“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I babbled.
“Does that feel good?”
“Oh God.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He shoved his fingers deeper. “Horny little girl. Do you like feeling all filled up?”
With Price in my life, it was hard to avoid that feeling. He was inside me and around me all the time, and I’d become scarily addicted to his nearness, to the fullness of his mastery.
He pressed my clit with the heel of his hand as he fingerfucked me, and continued drilling my ass. I was glad Paris made him horny. I clung to his arms, climbing toward orgasm. “Please, please,” I whispered. I meant Please don’t stop. Please let me come.
He pressed against me, all down my back and thighs, like he wanted to become part of me. But he was already part of me, more than anyone else had been.
Please, please, please…
“Come,” he said. Not Are you going to come? Or I want you to come. Just the simple command. Come. He slid deep inside my ass and stayed there, allowing me to jerk off on his fingers while I was impaled. I felt warm, safe, and of course, deliciously filled up. The orgasm unfolded like the best morning orgasms, in a shatteringly intense rumble of sensation. The earthquake started in my pussy and ass, then reverberated out to the rest of my body, until my nipples were aching and my toes were once again curled in ecstasy.
It was a long time before I uncurled them. I felt him shuddering at my back, stifling the roar that sometimes accompanied his orgasms. This was too close and snuggly for that. Instead I got another volley of kisses along my neck, and another hard bite on my ear.
“Ow,” I said, even though I barely felt it. My pussy was still contracting around his fingers, and my ass still felt full. I sighed when he finally pulled away.
“That was wonderful,” I whispered.
“Wonderful and naughty.”
I turned and nestled against his chest. “You make me so naughty.”
He laughed. “I think you were plenty naughty before I came along. I just know how to capitalize on your filthy urges.”
“My filthy urges?” I feigned outrage. “You suggested anal.”
“Silence, filthy little slave.”
He prevented further outbursts by sticking his tongue in my mouth and kissing me into submission. By the end of our make out session, I felt so blissed out and content I could have fallen back to sleep, but he wouldn’t allow that. After a shower and an elegant breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, I headed out into Paris determined to wring all the inspiration I could from the City of Love. While Price attended his conference, I was to spend my day exploring the Louvre.
Honestly, I could have spent a month at the Louvre absorbing everything I wanted to see. I made a list of each exhibit I visited, because I knew Price would ask me about them when he returned to the hotel. I took a break at lunchtime and basked in the sun at an outdoor cafe. So many people, some locals, some tourists. It struck me that they all had a story, perhaps as complicated and disjointed as my own. As traumatic as my own.
No, I didn’t want to think about that here, in the sun and loveliness of Paris. My past was my past. I knew that, but it still haunted me sometimes. Here in Paris, the past felt very close. I couldn’t help remembering the time I’d come here with Simon, and walked with him through the Louvre until we found his newly installed painting. Heart-Lust. I could close my eyes and see it, or…
Well, I was here at the Louvre. I could go see it for real.
But I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. After our run in with Simon at Andrew’s art show, Price had forbidden me to have anything to do with my ex. He’d actually forbidden it two years earlier, when he’d bought me an apartment on the condition that Simon never set foot inside.
Still, the painting wasn’t Simon. It wasn’t like I was drifting toward the Modern Impressionists area of the museum so I could see Simon.
It’s your history with him, my conscience whispered. It’s practically the same.
I tried to get engrossed in other things, but I kept thinking of Heart-Lust as Simon had worked on it, as it had hung on his studio wall in our loft. He’d done other paintings inspired by me, but that was the first one, the one that changed my life.
I thought of how he’d stood me in front of it and pointed out all the things I couldn’t see in the whirls and swirls of scarlet paint. I thought of the poem Simon had given me. Her heart breaks in a smile, and she is lust. It was the same E.E. Cummings poem that Price had given me years later when my life—and my relationship with Simon—was falling apart. In that way, Heart-Lust joined all of our histories, and I was here in Paris, so why shouldn’t I see it while I had the chance?