City of Lights

~~Paris, the City of Light, she muses, ironically, to herself, a soft frisson of cold dread and warm pleasure heating her veins. This city, of them all, is the only one to affect her thus.

Despite the frequency of her trips to this magnificent city, it has been years since she has taken simple pleasure in its architecture or history, since she has seen the city by daylight. In fact, it s been years since Paris has held any simple pleasure for her at all. For her, Paris is the city of the night. A city of perverse and excruciating passions and pleasures, of driven hungers and dark minds, of exquisite perversions and sheer sensuality, drawing her like a moth to flame. ~~

"Cyn." His deep, husky voice purrs at her ear, heated breath stroking her senses. "What are you thinking?"

She turns to him with a soft shiver, pulled from her reverie, gazing at his dark, charismatic face, feeling the pull of his personality in the silver gleam of his eyes. Chameleon eyes, from mist to midnight in a moment, a clear harbinger of his mood.

"I was thinking of the first time we attended La Matraisse together, Ruan, my love, Master of my soul." The soft earthy yearning for him in her voice makes him smile even as his eyes harden. "Of everything that has happened since then. I still feel the heat, the flames of fear this city fans in my belly, beloved. Of all the cities, and all the events, Paris is the only one that haunts my sleep for weeks before and weeks after this visit." With a soft sigh she leans into his tall frame, seeking solace from his strength.

"So...it is this city that pulled you, whimpering, from my arms last night, girl? That had you shrinking from my touch in your sleep?" Her fingers brush lightly against his cheek, caressing away the frown lines that mar his features.

"You know better, as do I, as I freely admit, Master Ruan." Her gaze pinned to his in her earnestness. "Paris, her people, there is an edge to her, a cruel passion that is much more prevalent than any other city we attend. London, Lisbon, Berlin, Naples, Sydney, none of them have this edge, this intensity."

"Does it still haunt you, our first year, so very badly, Cyn?" One strong arm, fingers tensed, grip her elbow, his eyes searching hers for the answer.

Her mind wanders back five years, back to their first year in Paris, back to their first trip together. It was, pure and simple, a miscommunication between Ruan and herself that found her at the chateau by herself.

It was her own naïveté that drew the jaded of the French elite, like wolves circling their prey. Her own sense of invincibility that flooded her with their warm looks and the interest that gleamed in narrowed eyes, her own curiosity that would inevitably become her downfall.

~~She hops out of the warmth of the Citroen, hesitant to approach the massive, iron bound door before her, the car and driver already slowly moving away. It opens before she can even raise her hand, the houseman, formally clad in black and white, bowing her in with all the charm of Europe itself. As her eyes glimpse, and widen, at the breathtaking size and ambience of the entryway, he is gesturing for her wrap, pulling it gently from her shoulders with practiced ease, chill air running over the low décolletage of her gown.

A huge, magnificently framed mirror on the wall ahead of her reflects her image, the long black dress clinging alluringly to every soft curve and taunting hollow, contrasting sharply with her fair, blonde beauty. Two men standing off to the left, chatting amicably, turn their glances in her direction and their conversation stops, eyes gleaming back at her.

The soft touch of the housemans hand at her elbow, the low murmur of melodic French, pulls her green eyes away from the men, a soft blush in her cheeks, a different warmth teasing her senses.

"I m sorry, I don t speak French." Her voice, hesitant and whispery, echoes throughout the entrance.

"My pardon, Miss. Are you here with an escort?" There is paternal concern in his tone as he glances at the two men in the hall.

"No. Well, I mean, yes of course. I'm to meet him here." She falters at the open disapproval in his eyes, then startles violently at the warm touch of a mans hand on her shoulder.

"It is fine, Jacques. We will introduce her around." The low, resonant voice belongs one of the two men, the rolling r's of his speech, the cadence, magnificently French. Glancing behind her, she takes in the aesthetic features framed by dark hair, high, prominent cheekbones, cold blue eyes, thin, sensual lips, the lithe, tense body.

"Whom are you here to meet, Miss?" Jacques questions, ignoring the darkly handsome gentleman.

" Ruan...Ruan Morgan. Although I don t suppose you know him, or where I might find him?" The name brings the other man over, his eyes flashing recognition in their pale depths.

"A friend of Ruan s is a friend of ours, mademoiselle. But I do not believe he is here yet. Allow us to escort you in until he arrives?" The broad smile is friendly, his touch warm, sensual on her other shoulder, drawing her away from Jacques.

"Andre Pierre Raffarin, mademoiselle, and my friend, Michel Chevenement. An honor." With a flamboyant gesture, he bends gallantly, his lips descending to her hand bringing a soft gasp as he flips it, placing a gentle, subtly erotic caress against her palm. "And what, cheri, are you called by?"

His blatant sensuality and the obvious regard from is companion makes her bold, an impish grin framing her full lips, her eyes lighting with mischief. "Some, monsieur, call me Original Cyn."

"Yes? And are you suited to it, bella?" Their soft banter continues as they walk further into the depths of the chateu. A magnificent flight of marble stairs leading down into a room so immense it makes her gasp. Its floor, a dance floor, flooded with people. Her soft gasp at its splendor, and the splendor of it s inhabitants, men dazzling in black and white formality, women brilliant in rainbow colors, brings a soft, derisive chuckle from Michel.

"Here. For your confidence." He comes back to her side with a glass of champagne, the look in his eyes unreadable to her, making her uneasy, before his charismatic grin wipes it away. A sip, then another, it s full, sweet body ruined slightly by the sharp tang of an afterbite.