THIS BOY. The tall, lean American with the golden good looks and dark hair that falls over his forehead in the most tantalizing curl. He’s attractive, and he knows it, and I usually don’t find myself drawn to that sort, but he somehow wormed his way into my evening, despite my reluctance and out and out rudeness toward him.
My behavior didn’t deter him, though. It’s almost as if he was amused by me, and I suppose I could blame Gideon for allowing West to join us.
Deep down, I wanted this boy to come with us. To see if his touch was as electric as the way his eyes roamed over me. I feel sparks on my skin every time he looks at me, and I …
Don’t like it.
The night started out like any other, Gideon and I eager to go out and party, Parisian-style. We broke away from the group earlier, the girls and boys we traveled to the city with. We’re here to perform with the Ballet de l’Opéra national de Paris in a special program. Only a select few were chosen, and I was one of the lucky ones, along with my partner, Gideon.
My lovely, gorgeous Gideon, who has more disdain for people than anyone else I know, including myself. For whatever reason, he seemed to like West.
I don’t. Not really. He makes me uncomfortable. Every time his eyes land on me, I feel … weird. Like my body isn’t my own. When he puts his hands on me, my bones dissolve. And when he touched my breasts, I swear I could feel his mouth already on my skin, hot and wet. Making my entire body shake with anticipation.
I want him to do it again.
We leave Gideon behind at the nightclub, not that I think he minds. I spot him at the bar where we left him, giving him a signal that I’ll see him later, and he nodded his acknowledgement, with a knowing smile on his face. My friend is most likely thinking, finally.
Finally, I’m going to let a boy touch me. Kiss me. I have already let this boy do exactly that, which is so unlike me. I don’t like to be touched. Held. And I’ve never let a boy kiss me.
Ever.
Until this one. West.
His name is ridiculous. I can tell by the way he looks, how he’s dressed, that he’s wealthy. He gives off that old money vibe, especially with his designer choices. Our families have most likely crossed paths, which is the last thing I want to think about, so I push the thought out of my head.
I’ve been on a little summer adventure ever since we arrived in Paris a few weeks ago to practice endlessly for our upcoming performance, and Gideon says I’m burning the candle at both ends.
I love Gideon and his quaint, constant usage of cliches. It’s adorable.
“Where are we going?” West asks, after we’ve left the club and we can actually hear each other speak without yelling.
“You’ll see.” I take his hand, marveling at how big it is. How it completely envelops mine. His skin is warm and smooth, with the faintest hint of roughness on his fingertips and palm. He’s tall, much taller than I am. When I look straight at him, I stare at his broad chest. And when I lift my gaze slightly, I can study the strong column of his throat. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. The faint shadow on his jawline, indicating he needs to shave. I’m tempted to touch his face, see if it’s as prickly as I think it might be. “This way.”
I lead him down the sidewalk, the streets still crowded with cars despite the late hour, my heartbeat ringing in my ears. He keeps pace beside me, his hand still in mine. The evening breeze washes over my skin, bringing with it the earthy scent of the Seine. I stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change, my eyes closing for the briefest moment, savoring the experience.
This is exactly what I envisioned happening before we left for Paris. I wanted to escape, even for just one night, and possibly even find a boy to escape with so I could forget all of the pressures that come with being … me.
It’s almost as if I made my wish come true—with the help of Gideon, of course.
“Hey. Do we have to keep running?”
When I open my eyes, I find him watching me, his dark brows drawn together. I’m amused by his question, considering. “I thought you were a runner.”
He smiles, dipping his head for a moment, almost as if he’s bashful, which is a complete lie. His arrogance bleeds through his every gesture, but I don’t mind. I’m used to this sort of behavior from the men in my family. “I also like to walk. Savor the night, you know?”
My heart turns over itself at his confession. He gets it, and that is such a rare and wonderful thing.
“Oh, I know.” The light changes, and I tug on his hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I walk briskly across the street, West keeping pace beside me, swinging our clutched hands between us. People eye us curiously as they walk past, their lips curled in tiny smiles, as if they’re in on our secret.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Not yet,” I say, trying to sound mysterious. “How long have you been in Paris?”
“Only a few days. How about you?”
“The last two weeks.” Two weeks of nonstop practice. Of endless work. My feet are aching in the cheap little sandals I bought at a small shop on the Rue Cambon a few days ago, and my legs are tired, but none of my aches and pains will stop me.
Not tonight.
When we draw closer to our destination and I first catch sight of it, my heart swells. The grand staircase in front of the building that is usually filled with people during the day, a street peddler performing songs while standing in front of those steps, his guitar case open for payment. The same man is there every day when we arrive for practice, always singing American rock songs, and he makes all of the younger girls giggle when he tips his hat in their direction, smiling at them. He tried to smile at me, but I only glared, hating how old he was.
He has no business flirting with young girls.
The intricately designed black iron streetlamps that run along the front entrance illuminate the archways, the golden statues that sit atop the building, like blazing candles on a towering cake. I come to a stop and stare up at the building, squeezing West’s hand.
“This is where I’m performing,” I tell him, my voice so low, it’s almost carried away by the rush of traffic speeding by us.
He turns his startled gaze to mine. “When?”
“This weekend. It’s a special performance, just for three nights.”
The disappointment on his face is clear. “I’m leaving for Spain tomorrow.”
“A trip all over Europe then?”
He nods.
“To celebrate … your graduation?” I’m digging for information since he gives so little, but then again, so do I.
Maybe it’s better this way, each of us keeping our secrets. This is only one night out of our lives. We’ll never run into each other again.
“Sure.” He lifts our linked hands to his mouth and brushes the softest kiss across my knuckles, something hot fluttering in my belly.
Lower.
“Let’s see if we can find a way inside,” I suggest, needing a distraction from the heat in his gaze and the way it makes me feel. All light and shivery and nothing like myself at all. “Come with me.”
“Pretty sure we won’t be able to—”
I turn on him, stopping in front of one of the grand-arched entry-ways, clutching both of his hands in mine. “Never doubt me.”
His solemn gaze meets mine, and he nods once. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t even hesitate at my request, and I appreciate that. It’s in my blood, in my family. Stubbornness. Determination. We get what we want, and no one can stop us. My older brother does whatever he wants. My father is the same. My poor sister is completely controlled by my mother, and I pity her. I really do.
Me? I’m controlled by myself. And dance.
My choice, I think to myself as I pull on every door handle, frustrated that they’re all locked. At the center door, I spot an older gentleman standing beside it in a security uniform. I recognize him and make my approach, West right behind me.
“Jean-Jacque!” I exclaim, throwing my arms up as if I’m going to hug him in greeting.
He tilts his head. “Bon soir, mademoiselle.”
I speak to him in rapid-fire French, explaining that I left the most important personal items I own inside, in the dressing room behind the stage. It’s a plausible excuse. A small stash of items is at my dressing table right now, waiting for me to appear tomorrow and use them. My makeup bag. Extra tape for my shoes. A few contraband bottles of water, something they frown upon, even though it’s necessary for us to stay hydrated.
The Palais Garnier is such an important monument, even water for the dancers is looked at as potentially damaging to the interior.
Jean-Jacque keeps shaking his head, muttering, “non,” under his breath, but I don’t let it deter me. I talk and talk. Gesture and lament. I even throw out the biggest lie of all, calling West my boyfriend, and explain how desperate I am to get those very, ahem, private items that are inside, so we can spend our last night together …
Intimately.
“I should not,” Jean-Jacque says in gruff English, his gaze narrowing on West. “Let the gentleman go to the pharmacy and take care of you.”
“Oh, that won’t do, not at all, Jean-Jacque.” I clutch my hands together, making my eyes as big as I can. If I could will tears to form, I would do so, just to get inside, but I rarely cry. “Please. Please let us in. I promise we’ll be out in ten minutes.”
A group of teenagers, not too far in age from West and me, start causing a fuss on the steps, all of them shouting at the top of their lungs, singing a popular rap song. Jean-Jacque watches them, irritation in his gaze before he turns toward the door and quickly unlocks it.
“Hurry,” he says, cracking open the door for us. “Be careful. There are no lights on inside. Use your phones as flashlights. And get what you need as quickly as possible, do you understand?”
I come this close to hugging him, but I remember at the last second that I don’t like touching strangers so I grin at him instead. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Jean-Jacque. I owe you.”
We slip inside the entrance of the Palais Garnier and the sound of the grand door closing echoes throughout the massive space. We’re shrouded in darkness, and an unfamiliar sensation rises inside me, bubbling in my throat as if I just drank a soda.
I realize I’m giddy. My body is practically vibrating with excitement and it’s all because of this night. With this boy who I don’t really know.
Who I don’t really want to know.
We stand still for a moment, allowing our eyes to adjust. I can feel his gaze lingering on me. He remains so quiet I eventually turn to him.
“What?”
“I can’t believe you got us in here. This is one of the most revered buildings in Paris.” He sounds awed, and I start to walk, proud that I was able to convince Jean-Jacque to let us inside.
“It was nothing. I’m set to perform here, after all,” I toss out at him, my skin warming when he shifts even closer to me, his hand brushing my hip.
I side-step him, ignoring the chills that ripple down my spine as I carefully approach the massive marble staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“Did you really leave your birth control pills here?”
My mouth pops open and I slowly turn to face him. “You understood what I told Jean-Jacque?”
I never deviated from French. And I spoke rapidly, never wanting to give the kind security guard a chance to think about what I was asking to do.
West nods. “I’m fluent.”
“How are you …” I shake my head, not wanting to know the details. Prep school French, most likely. “Never mind. I believe you. You don’t have to explain how you know the language.”
He chuckles, the warm sound wrapping all around me. “If you say so.”
“And no, I didn’t actually leave my birth control here.” They’re back in my hotel room. It just seemed like the most scandalous thing to tell Jean-Jacque, and he wouldn’t want to talk about it for too long, considering he looks at me and probably just sees a young girl, not a sexually-active woman.
Which I’m not. My first kiss is from the very boy I’m standing with in the middle of the Palais Garnier on a Wednesday night. This entire moment is surreal.
“Let’s go up to the balcony.” I turn away from West and dash up the stairs, laughing when I hear him chase after me. Once we reach the top, I realize he’s not even out of breath, which is impressive. The staircase is massive.
“Where’s the balcony?” he asks.
“This way.” I take his hand and lead him over to the closed doors, trying the handle to find it’s locked. “I can’t open it.”
West crowds me from behind, his chest pressed against my back as he reaches out and turns the lock above the handle, chuckling. The door opens with ease and we both step outside onto one of the balconies that overlooks the city square.
“Oh, it’s beautiful at night.” I stop at the balustrade and grip the edge, glancing over it to see that a few people are sitting on the steps that lead into the opera house. The wind is stronger up here, battering against my face, causing a few strands of slicked back hair to break free and I smooth them back, sucking in a sharp breath when West stops directly behind me, just as he did only a moment ago.
He stretches out his arms, resting his palms on the ledge, caging me in. My heart rises to my throat, panic rushing through my veins, and I close my eyes, telling myself not to freak out or push him away.
I’ve never had someone surround me so completely, and normally, I would feel trapped. Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes for a beat, taking a deep breath, focusing on my core. My heartbeat. The way West stands behind me, around me, not quite touching me. When I open my eyes, a sense of calm comes over me and I turn my head to the side, wishing I could see his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
“Enjoying the view.” His deep voice, sounding so close to my ear, sends a shiver cascading down my spine.
“The palace is prettier than all of this,” I point out, referring to the buildings surrounding us.
“I wasn’t talking about the city view.” He shifts even closer, the firm wall of his chest pressing against my back, his mouth literally at my ear now. So close, I swear I can feel his lips move against my flesh. “I was talking about you.”
Everything inside me loosens, with the exception of my heart. I swear it’s going to pound directly out of my chest and leap off the second-floor balcony, running away from me before I can catch it. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”
“Can’t think of one who I’ve ever said that to.” His arms squeeze in even closer on me and I remain rigid out of habit. The cold little dancer with no feelings.
People have called me that before—plenty of times. I had one instructor who said I didn’t know how to emote when performing, and when I asked him what he meant, he informed me in front of everyone that I lacked passion. Everyone in the class giggled until I sent them all a cold, hard stare that made them shut up.
Perhaps he’s right. I’ve tried so hard to show that I do, indeed, have passion within me. Passion for dance. For life. And while I always nail the dance moves and the facial expressions, the music sweeping over me, lifting me up, bringing out every emotion that lives within me, it’s sometimes still not enough.
I’ve never known passion with another human being. Sometimes I wonder if I’m incapable of it. Incapable of feeling.
Incapable of loving anyone.
“This is only for one night, right?” I ask the question so softly, I’m afraid he didn’t hear me at first. As if my words were carried away by the wind.
He pauses. It’s like I can hear him contemplating my question and I wait with bated breath until he says, “I most likely will never see you again after tonight.”
I tilt my head down, my ponytail sliding to the side of my neck, the ends dangling against my cheek, and I suck in a sharp breath when I feel his lips rest on my nape. Warm and damp, imprinting on my skin.
My soul.
“You smell so fucking good,” he whispers, his mouth brushing my skin. I’m trembling, my fingers gripping the balustrade so tightly, they ache.
Time stops as I wait for him to do something. Say something. Instincts stir deep inside me and I remain quiet, waiting.
Waiting.
When he licks my neck with the tip of his tongue, a soft sound escapes me. He does it again, and I whimper, dipping my head forward, wanting more. Needing more.
Confusion swirls, mixing with a range of emotions and sensations that I don’t recognize. His hands settle over mine, keeping me in place, and I ask with a choked sound, “What are you doing to me?”
“Tasting you.” His teeth scrape the back of my neck, my entire body melting. Softening. I lean into him, absorbing his heat. His strength. I’m strong, my body formed into nothing but muscle and bone and skin. There’s not a single ounce of fat on my frame and I worry for a split second that he won’t find me or my body appealing.
I’m too athletic, too skinny, too sharp. Too mean and too cold and too quiet.
He says nothing for a long, pulse-pounding moment, though his breathing deepens. Becomes heavier. I wait, trembling, words stuck in my throat, unable to escape. I’m a wreck of nerves, confused and overwhelmed, and when he finally speaks, I’m relieved to hear it’s a command.
“Tilt your head back.”
I do as he says, relief flooding me when the back of my head rests on his shoulder. This, I can handle. Being told what to do. Manipulated and molded and formed into what someone wants from me.
His hands settle on my waist, his fingers stretching across the flat expanse of my stomach, and I can’t breathe. When he slides them up, oh so slowly, over my rib cage, goose bumps follow, dotting my skin. And when his large hands slip beneath my tank top to cover my bare breasts completely, I moan. A sound so foreign to my ears, I immediately flush with embarrassment.
A deep hum of approval leaves him, his mouth still at my ear as he begins to knead my skin, his thumbs brushing back and forth over my distended nipples. So lightly, I could almost think he’s not touching me at all. I arch my back, wanting more, my tank top riding up, exposing me even more, those big hands still covering my flesh.
His hands shift, so only his fingers remain, plucking at my nipples. Twisting them. Hard.
Harder.
I hiss out a breath at the sharp pain and he pauses.
“Want me to stop?”
I shake my head furiously, the words tumbling from my lips as if I have no control over them.
“I like the pain.”
His hips nudge my ass at my admission, and I can feel him. Thick and hard, resting between my ass cheeks. Shock courses through me and I push out, rubbing my ass against his erection.
He pinches my nipples extra hard and I cry out. Fuck, that hurt.
But between my legs, I’m throbbing. Wet. If he were to touch me there, he’d find me ready for him. Eager. It’s embarrassing, how quickly that happened, and I’m tempted to pull away from him.
But I’d miss it too much. Miss him too much. I want West to keep touching me like this.
I want to see how far he’ll take it.
He nuzzles the side of my neck. My cheek. His breath is hot, as it fans across my skin, and I turn my face toward his, our accelerated breaths mingling. His lips brush mine, his tongue darting out for a lick, and I turn toward him fully, his hands slipping away from my chest to settle on my hips as we kiss and kiss. Hungrily. Devouring each other. My hands sink into his hair and his hands slide over my butt, jerking me toward him, our lower bodies molded together.
Without warning, he lifts me, setting me on top of the balcony ledge, and I squeal, tearing my mouth from his to stare down at the ground below us. I grip his neck so tightly, it has to hurt him, and he goes completely still, realizing what he just did.
“Don’t drop me.”
“I won’t.” He swallows hard. “Fuck, Carolina. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He starts to pull me down and I wrap my legs against the balustrade, not budging. His brows draw together in question, and I slowly shake my head before I settle my mouth on his once more.
“Hold on to me tight,” I murmur against his lips, angling my head to deepen our kiss.
He grips me close, his arms tightening around my waist as I lock my legs around his hips. His tongue thrusts inside my mouth over and over, and I grind against his dick, his erection hitting a certain spot beneath my shorts that has me seeing stars, it feels so good.
An orgasm, I think as my mind floats while I rub my body against his. This is what they all talk about. The girls at my dance school, who’ve discovered their bodies can do a multitude of things, not just dance. It can feel pleasure, sometimes even from the pain.
“You keep that up, I’m going to come in my shorts,” he murmurs against my lips.
I laugh, my head falling back, the sound drifting into the air, floating over the city. West kisses my neck, one hand braced against my lower back, his hips working. I whimper and he knows what he’s doing to me. I can feel it in the way he’s watching me. How he’s holding himself.
He wants to see me come too.
“Would that be a bad thing?” I ask like the naïve fool I am. I know how a man has an orgasm, but I’ve certainly never witnessed it. Not even in porn or photos on the web. I never look that sort of thing up.
It never interested me before. Sex didn’t matter. I’ve never experienced any sort of wanting for anyone.
“It would be a messy thing,” he says with a chuckle, his body going still. “And I don’t want to risk dropping you.”
I glance over my shoulder at the long fall below. I would go splat on those stairs and it wouldn’t be pretty. I can see the headlines now.
Dancer heiress falls to her death in Paris!
Carolina Lancaster dead at seventeen after coming too hard on the second story of the Palais Garnier!
A humiliating way to die, for sure.
“It’s dangerous,” I agree, my expression and voice solemn. “But I—like it.”
He frowns. “You do?”
Nodding, I reach out to touch the exposed patch of skin on his chest, wishing I could unbutton his shirt and press my nose into the spot where his heart beats. I want to smell him. Lick him. Eat him up. “I was … close.”
He remains quiet, scarily so, and when I finally dare to look up at him, I can see the heat flaring in his eyes. “You want to come?”
Feeling bold, and completely unlike myself, I nod. “Please.”
West smiles and leans in, his mouth hovering above mine. “Well, since you asked so nicely …”
His lips find mine, warm and assured, slow and hungry.
So hungry.
I’m just as famished, clinging to him, grinding my lower body against his, our mouths fused. The kiss, frantic. He slips a hand between us, his fingers toying with the leg of my shorts and then they’re beneath the fabric, sliding over my front, rubbing my damp panties.
He groans when his fingers press and I lift my hips, seeking more friction. He strokes, his fingers hard on my sensitive flesh, giving me just the right amount of pressure that has chills spreading all over my skin.
Our lips are connected, but we’re not really kissing. It’s more like we’re panting into each other’s mouths, his fingers shoving my panties aside to touch bare, hot flesh. I’m so wet, I can hear his fingers slick through my folds. Up and down, circling, pressing, rubbing.
“Oh God,” I call out, my voice ringing loud.
He covers my mouth with his, kissing me deeply at the same time he slides a finger inside me, his thumb pressing against my clit. That’s all it takes. The next thing I know, I’m coming, shudders completely taking over my body, my heart pounding, my entire body pulsating with the orgasm as it completely sweeps me away. Leaving me an exhausted, overwhelmed mess by the time the last, tiniest shivers linger.
Pressing my face into his neck, I exhale, still trembling, my arms tight around his shoulders, shifting up to his neck. He removes his hand from my underwear, delivering a sweet kiss to the top of my head, and I lie against him for a long, quiet moment, the sound of the city traffic beneath us. The occasional voice from a passerby on the sidewalk reaching my ears. A siren wails in the distance—the song of Paris, there are always sirens wailing—and when I finally lift my head, I find West already watching me.
“You okay?”
I nod.
“Can you speak?”
I shake my head.
“I think I know what might cure that.”
Raising my eyebrows, I send him a questioning look.
“Let’s go get a crepe.”
