Page 15

FIFTEEN

A Clock

Vivianne

With two hours left before closing, Paul guides me to what he claims are his favorites, bypassing many exhibits. I wish I could linger inside them, but I trust Paul and follow his lead as he takes me from one spectacular piece to the next.

We remain on the median level, walking around the edge of the nave. I pause, resting against the railing, and soak in the ambiance.

“It’s an amazing museum, n’est-ce pas ?”

He slips fluidly between French and English, and I close my eyes, feeling his words caressing my mind.

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“Come,” he grabs my hand and pulls me forward, “I want to show you the view from the clock.”

Musée d’Orsay is well known for the magnificence of its clocks. We join the line of anxious tourists and wait our turn.

The crowd shifts around us, a sea of tourists eager to glimpse the famous clock. The fading light filters through the thick glass, casting soft shadows over the city of Paris beyond.

We’re caught in that moment where the day hasn’t entirely given in to night, and anything feels possible.

Paul motions for me to step in front of him, his touch light at my waist. I move without thinking, my pulse quickening as he closes the space between us, wrapping his arms around me.

I should pull away and shrug off the closeness, but his warmth seeps into me, and his scent—a heady mix of cedar and spice—makes my eyelids flutter shut.

I lean back into his chest, the solid weight of him pressing against me in a way that feels too intimate, too right.

His breath brushes the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine.

I shouldn’t be letting this happen, not like this, but the thought is drowned out by the way my body reacts to him, drawn by an invisible force I can’t fight.

Paul’s hands rest at my hips, his fingers grazing the fabric of my clothes, barely there yet igniting a fire beneath my skin. He shifts slightly behind me, his body curving to mine, and the heat between us grows heavier and thicker like the air is charged with an unspoken need.

I exhale slowly, trying to calm the riot of sensations surging through me, but his lips are so close to my ear. The whisper of his breath makes me ache for more.

I tilt my head just slightly, baring more of my neck, and his grip tightens, firm but not forceful, as if testing the boundaries, seeing how far I’ll let him go.

My heart pounds in my chest, and every inch of me is alive with a tension that’s building too fast, too intense.

His lips brush my ear, so soft it could be mistaken for an accident, but the way my body reacts, trembling at his touch, says otherwise.

I shouldn’t want this.

I shouldn’t let him pull me in like this.

But standing here, with his arms wrapped around me and the city spread out before us, I’m not sure I can resist any longer.

“Do you see over there?” His voice is low and husky, vibrating against my ear in a way that makes my breath hitch.

It’s the kind of tone that wraps around you, thick and rich, like velvet sliding over bare skin, leaving heat in its wake. Every word drips with sensuality, slow and deliberate, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

His lips hover so close to my neck that I can almost feel their warmth.

They tease, promising more.

I try to focus on what he’s pointing out, but his voice, that deep, intimate rasp, pulls me under, clouding my thoughts with his sheer closeness. It sends a shiver through me, tightening the knot of tension in my belly.

My body presses back against his, involuntary, drawn to his heat like a moth to flame.

He indicates a hill off in the distance, and I recognize the iconic church dominating the hillside.

“That’s Montmartre and the Basilica du Sacré-C?ur. I visited it yesterday. It’s beautiful.”

His nose brushes my hair, just the faintest touch, sending a ripple of awareness down my spine.

It’s uncanny how he walks that fine line—close enough to feel his warmth but not suffocating, never crossing the boundaries of what I allow.

There’s an intimacy in how he lingers, like he’s attuned to every shift in my body, and every breath I take. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, yet his presence alone stirs something deep inside me, coaxing desire to the surface.

A quiet thrill hums beneath my skin as Paul’s fingers skim lightly over my waist. His touch is patient and unhurried.

It’s worlds away from what I’ve grown used to—what I’ve had to brace myself for.

Prescott.

The thought of my fiancé pulls at me, a dark thread woven through my otherwise clear mind.

With Prescott, it’s different. His touch isn’t a question; it’s a demand. Every time we’re close, I feel the weight of his expectations pressing against me, like he’s entitled to every inch of my skin.

He doesn’t pause to see if I’m ready and doesn’t wait for permission. I’ve had to hold him off more times than I can count, pushing against the firm wall of his persistence.

At first, I thought it was just passion—his way of showing me he wanted me. But as time passed, it became clear that Prescott doesn’t see me.

He sees what he wants; I’m just part of that picture. My boundaries blur beneath his touch, and it’s exhausting to always remind him where the line is and protect that small space I keep for myself.

Thankfully, he’s backed off—some. He’s learned to ease up after a few terse conversations and a cooling in our engagement. But it’s still there, always simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next time he decides my “No” holds no value.

But Paul… Paul is different.

His touch is soft, almost reverent as if he understands the importance of that boundary without me having to say a word.

He’s not pushing.

He’s waiting—offering rather than taking.

It’s strange how much that means to me, how much it makes me want to lean into him more, to feel what it’s like to be wanted but not consumed.

Paul’s hands rest lightly on my hips, fingers barely grazing the fabric of my dress, his touch more of a question than an assertion. He moves with such deliberate care, like he’s studying my reactions, learning the rhythm of my breath, the way I lean into him without realizing it.

He never tightens his grip, never forces closeness, and yet the way his body molds to mine feels so natural, so familiar, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.

He inhales softly, his breath brushing my neck, and the sensation sends a soft hum through my chest, warming the space between us.

I feel his restraint, the careful balance between respect and desire. He’s not pushing me to give more than I’m ready to, yet there’s a slow burn in the way his fingers trace lazy patterns along my sides, a promise that if I were to invite more, he wouldn’t hesitate to follow.

My lungs seize, refusing to cooperate, and he stills, almost imperceptibly, as though waiting for a sign. When I don’t pull away, he lets his thumb slide along the curve of my waist, slow and gentle, like he’s savoring the feel of me.

It’s a touch that speaks of patience, of anticipation, of a man who knows the art of waiting—not to rush, but to let the tension build, stoking a desire that flickers and grows with every passing second.

“I have a small studio,” he says. “It’s about halfway up the mount. I want to take you there.”

I twist in his arms, facing him. My hand presses against his chest, and I tilt my head to stare into his eyes. That brings my lips precariously close to his, and I push back, steadying myself in my heels.

He glances at the waiting line of people. “We should let others enjoy the view.”

“Um, yes. Of course.” That sounds like a good plan. I need the distraction of walking, which will put a little distance between us. “I didn’t realize you painted.”

His shoulders move with his soft laugh. “I do. I enjoy it quite a bit. I was painting yesterday until I found myself distracted. Are you an artist, Vivianne?” The way my full name rolls off his tongue has my insides quivering. “With your eye, you must be talented.”

My cheeks heat. “Oh no, not me. I appreciate art and am stunned by the brilliance of those who create it.” I stop, pivot, and make a vague motion, taking in the entire museum. “Unfortunately, I can’t even draw stick figures that look human.”

How I love the flowing peals of his laughter.

His eyes twinkle. “Surely, you’re not that bad?”

“It’s a sad thing, but the truth.”

Paul glances at the clock. The big hand hangs a few minutes shy of the hour. “We should move on. There is one more piece I want you to see.”

And, with that, he pulls me forward with a smile.

He takes me on a whirlwind tour of the Musée d’Orsay. We have precious little time remaining, and I want to linger or even choose my path through the exhibits.

The comforting press of his hand against my back grounds me, his touch steady and unhurried, as if he’s always meant to be there. His enthusiasm is infectious, the way he talks about each painting with a passion that lights up his whole face.

It’s hard not to smile.

Every time he pauses, tilting his head to study a piece, I catch myself admiring the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration.

Truthfully, I spend more time watching him than admiring the paintings.

I’m drawn to the way his dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, the way he absentmindedly pushes it back, leaving it just a little tousled. His eyes, sharp and bright, seem to drink in everything around us, and when they flick to me, there’s a warmth in them that makes my heart flutter.

There’s a strength in his frame too; he is lean but solid, the kind of man who moves confidently but not arrogantly.

His broad shoulders shift under his jacket as he gestures toward another painting, his hand brushing mine for just a second longer than necessary.

That simple touch sends a flicker of heat up my arm, lingering long after he’s moved away.

The paintings, beautiful as they are, fade into the background, and all I can focus on is the steady rhythm of his voice, the way his hands move when he speaks, and the magnetic pull that keeps drawing my eyes back to him, over and over again.

He’s devastatingly handsome and pulls at me in a way I can’t quite explain.

It’s the way he exists in the moment, fully present, that draws me in the most. When he smiles, there’s no pretense, no agenda.

Just him.

And the more time I spend with him, the more I want to be near him, bask in the quiet energy that radiates from him.

He rushes me through the museum, but then again, he doesn’t.

With a grip on my arm, he tugs me toward the next painting, points out something he loves, and then moves on.

His tastes mirror mine perfectly.

Paul loves the impressionist period and even the post-impressionist phase. I let him sweep me past priceless paintings—not because I don’t want to admire them, but because his excitement leaves me breathless. His enthusiasm allows me to view each piece in an entirely new light.

We chase the thinning crowds. People file out of the museum, even as Paul leads me deeper into the exhibits to show me one more thing.

Passion for the great masters vibrates in the vigor of his voice. Eventually, the crowds disperse, and the guards urge us toward the exit.

“It’s time,” Paul says with a glance toward the guard trailing us.

The guard hovers a respectful distance away, near the exhibit’s entrance. He approaches, eyes our lanyards, and then retreats, but he clearly wants us to leave.

I glance at my watch, trying to ground myself in something tangible, something that might keep me from diving headfirst into what feels like dangerous territory.

“Yes, I suppose it is. I need to get back to my hotel.”

“ Ah, non, ” Paul says, his voice soft but firm. “We have a dinner date.”

The word date sends a jolt through me. My heart skips a beat, and suddenly, I’m thrust into a swirl of thoughts—none of which would meet my father’s approval.

I know what he expects of me.

Within a month of my thirtieth birthday, still a few years away, I’ll be married.

To Prescott.

No matter how much I try to avoid thinking about it, that much has already been decided.

Prescott will take my name—a concession I still don’t fully understand—and I will dutifully provide an heir to carry on the Faulks legacy.

My father was explicit about what he expects of me and about my behavior leading up to the wedding day.

In no uncertain terms, I’m to preserve the family’s image.

*Don’t date. Don’t dare to fall in love. Don’t engage in anything that might tarnish the Faulks name. *

It’s like a sentence handed down without room for negotiation. I’m supposed to live as a nun, pure and distant, accepting my fate without question.

But this trip?

This beautiful, faraway escape in Paris?

It leaves a little room to breathe, a little wiggle room.

For the first time, I actually consider taking advantage of that wiggle .

“Oh,” I say with a deflective shrug, my mind working through a million reasons why this is a terrible idea. “It’s getting late, and I’m still jet-lagged. Maybe later?”

“Not acceptable.” His eyes gleam with quiet amusement.

My stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough to make me wince. Paul chuckles softly, a deep rumble that vibrates against me, warm and enticing.

I could refuse him, I should refuse him—but it would be rude, wouldn’t it?

We’re supposed to be working together. I need to foster that connection, build a solid working relationship, and not tumble into bed with Paul.

That’s the smart thing to do, but there’s a nagging thrill under the surface, a hum of excitement I can’t shake.

I bet Paul’s a fantastic lover.

Paul’s laughter is deep and rich, the kind that pulls you in and makes you want to laugh with him.

He presses his hand against my back again, his touch just as steady, just as warm as before.

“Come, ma chère. I have just the place in mind. It’s near my studio in Montmartre, and I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I suppose…” The words trail off as my mind battles with itself.

Everything about this screams that it’s a bad idea. My father’s voice echoes in my head, warning me against anything that might lead to scandal or damage the family name.

But then there’s the other part of me, the part that’s tired of being controlled, told what to do, and trapped in a life I haven’t chosen.

And Paul—well, something about him makes me want to forget all the rules.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, as though he sees me, not just the future Mrs. Faulks.

Maybe it’s the way his touch feels, not possessive like Prescott’s, but inviting, offering me the choice to step closer if I want.

Or not.

The decision is all mine.

I shouldn’t be doing this, but as we step out into the cool Parisian evening, the sky dimming into twilight, I can’t help but feel the thrill building inside me.

Dinner might be just dinner… or the beginning of something more.

Something that could unravel everything I’ve been told to believe.

For once, I wonder what it would be like to stop playing it safe.

“Do you mind taking the Métro, or would you prefer a cab?” His eyes twinkle as he gauges my answer.

“I have a driver,” I offer.

I dig through my purse, looking for my cell phone. Jacques is a simple call away.

Paul glances down to my feet. “But have you ever ridden the Métro?”

“I have not, but I’ve been dying to try it out.”

Paris has an extensive, clean, safe metro system, even if pickpockets run rampant on the tracks. Nevertheless, I want to experience the local culture.

What better way than to ride like a native? Except I lack the confidence to travel alone.

Paul is offering to provide an escort. I’ll be upset if I miss an opportunity to see the city through his eyes.

“I think that would be fun,” I say.

“ Ah, bon, ” he says. “Too many…” A hesitation hangs in the air between us, but Paul recovers. “Too many tourists refuse to run the rails. I think they’re missing out.”

He said tourists, but that isn’t what he means.

“I considered it yesterday, to be honest,” I admit. “When I was returning from Montmartre. I called my car service instead.”

I wasn’t brave enough to try it on my own.

I chickened out. Jacques picked me up outside the station and returned me to the hotel. That left me time to pause in front of Moulin Rouge and admire the posters.

The power the dancers exude, using nothing more than the sensuality of their bodies, made my insides twist. Not in a gut-wrenching way, but stirring a vitality I never experienced before that moment.

I don’t fully understand the beauty of the female form or the power lying within the potent sensuality of my sex.

It’s not something I’ve ever seen advertised so blatantly.

I grew up in a home dominated by my father. I spent a life caving to his demands. Every breath was measured and weighed to garner his approval.

I come from wealth, but have precious little freedom. Simply put, Faulks women don’t put their bodies on display, and we don’t indulge our fantasies.

My future bores me.

Prescott is an appendage I have no choice but to accept. The man gets on my nerves.

What I wouldn’t give for something—more.

Dinner with Paul could be more.