How Sweet It Is (11 page)

A banging on the door startled him out of his trance. He looked up, surprised to see the weak mid-morning sun streaming in through the windows.

The banging began again, and he went to answer the impatient person at the door.

Marcel stood on the threshold, a cappuccino in his hands and irritation in his eyes. “You’ve forsaken me,” the man said as he walked in and handed him the cup.

Finn inhaled the coffee’s aroma and took a sip, sighing in pleasure as the hot beverage warmed its way down his throat. “This is perfect.”

“I braved Anne-Marie to bring this to you, I hope for good reason.” Marcel pointed at him. “You had better clean the paint from her dishes before you return them, because she’ll blame me.”

He glanced down, surprised by the color on his fingers. He downed the cappuccino and set the cup on his restoration table to pick up a rag. “I’ve been painting.”

“Evidently.” Without asking, his friend went to the back and stood in front of the easel, his arms folded in front of him as he studied the canvas. “This is her.”

Finn knew better than to pretend he didn’t know what Marcel meant. “Yes.”

“Exquisite.” His friend glanced at him, his expression cunning. “Women are inspiring, no? Inspiring to create or to strangle, but inspiring nonetheless.”

“I can’t argue that.”

“I only know two things. Music and women,” Marcel said as he headed to the door. “But I know both really well. And do you know what?”

Opening the door for the man, Finn shook his head. “What?”

“Both bring misery.” The man pointed at Finn. “But both can help you reach the most sublime heights if you treat them with their due.”

“What does that mean?” he asked as the man shuffled out of his studio.

Marcel waved over his shoulder and said, “I can’t do all the work for you, boy.”

The old man was mad. Closing the door, he ignored the restoration project he needed to finish and stood in front of Viola’s image. He picked up his brush and attacked the canvas again, wondering if he’d ever see her in person or if this painting was going to have to do.

He didn’t even know her—not really. He glared at her lovely face, only half finished, and wondered how she could have wormed her way into his life so quickly.

His buzzer rang. He considered not opening it, but maybe Marcel was back with a croissant.

Except it wasn’t an old Frenchman standing in the doorway: It was Viola.

Relief made his knees weak.

She opened her mouth. “I—”

He tugged her to him and kissed her. He moaned at the taste of her, the familiar way her body curved to his, wanting her with an intensity he’d never felt for a woman before.

Which made no sense at all, because normally he’d have preferred that she go away. He only saw women who were easy: no expectations, no baggage. Viola was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he liked.

Not that his body agreed. His body thought she was
exactly
its type. He slid his hand down the column of her neck, marking her skin with his paint. He pulled open her coat and slid his fingers under her layers, directly to the hardened tip of her breast.

She moaned and arched back. “I can take things off,” she offered in a low voice, her hand going for the coat buttons.

He kicked the door closed and pressed her against it. “I’ll do it.”

“Hurry.” She pressed her palms to the wood, her arms in a T.

He wondered if she knew how she looked, in such a sacrificial position—more a gift than an offering. He untied her scarf and tossed it aside. “Maybe we’ll use that later.”

Her eyes went large, and she looked at the scarf as though she’d never seen it before. “Really?”

“Would that please you?” he asked as he undid the buttons of her coat.

“I think it’d please me greatly.” She looked at him. “Would it please you?”

“Will you moan?” He pushed the sides of her coat open and pushed her silky shirt up over her breasts.

“I’m not sure I could help myself,” she said breathlessly.

He admired the way the pink bra plumped her flesh up, and then he pulled the straps down so the soft mounds popped out. He exhaled deeply, moved by the erotic beauty of her nipples darkened with desire, standing taut. He ran his thumb over them.

Sighing, she arched up. “Where’s the scarf? Is it later yet?”

He was already hard, but her question made him surge with impatience. “I’m taking you here.”

“Here?” Her eyes closed as he played with the tips of her breasts.

The sight of her drove him mad. Unable to savor her the way he’d have liked, he slipped his hand under her skirt. She wore woolen tights—he expected them to stretch all the way to the top, but he touched the soft skin of her thigh where her stockings ended. Thigh-hi stockings? He stilled.

“I was hopeful,” she explained. “You don’t like them?”

“I love them,” he said fervently. He looked at her, her arms splayed, eyes closed, with her skirt hiked up to reveal a stretch of creamy flesh. Unable to help himself, he tugged down her panties, letting them manacle her ankles. He ran his hand over the curve of her arse, around her hip, and around the front. He slipped a finger in, dipping until he found wetness and then drawing it up until he reached the right spot where she tensed with pleasure. Watching her face, he focused right there, touching her in soft strokes.

She made soft noises, her hips writhing, her eyes squeezed shut. He kissed her neck and lips before he turned her around. Undoing his pants, he slid into her.

He closed his eyes—she felt so hot, so moist, gripping him tight like she was specially designed for him. He trailed his hand in front of her, spreading her wetness all over before focusing his touch.

She gasped, pushing her hips back, imploring. Her inner muscles squeezed him, tighter the closer she got to climax.

He braced her with an arm across her chest; his hand wrapped around her breast. He pushed into her, driving himself mad by going slow.

“I can feel you pulsing inside me,” she said. “I like it. I’m going to like using the scarf, too.”

He thrust faster. “I will, too.”

Her hands fisted against the door. “I can’t hold on any longer.”

“Don’t,” he urged. He focused his touch, fast and light.

He could feel her the moment she started to come—her muscles gripped him, possessing him, demanding that he join her.

He did, exploding into her. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, completely drained. He could feel her still gripping him, and it made him want to carry her upstairs to his bed and take her all over again.

The urge was so strong that it scared him. He withdrew from her and said, “Get dressed.”

She looked at him askance, but did as he said.

He tried not to watch her primly wipe herself with her knickers. He tried not to notice that she tucked them into her purse—he didn’t need the knowledge that she was naked under the skirt.

He turned his back. He should send her packing. Now that the sex was out of the way, she’d invariably ask about selling his art again. The sooner she left, the sooner his peace would be restored.

But then he turned around, and she looked at him with her guileless eyes and he heard himself say, “Come on,” as he took her hand and grabbed his coat.

“Where are we going?”

“Lunch,” he said as he led her through the windy streets, toward Odéon and his favorite place in Paris.

They arrived at L’Avant Comptoir early enough that there was space directly at the bar. Eric, who ran the place, started to smile in greeting. But when he saw Viola, he stopped pouring the wine for the person waiting in front of him to stare at her in wonder.

Finn shook his head as he took off his coat and hung it on a hook under the counter. He should have known the man would comment on the fact that he wasn’t alone for a change. “
Oui, c’est une femme
,” he said, answering Eric’s unspoken question.

Eric shrugged as he resumed pouring. “Jesus walked on water, so why not this?” the man replied in French. “Miracles happen.”

“What did he say?” Viola asked softly, hanging her purse and coat on the hook next to his.

“He said you look skinny and should eat more.”

Eric arched his brow. “
Ce n’est pas ce que j’ai dit
.”

No, it wasn’t what the man had said, but Viola didn’t need to know that. “You want red or white wine?”

“Red, please.” She craned her head, looking around. “There are no tables.”

He held up two fingers to Eric, who nodded and pulled down a bottle of red to open for them. “L’Avant Comptoir is a tapas bar, French style,” he explained. “They have a restaurant next door that’s fancier, but this suits me.”

“This suits me, too.” Her eyes lit up with delight as she looked toward the ceiling. “Is that the menu, hanging from the ceiling?”

When was the last time he’d felt the child-like delight she was exhibiting? He nodded with a feeling of impending doom. “Yes.”

“How clever.” She turned and looked around.

“
Voilà
.” Eric set the glasses of wine in front of them. He winked at Viola and said, “Welcome. Please, if anything isn’t to your tastes, tell me, even if it’s your companion.”

She glanced at Finn. “He doesn’t turn sour, does he?”

“He is the very definition of sour, Madame.” Eric smirked at him and then moved down the bar to help someone at the other end.

“I like him,” she said as she lifted the glass to her lips. Her eyes widened as she tasted it. “This is delicious.”

Because it was likely one of the best Eric had. Finn wouldn’t put it past the man to take advantage of the fact that he had a woman with him. “You’ll want the duck confit hot dog, and the
croque monsieur
, and a plate of the Ibérico ham. Maybe also the vegetable
pot de crème
.”

“I trust you,” she said, sipping her wine. “Is this bread for us or the people next to us?”

“It’s communal,” he explained, pulling it and the slab of butter over for her. “As are the mustards and cornichons.”

“Excellent.” She broke off a hunk of bread and slathered it with a generous portion of butter. She hummed with the first bite, her eyes closing the same way it had when he’d touched her intimately. “This alone is worth coming to Paris for.”

He raised his brow, trying not to be enchanted. “Really.”

“Well”—she blushed—“other things, too. If you end up not letting me sell your art, at least I’ll have delicious memories.”

He hummed and drank his wine.

“Why is it you’re so against me selling your work? You sell your carpentry services,” she said, pointing her bread at him.

“That’s work, not my passion.”

“Your soul is in your restoration work or you wouldn’t be in such demand.”

He shrugged. “It’s not the same as my art. I won’t sell it, no matter how much you try.”

“Does it have to do with your uncle Henry?”

He stilled. “What do you know about Henry?”

“Not nearly enough.” She sobered. “You don’t think I had sex with you just so you’d let me sell your paintings, do you?”

He considered her, because it was a serious question and he wanted to give it the proper due. “No,” he said finally. And it was true—he couldn’t see her doing that.

She practically wilted in relief. “Good. I had sex with you because I wanted to. I may do it again, too.”

“May?” He arched his brow, feeling like he was on the hunt again.

She shrugged, smiling as Eric set food in front of them. “Eat,” their host said, refilling their glasses. “
Bon appétit
.”

Watching her lift a piece of the hot dog, Finn waited to eat because he wanted to see her reaction when she took her first bite. She didn’t disappoint him—she closed her eyes and hummed in deep pleasure. “This. Is.
Scrumptious
,” she said fervently after she swallowed.

He nodded, popping a bit in his mouth. He came here several times a week, and he realized he took it for granted how good the food was.

“No, you don’t understand.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’s truly wonderful.”

“I’m happy you like it.” He pushed the
croque
closer to her. “Eat.”

“Okay.” She picked up a wedge. “How much are you going to let me pry into your life?”

He glanced at her, his lips curving. “Are you implying I can limit you?”

“No, but I’m trying to be respectful since you’re feeding me.” Her lashes fluttered in bliss as she took a bite. She savored the piece and took a sip of wine before she said, “While I’m eating, you can explain why you won’t sell your art.”

He surprised himself by saying, “Because James Buchanan is my father.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Of the Buchanan Art Collective.”

Nodding, he took a fortifying gulp of his wine so he could continue with his explanation. For some reason, he wanted her to understand. “James wanted me to paint. He saw dollar signs whenever he saw my work. But my uncle urged me to guard myself from allowing anyone to capitalize on my passion.”

“Why would your uncle do that?”

“Because James did the same to him, and he wasn’t happy,” Finn said, not wanting to get into the sordid details.

“So you hoard and secret away your talent. You could change a person’s life with your art. It’s a crime to hide it.” Then, gasping, she put her hand on his arm and leaned toward him. “I
love
this,” she whispered, holding up a piece of the cured ham.

He nodded, feeling like he was caught in a tornado, disoriented and discombobulated.

She downed the rest of her wine and slipped her hand in his. “What else do you want to try?”

That was it? He wanted to ask why she didn’t have more questions, but he didn’t want to invite them either. So he just shook his head in confusion and said, “Food-wise?”

“Intimately.” She blushed. “Like with the scarf.”

He pictured her wrists bound with her white scarf, high overhead so her back arched and offered him her breasts.

Tossing his napkin on the counter, he signaled to Eric and dropped a load of euros next to their plates. He took her hand. “Let’s go.”

Frowning, she tugged him back and pointed to the hot dog. “I haven’t finished yet.”