Page 67 of The Stipulation
“You are ridiculous,” I murmur and try to hide the flush of pleasure and discomfiture flooding into my neck and face by looking away to the street, but the warmth has spread too far, too quickly.
He laughs and leans back, satisfied.
The waiter arrives with our lunch. The plates are effortlessly elegant—classic French fare served with a casual panache. I’ve chosensalmon en papillotewith a small salad and roasted potatoes. The dish smells lush and fragrant. Axel’s deep red, rich beef bourguignon looks delicious.
We dig in, savoring the first bites. I close my eyes for a second, tasting the tender salmon, the subtle herbs, and the delicate crisp of the potatoes. Axel watches me, amused, as I hum in appreciation.
“Good?” he asks, teasing.
“Good?” I repeat, grinning. “It’s exquisite. I’d almost say it’s Parisian magic on a plate.”
He smirks. “Almost?”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “All right, yes, it’s magic.”
Our game resumes even with the food before us, now inventing elaborate backstories for other diners. An older woman with a hat too large for the sunny day is, in my imagination, an international jewel thief who has sewn diamonds worth millions of dollars into the brim of her hat.
“I like how creative you are,” he murmurs, a grin tugging at his lips. “I think you could make anyone’s life interesting.”
I feel that familiar rush of heat and delight, the thrill of how close he is, and the unspoken tension building between us. “Even yours?” I ask, teasing but with my pulse racing.
“Even mine,” he says, his eyes locking on mine in a way that makes me momentarily forget the terrace, the street, the entire city.
The sun has climbed higher, painting the terrace in golden light. I notice how it catches the subtle glint of gold in Axel’s green eyes, how the warm light plays off his jawline. And I realize that this, this playful, teasing, intimate connection, is exactly the kind of moment that Paris was made for.
“Next time,” I murmur. “I’ll do you the next time we come back here.”
“Okay, next time it is,” he echoes, and I catch that glint in his eyes, the promise, the thrill, the spark. I know there won’t really be a next time, that we only have this weekend, but I play along because if all we have is this weekend, then I want to savor every second.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
AXEL
The air is warmer now, the afternoon sun climbing over the rooftops and spilling into the narrow streets of Montmartre as we step off the terrace atLe Comptoir du Relais. The opulence of the beef bourguignon still lingers on my tongue, and I know it’s going to be a battle to focus on anything but the heat in my cock every time Jo brushes against me.
“Ready to get lost in Montmartre?” she asks, slipping her hand into mine, and looking up at me with a mischievous, almost childlike smile.
“Lost? I think you mean led around like a trusting fool,” I tease.
“Touché,” she murmurs, her fingers squeezing mine. That little reaction, so subtle, yet so loud in the way it reverberates up my arm, is the kind of thing that makes me want to keep her close all the time.
Montmartre greets us like a living postcard. The cobblestone streets are narrow, winding, and stubbornly steep, lined withtiny shops, cafes, and ateliers that spill their contents onto the sidewalk, showcasing canvasses stacked against walls, sculptures perched on shelves and delicate jewelry glinting in the sunlight.
There is the aroma of roasting coffee beans from the little cafés tucked into corners, the faint yeasty sweetness of boulangeries, and something earthy and green that I think is coming from the potted plants struggling for sun between the buildings. I inhale deeply, letting it sink into me.
The city is alive, vibrant, intoxicating, and somehow every perfect sight, every perfect sound and smell are all amplified a thousand times because Jo is here with me. She pauses to peer into a tiny gallery tucked between two taller buildings, the wooden door propped open to invite the curious inside.
“Look at that,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost reverent, and I can almost feel her longing to see what is inside up close.
From here, I can see that the gallery is almost claustrophobically small, but charming in the way that makes it feel as though you’re discovering something no one else knows about. The walls are a patchwork of canvases, each one telling its own story.
“Do you want to go in?” I ask, glancing at her, pretty sure I already know the answer to my question.
“Of course. You’d never forgive me if I didn’t give you the chance to see this mysterious artist’s masterpieces, would you?”
Indulgently, I play along. “I might, but I’d sulk silently for hours afterwards.”
