Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

but he had no time for love. It was a foolish emotion he refused to give in to; it drained his energy, his passion to paint. Art was his mistress. He could never love a woman as much as his art.

      Never.

      He ran his fingers over the ebony handle of his cane carved into the shape of a couple making love. His own penis was also hard, unbending, like the unique design of the male figurine hovering over the woman, lowering his erect outil, tool, into her. Lillie, moaning louder, also noticed his hard cock. She kept repeating what a strong, muscular body he had, and how she would find such delicious pleasure burying her face between his hard thighs, sucking on him. He tried to ignore her obvious overtures. He must get rid of her. He must. But how? Sweat slicked his grip as he slid his hand up and down the cane. Why was he so tormented, so affected by his passion to paint the redhead?

      He knew why. She was the seductress chosen by the gods to be the perfect model for his masterpiece upon which he could stamp his art with an impulse of his true feelings, the inner emotion of his soul. He never would have believed it possible such a woman existed in his world.

      A different urge settled in his groin. Primitive. Lusting. He couldn’t wait any longer.

      “Put on your clothes, Lillie,” he ordered. “I can paint no more tonight.”

      Her chemise lay on the floor, crumpled into a thousand fine little wrinkles, with one rose-colored stocking strewn carelessly on top, along with her violet two-piece taffeta dress and petticoats, violet button shoes and tiny matching hat with its long, curling veil.

      “Pardon, monsieur?” she asked.

      “You’re leaving.”

      “But we haven’t played the game—”

      “I have no time for games. I have another engagement.”

      “At five o’clock in the morning?”

      “Do as I order or Madame Chapet will hear about your insolence.”

      “That old garce? Bitch. She cares only about making money, and I make plenty for her.” Lillie threw on her petticoats, then her shoes, though she didn’t button them.

      A door slammed. Downstairs.

      She laughed. “I believe your other engagement couldn’t wait, monsieur.”

      He panicked. “No! She can’t leave. She can’t!”

      Paul grabbed his cane, then his voluminous black cape and swirled it about himself like a creature of darkness about to take flight on the cloud of a dream. He raced downstairs, flung open the door, then ran outside, blending into the landscape of mendicants scouring the boulevards of Marais, their baskets on their backs but no names on their souls. The clean, dry air was still.

      Where had the girl gone?

      He stopped a poor chiffonnier, ragpicker, and asked her if she’d seen a young girl in a red velvet cape running from the townhouse. The old woman held out her hand and, after he folded a bank note into her palm, she pointed toward rue Saint-Merri. Joy raced through him, sharpening his eye to see the truth. Then she wasn’t an illusion. She was out there somewhere. But where?

      Gripping his cane, twirling his cape, he raced out into the night with a quickening sense that he had no choice but to find her.

      No matter what he had to do.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?

      Zzz-zap. Zzz-zing. Bang.

      Energy pulsated through me like a thunderbolt, giving me the wildest orgasm I’ve ever had. It started at the center of my vagina, way up inside me. Sizzling like a hot fireball, pulsating, increasing in size until it filled my pussy. Then my clitoris burst into flames, and dazzling fireworks exploded before my eyes. Silver, red, blue.

      Hot, hot, hot.

      I experienced the most exquisite, soul-melting ride: my whole bod jerking with each jolt, my legs thrashing in midair as I flew through space, an electrical shower falling around me, singeing my skin and making me yell out. I moaned so much, I sounded like I was crying. Long rhythmic shudders traveling up and down my body thrilled me, telling me the peak of my passion, my climax, was near. Then my pussy began a series of spasms, clamping so tightly on—

      Hold it. How could all this happen with no penis filling me up? Plunging deep, totally possessing me? My pussy muscles tried to draw him in deeper and deeper.

      No go. It was all in my mind.

      Or was it?

      Paul Borquet.

      I swear I saw him through the slits of my eyes, leaning over me. His manly scent ignited my desire for sex all over again, and his arrogance at taking what he wanted set off my emotions in a frustrating state of upheaval. I felt his hands squeezing my breasts, then rubbing his thumb over my rigid nipples, sliding his palm down across my waist and digging his fingers through my pubic hairs. Oh, it was delicious.

      Him. Moaning, gasping. His body tense, hot, slick with sweat.

      Me. Tingling. Glowy. Trembling, aching for him to touch the soft mound between my legs, push aside my pussy lips, insert a finger—

      Then he was gone.

      Where?

      And where the hell am I?

      Isn’t it time we answered that question?

      I walk with my arms swinging, bare thighs rubbing together sans panties, feet burning, striding up rue Saint-Merri, looking everywhere at once. I see a few electric lights glowing in the nest of small streets crowded together, mostly gaslights from the grand houses throwing a yellow tone upon the cobblestones and tossing eerie shadows everywhere. An exquisite haze, barely a mist, covers everything like a delicate veil. I see a man standing on the corner, tending to a big copper cauldron. He pulls down his black felt hat, then flips up his coat collar as he rattles the steaming-hot chestnuts roasting in the pan. The nutty fragrance floats across the square and tempts me to stop, ask the questions lingering on my lips. I don’t. I want to see more.

      I’m not disappointed. I see horse-drawn carts, wagons, a horse cab, even a lone bicycle at this early hour, the traffic flow following no specific order. The clop-clopping sounds of horses’ hooves fill my ears. You’d think I’d get it, wouldn’t you? But I don’t. Can’t. It’s still too weird.

      I keep walking, pulling the red velvet cape closer around me, shutting out the early-morning chill. I love this cape. Lined with a slippery red satin as soft as nude skin, I snuggle within its folds, lapping up its luxuriousness with a greedy hug. Sooo sinfully elegant. Where did it come from?

      When I came to after the best orgasm I’ve had in years, the cloak covered me from head to toe, but my clothes, my waist pack with my money and passport, everything had disappeared. A girl needs more than red velvet to find her way back home.

      Or back to the hotel. That’s where I’m headed. I intend to go to the police and find out what that old artist did with my stuff.

      I’m still groggy and drained from climaxing like I was the star attraction in a ménage à trois, but here’s what happened when I woke up. Darkness invaded the studio except for an electric light with an opaque, fluted shade. One electric light? I questioned, noting someone hung a pink chiffon scarf over it, giving the room a soft glow. That should have been a dead giveaway, but I didn’t let it sink in. I was more fascinated with the wardrobe of costumes I found. Petticoats, stockings, garters, button-up shoes. No underwear. But in my present state of undress, I couldn’t be choosy.

      I wiggled into a soft white petticoat with layers and layers of frilly lacy ruffles and pert pink bows, then slipped on a silky apricot-hue dressing gown so thin it was transparent. I let out a girlish giggle when I saw my breasts standing up and not sagging and my hard nipples popping through the silk like I was nineteen again.

      Isn’t that what expensive lingerie does for