I’ve always loved Halloween and dressing up in a pretty costume. Especially a can-can outfit with a white petticoat and layers of ruffles and black stockings. Imagine if you could go to Paris and dance the can-can at the famous Moulin Rouge.
You can…with the help of a little black magic.
That’s what happens to my heroine, Autumn Maguire, in “Naughty Paris” when she’s jilted at the altar and uses her pre-paid honeymoon tickets to go to Paris. She’s totally turned on when she sees a full-size painting of a sexy, lost Impressionist named Paul Borquet in a studio in the Marais District…
Here is an audio/video podcast of two short scenes from “Naughty Paris” — I’ve censored some of the language for the audio version; you can read the uncensored version below.
From “Naughty Paris:”
Something creepy is going on here. Oodles of perspiration bubble between my breasts, wiggle down my ribcage, then drip down my thighs as I pull and tug on the black velvet drape. I can’t thrash loose. My breath becomes sharper. The back of my neck is damp. Finally, I rip the heavy fabric off my face and–
–I see him. Staring at me with his eyes. Dark blue eyes that intrigue me.
A life-size painting of a man over six feet tall.
I grin, relaxing the tenseness in my face. So that’s what the drape was hiding. A super stud. Arms crossed, feet spread apart, and wearing tighter than tight pants that outline his impressive cock and he’s–
Creepy bumps pop up on my bare arms. The more I think about what I heard, the more I believe I must have imagined it. Hearing the man’s sexy laughter stirred carnal desire so dormant in my female psyche that I can’t tell what’s real or in my head. Well, look at him, will ya. He’s a painting, dammit! Touch him, no, not there. There. On his hand. Cold. See? He’s not human, so get off this goth kick and get the hell outta here. Oh, I forgot. I can’t. I’m naked.
So, girlfriend? He can’t see you.
I smile. Yeah.
So why not have a little fun and flirt with him?
Things really heat up when Autumn finds an old statue of the Egyptian god Min (the god of fertility) and wishes she could meet Paul Borquet as lightning strikes her through the skylight window overhead…
I don’t close my eyes, but continue staring at Paul Borquet, wishing I could feel his arms around me, his lips kissing me, his body pressed against mine.
“You wouldn’t stand a chance if I were young and beautiful,” I whisper, shifting my weight from side to side. The wooden platform bends, squeaking under my wet bare feet. Lightning flashes overhead through the skylight, stinging my eyes like a thousand watt lightbulb slashing through the air. “I’d make you fall in love with me–”
I cry out when electricity jolts the bronze sculpture I’m holding between my breasts, sending a hot current through me and vibrating through my brain, raising the hair on my arms, and making my eyeballs bulge out.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the old artist calling out that he’s going for help, but I can’t answer, can’t focus. All the muscles in my body tighten and I feel myself lifted up off my feet and zooming through space, as if something is flinging me skyward. An unexplained chill settles in me as if I’m in a swirling vortex as electricity flashes over my skin, racing in and out of my bod faster than I can blink.
What’s happening to me?
This isn’t my normal world. I want things dry and safe. Not wild and crazy. The electricity dances a choreography of darkness and light all over me, tracing the path of my sweat. I’m breathless and more than a little bewildered. Mix in bewitched and my trip to Paris is turning into the Rocky Horror Picture Show with French subtitles. This can’t be happening!
Thunder claps in my ears with a loud boom then–
–the lights go out.
Darkness. The humid air suddenly reeks of a strong musky scent. Male.
Coming closer…closer…yes…I hear that sexy laughter again as someone blows hot air into my ear, making me shiver. I twist my fingers on the statue until they burn, then my nipples harden into pointy peaks as if someone pinched them. Becoming aroused again, I let out a sigh when someone squeezes my breast and sucks on it, then moans. Who? Where is he? I can’t open my eyes, swallow or talk, or move my legs or hands, touch him, anything.
I can’t do more than make a desperate breathing sound as I lie–
Where am I?
Find out what happened to Autumn Maguire in “Naughty Paris” available from Harlequin Spice Books in both print and as an e-book.
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