Free Echoes in the Darkness by Jane Godman Page B

cynic in me dismissed the notion. And I had more cause than most to be cynical about men. Nevertheless, I was severely jolted.
    He came and sat on the edge of the chaise, his hip pressed into the curve of my waist. I had never seen eyes so unambiguously gold. The contrast of their brightness against the raven-wing darkness of his hair and tawny tint of his skin was stunning.
    “This could hurt a little. But I think you might also quite like it.” He held up his hand to show me a glass full of ice, which he placed on the floor. The piece he held in his other hand was already starting to melt in the cloying heat of the Parisian afternoon.
    I returned his stare challengingly over the top of my fan, and the grin deepened appreciatively. Cupping my left breast with a warm hand, he ran his thumb lightly over my nipple. It hardened instantly.
    “
Mais oui!
But yes!” Claude cried out exultantly. “That is what I wanted!
Exactement.
”
    The stranger was concentrating on caressing my breast and did not reply. His eyes remained locked on mine as, very gently, he lifted the piece of ice and used it to draw a circle around my already sensitised nipple. My back arched and I bit my lip as a maddeningly wonderful bolt of pain shot through me.
    He moved his hand to my right breast and repeated the process. I wanted to scream. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream at him to stop, or because I never wanted the velvet torture of his touch to end. “It’s funny,” he observed casually. “I thought from a distance that, because your eyes are so dark, they must be brown. But now I see they are the exact shade of the heart of a purple pansy. And,” he added, leaning closer so that Claude and Maurice couldn’t hear, “now you are aroused, there are thunderclouds of passion looming just below the surface.” His French was perfect, but there was a faint trace of an accent.
    He rose abruptly, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped forward to caress his brow. “Just use the ice when you need to,” he instructed me, indicating the glass next to the chaise. “That should keep Claude here quiet while he gets his masterpiece started.” He began to walk away toward the door and I lay back, unable to speak. I was completely stunned by the effect he had on me. My nipples were throbbing painfully, a sensation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ice. Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he flashed that incredible smile my way once more. But his words were directed at Claude, “Do tell our mutual friend I was looking for him. And that he can’t hide forever. I
will
find him.” Then he was gone.
    Throughout the remainder of that sultry, cloud-dulled afternoon, my whole body thrummed with longing. Even Claude’s posturing and Maurice’s rattling, self-absorbed conversation could not pierce the bubble of my anticipation. A drizzling rain had begun to fall by the time I left the tiny attic apartment and stepped into a darkening evening. Sure enough, my golden-eyed stranger was lounging against a gatepost across the street. Just as I knew he would be. His hands were dug deep in his coat pockets, and a brooding, haunted look lowered his brow. I went and stood before him, so close that, when we both breathed out at the same time, our bodies touched. The spicy undertones of his cologne made my nostrils twitch appreciatively. He cupped my face in his hands, studying me intently.
    “My God,” he said in English. “You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.”
    “Finish what you started,” I whispered, also in English. And, obligingly, he pulled me to him, crushing me against his chest and bruising my lips with the intensity of his kiss. Dragging me along with him by the hand, he propelled us with long, urgent strides down the narrow, cobbled street. Because we had to stop to kiss under every streetlamp, by the time we reached his apartment, I was soaked to the skin and half-crazy with lust.
    There were twelve stairs