As a part of the Dirty Birdies Flock Hop, if you comment on this post, you could win one of 3 ebook copies of my latest book, THE PARIS GAME, or if you prefer, two of my previous works.
And make sure to check out the rest of the blogs participating in the Flock Hop for your chance to win even more goodies.
And now, a bit of a chat about eye-candy…
Now, there’s nothing I like more than some gorgeous eye-candy, but it was incredibly difficult to find a photograph that represented Marc Perron, the art dealer profiting on the wrong side of the law, from my latest book. He’s French, multi-talented (art dealer, bilingual, and a cellist), and sexy with an edge. Putting those attributes into a search engine on a stock photo site left me with very little. Instead, I spent several hours combing photographs of dark-haired men, European men, musicians, and the like, on said stock photo site…and came up with just one.
I think it was well worth the time. Slightly rumpled white shirt, open just so. Dark, direct gaze. Cello.
That man…I still can’t keep my eyes off him.
Now, here’s a sexy scene to whet your appetite!
From Chapter 2 of THE PARIS GAME:
“We’ll be closing in half an hour,” the clerk told him. Marc nodded and continued into the bookshop. He had Madelaine’s number from several weeks prior, but he far preferred to surprise her at work. If she wasn’t available, there’d always be someone else. He turned a corner and made his way towards the back of the shop, passing military history and philosophy before he found her. She stood on a small stepladder, methodically dusting the upper shelves.
“I’m glad to see they’ve replaced the old stepladder,” he remarked as he came up beside her. She gave him a brilliant smile, and if they hadn’t been in the middle of the shop, he knew she would have kissed him. Still, he helped her from the ladder and bent to kiss her cheek, pulling her into a close embrace. His hand slid down her back and over the snug fabric of her dark skirt.
“Marc!” she scolded him. “You didn’t tell me you were in town.” She leaned into his embrace, her red hair brushing his chin. Small and delicate, Madelaine was a beautiful Irish girl he’d met during a quick stop to find a book he’d needed for a deal he’d been working on. She had found him the book and hand-delivered it to his room. There had been chemistry between them in the book shop, but when she had showed up at his door, she confirmed his hopes. She’d stayed for a drink, which had lengthened into two, and then the rest of the night.
“Are you free this evening, ma petite amie?” he asked, pushing aside her hair to taste the skin beneath her ear. He felt her shiver.
“Of course.” She drew back. “I just have to finish this and then I’m all yours.”
He chuckled. “Should I wait for you?”
“There’s a bar down the road—the Birchfield. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.” Madelaine stood on her tiptoes and he took the opportunity to kiss her. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said against his lips. He kissed her again, delving into her mouth. She gave a little moan that made him wish they had more privacy.
He pulled away, caressing her cheek. “I’ll be waiting.”
Marc found the bar easily enough—a tiny hole-in-the-wall that reminded him of Paris and some of the places he used to frequent. The interior held a dozen tables and a few booths, barely busy at this hour. He found a table for two and gave his order to the single waiter on duty. While he waited, he checked his messages. Bates hadn’t called and he doubted he’d hear from the man again. The receptionist at the firm had called to remind him of two late afternoon appointments upon his return to Paris tomorrow. He sighed. He’d have to send her an email later and see if she could reschedule or give them to Fournier, his associate. After two weeks of straight travel and auctions, he wanted to spend his Friday doing something more pleasant.
He slid his phone back into his pocket and took a long drink of his wine. A small feminine figure at the bar caught his eye and for a moment he thought she looked familiar. Her dark hair fell down her back in waves and she moved as gracefully as a dancer. However, when she turned, he didn’t know her. He felt a pang of disappointment. Seraphina was back in Paris, beguiling the crowds as she sang at Le Chat Rouge, not here.
The door opened and Madelaine walked in. She slid into the chair next to him and kissed him soundly.
“That didn’t take long,” he commented when they broke apart.
“I rushed the last bit,” she admitted. Her hand settled possessively on his thigh. “You know, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
He poured her a glass of wine from the carafe before replying. “Why is that?”
“I know you said you’d come back, but I didn’t think you were telling the truth,” she replied. She flushed. “That sounded awful.”
Marc chuckled. He rarely bothered to see a woman twice; she’d read him right enough. But she’d been delectable and he wanted more.
“It’s true enough, but you’re more than just a one-night-stand.”
“Good.” Her hand slid farther up his thigh and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
“Then what are we doing here?” He rose, tossing a bill onto the table. They left the bar and hailed a taxi.
“Where are we going?” she asked as the black cab sped along Charing Cross Road.
“Always.” He would call room service, but first he wanted to see Madelaine sprawled on the gorgeous Art Deco desk in his suite, her arousal glistening between her parted thighs. He didn’t think she’d object to a bit of a wait for her supper.
The taxi ride was short and they hurried through the lobby, not pausing until they reached the door of Marc’s suite. Once inside, Madelaine’s giggles turned to a gasp as he pressed her into the closed door, his hands hiking her skirt around her waist. She squirmed in his embrace and he paused.
“What is it?”
“I’m wearing the most awful knickers,” she said in a low voice, her cheeks flushing.
He shrugged. “It’s not your knickers I’m interested in.” He tugged down her pantyhose and her underwear, going down on one knee to unhook the fabric from around her feet. He tossed the garments aside and stood, sliding his arm under her buttocks. She clasped his shoulders in surprise as he lifted her.
“Where are we going?”
“I had this vision,” he said, taking her through into the sitting room. His free hand swept the papers from the desk and he set her down. He pulled up a chair as she watched and when he’d settled, she had shifted to the edge of the desk, letting her knees fall open.
“Parfait.” His tongue penetrated her folds and he felt her fingers in his hair. Her legs quivered and he held them apart, his thumbs resting in the soft hollows of her inner thighs. He teased her clit and listened as her breathing turned to short gasps. Her hands left him and she slumped back on her elbows. He glanced up from between her legs and met her gaze. She licked her lips.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured. He didn’t plan to. He wanted to hear her cry his name, to have her orgasm on his tongue. He let his teeth scrape over her clit, provoking her into a guttural groan. It wouldn’t be long now.
He sated her twice on the desk, curling his fingers inside her until she begged him for release. Now she lay prone, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he gave her a caress as he stepped away.
Read more in THE PARIS GAME.