Lyon. Elizabeth Amber
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them with one hand. Holding nothing back, he gave her what she begged for, sending shock waves through her body with each lusty hammer of his hips. He grunted like an animal as the force of each plow slammed his balls against her. The stubble on his jaw chafed her throat and his mouth bruised her, but she only pleaded for more.
“Yes!” she shouted, “Yes,” over and over until his ears rung and he wondered if he should bespell himself into deafness. Her frigid, slushy core warmed, and she began to hum a soft siren’s song deep in her chest, indicating her heightening pleasure. His balls tightened in response, presaging the monumental release that often came with the fucking of a creature with ElseWorld blood.
Yet all the while, he remained alert to his surroundings. Apart from the actions of his body, he tracked where every Human within a hundred feet stood and used his acute senses to filter the air for sounds or signs of danger.
Above him, the Pont Neuf still bustled with activity and the enthusiastic crowd pounded across the bridge like a herd of cattle. The acrid scent of smoke told him the lampiste was illuminating the lamps along the bridge. Some of the chestnuts in the vendor’s cart had burned, a container of beer had just been broken at King Henri’s feet, and another man had just spilled his cum inside the brown-eyed Human woman Lyon had earlier abandoned.
Then, without warning, something unfamiliar and…pleasing…reached him. It was a new, momentous fragrance unlike any he’d ever experienced. Riding on the air, it invaded his lungs, his mind. And sought to leave its mark on other organs no female had ever yet touched. On his heart—his very soul.
His head jerked back from Sibela’s. His brows knit in concentration as he scrutinized her face. She was staring beyond him, toward something above him on the bridge.
“Your scent—” he gasped, never breaking the rhythm of his rut. Her eyes flicked guiltily to his.
“Ignore her,” she urged, and he heard the fear in her voice. “She’s nothing to us.”
She wrenched her wrists from his hold in order to clutch him to her and kiss his throat with cloying desperation.
“Ignore who?”
And then, impossibly—despite Sibela’s pleas and despite the din on the bridge—a single word reached him. A single word made of two sweet syllables, fallen from feminine lips. A word that in and of itself meant nothing to him. But which fell upon his ears with the subtle impact of a delicate leaf drifting to lie upon a still pond on a quiet autumn day.
It was a simple, quiet utterance. Yet one that wreaked havoc on his senses. He felt himself losing control. Felt his gut wrench. Felt himself being forcibly hurtled toward the fiercest ejaculation of his life. His cock swelled and hardened to stone as unyielding as the bridge supports. His teeth bared and every muscle in his body seized.
Bone-deep ecstasy shuddered over him, then he shot off, harder than he ever had before. Cum flooded from him, thick and hot and never-ending.
“Gods! Gods!” he gasped, barely registering the fact that his partner was coming as well. It was as though he were experiencing his orgasm with someone other than the woman under him.
His back arched and he looked upward, toward the place on the bridge from which the unexpected sound and scent had emanated.
Above him, a shadowy form watched from along the balustrade of the bridge. He had only a quick glimpse of a pale, rosy-cheeked feminine face within a crimson hood, before it ducked out of sight.
2
A crisp breeze wafted off the River Seine, rouging the pallor of Mademoiselle Juliette Rabelais’ cheeks and loosening tendrils of her almond-colored hair as she paused at the entrance to the Pont Neuf. Beside her, young Fleur kept up a running commentary on everything and everyone they passed as she had all morning.
Juliette rarely came to this side of the river, but the Rive Droit—the right bank—was the location of Les Halles, the marketplace popularly known as the stomach of Paris. There was to be an entertainment in the salon at home tonight, so she’d gone shopping to replenish her supplies. Herbs and other cooking ingredients she’d gathered were now packed in the baskets she and Fleur carried.
But far more precious than the foodstuffs was the single sheet of rag paper rolled tightly and tucked in her basket among the figs, chives, spearmint, cinnamon, sage, and nutmeg. She’d paid Madame Elbe, the herbalist, a small fortune to have it stolen and delivered to her today and she’d been careful not to let Fleur see. Excitement fizzed inside her as it had since she’d scanned the paper and found her name. And another one that was familiar to her as well.
“Allez, Fleur,” she said, waving her younger companion ahead and indicating that she should cross the bridge alone. “Continue on and tell them I’m coming.”
“Of course, mademoiselle. But you are certain?” Fleur touched her gloved hand in concern.
With anyone else, Juliette might have been embarrassed to admit her own fears, but Fleur was too kindhearted to judge her. She swallowed a lump of affection for the girl and nodded. “Oui. Go and make yourself ready for tonight.”
Fleur grinned, bobbed a curtsey, and departed. Juliette watched her cap until the throng on the Pont Neuf engulfed it.
She usually took care not to associate with the other girls, for past experience had schooled her that doing so only brought sadness when they departed or were dismissed. But Fleur was lively and genuine and it was difficult not to like her. She feared they were fast becoming friends.
Her eyes located the townhouse set in an unrelieved row of residences along the Rive Gauche, the left bank of the river on the far periphery of the bridge. It was the less fashionable district, but Monsieur Valmont and his activities would not have been welcome in the more desirable neighborhood on this side of the river. Though the house looked pleasant enough with its gray plaster, red door, and wrought iron rails, revulsion welled at the thought of returning there.
A jongleur clutching an assortment of brightly colored balls, clubs, and rings passed her on his way on to the bridge and tipped his hat, giving her a long, significant glance. Accustomed to such sidelong glances from men, she ignored him. A group of finely dressed ladies pulled their skirts from her path and whispered as they, too, passed. She ignored them as well. Over the past year since she’d returned to Paris with M. Valmont, she and the other girls had become infamous in this neighborhood, objects of curiosity to some, and of scorn and suspicion to others.
She saw the red door open and shut in the row of houses lining the Quai di Conti, indicating that Fleur had arrived safely. It should have been a simple matter for her to dash across the bridge too.
It should have been. Yet it was not. Though she knew the bridge to be over ninety-two feet wide and nine hundred feet long and supported by twelve arches, crossing it nevertheless seemed as dangerous to her as traversing the river via tightrope.
“Move. You have to go,” she scolded herself under her breath. She’d lingered here far too long.
Determinedly she fixed her eyes on the equestrian statue of King Henri that stood at the center of the bridge. Reaching it would mean she was halfway home.
She adjusted the basket more securely in the crook of her arm. Straightening her spine, she took a hesitant step forward, then another. And then she was on the bridge.
“Un, deux, trois…quinze, seize…” As she counted her steps in a hushed voice, she combated her irrational fears by running tonight’s menu through her mind.
…Should she add the figs to the cakes again? Valmont hadn’t liked them done up in that manner, but Fleur and Gina had. Yes, she would add them…and she must remind Madame Gris to let the pear sauce cool before dousing the truffles, which must be checked for rot and the fromage as well…
With meticulous care, she trained her gaze on Henri, glancing neither right nor left, for in both directions lay the swirling waters of the Seine. Not overly fond of nature in general, she was particularly terrified of water. It was a fear that