curling like ribbons, arches carved so delicately they look spun, gold spilling over every edge.
Above us, a painted ceiling swirls in impossible colors, anchored by a chandelier so massive and glittering it’s as if Alec plucked the stars out of the sky and hung them here just to watch me gape.
Our private box tilts the stage toward us like a jewel case, every instrument catching the light. Crimson velvet muffles the sound of shifting bodies, leaving the music to glow brighter. I thought I’d ache watching other people onstage, remembering what it felt like to belong there.
But the moment Yo-Yo Ma walked out, bow in hand, the ache dissolved into awe.
The curtain behind us stirs, and a waiter slips in, soundless on the velvet carpet, two flutes of champagne balanced perfectly on a silver tray.
Alec straightens in his seat, shoulders squared. “Oh non, nous n’avons rien commandé.”
“You speak French?”
He shrugs, maddeningly casual. “Un peu. From high school.”
Obviously, everyone remembers the subjunctive a decade later.
The waiter politely inclines his head. “Non, c’est bien pour vous. J’ai une commande pour deux verres de champagne.” He sets the flutes down on the small lacquered table between us, then vanishes back behind the curtain with the same effortless grace.
“They must’ve gotten the wrong box,” Alec says, still frowning.
“Actually, this is all me. Thought the least I could do to thank you for all of this is get us a little intermission treat.”
“You never have to treat me.”
“I want to. Besides, I saved for it, and I’m enjoying myself, and that’s a massive success.”
The chandelier above us dims, gold and crystal dissolving into shadow, signaling that intermission is almost over.
I reach for my glass, brushing his fingers on purpose as I hand him his. A shiver shoots up my arm. The champagne is crisp, effervescent, almost too tart, and I sip it too slowly, drawing it out, like maybe it can anchor me here. In this city. This music. This man.
He doesn’t touch his glass. Doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes stay fixed on me, like the whole damn Garnier could collapse around us, and he wouldn’t notice.
“I need to find a way to thank you. Je veux te remercier, mon focx.”
My pulse is thunder, and for a moment I can’t tell if the orchestra has started again or if the music vibrating through me is only him.
“Alec—” I begin, but the rest catches in my throat as he shifts, tuxedo lines folding as he sinks down onto his knees in front of me.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Showing gratitude.” His voice is maddeningly calm, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to do in a place where royalty used to sit.
“You can’t,” I hiss, though my body is trembling as his hand runs under my dress, along my thigh. “We’re in a concert hall!”
“That we are.” His mouth curves in a dangerous tilt. He tugs his bow tie loose with a practiced flick, the silk whispering free like a promise.
Heat spikes low in my belly. “Alec,” I warn, though it comes out more like a plea.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over me like he can’t believe I’m real. He takes my wrist and knots his bow tie around it, anchoring me gently to the armrest while he pins my other hand to the chair.
“You’re mad,” I whisper through my teeth.
“For you, always,” he says simply, leaning close, hawkish eyes searching mine. “But you can tell me no, Clementine.”
“Someone will see us.”
“Never stopped us before,” he whispers into my neck. He parts my thighs, slipping his hand into the slit of my gown. My nipples tighten, unaware we’re in a room with hundreds of people.
“Alec—” I whisper, scandal and want tangling. Across the hall, balconies glitter in the dark. For one dizzy second, I’m sure they can see us, the velvet shadows not nearly deep enough to hide. “We’re going to get in so much trouble.”
“Guess you’ll have to perform, Fox.” He bites the inside of my thigh. “Make sure they don’t notice.”
The chandelier above us dims completely now, the hush before the music thickening. I wet my lips, tilt my chin higher, and whisper, “Fine. But at least enjoy the symphony while you’re down there.”
His mouth curves wickedly, awe burning through the hunger in his gaze. “Oh, I plan to.”
Then his shoulders press between my knees, his head vanishing beneath the red silk. In one motion, he slides my panties down with his mouth, fabric whispering against my skin.
As the strings rise, his tongue lands on my clit, and I bite my palm to stop my moan. The shock of it rips through me like lightning. Hot, wet, dizzying.
Alec’s tongue moves across me like he’s trying to unspool me in time with the violins.
My hips betray me, lifting toward him even as I try to wriggle back. The velvet seat creaks with my struggle.
He only hums against me. The vibration ricochets through me, and I choke on another sound.
I swear the couple across the room is staring at us.
My wrist tugs against his bow tie. I shoot my free hand to his shoulder, pushing, clawing.
“Alec—” My whisper frays, brimming with panic and want. “We can’t. Someone will see—”
He catches my hand easily, pins it to the armrest with his own, his grip firm but unhurried, as if this struggle is part of the performance.
I twist against him, fighting the thrill of exposure, the dizzy terror of it. My thighs clamp shut, then tremble open again when another hum reverberates low against me. The sound ricochets through my core, stealing the strength from my resistance.
The orchestra surges, strings winding tighter, my pulse louder than the timpani.
Until his teeth lock around my clit. Not cruel, not breaking, but enough. Teeth biting, a sting that burns into pleasure. Heat blooms hard and fast. My hips arch into him instead of away. My wrists strain, not to stop him now but to keep from falling apart too quickly.
“Good girl,” he murmurs toward me. “Behave.”
Every flick of his tongue, every press of his hands, feels like a command. My body is no longer mine. It’s his instrument, played mercilessly, every movement pulling me closer to the edge.
The crescendo climbs, and I’m no longer a dancer or audience or woman at all, but sound, vibration, sensation. When my orgasm tears through me, piercing, the words slip out before I even recognize them. “You—I—oh god—I think I’m in love with—”
Silence slams into me after, like the air’s been punched from my lungs. The orchestra thunders on, mercifully swallowing my cry, but the echo of it still rings in my ears.
God, I didn’t mean to say it.
I blink down at him, bleary and starry-eyed, chest heaving, mind a jumble of heat and light. He retreats from my dress and looks up at me, lips slick, eyes molten, and I can’t tell if he heard.
Panic sparks, hot and wild, and I lunge forward, almost desperate, pulling his mouth to mine. The kiss tastes of champagne, salt, and relief. His hands cradle my face like I’m fragile, like I didn’t just come apart in his arms, and I try to bury the words there, to pretend they never slipped free.
For one suspended second, it works. There is only him, his mouth, his hands, this impossible secret we’re holding.
When he finally pulls back, I feel good. Better than good. I feel like Paris belongs to us, even if only for one night.