Birch Angelica

A Sensual Romance
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-953728-34-0
Verlag: Full Court Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 172 Seiten

Reihe: Angelica

The sensual life of a high-fashion model in exotic locations.

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Autoren/Hrsg.

Birch, Leo

Leseproben

ONE
ANGELICA STEPPED INTO THE SHOWER, closed the glass door behind her, and walked into the already-running water. It was set just right, and it flowed deliciously over her nakedness, away from all eyes. All she wanted to do was to rinse off the residue from the bath, the soapiness that clung to her, the foam bubbles that lingered like lace along her slender waist, and the remains of his sperm still spread upon her face and neck. Her lips were sealed even as the water streamed down her raised face. It was smooth and soft and warm. She kept her arms outstretched in front of her, against the hotel’s black marble shower wall, allowing the water to bounce off her neck and her full breasts in a myriad of beads that captured the light. And then, giving up, she bowed her head and let the stream penetrate her hair as well. All noise disappeared. All feelings gone, too. Gone was the taste of Jim as the water made its way through her lips and into her mouth, and with it, gone as well the memory of most of it. She was okay with that. She did not need to remember every detail of their last few moments together. Actually, she quite enjoys forgetting. It gives her pleasure, as if it leaves more room for other memories to appear, to happen. Like emptying a cup and waiting for it to be filled up again. She brought her head up and the water bounced into the back of her mouth. She was the one who had unfastened Jim’s buttons and released him through the folds of his dark blue jeans. She had wanted to do it, ever since he brought her back to her suite after that crazy morning in Central Park. She still could not believe what she had done just a few hours before. How could she let them handcuff her to the branch of the tree, almost naked, in the dark, cold morning air? The sunrise had finally brought redemption, for that was when the shot was taken. Strange that it’s called a shot, she thought, as if it was coming from a gun. Yet instead of blood, it was a picture that blossomed in the light of dawn. In her mind, she re-created the image they had staged, and it was exactly what she had wanted. More than anything, she wanted to capture images of herself in a state of complete seduction regardless of what it took, regardless of whether she would be dominating or dominated, as long as it extended the essence that her soul demanded. And that soul was very demanding, for it trickled down through the ages to Aphrodite, one of the few original ones to populate the surface of Earth. As for Jim, she had taken him in her mouth as a favor to him for having been so kind to her. For sheltering her, bringing her back all the way to her room, and running a hot bath for her. He had been surprisingly good. Solid, even. The way he understood her almost instinctively and cared for her, making sure she would not freeze out there in the cold, holding her tight in her sheared mink coat. She also loved that he unexpectedly took those last images of her, walking almost nude along Central Park, with her coat open just enough to reveal her translucent skin in the morning light. Her strut had been somewhere between a walk of shame and the glorious apotheosis of a wild party. She had walked up tall, raised on her heels, a defiant smile on her face still pale in the cold, her lips crimson where she bit them. She knew what she was doing without having to think about it. It was predestined. Aphrodite, the goddess of seduction, was living in her, bringing up the clues and tricks and attitudes that made her whole. So, she had walked down the narrow Central Park alley towards his pointed camera, as if the world itself was her catwalk. She had walked as if she had always been meant to meet him on that path and, later, it did reveal itself on the final image. On it she projected allure and humility all at once. Her strength was evident in her ability to show her weakness. Like a Man Ray smile lost in the clouds, her red lips floated down the alley. She was not thinking of sex at that moment, just of floating. But if, right there in public, he had cupped her naked breasts with his large hands, she would have let him do it, and let him pinch her nipples tight in the cold as well. Back in her suite, she had walked naked into the bathroom where he had been running her bath. He had tried to step out as she came in, but she held his hand and kept him close. He’d watched her step into the hot water, one foot at a time, her nakedness swallowed by the depth of the bubbles. Her face had relaxed as she let her head lean back against the heated porcelain tub. The back of her neck had matched the curve of the rim and her slender shoulders warmed under the envelope of hot water. She’d closed her eyes for an instant, enjoying every little pleasure her body offered her right at that moment. Only then had she realized that she was still holding onto his three middle fingers, like a toddler. With eyes still closed, she brought his thick fingers to her lips and inserted them into her mouth. She could taste him already. His scent. His vigor. And her desire. She does these things easily. Maybe because she forgets them easily. THE NEXT MESSAGE CAME TO HER in the same light-blue box as the first one. This time it contained a vintage bracelet, flat and wide, made of thin gold links that molded themselves smoothly to her slender wrist. With it was a first-class plane ticket bearing her name, leaving for Nice, France, the very next day. She looked at the bracelet pensively. It had a style and a beauty from another age, with a patina that only came from time and wear. Perhaps, at some point in the past, the previous owner had also traced its smooth links with the tip of her fingers, just as she was doing now, while pondering over acts heavy with consequences. She took a deep breath, locked the bracelet on her wrist, and without thinking about it any further, called the concierge to arrange transportation for JFK the next day. SHE SAT IN A CAR AS IT SPED AWAY from the buildings of Nice and made its way up a narrow road leaving the sea behind it. She kept the window open, taking in the sweet smells of the French countryside. The car seemed to glide by itself. Electric, she realized. It would take her a while to get used to the soundless engines, but that day it added another layer of wistfulness to the whole adventure. She did not know where she was going. She did not ask either. She did realize, as she was looking out dreamily through the window, that she missed Jim. Even Julie, she thought with a smile. A road sign indicated that they were close to the Fondation Maeght, the art museum in St. Paul de Vence. The car made a sharp turn, continued up a short hill, slowed down, and then stopped. The driver opened the door for her and, without a word, pointed to the wooden doors at the entrance of a large mansion with walls made of earth-colored stone. Small windows punctuated its façade, like eyes looking at her. Everything started to become a little daunting for Angelica. She felt the need to turn around and was about to ask the driver to take her back to Nice when the doors opened and an elderly woman with short gray hair and a sweet face came out to greet her. She was at once put to ease by the woman’s aura. She seemed kind and gentle. Angelica smiled back. Until then, there had been no words exchanged, just impressions and shifts of movements. There were sounds to be heard, though, from the doves on the roof above to the bells ringing at a nearby church. Ten o’clock, she reckoned and, taking it as a good omen, followed the old woman into the house, her bracelet of gold like half a handcuff on her wrist. Angelica quickly realized that the older woman only spoke French. With gestures and smiles, she made Angelica follow her into the back garden. The sun had just skimmed past the top of the tiled roof and lit up the white tablecloth draped over a rustic wooden table. A white umbrella shaded the breakfast spread laid out for her. There were bread and croissants, butter in a cup, and jam and honey in small jars. Only one seat, she noticed. She sat down at once, happy not to think too much and ready to accept it all as a gift, not a threat or a challenge. After all, she was the one who had decided to come. She was still surprised at her own decision to accept the “invitation.” It had happened so fast and so unexpectedly. Somehow, the elegance of the gesture, the similar boxes, the golden jewelry, the sense of daring and adventure, all had appealed to her. She had nothing planned for the upcoming days, with her last modeling job completed and nothing more scheduled in New York for the next few months. She had been thinking about going to France even before being invited. Paris, really, but Nice was perfect too. She could take a quick flight to the capital whenever she wanted. All of this made it easy for her to go. But mainly, she was intrigued. Who was this man who courted her with such attention? And mystery? And such panache! For one thing, he did not seem...