11. Winnie

11

WINNIE

A listair navigated Parisian traffic like a pro while I gazed out the passenger side window of our rental car, taking in the blur of suburban sprawl and freeways that reminded me of every other big city I’d ever visited. The same…yet different. Special. Like the beginning of a new adventure.

Maybe it was the melodic French music on the radio and the steady, calming presence of the man behind the wheel. Either way, it was pure magic. And when Alistair veered off the main highway, it got even better. The French countryside was a tapestry of green and gold with fluffy clouds in a pretty blue sky. Church steeples, castle ruins, sheep, and cows dotted the hillside.

He followed the signs to Fontainebleau, a charming small village with narrow streets and quaint buildings—not a tacky strip mall in sight.

We parked the car and walked a few blocks down cobblestone streets to the iron gates guarding a chateau with a grand horseshoe staircase that looked like something straight out of Cinderella .

I blinked in wonder. “I think I’ve seen pictures of this place. It’s pretty famous, huh?”

“Lesser known today than Versailles, but yes, Fontainebleau was once the royal hunting lodge for Henry II, Louis VII, and even Napoleon,” Alistair explained. “The forest and gardens go on for ages beyond the palace itself.”

“ That ginormous palace was a hunting lodge?” I let out a low whistle. “Must have been nice.”

“Royalty lived very well. I’ll take you to Versailles and Vaux-le-Vicomte too, so you can see just how well.” The professor held his arm out and inclined his head. “Shall we go inside?”

We walked through room after room decorated with lush fabrics, gilt-framed mirrors, priceless portraits of important-looking royals, and crystal chandeliers as big as small cars. We opted to do a self-guided tour with headphones, but Alistair kept interrupting the recording to point out details and give his spiel, so I turned off the sound fifteen minutes in and listened to my lover’s rendition of historical events instead.

He painted pictures with words, conjuring kings and queens living large in fifteen-hundred-plus rooms. They hosted lavish hunting soirees and partied like OG rock stars. Alistair talked about Napoleon’s abdication in the main courtyard on that fabulous staircase and a pope who’d been imprisoned there two hundred years ago.

I took over the storytelling as we strolled the circumference of the huge lawn arm in arm under darkening skies.

“Rewind, honey. The year is 1800, and we’re the royalest guests at the ball.” I glanced at the clouds gathering on the horizon and continued. “The king has been dying to get us to attend, and we finally gave in and agreed. I’m setting the fashion standard in a gorgeous purple silk jacket and those adorable pants with the high socks, and there are definitely gold buckles on my shoes. Pure gold. You’re looking dapper in deep-blue velvet, carrying a walking stick and?—”

“Why do I need a walking stick?”

I squeezed Alistair’s arm. “You don’t need it, but it’s the fancy kind that makes people go, ‘Oh, check him out. He must be somebody.’ C’mon, everybody wants to be somebody.”

“Do they? I’m perfectly happy to remain in obscurity myself, and though I’d hate to pop your bubble, there are a few things wrong with your story. There was no ruling king in 1800. The last one had his head lopped off, and?—”

I put a hand over his mouth and shook my head. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. No pesky facts allowed.”

“Oh, in that case, we might as well be joint kings of this tiny estate.”

I beamed at him. “Yes, yes, yes! It’s dreadfully small, darling. I need an upgrade, stat.”

“And you shall have one five times the size and—oh, dear.” Alistair held his palm up and frowned. “Is this celestial precipitation? I don’t believe I permitted rain today. Did you, darling?”

“Definitely not, darling. How rude.” My cheeks hurt from grinning as the first drops of rain fell on my face. “What do we do now?”

He put his hands on his hips and watched a group of fellow tourists without umbrellas racing toward the chateau . “Run!”

I laughed like a loon as we darted across dirt paths and slippery cobblestones to the exit.

And when Alistair slipped his hand in mine at the gate, leading me to the rental car, I barely noticed the rain.

We had lunch at a tiny pub in town with dark-paneled walls, low ceilings, and oodles of historical charm in its creaky floorboards and faded black-and-white prints of French landmarks. Our waitress had bobbed raven hair, red lipstick, spoke no English, and had a serious “Don’t fuck with me” look .

If I hadn’t been with Alistair, I would have pointed at the first thing on the menu and crossed my fingers in the hopes that I hadn’t ordered duck liver. But Alistair wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. He spoke with confidence, asking questions, gesturing at the menu, and slowly cracking the young woman’s haughty exterior. Her eyes twinkled as she replied in rapid-fire French, and I think she actually blushed.

Hold up. Was she flirting with my man, my date, my lover, my…Alistair?

Okay, no, he wasn’t mine for real, but he was mine for now and I didn’t share.

I set my hand over his on the table, staking my claim. Alistair turned his palm and laced our fingers, still conversing with the waitress about fuck knew what. That feeling of being protected, cherished, and cared for was back with a vengeance. Add a cozy table for two near a fireplace at a five-hundred-year-old pub in the French countryside, and damn, I could get drunk on this stuff.

I was torn between reminding myself this wasn’t real and reveling in something that felt like magic.

We toured a chateau with a moat and pristine gardens, then continued on to a teensy-tiny town built around a church that dated to the twelfth century and a castle with a turret that gave strong Rapunzel vibes. Alistair parked in front of a narrow house with bright flowers spilling from window boxes and a black-and-white smallish fluffy mutt standing guard on the porch.

“This…wow…gorgeous,” I whispered.

Alistair met me on the passenger’s side, carrying both of our bags. “Don’t set your expectations too high. It’s rather simple, but it’s clean and charming, and the owner is…colorful. You’ll see. ”

The door flung open on cue and a small middle-aged woman with wild red hair bounced onto the pathway to greet us.

“ Bonsoir! Bonsoir! Comment vas-tu, Al-ee ?”

“ Bien. Et toi ?”

“I am,” she began in careful English. “…very nice to see you. Oui ?”

“ ‘Happy to see you’ works better,” Alistair corrected affectionately.

The woman swatted his arm playfully and launched into a speech in French, complete with hand gestures and eye rolls as her dog ambled over to investigate. I bent to pet its ears while they chatted. I didn’t need to speak the language to know they were friends. Once again, I was curious. What did an Egyptologist from the UK and an innkeeper from a small village outside of Paris have in common?

“My manners are terrible. I am Francoise.” She thrust her hand at me and squeezed my fingers in a viselike grip as I stood.

“I’m Winnie. I’m Alistair’s…friend.”

In a move I was pretty sure I’d never seen outside a cartoon, Francoise arched an eyebrow to her hairline.

“Friend. Ohh! Z’is is good. Very good. Okay, I am Al-ee’s… c’est quoi ca …friends through zee ex-boyfriend? Old news and not good news. No worries for you, naturellement .” She gestured from the sky to the house behind her. “Come, come. It is raining now.”

She disappeared in a flash, leaving a vapor trail of Chanel number five in her wake.

Alistair led the way inside, pausing to set our bags on the bottom step of the narrow staircase off the foyer. The ceiling was low and the wide-plank wood floorboards were obviously uneven, but like the pub, Francoise’s house oozed charm with crystal sconces, colorful throw rugs, and pastural prints hung willy-nilly on red toile wallpaper. It was the sort of French chic look LA designers copied yet never quite nailed.

I hummed my approval. “This place is so freaking cute. I love it!”

Francoise reappeared with a thin, gray-haired man she introduced as her husband, Jacques. He spoke less English than his wife, so I was pretty much relegated to nodding with a stupid-ass smile on my face while Alistair translated. Apparently, our hosts were leaving for the night and Beau, the dog, was staying with us. Francoise had made Al-ee’s favorite stew; there was wine, cheese, and chocolate. Our only chore was to feed Beau breakfast and keep the treats to a minimum.

“Beau is…fat and lazy, but very handsome, oui ?”

“Very,” Alistair agreed. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”

After a series of kisses on both cheeks, they were gone.

I scratched Beau’s ears, then leaned against the kitchen doorway, French music drifting from a radio on the counter.

“What’s this song? The one on the radio. I know it’s édith Piaf, but is it special?”

“La Vie en Rose,” he replied. “Her famous ballad…a love song. It means to see life in?—”

“No, don’t tell me. I like the mystery. I feel so French when I hum along, you know?”

Alistair smiled affectionately. “If you say so. Wine?”

“Yes, please. So…where are we, and what just happened?”

“Francoise and Jacques are old friends and the owners of this fine establishment,” Alistair explained. “They live next door and rent rooms here. I called to let them know I’d be in the area, and they said we could have the place to ourselves for the price of keeping Beau company while they’re out for the evening.”

“Sweet deal,” I commented, following him into a quaint kitchen with open shelving chock full of colorful plates and bowls. “She said you met through the ex? Are they archeologists or something?”

He helped himself to a bottle of wine and motioned for me to take a seat at the long farmhouse table in the middle of the room. “No, Colin went to university with Francoise’s brother, who’s a colleague of mine at the museum. I told you academia is a small world.”

“It’s the same in my world too, honey. Practically every stylist in WeHo either previously worked for a Hollywood studio and left the grind with a few big-name clients or they’re newbies trying to make their way up the food chain. Like me.” I thanked him for the wine, smiling when Beau lumbered over and settled at my feet. “This is fun. I feel like I’m playing house in another country.”

“You are. Cheers.” He clinked our glasses as he slid onto the chair next to mine.

“Cheers.” I sipped my wine, relishing the buzz of alcohol and happy vibes from my unexpected day. I didn’t want to ruin this, but I seemingly couldn’t help myself. “What’s Colin like?”

Alistair tilted his chin, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Is he stuffy and boring? Please say yes.”

He barked a laugh. “I can’t believe you didn’t guess that I was the stuffy, boring one in that story.”

“Oh, stop fishing for compliments. Other than a peculiar allegiance to neutral shades, you’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met,” I gushed.

That was the absolute truth. I mean, today alone had been one adventure after another, and Alistair was the khaki-clad wizard who’d made it happen.

“Really? I’m chuffed, but?—”

“Chuffed? Like…scuffed, fluffed, stuffed? What does that mean? ”

He snickered merrily. “It means pleased. I think you knew that, you cheeky monkey.”

My smile was in danger of splitting my face in half. I sipped my wine in an attempt to regain control of my facial features. And though the topic no longer interested me, I needed a diversion.

“What were you saying about Colin?”

“Nothing at all,” he countered. “But since you’re curious, he’s a nice bloke—intelligent and ambitious. He’s the professor every student hoped to be assigned to and the dinner guest you strategically place at the table to keep conversation going. In other words, my opposite.”

“Oh. I’m assuming it’s not weird that we’re at his friend’s sister’s house in another country.”

“Not weird at all. As I mentioned, my social and professional circle are one and the same. Our relationship has been over for years now. We have a lot of crossover and it can be invasive, but I don’t care for drama—especially if it’s about me.”

“Are academics drama queens?”

“Some are. I don’t pay attention, and I don’t listen to gossip. It was a good thing that only a few friends knew about Colin and me. Like Francoise’s brother, Phillipe. Francoise and Phillippe are probably one of the few who chose sides and stuck with me. The rest, like my parents, thought I was probably to blame. Doesn’t matter. I’d rather be known for my academic contributions than for being the fool who let Colin Farrington get away.”

I dragged my teeth over my bottom lip. “Oh, no. You’ve still got feelings for him.”

Alistair scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

I wondered if that was totally true. I’d witnessed his angst a few weeks ago after I’d run into Gerard. That had to have been more than a desire to maintain professional distance while working overseas. But I didn’t want to know. I was sorry I’d brought up the ex. Colin didn’t belong here.

“Good.”

“And I have to warn you that Francoise has probably already told Phillipe about you. She’ll make it sound like wedding bells are imminent, too.”

I chuckled, relieved to change the subject. “Oh! How exciting! Our wedding is going to be huge.”

“Oh, dear. I was hoping for something small.” He pushed the sleeve of his sweater to his elbow and picked up the wine bottle. “More?”

“Yes, please.” My gaze locked on his strong hands and…geez, since when were forearms sexy? I cleared my throat and immediately started talking a mile a minute. “No small wedding. I’m gonna want all the bells and whistles.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have you know I’ve been planning my wedding since I was nine years old and my cousin, Letitia brought over a stack of Bride magazines taller than I was. You could have wrapped me in a bolt of tulle, thrown me a bouquet, and I swear I’d have been the happiest boy in town.”

Alistair’s lips quirked in amusement. “I think my father would have swallowed his tongue.”

“I’m sure my parents probably had a few uncomfortable chats about their precocious son constantly trying on his mama’s high heels, but ultimately, they must have decided foisting conformity on me wasn’t worth the effort. I have a vague memory of being signed up for preschool T-ball. I was probably five years old and had no idea what it was, but I think my mom and dad lured me in with promises of treats and a trophy. One glance at the costume on game day and all hell broke loose. It was so…ugly that I refused to wear it. No way, no how was I pu tting that polyester mess on my skinny little body. According to Jazz, that was the day I came out.” I snickered.

He grinned, casually petting Beau’s head as he reached for his wineglass. “I can see it clearly. I bet you were ridiculously adorable.”

“Totally ridiculous. When did you come out?”

“I’m not out. Not all the way out, anyway. My family knows and a few friends. That’s it. It just doesn’t seem like anyone else’s business.”

“Fair enough. When did you come out to your parents?” I amended.

“Well, I’d started seeing someone I really liked. My mum recognized all the signs of my mad crush and she was delighted at the prospect that I had a prospect, so she harangued me for hints about the identity of the lucky lady. I finally lost my cool and blurted, ‘Liam!’”

I snickered gleefully and did my best RuPaul diva snap. “Oh, no you didn’t.”

Alistair nodded. “I did, and after she’d clutched her pearls and moved beyond the shock, she told me to bring him round for Sunday dinner.”

“That’s nice. And did you?”

“No, we didn’t last long enough to get the family involved. I was so awkward around poor Liam.” He pulled a face and continued. “I tripped over my shoelaces, stumbled over my words, and generally came across as a bona fide mess whenever he walked into a room. Like the day I first saw you.”

“At your office?”

He gave a lopsided half smile. “No, the first time I set eyes on you was at Raine’s party in Cornwall. You floated into the room like a phantom, dressed in gold. Your hair was perfect, your lips were pink, and you’d done your eyes up like an Egyptian prince. I’d never seen anyone more beautiful in my life. ”

“Me?” I set my hand on my heart.

“Yes, you. I never quite worked up the courage to say hello that night. There were so many people and in the general chaos, I could almost believe I’d imagined you. A couple of years later, I was too engrossed in my work to put two and two together until you showed up, ready to take Paris by storm. I told Raine I didn’t need the help, but he insisted.” Alistair lowered his gaze and leaned forward. “I’m glad he did.”

I opened and closed my mouth…twice. “I…me too.”

He reached for my hand and pressed a kiss on my palm. “Are you hungry? Francoise is a wonderful cook and?—”

“Wait. You’re not awkward. You’re lovely. Inside and out.”

He snorted. “Thank you, but I think most people would tell you that I’m an odd duck.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, odd is my middle name.”

“What a coincidence. It’s mine too.”

We shared a sappy smile. I’m talkin’ super sappy. I had stars in my eyes, a goofy grin on my face, and my heart was beating a mile a minute. It was disarming to feel so rattled yet so safe at the same time. With a dog snoring at our feet and French music playing softly in the background, I could have stumbled onto a Hollywood movie set. This couldn’t be real.

Buzz buzz.

I slipped my phone out, squealing at the new pic of Liza flashing on my screen.

Meow bitch, when are you coming home? Max gives me extra kibble and I think I love him now. Also, news flash. Cally McNally is opening a salon on Melrose. She wants you. My lack of opposable thumbs is tiresome. Can Max send your résumé?

Job opportunity.

That was…interesting. Not something I wanted to think about now .

I closed the text thread, but showed Alistair the photo of Liza, grateful for the diversion.

“She looks like you, in feline form,” he observed, snaking his hand under my shirt. “Pretty…and fierce.”

I moaned at the feel of Alistair’s stubbled jaw on my ear.

“Thank you, I— mmm .” I lowered my hand, cupped his cock through his khakis, and blurted, “How do you say Roger in French?”

He blinked at the wild non sequitur. “Rogz-air. Why do you ask?”

“I brought Rogz-air with me.”

“The pink thing?”

“Dildo,” I clarified.

“This is the same Roger you dropped at St. Pancras Station.”

“I only have one Rogz-air with me, honey. I have a much more extensive collection of sexy toys at home, but I figured he’d would do the job in Paris. I wasn’t counting on you, and well…obviously, he’s been thoroughly scrubbed and…”

His eyes took on a heated look I knew all too well. “Show me.”

We got to our feet, startling the sleeping dog. Beau gave us a bored once-over and resumed snoring as we hurried out of the kitchen, grabbing our things on our way upstairs.

Alistair ducked under a narrow doorframe at the top of the stairs, dropped his bag, and pulled me to his chest. Our mouths collided hungrily. And just like that, the rest of the world melted away.

I clung to him, my arms wrapped around his neck as he ravaged me. Yes, ravaged. I felt like a damsel with a ripped bodice on a retro romance cover. No complaints here. The plunging tongues, roving hands, and the seductive sway of hips was pure poetry.

Alistair unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans, slipping his fingers under the elastic of my boxer briefs to knead my ass cheeks while I was still reeling from his kiss. He ghosted a digit along my crack and licked my earlobe, thrusting his erection against mine.

I nipped his lip, reaching between us to rub him good and dirty. “No teasing. Get naked and show me the goods, Professor.”

Alistair shook his head. “No, love. I’m calling the shots tonight. Listen closely. Are you listening?”

Professor fantasy unlocked. He had my full attention like nothing and no one ever had.

“Y-yes.”

“Take off your clothes, retrieve your toy, and get on the bed…on your knees. I want to see that pretty hole of yours. Do you understand?”

I gulped and possibly nodded, but don’t quote me. I was in another zone.

I shed clothing in record time and rummaged through my bag for Roger, tossing socks, briefs, and the umbrella we could have used earlier in the day. I found my toy in the sealed compartment I’d packed it in, all cleaned up and ready to play. Then I hustled to the bed, stopping in my tracks.

“Oh, honey, we’re gonna break this thing.”

“It’s sturdy.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should—” I glanced his way and nearly swallowed my tongue. “Fuck me, you’re hot.”

It was true. Alistair was tall and thick in all the right places—his chest, his thighs, his gorgeous cock. Nothing about him was overly sculpted or perfect, but his realness was alluring. I licked my lips, shamelessly admiring his hairy pecs.

Alistair set a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms on the nightstand and pointed meaningfully. “Bed. Now. Don’t touch yourself. Your cock and arse are mine.”

“Holy shit. Yes, yes, yes. ”

I obeyed, positioning myself on my hands and knees, presenting my ass like a gift. The bedsprings creaked as he climbed behind me onto the mattress, splaying his palms on my back. He drizzled lube over my crack and glided his cock along my crease.

I think I whimpered. Oh, my God…mortifying. But I couldn’t help it.

Anticipation ate me alive, which was kinda strange ’cause I was a damn good bottom. Like…the best, VIP, top shelf. The key was to relax every fiber of every muscle in the body. Once his beast of a cock was inside me, I could take over, guiding the action with the tilt of my hips and a well-timed, “Fuck me harder.”

That was how it had worked with previous lovers, anyway. Not so much with the professor.

I forgot myself with him. I was too strung out to relax. Desire tripped me up, making me dizzy and shaky. Precum dripped from my aching dick onto the sheet below. If I’d trusted my balance, I’d have jerked it for a little relief, but he’d warned me not to touch myself and I wanted to be good for him. So good.

Finally, Alistair eased a finger inside me and reached around to grip my cock. I could have wept with relief. To be clear, I had no chill now. I fucked into his fist, riding that single digit like a ho.

He pulled out, tsking. “Slow down, boy.”

“ Ungh .” I hung my head and sucked in a breath. “Please.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want, Win. What you need,” he purred, slipping two fingers in.

I gripped the pillow with a grunt, arching into his touch and moaning aloud when he found my sweet spot. It was so good, but still not enough. “More.”

Wrong thing to say. Alistair pulled away again, leaving me feeling empty and horny to the point of madness. He returned seconds later…with Roger. I’d thought we were going to skip the dildo foreplay and get to the real deal, but okay. I knew this particular toy well, and the stretch and burn was familiar. Or so I’d thought.

Nothing was the same with Alistair in control. He massaged my hole with Roger’s tip, then slowly breached me, going no more than an inch…in and out, in and out. It was torture and I loved it. Or maybe I loved his steady hand stroking me like a maestro or the trail of kisses he planted on my neck as he whispered dirty sweet nothings.

“I’m going to fuck you, Win. I’m going to be so deep inside you. You’re going to beg for it. You’re going to want to feel me tomorrow and the next day. You’re going to wish you could feel my cum in your hole and?—”

“Oh, fuck yes! Fuck me,” I growled.

I gasped as the dildo filled me. He didn’t shove it in haphazardly, but it was a lot. I breathed in, slowly releasing a stream of air till pleasure chased any lingering pain away. And suddenly, he was coming at me from every direction. His mouth, his fingers, and yes, that goddamn Roger.

“Is this what you wanted, love? Is this the cock you wanted?”

“No, no, no. I want you. Please,” I sputtered, licking his lips.

“Ask me nicely.”

Torture. Pure fucking torture. “Ugh! You…you, fucker.”

Alistair gently removed Roger and tossed it aside, smacking my ass hard enough to leave a handprint. “Lie down. I want to see you, naughty boy.”

Christ, he’d spanked me, called me boy, and I was so here for it, I could have cried.

I’d never moved so fast in my life. Legs up and spread wide, precum leaking on my lower abs. I was a hot mess, ready to be ridden hard. I gazed up at Alistair, who had the decency to look as close to the edge of sanity as I was. His longish hair was damp with sweat, and his hand trembled as he reached for a condom.

“No condom…just you. Please,” I blurted. “I was tested before I flew here. Your call, but whatever you do, just…fuck me. Yes, I’m begging. I need you, I want you. I?—”

Alistair dropped the wrapper, lined his bare cock at my hole, and entered me with a fluid thrust that made my toes curl and my eyes roll in their sockets. He stilled for a moment as if to be sure I was okay. Then we were off to the races, fucking like animals in a carnal dance we’d become experts at in a matter of weeks.

He knew I loved it when he dragged his thumbs over my nipples, and I knew he loved it when I lifted my hips and clutched his ass cheeks in a greedy grab for more. I loved the spontaneous position changes too. One second I was staring up at the ceiling, and the next I was bouncing on his cock like a pogo stick, trying not to snicker at the squeaky bedsprings.

Alistair cracked up first, and that should have ended the sexiness. No one laughed during sex, right? You moaned, grunted, mumbled perverted praise and promises to do things that would make a hardened criminal blush, but you didn’t laugh. In a twist, I’d been missing out.

His crinkling eyes and wide grin freed something deeply joyful in me, welling to the surface on a wave that had me diving into his arms. Alistair held me close and rolled on top of me, brushing hair from my eyes as he moved.

He whispered in a language I didn’t understand—maybe French or maybe an ancient Egyptian dialect no one had spoken for centuries. It was impossibly romantic and sweet and gorgeous, and I felt myself begin to fall.

True, my orgasm was coming for me like a runaway freight train, but something else was happening too. My defenses were slipping away, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. It was scary as fuck, and yet somehow…I knew I’d be okay.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held on as he came, shooting his load inside me—another thing I’d never let another man do. I was giving pieces to him that I’d sworn I’d save for someone special. I should have been alarmed, but it felt too fucking good.

And all I could think was, Thank you, Paris .