Jean-Luc smiled enthusiastically, pleased with her success. But he seemed preoccupied and restless, as if eager to share important news. As they walked back to the apartment along theAllée des Brouillards, near the vineyard they’d visited on the tour ofle Clos Montmartre, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and, with a sweeping gesture of his other arm, indicated the abundant shade trees and lush vegetation lining both sides of the quiet street. “I’d love to live here, like Renoir did. A peaceful, private oasis. Right in the heart of Montmartre.”
That’s one of the things I love best about Paris.It’s a huge city, with enchanting places like this. A composite collection of quaint little towns.
When they arrived at the atelier, Jean-Luc led Ella upstairs, his face as eager as a child on Christmas morning. As she walked through the double French doors into the foyer of the apartment, her mouth dropped open. There, on the recessed wall between the open living/bedroom area and the small kitchen, centered above his computer desk, was a portrait of Ella. Holding the bouquet of plump pink peonies and roses that Jean-Luc had given her. The day they’d sat among the wisteria blossoms nearle Sacré-Coeur.
He'd taken the broken mirror they’d found in the thrift shop, painted it black, and transformed it into an ornate picture frame with intricately carved roses. The mauve matting he’d placed inside the antique frame was the same shade of soft pink as the roses clutched in Ella’s hands and in the floral spray scattered across her long black gypsy skirt. Hair upswept into a loosepompadour,soft tendrils delicately framing her face, emerald eyes sparkling with unabashed delight— Jean-Luc had intimately captured that moment of Ella’s exquisite joy. Just like the illustrious Impressionist artists of the beautifulBelle Époque.
With an awestruck intake of breath, Ella rushed over to examine the painting more closely. The black and pink colors of the mat and frame highlighted the hues of her skirt, and the carved roses in the former mirror perfectly complemented the flowers in the bouquet. “It’s beautiful. I absolutelyloveit!”
Jean-Luc walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around the front of her waist, and brushed his lips along the side of her neck. “I call itMa Rose Bohème.My bohemian rose.”The tip of his tongue traced the shell of her ear. “Now, I can look at you every day.” He spun her around to face him. Yearning blazed in his dark, intense gaze. “You’re my Muse, Ella. The inspiration for my art. My passion. My joy.Mon coeur.” He crushed her against his chest, resting his head protectively upon hers. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to Florida. I want you to stay here with me.”
He gently raised her chin, his impassioned eyes searing her soul. With a guttural groan, his mouth claimed hers, penetrating her parted lips with a probing, insistent tongue. As he delved deep, Jean-Luc backed her up against the wall, hoisted her skirt around her waist, and dropped his jeans to his knees.
Ella gasped at the sight of the huge shaft that would soon penetrate her like a sword. A jolt of liquid desire surged between her shaking thighs. She wrapped her arms around Jean-Luc’s shoulders and her legs around his waist as he lifted her off the floor.
Gripping her in a frantic, desperate hold, he pinned her against the wall. Plunged inside her, pummeling mercilessly until she screamed in release. And filled her— body and soul— with fiery, liquid flames.
Later, they sat in the kitchen, sharing the quiet grilled shrimp dinner that Jean-Luc had prepared. He refilled their glasses ofMeursault, then placed the wine bottle back in the ice bucket beside him. “A week from today isLa Fête de la Musique.Every year, each city in France celebrates the Festival of Music on June 21st. Here in Montmartre, there’ll be festivities nearle Sacré-Coeur. I’m glad it falls on a Wednesday, so we can spend the whole afternoon and evening together.” He flashed her a sly grin, a mischievous glint dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m almost finished with your nude portrait. I’ll show it to that day. You canexpress your gratitude…” he chuckled deeply, leaning over to plant his lips on hers. “And after that, we’ll dance in the streets and celebratela Fête de la Musique.”
The summer program is almost over. Soon, I’ll have to fly home. And leave Jean-Luc.Ella smiled at his suggestions for the upcoming celebration. But her spirit was heavy with loss.
When Jean-Luc picked her up atla résidencethe following Wednesday after classes ended, they strolled to the pretty square nearle Sacré-Coeurwhere the wisteria bloomed among the leafy shady trees. Jazz music wafted through the air, a mellow saxophone augmenting Ella’s melancholy mood.
She’d been especially moved during today’s lecture about Picasso’s famous painting,La Mort de Casagemas, completed during the Blue Period just after the suicide of his close friend. As she and Jean-Luc savored theirsandwiches au poulet, Ella shared the sad story. “Picasso’s friend killed himself because he couldn’t have Germaine, the woman he loved. Such a tragic death.”
Jean-Luc grasped Ella’s hand and raised it to his sensuous lips. “L’amour fou. A passion so intense… it can drive you mad.” Flames of golden sunlight blazed in his fierce, feral eyes.
His scorching lips gently sucked at her knuckles.
And Ella’s nipples ached, longing for their touch.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Jean-Luc crumpled the wax paper that their sandwiches had been wrapped in, arose from the green wooden bench where they both sat, and tossed their trash into the receptacle under the verdant canopy of a huge oak. He returned to her side. Offered his hand. And briskly led her—amid myriad music soaring into the sky— back to theAtelier des Lumières.
Instead of going upstairs to the bedroom, as Ella had hoped, Jean-Luc escorted her down the hall to his spacious studio. Dense foliage covering the exterior privacy wall sheltered the floor to ceiling window where dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves onto the gleaming pinewood floor. Ella’s eyes roved over the familiar black velvet sofa— where she and Jean-Luc had made love during every session that she had posed for him— before settling onto the wall where a large sheet covered the painting he was most anxious to show her.
“Today isla Fête de la Musique. And your portrait is finished, like I promised.” With theatricalpanache,he unveiled his masterpiece. And Ella’s jaw dropped to her chest.
He’d painted her reclining seductively on the sumptuous divan, accentuating the sleek, sinuous lines of her long, lithe legs. Her left arm was tucked up under her head, and a perk pink nipple protruded from the cascade of golden tresses tumbling over her shoulder to the sharp, sensuous curve of her full, rounded hip. Lips parted slightly, eyes glazed with desire, Ella sizzled with pure, provocative passion. The effect was electrifying.
Stunned speechless, Ella stood agape, gawking at the nude image of herself. She looked alluring and exotic. Decadent and desirable. Bewitching, beguiling, and beautiful.
This is how he sees me. Unlike any man ever has before.
“Enflammée,”he whispered into her ear as he crept up behind her. “Engulfed in flames.” Hot lips clamped her shoulder, intently sucking her soft skin. “The fiery passion that fuels my soul. Inspires my art. And makes my heart sing.”
Ella’s legs gave out, and he caught her with strong, sinewy arms. She slumped forward— for he was behind her— succumbing to his insistent, urgent mouth.
He kicked her legs apart, bent her roughly over the nearby table, and hoisted her skirt up over her back.
A piercing pleasure tore her apart as he arrowed into her. Calloused hands clenched her hips in a tight, immovable grip. Powerful thighs slammed the back of her legs. Pounding, vigorous thrusts rammed her to the hilt. When the mounting tension crested to an irresistible, impossible peak, Ella grabbed hold of the sides of the table. And catapulted into the abyss.
Breath heaving, Jean-Luc withdrew from her body .“L’amour fou,”he gasped,pulling Ella into his arms.“My passion for you is so intense… it makes me lose my mind.”
She wrapped her trembling arms around his broad back, nuzzling the dark hair that traversed his chest and trailed down his quivering abs. His musky scent stirred her senses and called to her very soul.No man has ever said that to me. Or made me feel so alive.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he murmured, enveloping her in a tight embrace. Afternoon sunlight gilded the golden flecks in his dark, possessive eyes. “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he said, kissing her softly on the lips. “You could delay your flight…and stay here with me. For at least the month of July.”
Ella couldn’t breathe. Her heart had flown out of her chest.
