Next week the first episode (Episode Seven of the serial) of French Kissing: Season Two will be available for free (for a few days) from Amazon. To tide you over until then, here’s the first chapter.
Please beware: massive spoiler warning + (as you may suspect) totally NSFW!
Steph closed her eyes and, instantly, images of Dominique popped up on the back of her eyelids. A tongue lapped at her clit, and she opened her eyes, unable to face the memory of Dominique’s smile in this moment. The woman bestowing her oral services upon Steph couldn’t be more different from Dominique, although Steph could be wrong. She wasn’t in the public eye, though. If this woman, with her short cropped dark hair, was a politician—or anyone else who would pay good money for PR advice—she wouldn’t be on her knees at Le Noir right now.
The promise of a climax had lightly stirred her a few times since the woman had dipped down in front of her, her tongue everything but lazy and displaying an expert touch, but Steph felt the possibility slip away altogether now that she had allowed the briefest thought of Dominique to penetrate her mind.
“Hey.” Steph lightly touched her palms to the woman’s temples. “Come here.” She made a gentle upward motion with her hands.
The woman looked up at her. It was dark around them, but her eyes shone, and Steph could see a determination in them she didn’t have the strength to battle with tonight.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was husky and if she experienced any disappointment at Steph stopping her she didn’t show it.
What’s not? Steph thought, but she hadn’t come here to feel sorry for herself. She’d come for a quick, brainless climax. Not the first mistake she’d made in the past few weeks.
“It’s not going to happen. Sorry. It’s not you—”
“Oh, I know it’s not me, baby.” The woman pushed herself upward. Upright, she was a few inches taller than Steph. Her eyes were an odd kind of blue—almost teal—when she looked at Steph. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Steph believed she had chosen well. She’d bided her time after entering the club, had not gone off with the first woman who had moderately pleased her. She knew she needed someone who would display a certain amount of power, and who would assert it easily—as though it were a given, no other options in play. This nameless woman had not disappointed—and Steph could at least pride herself in having good judgement when it came to matters like this—but she wasn’t Dominique.
“This place is not for talking.” Maybe if she turned the tables? Maybe that would get her juices flowing sufficiently or, at least, remind her of a time when she wasn’t like this. A shadow of her former self. The sort of lonely she always knew she would be if she let herself get too involved. There was a reason why Stéphanie Mathis kept her distance. She’d allowed Dominique to come way too close for comfort. And now it was too late.
Steph grabbed the woman by the back of the neck. “What’s your name?”
“This place is not for sharing names either.” Their faces were a mere inch removed from each other. Steph could feel the woman’s breath on her skin, could smell herself on her. “What’s yours?”
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” Steph pulled the woman close and kissed her. She couldn’t recall ever kissing anyone at Le Noir. It wasn’t a place for kissing either—not for her anyway. But she needed to feel someone’s lips on her. Needed them so close their face faded into darkness and they could be anyone. When Steph’s tongue slipped into the woman’s mouth, in her mind, she transformed into Dominique Laroche. Still, after all that had happened, the poster child of the MLR. Because Steph had advised her well. That was her job, after all. And look where it had got her: jonesing for anonymous pussy at a secret sex club. If she knew only one thing in that moment, when she surrendered her mouth—and a little bit more of herself than she wanted—to this stranger, it was that she had made the right decision. Stéphanie Mathis and Dominique Laroche could never work as a couple, not after what had happened. Not before either, but then they had been too stupid to see. Steph had allowed herself to fall in love and, as result, had ended up on the front page of Le Matin.
When they broke from the kiss and Steph gazed into those strange blue eyes again, the woman tilted her head and painted a wicked grin on her face. “My name is Yasmine. No need to tell me yours. I know who you are.”
Anger flared in Steph’s gut. She hadn’t gone back to Les Pêches since the news had broken. That place always teemed with gossip and the last thing Steph wanted was to be the centre of that sort of attention. And now, this dark, private place wasn’t safe anymore either?
“You know nothing about me,” Steph hissed, pushed herself away from the wall she was leaning against, and spun on her heels, turning Yasmine around with her. “Not another word.” She pressed her lips to Yasmine’s roughly, only briefly wondering what she was doing. She needed some kind of release now. If she couldn’t have her own orgasm, she’d damn well make Yasmine come. “Spread your legs,” she said, looking Yasmine deep in the eyes. Damn, but those eyes were mesmerising. To her own, shocking surprise, Steph had to fight the urge to ask this woman to go home with her. To be there when she woke up in the morning when everything was the hardest to deal with.
Yasmine quickly obliged and, while still gazing into her eyes, Steph slipped a finger through her wetness. It triggered a massive onslaught of images of Dominique. How she looked at Steph when gauging how wet she was for her, that amused, slightly smug look on her face. Because she knew that no one else did that to Steph. Not more than once or twice in a row, anyway. Steph pushed the images as far back as she could, fell to her knees, and buried her tongue in Yasmine’s pussy.
She tasted nothing like Dominique, but then again, she did a little bit, in that universal tangy way, the way every woman she had ever slept with had notes of the same scent between her legs. Yasmine delved her fingers into Steph’s hair, pulling hard. Steph had pegged her for the type. Even when receiving, she needed to be in charge.
“Fuck me,” the woman hissed, and now it was Steph’s turn to oblige. She brought two fingers to where her mouth was, and pushed them inside without further ado. But oh, how good it felt to be inside another woman again. To take herself outside of the pain she’d been wallowing in. It felt more like home, like the Steph she used to be, than she could have imagined.
She fucked Yasmine with sure, deep strokes, while trilling her tongue over her clit, and while doing so, Steph felt a layer of hurt peel off. She felt more like herself than she’d done since meeting Dominique. Because there were no strings attached here. It was just fun, just pleasure. There was no love here. No hearts would be broken. This was still a safe place, no matter if someone recognised her. There were rules here. The instant Steph had bent through her knees, she’d ceased to be the woman on the front page. She’d become Stéphanie Mathis again.
“Oh, baby, yes,” Yasmine groaned, pressing her fingertips hard into Steph’s scalp.
Steph curled her fingers and she knew it was a done deal. The blatant arrogance she could feel because of this, because of making this stranger come at her hands, filled her with a pride she used to thrive on. Like an addict returning to a drug of choice. For an instant, the joy obliterated the pain that had been consuming her, and she sighed with Yasmine as the walls of her pussy clenched around Steph’s fingers.
Yasmine’s grip on her hair loosened, but Steph remained on her knees for a while longer. The rush soon escaped her, but it didn’t leave her system completely. She felt her own clit throb between her legs, but no one would be touching her there for a while. She could take care of her own orgasms. It wasn’t even about her own climax, because it faded into nothing compared to how making another woman come made her feel. Strong. In control. Capable.
Once, during an extreme moment of weakness, she’d told Dominique more about her past than she’d initially intended to. But they were lovers, and they shared things, so she had shared. She’d tried to explain that thrill, that shiver chasing up her spine when she felt in utter control like that, and Dominique had looked at her with something akin to pity in her glance.
“There’s so much more to sex,” she’d said, toppling Steph onto her back. And she had shown her. Back then, Steph believed every word of what Dominique had to say. Then Steph had made Dominique believe what she had to say, and expelled her from her life.
“Good god, Stéphanie Mathis,” the woman said, pulling Steph from her reverie. “I may not know you, but you sure do know how to make a woman come.”
Steph rose and met Yasmine’s gaze. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She tried to make the statement sound as aloof and soulless as possible.
“I take it you and the politician are no longer together?” Yasmine slumped against the wall.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s really none of your business.” Steph searched for her towel, eager to cover her naked body. Did she have to worry about this? Was Sybille still stalking her, trying to find more dirt? But Steph had distanced herself from Dominique for a reason. She didn’t want to implicate her. A conservative députée could not survive in the harsh world of politics with someone like Steph by her side. Claire and Juliette could twist and turn it anyway they wanted. It was the truth, a harsh one, but true nonetheless.
“Point taken.” Yasmine stretched out her arm and caressed Steph’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “You seem sad,” she said.
You have no fucking idea, Steph thought. She just shook her head and—against the instinct of wanting to rub herself against the woman’s caress—ducked down to pick up her discarded towel. This encounter was over. At least Pierrot would be waiting for her at home.
TO BE CONTINUED VERY SOON…
P.S. The entire season (containing four episodes instead of the three I had previously announced) will be available the last week of February.