Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

A lice

I had never felt as self-conscious as I did at 6:55 the next evening, looking at my reflection in the mirror. All day, which I’d spent wandering the medieval streets around the Pantheon, I’d tried not to let myself remember either of the things that pressed themselves into my consciousness at least five times a minute: I had a date with Lucas Moreau, and I had played with myself for the very first time, imagining him spanking me.

That’s not you. Nothing about that horrid encounter with Martin the asshole turned you on. Nothing.

Now I confronted the mirror, in nothing but my simple, modest white bralette and gray bikini panties. They didn’t even match. I didn’t own any sets. I had never thought about buying one. Martin’s condescending, almost menacing promise to buy me something more alluring echoed in my mind.

If Lucas Moreau… if he were to raise my skirt the way Martin had, and he saw these unexciting panties, would he decide I wasn’t worth his time and money?

I started to chew on my lip as I gazed at my reflection. I barely noticed as my hand drifted unconsciously down my body. What would Lucas think if he saw me like this? If he put his hands on my half naked body, how would it feel?

Possessive. Definitely possessive. Dangerous, too?

Would those icy blue eyes darken with desire as they roamed over my curves? Would his strong hands grip my hips, pulling me roughly against him?

Almost without my realizing it, my fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my plain gray panties. A soft gasp escaped my lips as I imagined strong hands raising my skirt, blue eyes flashing with lust and dominance. In my mind, Lucas growled low in his throat, aroused by my innocent underwear rather than disappointed. “Such a naughty girl,” fantasy Lucas murmured, “hiding this sweet little cunt under these boring panties. I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

My fingers found the nub in its complex hood, the still-unfamiliar smoothness there bringing a little hitch in my inhaling breath. I circled my clit slowly, again helplessly picturing Lucas bending me over, his large hand coming down in a stinging slap on my bare bottom. Heat gathered below my tummy as I imagined him taking what he wanted, claiming me as his…

With a start, I yanked my hand away, mortified at where my thoughts had wandered. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t like me at all.

Except for last night. I watched my reflection purse her lips and twist them to the side in what I meant as a dismissive gesture, as if to tell myself that one night’s weakness hadn’t changed me on such a fundamental level.

I shook my head to clear the forbidden thoughts and I hurried to put on the little black dress I’d splurged on earlier. The soft fabric clung to my curves in a way that made me feel equal parts daring and nervous.

With trembling fingers, I applied a light dusting of powder to my cheeks, a swipe of mascara to my lashes, and a hint of rosy gloss to my lips. I’d never been one for heavy makeup, preferring a natural look. But tonight, I found myself wishing I had more skills with cosmetics. Maybe then I could transform myself into the kind of glamorous woman who belonged on the arm of an international football star.

I gazed at my reflection critically, fussing with a wayward strand of hair. The girl looking back at me seemed both familiar and strange—wide green eyes filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation, cheeks flushed with nervous anticipation. Was I really going through with this?

Before I could second-guess myself further, my phone buzzed with a message. An unknown number—the limo driver, I gathered, telling me he had arrived. My heart leapt into my throat as I grabbed my small clutch purse and took one last glance in the mirror. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

The ancient wooden stairs creaked under my heels as I made my way down from the fifth-floor walkup. Each step felt huge, as if I was descending into a new chapter of my life. The warm evening air felt soothing on my bare arms as I stepped out onto the narrow cobblestone street.

There it was—a sleek black limousine that looked utterly out of place among the quaint cafés and flower shops of my quiet neighborhood. My pulse quickened as the uniformed driver stepped out and walked around to open the passenger door for me.

As the driver revealed the interior of the car, I half-expected to see Lucas Moreau waiting inside, his soft blue eyes meeting mine. But the backseat was empty, plush leather gleaming in the soft lighting. I slid in, the supple surface cool against my bare legs. As the door thunked shut, I felt suddenly small and alone in the cavernous space.

The limo glided away from the curb, whisper-quiet. I gazed out the tinted windows as we wound through the narrow streets of the Quartier Latin. The early evening light bathed everything in a golden glow, transforming the familiar cafés and shops into something dreamlike and ethereal.

As we emerged onto the wider boulevards, a surreal feeling washed over me. Was this really happening? Me, Alice Morgan, aspiring historian, being whisked away in a limousine to meet one of the most famous athletes in the world? I felt like a character in a novel—perhaps one of Proust’s kept mistresses in In Search of Lost Time , off to a clandestine rendezvous with her wealthy lover.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Is that what I was becoming? A glorified mistress, selling myself for the chance to pursue my academic dreams?

Why not?

We crossed the Seine, the river glittering in the fading sunlight. To distract myself from my swirling thoughts, I began naming the landmarks I could see. There was Notre-Dame, its gothic spires reaching toward the heavens.

As we crossed the Pont Saint-Michel, I tried to remember all of the bridges of Paris, the way I had memorized them just for fun my freshman year of college. Pont Alexandre III with its ornate golden statues gleaming in the evening light was far to the west. I resolved to walk there tomorrow, to see the intricate Art Nouveau lamps that lined the bridge, their graceful curves a testament to Belle époque elegance.

Pont de l’Alma, where a princess had died. Pont d’Iéna with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower looming above the right bank.

My favorite, just to the west of us now, the Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the Seine. I thought of the countless lovers who had strolled across its sturdy stone arches over the centuries. The thought that I might join them, the secret lover of Lucas Moreau, sent an unexpected thrill through me.

The limo slowed to a stop, and I realized we had arrived at our destination. My heart began to race as the driver opened my door. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, blinking in the warm evening light. The restaurant before me was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Its elegant fa?ade was adorned with intricate wrought-iron balconies, overflowing with cascades of vibrant flowers. Golden light spilled from tall windows, hinting at opulence within.

As I approached the entrance, a doorman in an impeccably tailored uniform bowed slightly and opened the heavy oak door. The scent of delicate perfume and rich, unmistakably Parisian cuisine, redolent with garlic, wafted out, enveloping me. I stepped inside, my heels clicking softly on the gleaming marble floor.

The interior took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers dripped from coffered ceilings, their facets casting a soft, romantic glow over the dining room. Plush velvet banquettes lined the walls, interspersed with intimate alcoves draped in shimmering silk. Fresh roses adorned every table, their subtle fragrance mingling with the aromas of fine wine and gourmet dishes.

Before I could fully take in my surroundings, the ma?tre d’ approached, a distinguished older gentleman with silver hair and kind eyes. To my surprise, he greeted me by name.

“Mademoiselle Morgan, welcome,” he said warmly. “We’ve been expecting you. If you’ll follow me, please.”

He led me through the dining room, past tables of elegantly dressed patrons who seemed to exude an air of wealth and sophistication. I felt acutely aware of my youth, the simplicity of my dress. As classic as the little black dress might be, according to Coco Chanel, it didn’t hold a candle to the elegance of the outfits worn by the older women I saw enjoying their aperitifs with distinguished-looking companions.

We passed all the way through the main dining room. The soft clink of fine china and crystal mingled with the low murmur of conversation. I couldn’t help noticing the curious glances from other diners. Did they recognize me as out of place, or were they simply wondering who I was to be led to what was clearly a special table?

We ascended a small flight of stairs to a mezzanine level overlooking the main floor. Here, the lighting was even more intimate, with candles flickering in ornate sconces along the walls. The ma?tre d’ guided me toward a secluded alcove, partially hidden behind a lush arrangement of exotic flowers.

And there he was.

Lucas Moreau rose as we approached, his presence filling the small space. He was even more breathtaking in person than in his photos or on television. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, he exuded an aura of easy confidence and power. His tailored suit, a deep navy that brought out the startling blue of his eyes, fit him perfectly.

“Alice,” he said, his voice a rich baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. “Welcome.”

He stepped toward me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to kiss me full on the lips. I froze, my eyes wide, as he leaned forward.

Lucas’ cologne—a subtle, masculine scent with notes of sandalwood and citrus—seemed to envelop me. His lips brushed my cheek in a feather-light kiss, the traditional French greeting of la bise . But as he pulled back, his breath ghosted over my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“ Enchanté ,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

I felt heat rush to my face, my cheeks blazing as I remembered with vivid clarity the photos on my Selecta profile. The provocative poses, my most intimate areas on display… and Lucas had seen them all. My eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

“My, what a lovely shade of pink,” Lucas observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You have quite the sensitive nature, don’t you, Alice?”

His words only intensified my blush. I could feel the warmth spreading down my neck, across my chest. “I… um… thank you for inviting me,” I stammered, desperate to change the subject.

Lucas’ lips curved into a knowing smile. “The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, his eyes never leaving my face. “Please, have a seat.”

He pulled out my chair with a gallant gesture, and I sank into it gratefully, my legs feeling suddenly unsteady. As Lucas took his own seat across from me, I couldn’t help but notice how the candlelight played across his chiseled features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze.

“I hope you don’t mind; I’ve ordered you an aperitif,” Lucas said, nodding toward the vintage crystal glasses filled with effervescent bubbles.

“How could I possibly mind?” I said, suddenly to my astonishment feeling light and playful.

As I lifted my flute, the crisp scent of the champagne wafted to my nose enticingly.

“To new beginnings,” Lucas said, raising his glass in a toast.

I raised my own glass a little, the fine crystal feeling delicate and expensive in my hand. Our eyes met over the rim as we sipped. The cocktail tasted like… well, like joy , sparkling and perfectly sweet on my tongue.

“New beginnings,” I said softly, lowering my eyes with another blush. “I need some of those, I think.”