CollarMeinParis Page 5

  The train station yawned ahead of them, sporting an RER sign and the symbol for the rapid transit trains. As they’d learned yesterday, Paris had three lines of public transportation—trains, subways and buses—and they all connected at various points through the city. He fell in behind her as they skipped down the stairs and went to one of the automated ticket machines.

  Since his role in their family was that of the money counter, Bianca stepped back and scanned the few people moving past while he purchased the Métro tickets for the day. To be on the safe side, he bought more than they needed.

  “Here you go.” He handed her the small square of paper and proceeded through the turnstiles.

  As soon as they were through the gates, Bianca took his hand and peered at the phone still in hand.

  “This platform.” He gestured to their right.

  She tugged on him and dug her heels in. “Wait, look at the screens. Which train is it?”

  A TV mounted to the ceiling scrolled the names of trains, platforms, arrival and departure times.

  He glanced at the screens, which only confirmed what the app told him, and hauled on Bianca’s arm. “Our train is arriving right now. Come on.”

  She followed quickly on his heels as they sprinted up the deserted ramp in time to see their train ease into the station. The automated voice announced the same line of French it did every time. For all he knew it told the natives to be sure to confuse tourists as much as possible. He reached around Bianca and pressed the black rubber button on the doors. Unlike the subways, the train doors did not open automatically, as they had learned the hard way the day before after waiting in vain to be let onto train after train.

  Bianca led him to the lower level and very back of the car where she pushed him in next to the window. There was only one other person sharing the compartment with them, and his back was to them. Before the doors banged shut, she had her pack in her lap and slipped something out.

  “Do I want to know what you have?” He tried not to smile, but he was thoroughly enjoying being a team with his wife. He slipped his backpack off and placed it on the floor, freeing up his arm to drape it across her seat.

  “You’re going to find out.”

  She leaned against his shoulder and sucked the tender morsel of his ear. His sore balls ached and he shifted in the hard plastic chair.

  “Unzip your pants and show me your cock,” she whispered.

  He glanced around, not too concerned with being caught. He did like the added danger. He unzipped his jeans and presented his dick.

  “You’re such a good boy. I bought you a present.” She opened her palm to show him a custom stainless steel penis plug. Unlike the one they normally used, this was decorated with a monogrammed B on the end of the plug, and the band that would circle the head of his cock was done in a thatched design that stopped his world.

  He reflexively rubbed his thumb over his wedding band.

  Words caught in his throat. The waiting list to purchase these things was long. He’d considered it a few times, but hadn’t seen the point in replacing what they already had for the sake of something new. Clearly Bianca had to have planned this gift weeks if not months in advance.

  She uncapped a mini bottle of lube. The cool kiss of the gel to his heated skin was enough to have him sucking in air through his teeth and fisting the excess material of her jacket.

  “Clay?” She sounded amused. Her finger continued to stroke his length and he swelled under her touch.

  “That’s—that’s awesome.”

  She put the tip of the plug to his slit and eased the well-lubricated steel bar into his urethra. “It’s the same size as the other one. How’s that?”

  He lifted his hips and squirmed at the cool, invasive feel of the plug. The chill seeped up all the way to his pelvis, but there was no pain.

  “Good. Fine.”

  The train began to slow, signaling their arrival at another station. Bianca slipped the band around the head of his cock and brought it to rest under the mushroom cap. The plug didn’t weigh much, but it was enough that he was aware of it. It was a blatant statement of ownership, and it had his heart in his throat. He wanted a few minutes just to admire her stamp on the plug. He was as bad as a girl with new jewelry.

  “Do you like it?” Bianca rested her chin on his shoulder.

  He glanced at her as he hurriedly tucked himself back into his jeans a second before the doors to the car slammed open right behind them. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her, without permission. She dug a hand into his hair and pulled until he had the perfect angle to sweep into her mouth and tangle their tongues. His poor, bound cock tried to stir against the weight.

  “I love being owned by you,” he murmured against her lips. He cupped his hand over hers and brought it to rest over the hard line in his pants. “When did you have this done?”

  “Two months ago. I got it in a few days before we left. Did you notice the band?”

  He wiggled his wedding band again, feeling the tiny ridges. She’d considered every detail. He held her gaze, wanting to do all sorts of naughty things for her. “Looks like our rings.”

  What else was in that evil little backpack? He couldn’t wait to find out.

  * * * * *

  Bianca clutched Clay’s hand and took the stairs up to the Opéra two at a time, her heart pounding in her ears. She could still hear the blaring of horns.

  “B, please do not jump out in front of cars like that again.” Clay gripped her hand a little too tight and he was more out of breath than a quick sprint across the four lanes of traffic required.

  “It was two cars.” Excitement beat a steady rhythm inside her head. She was thrilled he loved the present and hadn’t paused when she asked him to wear it, in public no less. Granted, they weren’t strangers to fooling around where they might be caught, but being in Paris gave the whole experience a new flair.

  “I think my life flashed in front of my eyes.”

  “This place is gorgeous.”

  Clay smothered a laugh.

  Age had worn on the opera house but it was still magnificent with the carved angels, the columns and all of the ornamentation on the exterior. She wanted to take a moment to be a complete tourist and snap pictures, but there wasn’t time.

  “We have to come back here after this.”

  “Sure.” Clay grasped the handle on the first set of doors they came to and hauled back. When it opened they darted a glance at each other. “Ladies first.”

  “I guess they’re expecting us?”

  She stepped into the foyer of the Paris Opéra and her jaw dropped. Columns covered in gold and glossy black marble stretched up to the ceiling, chandeliers hung at regular intervals through the space and the very air seemed to be aged to perfection. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. A red ribbon kept visitors from touching the gleaming floors or precious decorations.

  “Wow,” Clay whispered beside her, and even that hushed sound traveled.

  The doors shut out most of the noise from the street, muting it to a low murmur. What would it be like to dress up and come here? She’d love the chance to see The Phantom of the Opera in Paris.

  “Êtes-vous perdu?”

  Bianca turned toward the voice. A woman wielding a rag and spray bottle hobbled in their direction. She wore a knit shirt with the opera logo stitched onto the breast.

  “I’m sorry, uh. Je ne parle pas français,” she stuttered out in butchered French.

  The woman glanced from her to Clay, muttering something under her breath.

  “Hold on, B. I have an app for that.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. He was so obsessed with his phone. If it weren’t so useful, she’d consider taking it away.

  He hurriedly tapped at the screen. “Here we go. Nus somms dan, uh, un course eta di ven ci.”

  The woman tilted her head to the side and the way her brows drew down said that she hadn’t understood what he attempted to say.

>   “Well, crap, here.” He handed the woman his phone, shoulders slumping.

  Bianca squeezed his shoulder. “You did good. What did you try to tell her?”

  “Just that we’re here for the race.”

  “Ah.” The woman turned the screen back to them and tracked the words with her fingers as she slowly repeated what Clay had attempted to say. “Nous sommes dans un concours et on nous a dit de venir ici.”

  Clay mouthed the words along with the woman. Would he want to try learning a new language? One of the things that fascinated her most about him was his continuous desire to learn. She didn’t know if it was natural or from having to skip school so much for one reason or another growing up. He was a sponge for knowledge and regularly killed her at trivia games. Maybe for his birthday she’d research classes or one of those home learning kits.

  “Oui.” The woman nodded and grabbed a walkie-talkie from her belt. She spoke in rapid-fire French and was replied to in kind. After a quick back-and-forth, the cleaning lady held the radio out to them.

  “Bonjour, Valerie will take you to where you need to be.” The radio chirped and the woman gestured for them to follow.

  They ducked under the partition and followed the surprisingly swift woman through the foyer, past the grand staircase and into the opera proper. Bianca’s eyes weren’t large enough to take it all in. There was so much opulence. Everywhere she looked there was some other detail, an amazing thing to discover. Inside the theater, red carpets, red chairs and red curtains created a backdrop for yet more gold and ornate scrollwork on the banisters and columns. And overhead, the dome and chandelier she’d sighed over during many a re-watch of Phantom of the Opera.

  “Wow,” Clay whispered again.

  “Is that all you can say?” She jabbed him in the ribs and hurried ahead.

  The stage curtains were open to display a crew of people working on lights that would be hoisted into the ceiling. Their guide led them to the edge of the orchestra pit, did an about-face, gave them a sharp nod and whisked past them back on her way.

  “Welcome to the Opéra. I am Jean.” A man in a red windbreaker approached them with a welcoming smile. He was taller than either of them, not a difficult feat, and wide through the shoulders.

  “Hello.” Clay stuck his hand out first and shook the man’s hand.

  “You are first team to arrive, we expect you for a while.” He spoke with a thick accent flavoring each word.

  Bianca gaped at her husband. “Wait, you mean no one else has shown up?”

  His eyebrows rose. He gestured as he spoke, his grin growing. “Oui, you are first team.”

  “That’s awesome.” Clay pumped his fist, beaming.

  She couldn’t believe her ears.

  They were first.

  Not only had they left the apartment three hours behind the first team, they’d somehow beaten them. It was as if she’d woken up in some strange version of the Twilight Zone where she bested her siblings. Also, where the hell was everyone?

  “I give you this.” Jean produced one of the telltale envelopes and held it out to them.

  She snatched it from his hands and tore open the flap.

  “What does it say?” Clay’s breath fanned her neck and his hand rested against her hip. She leaned against him, smothering an inappropriate smile at the feel of his now monogrammed cock against her ass.

  “Road block, only one of you may perform this task. Choose now.” She glanced up at him. “You or me, babe?”

  “Yesterday was a team challenge. Do you want to do this or take a chance on tomorrow being something you have to do?” He shifted from foot to foot, clearly anxious.

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” She chuckled at the way he vibrated with excitement. When or if they decided to have kids, she could imagine a troop of little boys with the same exuberance.

  “Okay, what am I doing?”

  She flipped the paper over. “One team member must don a harness and become one of the crew. Find five burned-out gels and lend a hand to the crew.”

  “So I’m helping you?” Clay asked the French gentleman. He shucked the backpack and his jacket and laid them over a chair. He paused by her side and bussed her cheek with a kiss. “Wish me luck.”

  “Don’t break anything, that’s all I ask.”

  They were in first place!

  Clay fastened the buckle on the safety harness that would keep him from falling to his death and peered down at the stage below. He felt a rush of weightlessness and wavered from foot to foot. Vertigo assailed him, making his stomach clench. He gripped the rail for balance. He’d never considered himself scared of heights, but the catwalk above the stage was narrow. It seemed as if he could easily tip over the railing and fall.

  He was supposed to run around up here and find burned-out gels? And what the hell was a gel?

  Jean gestured for him to approach a table. Spread out over the surface were different colored sheets of plastic. Some were as big as a piece of poster board, others were trimmed into six-inch squares. On one side of the desk was a huge, circular light, the kind that hung in the ceiling at concert venues and theaters.

  Jean picked up a six-inch square of red plastic. “You find gels like these. But ones that have burn mark or color is gone. Look like this.” He held up an example of a burned-out gel, one with a hole melted through it in one corner and the red color faded to clear. “Replace with one not burned.”

  “Oh okay. I can do that.”

  “Do like this.” Jean took the new gel and inserted it into a metal square frame with a circle cut out. When the gel was in the frame, only a five-inch circle was visible. He slid the frame and gel into clips on the front of the light and stepped back. When the light was on, it would now be red. “You have to cut gel too.”

  “Got it. And I find five?”

  “Oui. Go.”

  “Hey, squirt.” Michael, Bianca’s oldest brother, clambered up the ladder, a cocky grin on his face.

  Michael’s jibes rubbed him the wrong way. Sure he’d heard every insult in the book, and a little good-natured kidding was okay, but it was the snooty manner in which Michael spoke that irritated him. It didn’t help that he spoke to Bianca in the same fashion.

  “Fancy seeing you here. Chat later.” He gripped the railing with one hand and held the rope connecting his harness to the rafters with the other. It slid along on a pipe mounted to the rafters easily enough, except for the places where the pipe joined another and he had to snap a second clip to the new section of pipe and unclip another.

  On his left, rows of lights mounted on bars and rigging hung suspended over nothing. He made the mistake of glancing down. His meager breakfast churned in his stomach.

  “Come on, Clay, you can do it,” Bianca called from somewhere at the front of the house.

  “Hurry it up, Mike.” Another voice he could only assume was Jennifer. She did not sound pleased. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her smile. Of all his new family members, one would think that with her being an accountant and him working at a bank, they would at least be able to make small talk. Instead, he regularly avoided sitting near her and, by proxy, Michael.

  At first glance the lights all seemed to be fine, but that was because they were dark. If the lights were on, the metal would reach temperatures hot enough to blister flesh, or at least that’s what he understood from the broken English version of what Jean had said while going over the quick and dirty safety rules.

  “There’s one,” he said to no one.

  The light was about two feet away from the rail. He leaned his stomach against the bar and gripped the rope with one hand. He held his breath and reached for the frame and gel combo. He got his fingers around the top of the metal and slid it up.

  Don’t drop it. Just don’t drop it.

  He gripped the frame and stepped back, the piece clutched to his chest.

  Now he had to cut a new gel and put it back in
the light.

  “Big man coming through.” Michael bumped into him, shoving him against the railing. Their safety ropes got crossed and Michael’s pulled Clay’s farther along the catwalk.

  “Hey, hey, Mike, wait.” Michael’s greater bulk jerked him forward. Clay stumbled and gripped the frame tighter. He reached for his rope and hauled back on it. “Shit, man, watch out.”

  Michael stopped and reached over the side of the rail. Unlike Clay, he didn’t have to strain to get to the light. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Can’t stop, it’s a race.”

  “Clay, hurry up! Jason and Amy are here.”

  “Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. So much for their lead. At least they’d closed the gap.

  He shifted his rope, untangling their crossed lines, and headed back for the table. Along the way, he spotted two more gels and paused to grab them. He was the first back to the table with three gels, and set about cutting and trimming the plastic to neat squares. His lines weren’t perfect, and some were a little over six inches, some a little under, but he got all three done before Michael shouldered him aside.

  With five gel frames.

  “Make some room,” Michael said as he tossed all five down.

  “Okay, what do I do?” a female voice asked.

  He turned to find Amy doubled over at the top of the ladder, clutching the railing as if her life depended on it.

  “Find Jean. He’s in a red jacket,” Clay replied.

  “Dude, you’re not supposed to help the competition,” Michael groused.

  Jean appeared and took over, leaving Clay free to put the gels back in place. It was slow going. The frames had to be lined up perfectly to go into the slots and at least one needed a little muscle to get it in just right.

  “I can’t tell. Is that one burned out?” Amy asked over his shoulder.

  Clay glanced at her, then to the gel she pointed at. Sure enough, it was a faded yellow one, tough to discern without the light hitting it just right.

  He could tell her no and take it for himself.