Paris Punishment: Paris Trilogy: Part Two Page 4

  Another step, and now he was almost close enough to reach out and touch her. “You’re here to submit.”

  Chapter 4

  London, England—eight years earlier

  * * *

  Their Covent Garden flat, walking distance to both the London School of Economics and Kings College, had come furnished, but it was only after several months of living there that it was actually starting to feel like home.

  Vivienne watched Solomon as he stood in their small kitchen, making something he called grilled-cheese sandwiches. They were actually quite good, and so far the best argument for strong English yellow cheese that she’d yet to come across. Heaven knew it was impossible to find any acceptable soft cheeses in this mad country.

  “The trick is Worcestershire sauce,” Solomon said. “But that’s my secret. You can never tell anyone.”

  “I promise to never tell anyone the secret to your cheese sandwiches.”

  He slid their sandwiches onto plates, then cut them in half with quick, precise movements before carrying the plates over to the small dining room. Half the rectangular table had been designed as a desk, and a permanent yet ever-changing stack of books, papers, and journals lived there. Solomon had tried to get her to eat on the couch, but there were some things Vivienne just couldn’t bring herself to do, and eating on a couch while staring at a TV was one of them.

  Not that she objected to sitting on the couch with him. When they couldn’t study anymore, they would snuggle down and watch BBC reality shows while remarking on how truly strange British people were. They were strangers in a strange land, but they had one another.

  Vivienne picked up half of her sandwich and set it on Solomon’s plate, then lifted the other half to her mouth. By the time she’d nibbled a quarter of her half sandwich, Solomon had eaten one whole section.

  He watched her, shaking his head.

  “Eating slowly is better for digestion,” she said primly.

  “There’s slow, and then there’s what you do.”

  It was a recurring joke. He’d been teasing her about it in the year and a half they’d been “officially” dating.

  They’d met in fall in Paris. By the winter break, Solomon had all but moved in to her larger flat. In the spring, Solomon had sat her down and, very seriously, asked her to come to London with him the next year while he finished his two-year master’s at the London School of Economics.

  A week later she’d made arrangements to do a one-year post-license course of study at Kings College in London. The exposure to the British NHS would greatly improve her understanding of European health policy.

  Those were the arguments she’d made to family and friends alike when they’d balked at her “following” her boyfriend to England rather than doing her post-license course somewhere in Eastern Europe the way she’d originally planned.

  Solomon finished eating all three of his sandwich sections while she was still eating her first.

  “How much more do you have to do tonight?” He carried his plate over to the sink and washed it.

  “There’s nothing else I have to do. Shall we go out?” she asked. It was only Thursday night, but neither one of them had class tomorrow.

  “You up for it?” He turned, leaning back against the counter and stacking his long, muscular legs. He still looked like an American, still wore his jeans like he were starring in some dusty advertisement selling motorcycles or American beer. “When was the last time we went anywhere besides to school?”

  “Weeks,” she said. “It would be nice to go out.”

  His mouth kicked up in a smile. “Let’s go pretend to be tourists.”

  “You can get…what is it? Pissed. Pissed-faced?”

  “Shit-faced,” he corrected. “But yeah, the Brits say pissed.” Solomon pushed away from the counter, walking slowly and deliberately toward her, like a lion stalking its prey. “I do love Drunk Vivienne.”

  “I do not get drunk. A Deschamps does not get drunk.”

  “Oh, but I’ve seen you drunk.” He put one hand on the back of her chair, the other on the table, and then leaned down, nuzzling her neck. “You get extra horny. I like it.”

  Vivienne sighed, wiped her hands on her napkin, and then wrapped her arms around his neck. “I don’t need to be drunk to want you.”

  Solomon grabbed her by the waist, lifted her out of the chair, and spun, pressing her back against the wall. Vivienne hooked her legs around his hips.

  A year and a half with this man and she was certain there was no better lover on the planet. He touched her with a confidence and surety that she’d never found in another man. He was aggressive and not afraid to talk—ask her what she wanted, tell her what he needed.

  Part of her wondered if he held back. There’d been moments in the heat of passion, or in the quiet time afterward, when he’d seemed like he was going to say something. Those moments passed, and Vivienne didn’t press. Instead, she simply made sure to let him know how thoroughly she enjoyed his lovemaking, and how willing she was to take everything he would give.

  After all, she loved him. Utterly and wholly. This was the kind of love poets wrote about. The kind that made men and women do terrible, wonderful things.

  She would marry this man and spend the rest of her life with him. It wasn’t a question of if but when. He was going to be head of international business development—the reason he was studying in Europe was to learn how to grow and expand his mother’s company’s influence on the international stage—for one of the fastest growing technology companies in the world, and she would be by his side.

  Vivienne was a member of two powerful, wealthy families, but unlike Solomon, she wasn’t the heir. More importantly, she had no desire to enter the family business. Either Beauvalot or Deschamps would make a place for her if she wanted, but she knew she wasn’t passionate enough about either fashion or wine to be anything but a pity hire. She didn’t want that. Before falling in love with Solomon, her plan had been to use what influence and wealth she had for health social justice, possibly by starting her own NGO, or working for an existing one in Paris.

  She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge a bit of dread at the idea of moving to America. They hadn’t talked about what would happen at the end of this year yet, but she knew he needed to go home to the RedBall headquarters near San Francisco. Part of her hoped that his job with RedBall would not only mean international travel, but living in Europe. They could spend time in Paris, hopefully have a second or third residence there. And travel would allow her to do international health policy work, but in the field rather than out of an office.

  Though she was hardly destitute or without connections, RedBall had the sort of global name recognition she could, and would, leverage for social change. She’d be on the ground, working to make the world a better place through direct action, and she’d do it all with Solomon by her side.

  Solomon nipped her lower lip with his teeth. “Hey, baby. Where did you go?”

  “Ah, sorry. I was thinking about the future.”

  He smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “But that’s later. I want to go out.”

  Solomon bent his head and kissed her neck, the sensitive spot that always made her toes curl. “Maybe we should stay in.” He flexed his hips, letting her feel the length of his deliciously hard cock.

  “Hmmm, an interesting point you make.”

  “It’s not really pointy, per se…”

  “But if we go out, I’ll wear slutty underwear.”

  Solomon eased back, lowering her to her feet. “I do like a nicely wrapped present.”

  “And I like to get dressed up.” Vivienne struck a pose, knowing she looked ridiculous in her little cotton sleep shorts and oversized Stanford sweatshirt she’d stolen from him.

  “Vivi baby, you are always sexy.” She’d been teasing, but his voice was serious. “It doesn’t matter what you wear. You’re always beautiful because you’re
you.”

  A pang of love shot through her, almost made her teary. “I love you, Solomon.”

  “And I love you.”

  She seriously considered running and jumping into his arms, then fucking him on the floor of the living room.

  No, they spent too much time in this apartment. She wanted to get dressed up, do her hair and makeup, and then go out on the town with him, be seen with him, even if the only people who would see them were strangers.

  Vivienne pulled off the sweatshirt and tossed it at him. It landed on his head, and by the time he brushed it off, she was halfway to the bedroom.

  An impressively quick forty minutes later, she was mostly ready to go. As much as she’d wanted to put on a cocktail dress, that would be too nice for a pub crawl. She’d opted instead for a pair of tight designer jeans and a sheer black peplum top worn over a full-coverage black satin strapless bra. In the bright light of the bathroom, the sheer top was highly transparent, but in the lights of the pub it wouldn’t be as obvious. She wanted a hint of sexy and daring.

  No, what she wanted was to drive Solomon wild.

  She finished curling and spraying her hair so that it fell in soft waves around her face. Her makeup was done except for lipstick. She twisted, checking herself from all angles.

  “What do you think?” she asked as she walked out of the bathroom.

  Solomon was emerging from the walk-in closet, buttoning a dark-gray collared shirt. He too was wearing jeans. He stopped, seeming genuinely stunned.

  Vivienne’s heart melted a little. He always made her feel so beautiful.

  Rather than reply in words, he whistled. Vivienne laughed and sashayed to her jewelry box. She could feel him looking at her butt. Maybe they’d find someplace with dancing and she could rub up against him.

  The top had long sleeves cut tight at the forearm but billowy at the shoulder. She added some chunky bangles on one wrist, over the shirt cuff, then considered her options. She was a Beauvalot by blood, and rather than ascribe to Coco Chanel’s remove-one-item philosophy of jewelry selection, the Beauvalots always opted for as many pieces as they wanted. Still, what passed for fashion in London was more staid than fashion in Paris—except for the few times she’d seen very young women out on the town with their garish fake tans, bright eye shadow, and ill-fitting dresses.

  Suppressing a shudder at the memory, Vivienne selected a pair of diamond studs, then reached for a layered silver necklace.

  “Wear this one.” Solomon’s long arm stretched out, reaching over her shoulder into the jewelry box. He withdrew a gold, glass pearl and strass choker. It was a Beauvalot piece—costume jewelry, but even still, worth several thousand euro. It was a statement piece she usually wore with a suit jacket to add a hint of whimsy and femininity.

  She accepted the necklace and turned to him. “This one?”

  He was looking at her with an odd intensity. “Yes.”

  Vivienne undid the clasp and handed it to him, lifting her hair as she turned.

  In silence, Solomon slid the necklace around her neck. She placed one hand on it, holding it in place as he fastened the clasp. The upper edge of the necklace was snug against her throat.

  “Done,” he said softly.

  Letting her hair drop, Vivienne turned to him, more interested in Solomon’s reaction—and why he’d chosen this piece—than how this necklace looked with her outfit.

  “Solomon?”

  “You’re gorgeous.” He took a deep breath. “Ready to go?”

  “I just need my shoes.”

  “Sit. I’ll get them for you. Which ones?”

  “The black peep-toe booties with the chunky heel.”

  He disappeared into their closet, muttering to himself. A moment later his head appeared. “Booties means short boots, but peep-toe means no toe like a high heel, right?”

  “Précisément. I have taught you so much.” Vivienne put a hand to her heart and sighed dramatically.

  He disappeared back into the closet, returning a moment later with the exact shoes she’d wanted. Solomon dropped to his knee at the foot of the bed while she perched on the bench there, crossing one leg over the other, her bare foot dangling.

  Vivienne’s breath caught when he reverently kissed the top of her foot before sliding the shoe on. He repeated the gesture on the other side, then rose to his feet and offered her his hand.

  “Come on, Vivi baby, let’s go see what kind of trouble we can find.”

  Smiling, she walked with him out of their apartment and into the streets of London.

  Vivienne leaned into Solomon as they wandered down the street. She had a pleasant buzz from a couple of vodka tonics. The weather was nice, and there was a good-sized crowd of people milling around the Covent Garden area, most of them doing the same thing she and Solomon were—popping into a restaurant or pub for a drink, lingering just long enough to pay their bill, and then heading back out to find the next interesting-looking location.

  They paused at a busy road, waiting for a break in traffic to cross, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Solomon turned and kissed her hair.

  A swell of love made her throat tight. She knew her place in the world and it was at his side. Right now, she’d enjoy bar-hopping with him, smiling smugly at women who looked him up and down because he was hers.

  Later, years from now, once they’d had a baby, they’d walk through a park pushing a carriage. Later still, when many years had passed, they’d walk slowly, hand in hand, through that same park, maybe watching their grandchildren play.

  She could see it all. Certainly there were unknowns, but together they could handle anything.

  The light changed, several black cabs stopping grudgingly to let the crowds of pedestrians cross.

  Vivienne wasn’t really paying attention to where they were going, content to let Solomon select their next stop while she daydreamed about their life and future.

  It wasn’t until he stopped walking altogether that she noticed his steps had slowed.

  “Solomon?” She glanced up at his face, then followed the direction of his gaze.

  Unlike Paris, London had very few grand boulevards. Instead, there were narrow streets, off of which branched even narrower alleyways. Yet these alleyways, despite lack of vehicle traffic, were often home to wonderful bars and restaurants.

  Solomon had stopped at the mouth of one such alley.

  About halfway down, a crowd of people stood near a plain black door. A bouncer sat on a stool at the head of a short line of waiting patrons, who were corralled by a velvet rope. Other people, not in the line, milled around smoking or talking.

  Vivienne blinked, looking more closely at the patrons. Almost everyone she could see wore black, and most of that black was leather or vinyl—what there was of it. Black leather string bikini tops paired with vinyl ruffled skirts and leather dog collars. Leather pants and boots, with bare chests. A full vinyl catsuit.

  Was it a gay bar? No. There were far too many women for that, but the leather-wearing men certainly seemed to fit that vibe. As she watched, a man holding a cigarette hooked his finger in the ring of his female companion’s dog collar and pulled her in for a hard kiss. She swayed against him, arms loose at her sides.

  Solomon slid a hand around her waist and guided them into the alley. She looked up at him, puzzled.

  “I haven’t seen this place before,” she said softly.

  “No, I guess it’s new.”

  Without saying more, Solomon led them towards the club.

  Vivienne felt eyes on her as they approached the bouncer. She thought she heard someone mutter “tourist” and another woman looked at her almost…pityingly?

  She slid her hand around Solomon’s waist, nervously hooking two fingers in the hip belt loop of his jeans.

  “What’s up?” Solomon asked the bouncer.

  “Not your scene.” The bouncer had long hair pulled back in a queue, tattoos all down his left arm, and leather pants that laced up the outside of e
ach leg. His leather vest had a circular patch on the breast. The symbol on the patch was three wavy lines that divided the circle in thirds, with a dot in the center of each space.

  “I’ll talk to the Dom in residence, or the dungeon master,” Solomon said slowly.

  The bouncer’s brows rose. He looked Solomon up and down, then glanced at Vivienne. The moment he did, Solomon pulled her tighter against his side, in an undeniably possessive gesture.

  “Cheers, cheers,” the bouncer’s tone was conciliatory, and he plucked a phone from his vest pocket. “Into the line, then.”

  Solomon led her down the outside of the velvet rope, past the other people waiting there. They took their place at the end of the queue.

  Vivienne had nervous butterflies in her stomach, and her hands were starting to tremble. Not from fear, but from trepidation…and excitement.

  She looked up at Solomon, only able to see the side of his face. His jaw was clenched. The muscle at the corner was so tight she could see the bulge of it.

  She stretched, bringing her mouth near his ear so she could whisper her question. “This is a BDSM club, isn’t it?”

  Solomon’s whole body went rigid. Every place she touched him he was suddenly hard and stiff as his body tensed, muscles knotting. She’d expected him to laugh or tease her. Maybe say something like “I think so, want to have an adventure?”

  Instead, he’d reacted as if she’d touched him with a live electrical current.

  With the next breath the tension eased. She watched him swallow, then clear his throat. “You know what BDSM is?”

  “I’m not naive,” she teased.

  His response was serious. “I’m not saying you are. I just…uh…” The line moved forward and they took a step.

  Why was he acting so strangely?

  In yet another surprise, Solomon switched to French. “How did you know it was a BDSM club?”