Undying Love (21 page)

I read into her words. Fifteen minutes later, we were chest-deep in our luxurious jacuzzi tub, soaking in the warm bubbly water. Allee was seated in front of me, her long, now thin legs outstretched with mine. The lights were dim, and I had lit several fragrant candles. The room smelled divine. We hadn’t been intimate like this for a while. She bowed her head as I held up her glorious hair and smothered the back of her neck with kisses. Oh, how I would miss the sweet taste of her! I wished I could bottle it in a jar.

Using the jasmine-scented soap, I lathered up her back and arms and her still full breasts. Letting the bar of soap fall into the water, I groped the soft mounds in my hands, massaging and gently squeezing them. I rubbed her puckered rosebuds in circles with the pads of my thumbs and then pinched them between my thumb and index fingers, feeling them grow into pointed crowns. I closed my eyes, memorizing the feel of them. She let out a soft moan.

Beneath her buttocks, my cock grew hard and hungry. I wanted desperately to be inside her but wasn’t sure she could handle my drive in her frail state.

“Rub my clit,” she begged.

She wanted me. Still playing with her left breast, I moved my other hand below the water to her velvety folds. I caressed them, wishing she was facing forward so that I could bathe her with my tongue. I thought about turning her to face me, but she did it herself, as if reading my mind. My head dipped beneath the water, and I let my tongue stroke and dip into every hill and vale. Savoring them. The tip circled around her clit, and when I could no longer hold my breath underwater and had to come up for air, my middle finger seamlessly took over.

Clutching my biceps, Allee arched back her head and moaned. Her long dark hair fell gloriously down her back. My eyes, half-moons, stayed riveted on her. Her sunken face had an ethereal quality—a unique beauty—that tugged at my heart.

“You’re so beautiful” I managed between mouthfuls of her ripe nipples. I sucked them tenderly and then trailed kisses down her torso. I could feel every bone of her rib cage against my lips but nothing could stop me. I couldn’t get enough of her. Paris was for lovers. I told her again how beautiful she was.

“You’re so full of shit. I look like crap.”

Even in the shadow of death, she was still the wicked, wisecracking Allee I loved so much. The truth was, she was beautiful to me, and I told it to her yet again.

“Shut up, Madewell. Just make love to me.”

I gazed into her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Splaying her thin, but still muscular, legs, she helped me insert my girth inside her. I pulled her closer to me as she used her hand to edge it in, inch by thick inch. We moaned together. Reaching the hilt, my cock had found its home sweet home. The only place on earth where it belonged. “Oh baby,” I cried out.

Holding onto her bony haunches, I glided in and out of her. Slowly and steadily. She held onto my biceps and arched her back. Whimpers escaped her lips. I hoped she wasn’t crying.

“Are you okay, baby?” I asked, worried again that I was hurting her.

“Yeah, you feel so good,” she said breathily.

“Tell me if it’s too much for you. Or if I hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, Madewell.”

My cock continued to swell inside her warm cavity, bathed by her own hot juices.

A rapturous feeling overcame me as my throbbing cock cried out for release. My lips consumed hers, our tongues probing and exploring as if they never had.

Her cries of ecstasy told me she was close to climaxing.

“Come with me,” she pleaded. Closing her eyes, she arched her back and dropped open her mouth as she breathed my first name—for the first time—upon reaching orgasm. I watched her come in all her glory as she convulsed around my exploding rod. “Oh, Ryan,” she moaned again. The way she said my name drawing out the first syllable with a deep sexy lilt, made me burst inside her, coating her walls with my release. “Don’t leave me, baby,” I cried out, my voice caught between rapture and despair.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning her head in until our foreheads touched. She nuzzled my lips. “Shh,” she said softly. “I’m still here.”

Our reservation at Le Jules Verne was for six o’clock. Because Allee fatigued easily, I deliberately made it early. Even at this unpopular dining hour, the posh restaurant was booked. When I told them my name, a window table for two opened up. The Madewell name came with its benefits.

The all-window, sky-high restaurant overlooked all of Paris. From our table, we could see The Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, and numerous other sparkling monuments. The view was truly spectacular.

In contrast, the view of Allee was less than spectacular. Her brief after-sex afterglow had faded, and now her skin was pale again, almost ashen. Maybe our lovemaking session in the tub had worn her out. Or set her back. A pang of guilt stabbed me.

I ordered the exorbitant, prix fixe multi-course dinner for each of us along with an expensive bottle of Pouilly-Fuisée wine. Attentive white-gloved waiters brought the elaborate meal to our table, one dish at time. They also made sure our wine glasses were constantly filled. Allee hardly ate or drank a thing.

By the third course, a palate-cleansing sorbet, Allee looked faint. “Baby, you don’t feel well, do you?”

She shook her head.

“We don’t have to stay here. Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

Her pained eyes met mine. “No… a hospital.”

Reality stabbed at my heart.
This was it.

She tried to push herself away from the table but didn’t have the strength. I leaped to my feet and scooped her into my arms. Panic gripped me.

“Someone, call for an ambulance,” I yelled at the of top of my lungs.

“No, Madewell, please. No ambulance.”

I had Marcus take us to the American Hospital of Paris. Familiar with Paris, having once driven for the Ambassador to France, he wove swiftly through the maze of Paris traffic and got us there in no time; he knew what was happening and remained stoically silent. In the back seat, I cuddled Allee. Her breathing was labored, and she was trembling.

“I’m scared, Madewell,” she whispered.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. Truthfully, I was scared shitless too.

Located in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a wealthy suburb not far from the Eiffel Tower, The American Hospital was a venerable private institution with a hundred year history. I had been there once myself as child after breaking an arm while playing soccer in the Jardin des Tuileries. Needless to say, my father was not pleased with having a sports-injured son to deal with while on vacation.

Being a Madewell once again had its perks. My parents were major contributors to the hospital, and my mother sat on the American Hospital of Paris Foundation Board. Holding Allee in my arms, I told the nurses at the front desk my name—Madewell, as in the son of Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Madewell III—and that I wanted the very best room they had for my wife.
Please
. No expense spared. With one look at Allee, lying limp in my arms like a wilted flower, they knew it was very serious. They moved quickly to get her checked in.

Twenty minutes later, Allee was in a hospital bed in a large private suite on the hospital’s top floor. A team of doctors had contacted Dr. Goulding, who immediately faxed them her charts and made them aware of her end-of-life situation. My poor baby looked so tiny and frail hooked up to so many tubes, wires, and machines. They had her on her morphine drip to keep her pain to a minimum and some kind of sedative to keep her calm. She was also getting white cells and platelets to prevent infection. I sat in an armchair close to her side.

“Hi,” she said weakly. “Sorry to ruin dinner. I’ll pay you back for it.”

I smiled. Lying near death, she still had that wicked sense of humor and that self-deprecating need to take care of herself.

“Shh,” I said, taking the hand that didn’t have an intravenous tube attached to it into mine. “Save your strength.”

“No, Madewell. I want
you
to be strong for me.”

I gazed at her. Even so close to death, she was so, so, beautiful. Her weight loss had hollowed her cheeks, making her extraordinary high cheekbones even more visible and breathtaking. They brought attention to her other beautiful features—those espresso bean eyes that still had a glimmer of life, her perky upturned nose, and her sensuous full lips. Her skin, now ashen, reminded me of a Picasso portrait.

“Is there anything else you want, baby?”

“Yeah. I want you.”

Fighting back tears, I said nothing.

“Come into bed with me, Madewell.”

Was she kidding? She wanted me to get into that narrow bed with her hooked up to all those tubes and gizmos?

“I’m skinny.” She flashed a faint smile. “There’s room for you. You won’t hurt me… you never have.”

Hesitantly, I rose from the chair and made my way to the bed.

“No, Madewell.” Her voice was weak, just a little above a whisper. “Take off your clothes. I want to feel your raw body next to mine.”

Wordlessly, as she watched, her eyes never leaving me, I peeled off my suit, my shirt and tie, my boxers, and lastly my loafers. I wasn’t wearing socks.

All 6’2” of me stood before her, naked to the bone. Her eyes roved up and down my chiseled body. They lingered on the heavy package between my legs before returning to my face.

Her lips curled into that sexy, dimpled smile. “Hey, did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

I thought about it for a minute. Honestly, I couldn’t recall her ever telling me that. She once said I had a body worth painting, but that was about it. “No,” I said.

“Well, I’m telling it to you now. You’re beautiful, Ryan Madewell IV.”

The ache of the flesh between my thighs paled to the ache in my heart. The effect she had on me was close to being unbearable.
My
Camille, my fallen angel. I damned her and so adored her at the same time
. Be strong for her, Madewell. Don’t cry.

“Now, Golden Boy, get your rich tight ass in bed with me.”

I didn’t hesitate. I carefully slipped under the fluffy duvet, anchoring my naked body next to hers. To my surprise, my flesh brushed against hers. Beneath the covers, she was stark naked. Had my feisty beauty refused her hospital gown or shed it? Neither possibility shocked me. That was my Allee.

With a struggle, she rolled onto her side. “Face me, Madewell.” I did as she asked, so that we were face to face, heart to heart, organ to organ. I studied her beautiful face, memorizing every detail as my body warmed hers. Our breaths mingled and her faint heartbeat beat against mine. With one hand, she slid my organ inside her. It felt warm and beautiful, as if we were one. Wrapping our arms around each other, we were positioned just like that hidden Picasso painting she had shown me the first time we’d met. She knew it too and, one more time, broke into that dimpled smile I would always remember.

Though her lids were heavy, her eyes burned into mine. “Madewell, there’s one last thing I want to tell you.” Her voice was barely audible.

“What’s that?”

“That was a damn good article you wrote on that Picasso painting.”

“Thanks,” I said humbly. “I love you, Allee Adair Madewell.”

I waited for her to say “I love you” back. It never came. She was fast asleep.

In the morning, she was gone.

TWENTY-FOUR

I
f death was a living thing, I was it. It was hard to believe my Allee was gone.

Before leaving the hospital, an administrator asked me about Allee’s funeral arrangements. The query sent shockwaves through my numbed body. Allee and I had never discussed them. It wasn’t what young married couples with everything to live for did. Despite her imminent death, I think we both secretly believed that a miracle would happen. That she would live, and we’d get our happily ever after.

Stunned into deep thought, I searched my mind and my soul for what I thought Allee would want. The thought of transporting her body back to New York sickened me. Then it just hit me. I knew what would make Allee happy. I asked the kind hospital staff to handle the arrangements.

A weary Marcus was waiting for me outside. I don’t think he ever left the grounds or slept. The solemn expression on my face told him the words he didn’t want to hear.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. M.” A fat tear rolled down the stoic man’s face. Before opening the passenger door, he did something he hadn’t done since I was kid. He hugged me. I so needed that, and was grateful that Marcus was part of my life.

The ride back to the Ritz was uneventful. I could have been anywhere in the world, because everything was a blur to me. Marcus respected my grief with utter silence.

I staggered into the Ritz exhausted, carrying a small bag of Allee’s possessions. I had told the hospital to keep her clothing, including the black dress I’d bought her, and give it all away to a women’s shelter. Allee would have liked that. All that was in the bag were her treasured locket, my antique engagement ring, her gold wedding band, and a letter that the nurses had found folded up in her purse.