She rolled to her side and spotted Jean-Luc in his kitchen, clad only in snug, faded jeans which hugged his tight butt and clung to his muscular thighs. His rippled, tattooed torso was visible over the countertop from her reclining perspective in the bed, and she feasted her eyes on his sculpted physique, reliving the previous night’s passion as she observed her half-naked chef create a culinary masterpiece.
His long, black hair was tied in a ponytail which hung down his bare back, and as he set the countertop with turquoise ceramic plates and glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, he noticed that she was watching him. “Ah, my beauty awakens…” he chuckled deeply, an expansive grin illuminating his handsome face where the trimmed beard outlined his chiseled jawline like a perfectly framed portrait.
Ella slipped from the bed and plodded softly across the pinewood floor to join him in the black and white kitchen. Long blonde hair tumbling over her small breasts and cascading to her waist, she stood nude beside the counter and admired his work.
Beside each teal plate—one of which displayed an incredibly appetizing omelet— he had placed half of a juicy ripe melon, the sweet, fruity fragrance making Ella’s mouth water. An enticing array of four pastries was nestled between two largebols de café,whose creamy coffee goodness was impossible to resist.
As she sipped her bowl of the rich, robust brew—moaning in delight—Jean-Luc lifted the skillet from the stovetop and flashed her a dazzling grin. “We French usually eat omelets for dinner. But, after six years in the United States, I now prefer them for breakfast.” He slid a perfect spinach omelet onto the plate in front of her. “Une omelette aux épinards,”he announced proudly, rinsing the pan and placing it into the sink. “Loaded with mushrooms and melted gruyère.”
Ella needed to use the bathroom and wanted to put on some clothes. “You are amazing, Jean-Luc. It looks absolutely delicious. I’ll be right back.”
She grabbed her enormous purse, grateful she had brought a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth and get dressed. Pulling on her mauve tank and the black gypsy skirt with the huge pink roses that Jean-Luc loved, she twisted her hair up into a loose topknot. And returned to her sexy chef.
As she approached the kitchen counter, Jean-Luc rose from his stool, appreciation and admiration glinting in his dark brown eyes. He pulled her into his arms. “You are exquisite, Ella. A beautiful, bohemian goddess.Ma belle bohémienne.” He kissed her softly, then seated her at the bar where breakfast awaited. “I love your hair like that. It reminds me ofla Belle Époque.”His warm lips caressed the back of her neck, sending ripples of pleasure down her spine, as she settled onto the barstool next to his.
With a shy smile at his effusive compliments, Ella sampled the delectableomelette aux épinards,humming her approval of his culinary creation.
He’s an artist, a dancer, and a fabulous cook. The way he looks at me…it makes me feel alluring. Desirable. Wanted. For the first time in my life, I feel beautiful and sexy. And when he makes love to me… God, I have never felt this attracted to a man before. I’ll remember this unforgettable summer forever…
The thought of returning to her lonely apartment filled Ella with sadness and dread.No, I won’t ruin the present by worrying about the future. “Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.”Ella vowed to follow the sage advice of the famous poet, Pierre de Ronsard. And pick today the roses of her life.
****
Jean-Luc knew Ella would lovele Musée de la Vie Romantique. He watched her delighted eyes sparkle like emeralds as she took in the personal artifacts of the French writer Aurore Dupin—the rebellious female novelist who had defied convention and chosen the pen name George Sand—and her illustrious lover, the renowned pianist, Frédéric Chopin.
Ella hovered over the private collection of jewels, the marble sculpture of the famed writer, the plaster cast of George Sand’s arm and her lover’s legendary left hand, as well as the variousobjets d’artfrom the nineteenth century Romantic period in literature.
A while later, as they sat in theSalon de Thé—the tearoom situated in the rose garden behindle Musée de la Vie Romantique— Jean-Luc marveled at Ella’s enthusiasm and zest for life. She’d been delighted with the paintings, sculptures, and exhibits in the museum, and was thoroughly enjoying the ham and cheese baguette sandwiches, thetartelettes aux fruits, and the abundant pink roses in full bloom among the vibrant purple and blue clematis flowers that surrounded the terrace where they now sat.
After lunch, he led her along the quaint cobbled stone streets of Montmartre, watching her peruse the souvenir shops, purchasing a few postcards and books with colorful images to share with her students upon her return to Florida. He swallowed a tight lump in his throat at the thought of her leaving. Although they had only known each other for a short time, he found himself thinking of her constantly. And wanting her more and more.
They stopped by several secondhand shops, searching for vintage lace for Ella to use in designing the handmade items she sold online. “It’s mostly just a hobby,” she explained, “but I create what I call ‘Renaissance Denim Couture’. I upcycle vintage denim into bohemian jean skirts and jackets— by adding lace, silk, velvet, and decorative beading. I don’t make a lot of profit, but the added income does boost my meager teacher salary. At least a little, anyway.”
Jean-Luc also found exactly what he was looking for—an antique wooden mirror with ornate, intricately carved roses. He didn’t mind that the glass was cracked, for he intended to use it as a picture frame, rather than a mirror, to encase the portrait of Ella he intended to start tomorrow night. While Ella attended the evening reception atla résidenceto welcome the arrival of the remaining teachers for the summer language and culture program, Jean-Luc would paint the portrait from the picture he’d snapped on his phone the day he’d given her the bouquet of plump peonies and pink roses. The day she’d worn the same beautiful gypsy skirt she was wearing today.
He smiled inwardly, remembering the unabashed joy on her face when she’d accepted the bouquet. The irresistible exuberance he would capture on canvas. And encase in this antique mirror which he would convert to the perfect picture frame. He couldn’t wait to see the delight on her face when it was finished. And tomorrow afternoon, he’d paint her nude… The thought of her reclining on the black velvet sofa made him hard as a rock. With a stifled groan, he adjusted his clothing. And smiled at the beautiful Muse who inspired his art. And made his spirit and body sing.
“It’s nearly five, and I need to set up onla Place du Tertresoon,” he said reluctantly. “Since it’s Saturday, there will be lots of tourists tonight… I’ll be busy until after midnight. Too late for me to come byla résidence.” Her face fell in disappointment. “But tomorrow, we can spend the day together again,” he suggested brightly. “I have a couple more secrets of Paris to show you.” He chuckled softly at the look of wonder in her widened eyes.One of the things I adore most about her—la joie de vivre. Her contagious, exuberant joy for life.
“I’ll walk you home now.” Clutching the treasured mirror against his side, Jean-Luc offered Ella the crook of his other elbow. “And pick you up tomorrow morning around ten.” He led her along the quaint cobbled stone street under the dense canopy of leafy shade trees, the enticing aroma ofcrêpes au chocolatfrom a nearby vendor wafting through the cool spring breeze. “We’ll stop by acaféfor croissants and coffee, explore Paris a bit more, then come back to theatelierso I can paint your portrait. Sound good?”
“Perfect. I can’t wait!” She beamed at him as they walked up the path to the four-story residence nestled behind the familiar pink and green building ofla Maison Rose.
With his free arm, he hugged her close, leaning down to envelop her soft, full lips with his own. “I wish I didn’t have to work. I’d much rather make love to you …” His hand dropped to her lower back, pulling her hips against the thickened shaft which strained painfully inside his tight jeans. With considerable effort, he took a step back, withdrawing from her enticing embrace.
Lifting her hand to his lips, he whispered, “Tomorrow,mon coeur.I’ll show you how much I crave your exquisite body.”
She dazzled him with a glorious smile, then headed toward the entrance door. Unable to take his eyes off her, he watched his bohemian Muse climb the steps, enter the building, and wave goodbye through the large window.
Adjusting his clothing once again, Jean-Luc turned away. Exhaled forcefully. And walked back to theAtelier des Lumières.
****
Ella climbed the stairs to her private room, unlocked the door, and dropped her bags onto the small bed. She’d found two colorful posters—one ofle Sacré-Coeurand another ofNotre-Dame—which, along with the postcards and souvenirs, would enhance her classroom and fascinate her students.If there’s even a position for me next year, she thought glumly. She gazed out the window at the picturesque streets of Montmartre, a sensuous thrill rippling up her spine as she envisioned the handsome, intriguing Jean-Luc. For the first time in her life, a man had made her feel desirable. Sexy. Irresistible.
He had been the only man to go ever down on her. To give her the indescribable pleasure of his skilled lips and tongue. No man had ever made her come. Or even considered her pleasure before his own. And no man had ever made her feel wanted and beautiful, the way Jean-Luc did.
The thought of leaving him— of returning to her small apartment, lonely life, and the uncertainty of the future— filled Ella with dread.At least we have the whole month of June. Plenty of time to make utterly unforgettable memories. Unless, like all the others, including Paul—he loses interest in me.
