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“It’s too warm in here,” I pointed out for the third or fourth time. My head was thrown back over the curve of the chaise so that the heavy mass of my hair tumbled almost to the floor. Maurice had piled cushions behind me so that my back was arched, emphasising the contrast between the slenderness of my waist and the full curves of my breasts. I held two feathered fans, one shielding my face so that only my eyes showed above it, and the other teasingly positioned so that it didn’t quite cover my pubic bone.
The third man had not spoken since he entered the room. He stood in the shadows beyond the light of the open window, and all I had was the impression of height and a faint aroma of expensive cologne. Maurice and Claude had greeted him with fawning sycophancy, so I assumed he was a wealthy patron.
I heard the stranger move across the room. Whatever he was doing now, he was out of my vision, but, after some clattering around in Claude’s tiny kitchen area, he approached me. My boredom vanished instantly. I had heard men described as “beautiful” and dismissed the phrase as overly poetic. Suddenly, I knew exactly what it meant. This man’s masculinity was so perfect—so pure—that my breath caught in my throat just to look at him. His smile was as devastating as the first ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. I knew, beyond rational thought or reason, that this was a defining moment, a point from which there was to be no return. This man was going to change my life. Was it as simple as love at first sight? The cynic in me dismissed the notion. And I had more cause than most to be cynical about men. Nevertheless, I was severely jolted.
He came and sat on the edge of the chaise, his hip pressed into the curve of my waist. I had never seen eyes so unambiguously gold. The contrast of their brightness against the raven-wing darkness of his hair and tawny tint of his skin was stunning.
“This could hurt a little. But I think you might also quite like it.” He held up his hand to show me a glass full of ice, which he placed on the floor. The piece he held in his other hand was already starting to melt in the cloying heat of the Parisian afternoon.
I returned his stare challengingly over the top of my fan, and the grin deepened appreciatively. Cupping my left breast with a warm hand, he ran his thumb lightly over my nipple. It hardened instantly.
“Mais oui! But yes!” Claude cried out exultantly. “That is what I wanted! Exactement.”
The stranger was concentrating on caressing my breast and did not reply. His eyes remained locked on mine as, very gently, he lifted the piece of ice and used it to draw a circle around my already sensitised nipple. My back arched and I bit my lip as a maddeningly wonderful bolt of pain shot through me.
He moved his hand to my right breast and repeated the process. I wanted to scream. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream at him to stop, or because I never wanted the velvet torture of his touch to end. “It’s funny,” he observed casually. “I thought from a distance that, because your eyes are so dark, they must be brown. But now I see they are the exact shade of the heart of a purple pansy. And,” he added, leaning closer so that Claude and Maurice couldn’t hear, “now you are aroused, there are thunderclouds of passion looming just below the surface.” His French was perfect, but there was a faint trace of an accent.
He rose abruptly, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped forward to caress his brow. “Just use the ice when you need to,” he instructed me, indicating the glass next to the chaise. “That should keep Claude here quiet while he gets his masterpiece started.” He began to walk away toward the door and I lay back, unable to speak. I was completely stunned by the effect he had on me. My nipples were throbbing painfully, a sensation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ice. Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he flashed that incredible smile my way once more. But his words were directed at Claude, “Do tell our mutual friend I was looking for him. And that he can’t hide forever. I will find him.” Then he was gone.
Throughout the remainder of that sultry, cloud-dulled afternoon, my whole body thrummed with longing. Even Claude’s posturing and Maurice’s rattling, self-absorbed conversation could not pierce the bubble of my anticipation. A drizzling rain had begun to fall by the time I left the tiny attic apartment and stepped into a darkening evening. Sure enough, my golden-eyed stranger was lounging against a gatepost across the street. Just as I knew he would be. His hands were dug deep in his coat pockets, and a brooding, haunted look lowered his brow. I went and stood before him, so close that, when we both breathed out at the same time, our bodies touched. The spicy undertones of his cologne made my nostrils twitch appreciatively. He cupped my face in his hands, studying me intently.
