The Butcher (Fifth Republic Series Book 1)
The Butcher: Chapter 3

It was almost midnight.

I sat in the council chamber, upon a throne that Louis XIII had sat upon himself, in Luxembourg Palace, a sprawling estate claimed by the French Republic in the late seventeen hundreds. It was the place where the Senate gathered, where the president of the Senate lived in one of the pavilions on the property.

My knife was on the pedestal in front of me, the hilt carved into the seal of the Republic.

I sat there and waited, Antoine and Luca on my left and Gabriel and Mael on my right, me in the dead center.

One of my hands stepped into the room. “They await your judgment, Butcher.”

I gave a slight nod, ushering them to come inside.

Their wrists zip-tied behind their backs, they were dragged into the council room, a place where King Louis had once held court. The windowsills were made of gold, the ceiling was seventy feet high, painted champagne pink with a chandelier in the center.

Two of them didn’t fight, but the one in the middle did, as if there was any chance of escape.

The hands dropped them in the center, in front of the pedestal that held my knife.

They were already bloody from the beating they had received from my servants, their eyes bruised shut, their noses broken. One of them lay with his head to the floor, knowing it was over. The one in the center was ornery, staring at me like I was the one on trial.

I stared back at them, my cheek propped against my closed knuckles, looking at them like the vermin that they were. “On Tuesday evening, you attempted to rob Silencio with machetes—and threatened a girl behind the counter.” The crime was petty compared to most criminals I dealt with, but no one was above the law. “You know the law—Homines ex codice.”

“I didn’t hurt her.” The one in the center had a face now that his mask had been stripped away. He was a young man, probably someone who just needed to get by and had decided to steal from the rich.

“You threatened her with a knife—and called her a bitch.”

“It wasn’t personal⁠—”

“You know the law.”

He let out a scream. “I didn’t touch her!”

“You cased the area before you hit it. You could have picked a different place, picked a bar run by a man, but you chose that one.” I said it simply, casting judgment the way I had a hundred times, taking no pride or regret in my position. “The first French Emperor of the Senate hereby condemns you to death.”

He pushed to his feet and attempted to flee, but one of the hands shoved him to the floor again. “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t traffic her. You’re telling me I deserve the same punishment for greater crimes?”

I rose to my feet and approached the pedestal that held the old knife, a weapon that Napoleon had carried while he was emperor and during his exile on Elba.

“It’s not fair!” He tried to get to his feet again to rush me, but the hand kicked him to the floor.

“You didn’t just pick the wrong bar—but the wrong girl.” I gripped the knife and brushed my thumb over the handle before I looked to my fellow Emperors. “Is this punishment just? Or perhaps I’m unable to see clearly…”

Gabriel looked at the others, and a silent conversation seemed to pass between them. “If she was untouched, then perhaps the carve is more appropriate. Everyone who gazes upon them will recognize your mark. They will know that justice was served.”

I considered his words before I slowly turned back to the C-level criminals at my feet. One of them was shaking uncontrollably. Wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed his pants. These amateurs would ordinarily be beneath my attention. “Then they shall be carved.” I nodded to the hands.

They moved to the three men on the floor and forced them upright, their hands yanked back to expose their faces.

I went for the one in the center, my thumb pressed against the hilt as the tip of the knife rested against his cheek.

His panting turned hysterical, and he hyperventilated right before me, knowing, like so many others, he would bear my mark and all would know he’d been punished by my hand. “It wasn’t personal.”

“I know,” I said as I pushed the knife through his skin. “And neither is this.”

I walked into the office of the pavilion at the palace, a great mahogany desk on the thick rug. Outside were the gardens, statues and carved bushes for the public to admire during their tours of the grounds. Most of the people were foreigners who would never understand our politics, no matter how many tours they booked.

Even our citizens didn’t understand it.

Raphael Boucher sat behind the desk, the President of the Senate, the next in line for the presidency if President Martin were to become incapacitated. I took a seat in front of his desk as he finished up his phone call, a lit cigar between his digits, his wrist relaxed. He finally hung up and shoved that cigar into his mouth.

“Thought you were trying to quit.”

He waved off the comment and smashed the cigar into the glass ashtray.

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smirk. “I’m not a snitch.”

“The chief of police says a couple more girls have been taken.” He stared me down as if this was entirely my fault, as if I was the one who had kidnapped them and shoved them in the trunk of a car.

“I’m working on it.”

“Are you? Because I hear you’re convicting a couple kids who tried to rob a bar.”

“That was a personal matter.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Bastien, we’ve got to put a stop to this. Cafés and restaurants are hurting because women aren’t going out late anymore, and people are already pissed about the change in the pension system. Tourism is down because women are afraid to travel here⁠—”

“You think I give a shit about any of that?” I snapped. “Tourism can be damned. I hate Americans as it is.”

Raphael was a middle-aged man with short hair sprinkled with gray. He was thin and in shape, looking like an American businessman in his blue suit. He served the president of France and ran the Senate and the National Assembly—as well as the French Emperors—a secret society within the Senate that did all the dirty work so no one else had to. We weren’t a group of vigilantes who wanted to punish crime. We wanted to run it—by our rules. We maintained crime, kept it healthy, and protected the innocent. Without us, the French Republic wouldn’t have the most romantic city in the world.

“I’ll handle it, Raphael.”

“You said that six months ago.”

I gave him a cold stare. “You want me to keep every criminal in this city in line. And you want me to capture the largest trafficker France has ever known at the same time. I know everyone worth knowing, and no one is saying shit about Godric. That says something…or the lack thereof does.”

Raphael had just put out his cigar, but he grabbed another from his drawer and lit up right in his office, in the place where royalty had once sat. “Figure it out, Bastien.”

I arrived at the private estate outside of Paris, armed guards behind the gate like they always expected trouble. I checked in with the guy in charge, and they radioed in my presence to the man of the house—Fender.

I sat in the car for a while as I waited for an answer, unsure if he would agree to see me without warning when we barely knew each other. It was at least ten minutes before the gates opened and they allowed me through.

I’d never waited for anything, but I waited for Fender because he was the best lead that I had.

The valet took my car, and the butler escorted me into the study, a place that smelled like cigar smoke because the scent had been absorbed by every piece of furniture and the curtains for decades.

I sat there, a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on the coffee table next to a small vase of pink roses. The house was quiet like no one was there, but the place was three stories and probably full of staff.

A moment later, Fender walked inside in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his pissed-off expression reserved for me. He was a man in his forties, on the precipice of fifty, but he was still built like a brick shithouse, a man who lifted every morning without exception, who let his hair sprinkle with a hint of gray because he didn’t give a damn to cover it.

He faced me on the other side of the coffee table, sizing me up with those coffee-colored eyes. “If this isn’t important, I’ll shoot you between the eyes.”

He was deadly serious, and I liked that. “Fair enough.”

He dropped onto the couch, arms on his knees, his palms together.

I sat across from him, the doors to his study open but the house quiet. “I spoke to Magnus the other day, but that was a dead end.”

“He is a dead end.” He was still dead serious.

“I’m sure you’ve heard women have been disappearing from Paris.”

“I don’t watch the news because I don’t give a shit about anything outside my world. I keep tabs on my wife and children, and the rest can burn for all I care.” His hostile eyes stared me down like bullets from a gun. “You wasted your time coming here.”

“You operated the most expansive trafficking scheme in Paris fifteen years ago.”

“Yes—fifteen years ago. And if the Butcher thinks he’s gonna carve my flesh off the bone, I’d like to see him try.” His hostility burned even hotter, like he’d jump across the table and strangle me right there on the couch.

“Statute of limitations,” I said. “You’re pardoned.”

He still looked pissed off as hell. “I have nothing to offer you, Bastien.”

“You must know someone I can ask.”

“Fifteen years is a long time. Most of the people I knew are probably dead. Bartholomew from the Chasseurs settled down and moved to Tuscany. I don’t know where Benton and Bleu ended up. Some LSD freaks took over the camp a decade ago, but I think they’re all dead now.”

I nodded in understanding. “Magnus said more of the same.”

“Then you wasted your time—and my time—coming here.”

“Are you always this hostile?”

His eyebrows rose slightly at the audacity of my question.

“President Martin may be the president of the Republic—but I’m the Emperor of France. Under my rule, Homines ex codice applies, which is in your best interest as a father and a husband. Crime is regulated, just the way our food and health care are regulated by the laws that govern this land—and I’m the one in charge of it. If you want your daughter to live in a place where she can walk the streets alone at night, where your wife can shop alone without fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, then you should help me in whatever way you can.”

He cocked his head slightly as he looked at me, and slowly the hostility drained from his expression the way water drained from soil. Several beats passed, and his stare remained locked hard on my face. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It’d been a week since I’d walked into Silencio and met Fleur. I’d made it clear I wasn’t a one-woman kind of guy, so I doubted she’d expected me to be there when she woke up, but I still felt obligated to explain my absence.

But I guessed the gesture meant nothing to her because she didn’t text me back.

That was a first.

My driver pulled up to the bar, and I hopped out. It was midnight, just a few hours from closing, and a couple was outside on the sidewalk enjoying their cigarettes. When I looked through the window, I saw her standing at the bar and making a drink, an old-fashioned for the guy sitting at the very end.

I walked inside and saw that the tables were full of people having a late-night drink even though it was a weekday. But the bar itself was mostly empty because no one wanted to sit on a stool for hours on end, and they chose to gather at a table with a leather armchair.

She wore a tight long-sleeve black shirt, a deep V in the front to show the tops of her perky tits. A necklace sat in the center, a single pendant in rose gold. The details were too faint for me to read. The last time I’d seen her, her long hair had been straight and almost to her waist, but now, it was curled and shiny. Her makeup was dark, a smoky eye look that reminded me of a sexy cat, exactly the kind of shit I was into.

I took a seat on a stool, choosing the side where no one else was seated.

She didn’t notice me right away, doing her nightly cleanup since it was slow.

I wasn’t sure if I was impatient for a drink or her attention. “Want to make me a drink, sweetheart?”

She didn’t turn at my voice, but she stiffened like she knew exactly who it belonged to. She folded up the towel she’d been using and turned to me. “The usual?” She recovered from the shock in just a second, and now she had the kind of confidence that implied she’d known I was there the entire time. She was quick on her feet, just the way she’d been when that idiot had come at her with a machete, having far too much pride to admit she’d been caught off guard.

“Sure.”

She made me a drink, a double scotch on the rocks, and placed it on the counter in front of me. “Didn’t expect to see you in here.”

“Didn’t expect you to ignore my texts.”

“I didn’t ignore them. Just didn’t have anything to say.”

I took a drink as I stared at her, wondering if she’d been thinking about me as much as I’d been thinking about her. Beautiful women were a dime a dozen, but this woman had something special. I wasn’t sure if it was the I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, the sass, or just her incredible tits—or all of the above.

“You said you had a meeting. Where do you work?”

I didn’t answer the question, not wanting my reply to be overheard by anyone who may be listening.

She knew I ignored her, but she didn’t repeat the question or pry into my silence. She worked on her cleanup in front of me, pouring out glasses and tossing old limes for the drinks. When her hair fell in her face, she would move it across one shoulder and expose one side of her neck, and I remembered how she’d tasted when I kissed her.

I remembered how her pussy tasted too. “Did you tell him?”

She smirked slightly, her eyes down on her work. “Yes.”

“And did it fix your problem?”

She lifted her gaze and looked at me, her head slightly cocked like her barrel was full of sass and ready to blow. “No. In fact, it made it worse.”

I felt the smile try to move into my jawline. “Damn, that backfired.”

“Yep.”

“Sorry about that.” I continued to smirk. “Well, not really…”

She chuckled, her cheeks reddening slightly.

“Maybe a second round would do the trick.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “He said some shit, and I don’t think he was bluffing.”

“What kind of shit?” I asked, turning serious. “Did he threaten to hurt you?” Because I would cut his eyes out of his head and force him to eat both.

“No. I can say a lot of bad things about Adrien, but not that,” she said. “But I know he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt whoever I’m with.” She continued her work and avoided my gaze, like she assumed this information would bring our fling to a standstill.

“In that case, your place or mine?”

“Bastien, I don’t want to get you mixed up in my soap opera⁠—”

“Your place or mine, sweetheart?” I took a drink.

She stopped what she was doing. “He’s watching my place. That was how he figured out you were there.”

“So you didn’t tell him.”

“He beat me to the punch. But trust me, my fist was clenched.” She walked off to help the patron who came to the bar. Her back was to me, so I stared at her ass as she made the drink for the old man and charged it to his tab.

I lifted my eyes when she returned to me.

“Subtle.”

My fingers rested against my mouth, and I felt my lips rise in a smile. “Wondering if those handprints are still there.”

“They aren’t,” she said. “I checked…”

I remembered her tight ass in my grip, the flesh between my teeth, the velvet softness of her slick pussy, the way her hair clung to her neck when she got sweaty, how she begged me to come inside her like I was more than some guy she met in a bar. “I’m happy to give you a new set, sweetheart. All you have to do is ask.”

“Last time I wanted something, you made me beg for it.”

I was a man with a permanent scowl, but she made it impossible not to smile. If this was a volley without an end in sight, she was a worthy opponent. “And I’ll make you beg again—and again.”

She closed up the bar, and we stepped onto the curb. She wore a long coat and wrapped it around herself like she intended to walk home through the mist at two in the morning. “Are we walking?”

I texted my driver and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “No.”

The SUV pulled up a moment later, and I opened the back door so she could climb inside.

She hesitated, her carefree attitude suddenly gone when she saw a driver appear at my beck and call. But then she climbed into the back, and I got into the other seat. We were on the road, driving through the empty, wet streets to my residence in the 7th arrondissement, a three-story palace on the Seine next to the Eiffel Tower. It was close to Luxembourg Palace, where I spent a great deal of my time.

She was silent on the drive, her gaze focused out the window.

A short while later, the car pulled up to the front of my home, a building I owned entirely. It used to house several apartments, but I’d turned it into my private residence. It had its own gardens, an interior courtyard, its own secure entrance that couldn’t be accessed from the street, and it contained fifteen bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. I’d bought the property for a total of one hundred million, and the renovation had cost an additional twenty million. If she was acquainted with money, she would understand exactly how much of it I had.

When we pulled through the gate, her eyes widened slightly then quickly returned to normal, like she knew but was too classy to react outwardly.

We entered through the double doors and came into the foyer, fresh flowers in vases, artwork on the walls, chairs and sofas that no one had sat on since I’d moved in. Hallways branched off to different places, like the drawing room, the study, the grand dining room, the kitchens. All of those amenities were downstairs where the staff stayed.

I guided her to the stairs and went to the second and then the third floor. My primary bedroom had double doors, taking up the back part of the top floor, a space where an entire apartment had sat before I’d renovated the whole building.

When we walked inside, the curtains to the windows were still parted, showing the Eiffel Tower lit up like a Christmas tree, the bank on the other side of the Seine illuminated by the lampposts.

In her heavy coat, she stared at the Eiffel Tower as if she’d never seen it before, her eyes reflecting the lights that shimmered from the base to the top.

I watched her appreciate something the rest of the French had forgotten, a historic landmark with eternal beauty. I got lost in my stare, savoring the way the light brought a distinct glow to her face. She didn’t inspect my chambers or care about their luxury. All she cared about was the view.

“I can’t see it from my apartment,” she explained. “Just the rotating searchlight when it hits the other buildings.”

“Where was your old place?”

“The 8th arrondissement—near the Four Seasons.”

She’d gone from a life of luxury to a one-bedroom apartment near a mall, but she didn’t complain about it. She chose the hard life over the easy one, and I respected the hell out of her for it.

I came up behind her and removed the heavy coat from her body, tossing it over the back of a chair before I pulled her against me, one arm locking in front of her shoulders while the other slipped underneath her shirt and rose up to her chest. I slipped my fingers under her bra, and I took one of her plump tits in my grasp. I squeezed it harder, felt her chest rise with the deep breath she took. I gripped the other one as I locked her against me, listening to her breathe and feeling her lean into me, her breaths starting off quiet before they rose in intensity.

My hand left north and headed south, traveling over her flat stomach, her pierced belly button, and inside the front of her jeans. I slipped my fingers under the soft fabric of her panties, felt the smooth skin over her pelvic bone, and I felt her inhale a sharp breath just because I touched her most erogenous spot.

I glided my fingers over it before I pressed into it hard, making her repeat the breath and the gasp. She grabbed on to the arm that was across her collarbone, and her nails dug into the flesh as she arched and pressed her back into my chest.

I continued to play with her clit as I tightened my grip over her shoulders, my lips pressed to her ear. “Look at the tower.” I rubbed her throbbing nub as I stared at the side of her face, seeing her eyes shut as she continued to writhe, her feet digging into the floor and pushing, squirming.

Her eyes opened and reflected the brilliant lights. Her breaths took on volume, becoming labored in their intensity, matching the way her body ground and rocked against me, her legs shaking as her feet continued to dig into the rug.

My grip kept her in place against me like a bird trapped in a cage, and I played with her little pussy, plunged a finger into her river before I smeared it over the nub that was on fire. I chose force over a gentle caress, and that made her whimper louder, made her breathe hard like she was getting fucked in the ass.

I knew she was almost there, the tide rising higher and almost covering the entire beach. With a little more, she would convulse against me, her nails drawing blood. When I had her where I wanted her, I pressed my lips near her ear. “Beg.”

She released a groan when she felt my fingers slide away from her aching channel.

“Beg me to fuck you.” I slipped my hand underneath her shirt again and squeezed her tit, her arousal wet on my fingertips, coating her nipple as I pinched it. The trail of moisture over her tummy glowed in the light.

So deep in the haze, she didn’t even try to fight it. She turned into my chest and lifted my shirt over my head before she locked her mouth on mine, rising on her tiptoes and tugging my neck down so she could reach my lips. She dug her fingers into my hair, and she hiked her leg up my hip like she wanted me to pick her up. “Fuck me.”

I lifted her into me, our mouths finally level, her mouth ravenous like a hungry wolf.

“Please, Bastien.” She cupped my cheek, and she kissed me like I meant the world to her, like a wife happy for her husband to come home after the war, like a woman who’d only loved one man all her life. “Fuck me, Bastien.” She said the words against my lips, barely pausing our kiss to speak. “Hard.”

I carried her to the bed and rolled on top of her.

“Please.” Her anxious fingers moved for my jeans like there was a gun to her head.

“Jesus.” I grabbed the back of her jeans and started to tug them off.

“Hurry,” she said, out of breath. She tugged my jeans and boxers down so my dick came free. “Come on.”

I growled in impatience, but fuck, I’d never wanted to fuck a woman more. I had been the one teasing her, but now she’d flipped the tables on me and I was none the wiser. I tugged her shoes and socks off before I got the jeans the rest of the way.

“Hurry up,” she said in the sexiest voice. “I can’t take this.” She writhed on the bed, kicking her feet to get everything free of her skin, a distinct glistening between her legs because she oozed from my touch. She pulled off her shirt and got the bra free, her beautiful hair a mess because she moved in such a rush.

My dick was exposed to the cold air, but it twitched with desperation. I finally kicked off my shoes and got my jeans the rest of the way off.

“I said hurry.”

“Fuck, woman.” I moved on top of her, and her thighs immediately opened to let me in. The insides of her knees gripped my torso and squeezed, and my dick found her slickness like it was locked on a target. I pushed through her entrance and sank in a single motion, flooded with enough arousal to fill the entire Seine. “Jesus…” I dug my fingers into her hair and fisted it.

She cupped my face and breathed against my lips, writhing and whimpering, her other hand hooked over the back of my shoulders. She released the deepest sigh of pleasure, packed with emotion, like my dick was the only thing that would bring her satisfaction. Then she said my name in the sexiest way, as a desperate sigh, the kind that made bumps appear on my arms and tightened my spine. “Bastien…”

I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes briefly, because damn, how was I supposed to last like this? When this fiery woman begged me, whispered my name over and over, dug her nails into my flesh like she’d never let me go. Every time I thrust, I wanted to come undone, this pussy too tight and slick for my hungry dick to handle. I always wore a condom during my rendezvous with regulars and my hookups with strangers, but for some reason, I skipped the protection with her. The sight of her pussy turned me into a hungry bear that wanted her honey all for myself. “Sweetheart, I can’t last like this…”

She grabbed on to my ass and tugged me hard into her. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

“Fuck.” My ass clenched as I thrust, my body taking over and sliding through the softest velvet. My dick burrowed inside her over and over, her slickness spilling over and seeping into the sheets beneath us.

She cupped my face and then traced the tattoo of the knife at my jawline. “I want to watch you come inside me.” Her lustful eyes looked into mine with a sex-drunk haze, fully enveloped in the moment with me, like we were more than two people who’d met in a bar. Her other hand tugged on my ass, wanting all of my dick even though it hurt sometimes.

I felt my body burn so hot I was about to shed my skin like a snake. My dick hardened just a little bit more before the end and felt like a metal rod in her silky softness. I was covered in her arousal, a pool of it underneath my balls from tapping against her ass. My breaths turned shaky, and I lost feeling in my fingertips because my core took all the focus.

She continued to trace my face with her fingers, her smoky eyes so confident and sexed up, gazing at me like I was a god who walked the earth.

I felt the heat spread to my face, felt the color burn my cheeks. My thrusts turned erratic, and then I shoved myself deep as I released, giving a loud growl as I grabbed on to her neck and squeezed.

She clutched my wrist, and she moaned with me, taking my come alongside her own climax. Her hips convulsed against me and matched my pumps, both of our bodies giving in to the animalistic pleasure we felt.

I filled her little pussy with the first round of the night, and I stayed hard like I was ready for the second. I hooked my arm behind one of her knees, and I folded her underneath me before I pounded into her like a jackhammer against concrete, fucking her good and hard, one hand on her throat to muffle her moans.

She stroked my hard jawline then dragged her hands down the ink over my neck and palmed my chest, touching me like she could feel the fire against her fingertips. Her lips were parted and her tongue was slightly visible, as she panted through the pleasure between her legs and the pain from my grip around her throat.

She guided my face to her mouth so she could kiss me, and that was when I released my grip on her throat. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” She said it between kisses, melting into me like we were both streams of lava from the same volcano merging together.

I knew what I had to offer, but women rarely complimented me, choosing to play it cool and feigning indifference as if that would capture my attention more than honesty. But Fleur wore her heart on her sleeve, told me her thoughts when she had them, didn’t play it cool at all—and that was fucking refreshing.

But I was the one with the spectacular view, her tits beneath me, her toned legs open to accommodate me, her little pussy full of my big dick. A lot of beautiful women had been on this very pillow on nights identical to this, but she was different from the others. Her ferocity, her desperation, the way she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her—including me.

I’d drifted off at some point. I lay beside her, the Eiffel Tower still visible through the window, and the cocktail of good sex had lulled me into sleep. But then I stirred when I felt her leave the bed and follow the breadcrumb trail of her belongings on the floor. She picked up her shoes and found her jeans and panties, but then she stopped to look out the window at the Eiffel Tower, appreciating it like a tourist who’d come to the City of Lights in search of whatever she was looking for.

She lingered for at least thirty seconds before she carried her belongings to the other room to get dressed.

I could lie there and pretend not to notice her departure. There would be no awkward conversation about the next time we would see each other. It was exactly what I wanted—usually.

But not this time.

I left the bed and pulled on my boxers before I stepped into the other room.

She’d just gotten her bra on when she gave a flinch. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Is there something wrong with the mattress?”

“What?” she asked, clearly tired, her makeup a mess from the sweat.

I snatched the shirt out of her hand and tossed it on the table. “You don’t have to run out of here.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said as she grabbed the shirt again. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“Doing what?” I called her bluff.

She looked at me again, her eyes shifting back and forth between mine like she didn’t understand the question.

“Stay.” I grabbed the shirt again. “I’m not asking.” I moved closer to her, sliding my hand into her hair as I kissed her, felt soft lips that reminded me of juicy plums in summer. My thumb touched the side of her mouth, the skin that was softer than the flesh of a nectarine.

Her response was immediate, catching my mouth on instinct and kissing me like we’d just walked into the house. All the stiffness in her body faded when I touched her, her hands cupped my face, and she kissed me back like she was instantly swept away by the chemistry that burned white-hot between us.

I lifted her into me and carried her with a single arm because she weighed nothing. I laid her on the bed and moved over her, like this was the start of the night rather than the end of it. I pulled down her panties for the second time, and I slid inside her, squeezed by her slick tightness, by the deposits of seed I’d already left earlier in the evening.

She moaned like it was the first time rather than the fifth or the sixth, clinging to me like she’d lose her way if she let go. “Bastien…”

When I woke up a second time, she was still there.

Good.

I tapped the screen of my phone on the nightstand to see the time. It was twelve-thirty. I looked at her, seeing her dead asleep with the sheets to her shoulder, the white pillows covered in marks from her makeup, her hair a mess from the way I’d used the strands like reins to a horse.

I texted Gerard, my head of staff. Prepare breakfast for two on the balcony.

His response was immediate. Of course, sir.

I set the phone on the nightstand then moved to the double doors that sectioned off the bedroom from the rest of my chambers. I closed them, so when Gerard delivered breakfast, he wouldn’t be able to see the two of us in bed.

She didn’t stir.

I left the bed, put on my sweatpants, tossed a shirt on the bed for her to wear when she woke up, and stepped into the other room where my laptop was on the desk in the sitting room. I opened it and did some work, checked some emails.

Thirty minutes later, Gerard let himself inside, and without acknowledging me to remain quiet, he wheeled the cart onto the patio over the Seine and set up breakfast, putting down a white tablecloth before placing the covered dishes on the table. When he was finished, he opened all the curtains so the sunlight came into the room. It was a clear day, a sunny morning for Paris.

Once he was gone, the doors to the bedroom opened. She came out, her face clean like she’d washed off in my bathroom. She’d gotten the hint about the t-shirt I’d left on the bed because she wore it, the black shirt fitting her like a dress. Her hair was brushed like she helped herself to my comb, not that I minded.

She moved to where her clothes sat, folded into a neat pile by Gerard. Then she looked out the window and stared at the table set up on the balcony, the sun reflecting off the murky water of the Seine.

“Hungry?” I shut the laptop and came around the desk.

Her eyes immediately shifted to me, looking right at my chest and abs as if I didn’t have a face. Her gaze dropped farther down, looking at the top of the sweatpants low on my hips. She drew a slow breath before her eyes flicked up to me. “I love a hot guy in sweatpants.”

She spoke her mind with no regard for my opinion about it, and that was damn refreshing. She didn’t put on a production for me, didn’t try to be quiet and mysterious, didn’t try to entrap me by playing hard to get or saying whatever I wanted to hear. She was genuine, down-to-earth, exactly who she was.

And anyone who was brave enough to be themselves was the bravest of all.

With the corner of my mouth raised in a smile, I walked up to her and bent my neck down to kiss her, my hand gripping one of her cheeks underneath my shirt. It was so plump and meaty in my grasp, and I grabbed her hard enough to leave a mark.

Her lips trembled against me like it hurt but she still liked it.

I opened the double doors to the balcony and pulled out the chair for her before I sat down. It was an unusually warm afternoon in the city when the sun was out like this, when the wind was blocked by the building so the air was stagnant. I poured the coffee then removed the lid over my plate to eat.

Her coffee was more milk than coffee, and my coffee was black.

She removed the silver platters that covered her dishes, and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Blueberry pancakes, a savory crepe, and a side of bacon and toast… Wow. Good sex, and now this? Guess karma is a real thing.” She drenched her pancakes in maple syrup and took a bite, closing her eyes as she savored it. “Damn, this is good shit.” She moved on to her crepe and took a couple bites of that, nodding as she savored the taste in her mouth. “Fuck yeah.”

I watched her, unable to stop the smirk from entering my lips.

When she felt my stare, she tensed. “Sorry…haven’t had breakfast like this in a while.”

I imagined she hadn’t eaten out much since she’d gotten her own apartment because it was too expensive. She’d probably had staff at her marital home, so this was a taste of her old life, a life she’d walked away from because her principles were more important.

I mostly drank my coffee and took a couple bites of my breakfast. It wasn’t until later in the day that my appetite kicked in. I usually started my day with a session in my personal gym, so that was probably why my stomach hadn’t woken up yet.

She drank her coffee then looked out over the river, seeing the people on the other bank having a picnic. When the weather was nice like this, people went out to enjoy the sunshine. Notre-Dame was visible in the distance, the cranes sticking out because it hadn’t been rebuilt since the fire that had caused so much damage. She enjoyed the view for a long time, taking a break from her food to savor the sight.

I watched her in the silence, the distant sound of voices barely reaching us from the road below. An ambulance went by and the sirens were loud, but then it was gone in a couple seconds and it was back to the quiet.

“I love this city.” She seemed to say it more to herself than to me, like a thought meant for herself had accidentally been expressed.

“What do you love about it?”

She turned at the question, her green eyes locking on mine. “Everything.”

“I want specifics.”

She looked into her coffee as she composed her response in her head. “That our modern lives are intertwined with the past.” She turned to the bridge in the distance. “Napoleon’s mark endures for centuries.” The big N carved into the stone was visible, even at this distance, his mark on all different kinds of landmarks, especially the Seine, so anyone who entered Paris by boat would still know the emperor. “The building we are in now has probably been here since the sixteenth century. I think that’s really special, that you can see what Paris used to be even when you walk through the streets and the cars. The way the city is lit up so bright at night, that you can walk anywhere and never get swallowed by the dark. The way we’re obsessed with food the way Americans are obsessed with money. It’s the only place where people want to walk in the rain. The place of great artists and writers and poets…a place full of such creativity. I don’t care how expensive this city is, how small my apartment is. I’m not leaving for the suburbs because it’s cheaper. I’ll hook on the street if I have to.”

“If it ever comes to that, I’d be happy to pay for your services.”

She smiled slightly, a blush moving into her fair cheeks, her eyes on the Seine. “Do what you love and never work a day in your life, right?” Her eyes found mine, and the second we made contact, her smile started to fade.

“You think I’m joking.” I’d be happy to make her my private whore, put her up in a beautiful apartment where her only concern would be to fuck me—and only me. Her husband had made the greatest mistake of his life sticking his dick in someone else, because now I was going to stick my dick in her every night.

She broke contact and drank her coffee. The silence trickled by as she did her best to act like that part of the conversation had never happened. “I’m not sure what direction my life is going. I don’t have an education and only have a little work experience. Most people are passionate about something. But to be honest, I’m not passionate about anything.”

“All I’ve seen from you is passion.”

Her eyes came back to me.

“You’re passionate about this city. You’re passionate about food. And you’re very passionate in bed.”

Her eyes dropped down to her coffee like she didn’t want to face the truth, that she was a vixen in bed who clawed my back until I bled. It seemed to bring her a heavy sense of shame.

“Why does that bother you?”

“What?”

“The way you fuck me.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she said quietly. “I just…feel guilty about it.”

“Why the fuck would you feel guilty about that?” Her husband had ended their marriage the moment he betrayed her. She owed him nothing—not a damn thing.

“I know it’s stupid⁠—”

“It is stupid.”

She looked at me again. “We’ve only been separated for a month. I’m not one to keep receipts or hold grudges, so jumping into bed with someone else isn’t really me.” She wore heavy makeup whenever I saw her, but she looked just as beautiful without it, especially in the afternoon light. The fact that she didn’t care if I saw her without makeup was sexy. “But the moment I saw you walk into that bar…I wanted you.”

I felt a tightness all over my body, a flush of desire unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I’d already had her, and by now, I should be bored of her, but the desire only got worse. So much worse.

Her stare remained on mine, confident enough in herself to pull off such a statement. She never breached the territory of arrogance, never even coming close to that line. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out. I always do.”