Page 59 of The Stipulation
I keep one arm firmly around her waist and move my other hand lower. As I pump into her, I let my fingers swirl around her clit. It is swollen and pulsing, and Jo gasps when I touch it. Perhaps she has become too sensitive, and I start to pull away, but hell no. She grabs my wrist roughly and holds my hand in place. I work her clit harder and faster. Her back arches, and suddenly she freezes, not moving, not even breathing, just experiencing the exquisite pleasure I am making her feel.
Her eyes roll back in her head, and her knee buckles, but I have a firm grip on her and I don’t let her fall. I move my fingers away from her clit and curl my hand around her stomach with my other one, while I continue to pump into her mercilessly. Her eyes flutter back open, and she takes in a long, shuddering breath that comes out in a rush. I can’t hold back anymore, and I stop trying. I push into Jo one last time, ramming my cock all the way deep inside her.
I feel fire running down my cock, through my balls and up into my stomach. My body clenches and I feel a shiver go through me as pleasure overtakes me. I come hard inside Jo, marking her, claiming her. I growl her name in a voice I barely recognize as my own, and she moans, her pussy clenching tightly and making me spurt again. I lose myself to ecstasy. Until…
Finally, it is over.
And I slip out of her.
She is shaking, and when she takes her leg from the foot board, she stumbles. I have her and I won’t risk her hurting herself. I scoop her up in my arms, and she smiles up at me through half-closed eyes. I kiss her head and carry her to her side of the bed. I pull the covers back and lay her down. I cover her up, and she rolls onto her side so she will be facing me when I get into bed. In the minute it takes me to walk around the bed, get in beside her and lay down, she is asleep, her mouth slightly open and her cheeks puffing out with each exhale.
She looks so peaceful, and I smile to myself, knowing it is the orgasms I gave her that have sent her into such a deep sleep so quickly.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
JO
The city wakes up slowly around us, and I feel like I’ve woken up inside a painting. Pont Neuf stretches across the Seine like a ribbon of history, its stone arches soft in the morning light. Fog curls along the water, curling like slow-moving smoke from a lazy fire, and the reflections of the bridges and the early boats shimmer on the river’s surface. I can hear the faint scrape of oars somewhere downstream, a gull crying in the distance, and the gentle hum of a city stirring to life. Axel falls into step beside me, his hand brushing mine as we cross the bridge. I don’t pull away. I feel the brush, the warmth, the unspoken invitation in it.
“Do you like Paris in the morning?” he asks, his voice low.
I tilt my head, studying the way the early sunlight catches the edges of his hair. “Yes. Very much so. I never imagined I would ever see it like this, quiet, before everyone else floods the streets.”
He tips his lips into a crooked grin, and I catch that naughty glint in his eyes, the one that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s about to say something brazen or charming.
“It’s the only way to see it properly,” he says. “Later, it becomes chaos. Right now, it’s ours.”
He said something charming. I smile, feeling a thrill run through me at the way he says ours. There’s something incredibly intimate in claiming the city for just the two of us. The air smells damp and alive with the ever-present smell of baking bread and the river. It also carries the faint hint of coffee and pastries from cafes that have already opened. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, feeling like I could stay suspended in this moment forever.
We pause halfway across the bridge, leaning against the stone railing. I peer over it, fascinated by the Seine’s gentle ripples, the way it glints like liquid gold in the morning light. Boats lazily drift past, their wakes sending tiny waves lapping at the bridge’s foundation. On the far bank, the narrow streets twist and curve, the skyline filled with rooftops punctuated with chimneys that smoke idly.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur. “Just wandering, looking, not thinking about anything else.”
Axel’s hand brushes against mine… and lingers.
We cross the last span of the bridge and step onto Île Saint-Louis, and the world seems to shift from a modern city to something older with more character. The streets here are narrow, cobbled, and almost silent except for the occasional click of a boot against stone. Each building is a different shade of cream, beige, or ochre, its shutters painted in dusty greens and blues, ivy climbing lazily up the walls. Little balconies overflow with plants, supporting tiny window boxes spilling over with blooms. It feels wonderfully intimate and familiar, like stepping into a favorite storybook.
I wander close to one of the windows of the small shops, a little art gallery tucked into the curve of the street. Inside the glass are hand-painted postcards and delicate prints. Axel leans toward me.
“Pick one of the prints,” he says, a teasing tilt to his lips.
I already know I’ll choose something that reminds me of this morning. “That one,” I say, pointing at a delicate watercolor of the Seine in the morning light.
He nods approvingly, his eyes sparkling. “Excellent taste. Exactly what I would have chosen.”
My chest warms at the compliment.
He goes inside and quickly comes back out with a small striped bag.
Next, we duck into a tiny boutique selling artisanal soaps and candles. The air is scented with lavender, rose, and a faint hint of something earthy I can’t quite place. I think maybe it’s sage. My fingers brush over the soaps, feeling the smooth textures. I pick up a small bar, inhaling the scent of sweet oranges.
“Do you want it?” Axel asks.
I nod, heading for the counter, but he takes it from me.
“It’s on me, but I want you to promise to use some tonight,” Axel says, his eyes suddenly dark with desire.
