What have I got to lose?
Without hesitation, I run toward the trap door and peer down into the hole. A rich, velvety darkness awaits me below. Okay, so it’s not a good idea to jump into a black hole that could lead me to nowheresville. I should have thought about that when I imagined this madcap adventure. I didn’t, so I don’t have much choice. It’s that or be ripped apart by an angry mob, my body bucking against the intrusion of more than one vile cock.
“Jump, mademoiselle,” urges the same voice from deep inside the cellar. “Jump.”
I hear a crackling sound as a bullet shatters a hanging oil lamp, splattering the thin glass everywhere. Someone’s shooting at me! I take a deep breath and jump…
…and land unhurt on top of what I think is a large wine barrel. I can’t see much. Carefully feeling my way in the dark, I let my legs dangle over the side. Only a faint sliver of light beckons me into the darkness. Before my eyes can adjust to the dim light, a breeze skirts past me, making me hold my breath. I smell strong liqueur.
“Shut the trap door, mademoiselle, before they find us and we go together to claim our place in hell,” orders a man’s voice. Impatience slurs his words, but I get his drift. I pull the cellar door shut, fasten the handle in place, then turn my attention to the caped figure holding a candle in one hand, a cane in the other.
Paul Borquet.
I smile. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.
“I owe you my life again, monsieur.” Our eyes meet and I begin to understand the flurry of emotions engulfing me. From the first moment I saw him, I was wildly attracted to his gallantry as well as his cock.
“Mais non, mademoiselle, it is I who owe you. Your beauty inspires me, fills me with passion to paint.”
We face each other, and in that breathless moment, I recognize he’s more than a dark and mysterious superhero clone in a black cape and crotch-hugging tights. We are artist and model, a creative work of art yet to be defined that defies time and rationale. I lean into him and he strokes my neck, his fingers working at the fastening to my cloak, then stops. I sense his pleasure and something else. Fear. We’re not out of danger yet.
Nibbling on my lip, I ask, “How did you find me?”
“No time for questions, mademoiselle,” the artist says, the light making a halo around him as he extends his hand out to me. “Take my hand. We must move quickly. It won’t take that beast Renard long to start tearing up the floor, looking for you.”
His strong, muscular hand grips mine as quivering candlelight guides me down to the dirt floor below. Then, wrapping his cape around him, the artist leads me through a twisting, underground tunnel barely big enough for him to crawl through on his knees. Pulling my cloak around me, I follow him, crumbling dirt hitting the top of my head, the tip of my nose. I keep his tight butt in sight. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees with David, but the view was never this good.
Then, without warning, the candle flickers and goes out. I panic, but instead of being thrown into blackness, I’m surprised to see a spotlight of sunshine greeting me like a warm smile. I look straight up. The way out of the tunnel is an old, dry well laced with rusty, iron rings and small stone steps spaced about a foot apart on the cracked stonework.
“I’ve used this escape route many times when my taste for liqueur overrides my taste for a woman’s pussy,” the artist says with amusement. “Every sharp cut of stone is an old friend.” He clasps his hands together and bends over to give me a boost. “After you,” he urges.
I lift my eyebrows. “So you can stick your fingers up my rear end?”
“You have a sharp wit, mademoiselle.”
“Not as sharp as the end of your cane.” I cast my eyes downward. He’s sliding his cane up and down my butt. Sensuous. Provocative. No mistaking his visual cue. I wet my lips.
He laughs. “Allez, go!” he calls out, insisting I start climbing up the wall whether I want to or not. To my delight, I find it easier than I thought as I grab onto the rings embedded in the scaly stone wall and climb up the side of the well. My heavy breathing mixes with that of the man following me, the sound of our feet scraping over the broken stones filling the echo of the empty water hole.
“I love the smell of freedom,” Paul says, taking in a deep breath of air when we reach the top and vault easily over the side of the well. He turns and looks at me with a sensuality I find not at all disturbing. “But not nearly as much as I love the smell of a woman.”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t smell so good after crawling through that old tunnel,” I say, dusting off my cloak.
“Let me be the judge of that, mademoiselle.”
He leans down, his clean-shaven face so close to mine I breathe in the lingering odor of the strong liqueur. It makes me dizzy. His lips brush my cheek as he pushes aside my cloak and kisses my shoulders, then delicately up the sides of my neck. Little shivers of pleasure flow through me. I have to steady my nerves, slow my racing mind, get some answers.
God help me if he comes any closer.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. He shifts his attention lower. He caresses my breasts, taking the time to rub my nipples in such delicious circles, I can’t catch my breath.
“Where you will be safe, mademoiselle.”
Safe? With his hands doing this to me?
“To your studio in Montmartre?” I ask.
“How do you know I have a studio on the hill, mademoiselle?” He gives me a look that is neither friendly nor hostile, but probing.
Don’t stop circling my nipples! I want to cry out. Coward that I am, I don’t. Instead I say in a shaky voice, “Someone told me.”
“Who?”
He slides his hand down to my waist. He fumbles with the metal clasp on my petticoats. Damn this ridiculous outfit.
I say, “An old artist. He showed me your self-portrait.” I don’t tell him about the statue of Min and its prophecy. Why spoil his fantasy?
“Where did you meet this artist, mademoiselle?”
Still fumbling. Has he lost interest in my clit? Or is he more interested in his own self-portrait?
“In an art gallery in Marais,” I say, not giving away when I saw the painting. “The House of Morand.”
Paul shakes his head. He’s not even touching me. Oh, the frustration. “I know of no such gallery in Marais.”
I frown. My breasts feel cold without his touch. Is the whole thing a dream after all? Okay, let’s try again, appeal to his male ego. Better known as his dick.
“I did see such a painting,” I insist. “Life-size, in every way.” I can’t resist letting my gaze drift downward to the bulge between his legs. A movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by the handsome artist.
He moves closer to me, then whispers in my ear, “Ah, you mean the self-portrait I gave to La Comtesse du Chalons. Hélas, you must be mistaken, mademoiselle. La comtesse took the portrait with her to London.”
“No mistake, Monsieur Borquet,” I say, playing the game and enjoying it. Evidently the portrait I saw in the modern art studio traveled from one owner to another through the years. “I like the real thing better.”
“Pardon?” he says, not quite understanding me.
“American humor.”
“Ah, so you’re une Americaine, mademoiselle.”
I nod. “Autumn Maguire from—”
No, don’t tell him any more. Not