The Gilded Chain

She gasped when he thrust into her without warning, but she was more than ready. He pumped his hips, wild and hard, gazing down at her as he claimed her. He kept her wrists pi

“Wes,” she moaned, arching her back, her breasts aching for his attention.

With a little knowing smile, he swiveled his hips, striking a spot deep inside her. “Unable to get free, baby,” he said and laughed darkly. “Makes you that much wetter for me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, God, yes.” He’d reduced her to one-word expressions. The co

“Can you take more? Harder?” Wes growled out the questions, his focus on her face as if memorizing her reactions to his every move.

She nodded, out of breath. She could. She wanted more, harder. He slowed his pace but deepened his penetrations and at the same time making them harder. Throwing her head back, she arched with each jerk of his hips. Wes dropped his head toward her, nipping her chin, her throat, teasing her lips in ghostly kisses, making her desperate. Her fingers curled into fists as she panted and whimpered. Without mercy, he claimed her so completely, their union consuming her, burning her up until she had nothing left to give and all she could do was embrace the fine line of pain and pleasure.

“Let me see your eyes,” he demanded, his voice rough.

She met his eyes and what she saw unmade her, like a star in the distant reaches of the galaxy, bursting in a brilliant flash of light. She saw desire and need beyond the physical in his face and that exploded her from the inside out. He needed her in a way no one ever had and it filled her with excitement and hope. She exploded with pleasure and his body shook above her as he shouted and then settled heavily upon her. Struggling to breathe, she sucked in breath after breath, hoping to ease the wild beating of her heart and the thundering blood in her ears.

Wes, panting and gri

“Are you happy you came here with me?” he asked, his expression gravely serious.

It was hard to explain what she felt. Up until now, she’d ridden down one path, a path clear and open. But when Fe

“I’m happy,” she finally said. It was the truth. Facing one’s fears was sometimes the only way to fight for what mattered. Being happy mattered and if she had to get scared every now and then, she’d do it.

“What about you?” she asked him.

His fathomless eyes were tinged with sorrow. “I’ve never pursued happiness, but being with you…happiness comes so easily.” His admission was full of confusion, as though he couldn’t understand how that was possible.

“Everyone deserves to be happy,” she noted.

Wes frowned. “Perhaps, but many don’t look in the right places.”

“Like your parents?” she prodded carefully. “You never talk about them, and from what Hayden says, they’re not exactly easy to be around.”

The bitter laugh that escaped him startled her. “Easy to be around? Callie, darling, you have no idea. Never were two people born who are so absorbed with themselves and their money and power. No one else matters to them. They manipulate everyone and demand everyone to fit within their rules. Hayden and I have been disowned to some degree for our failure to conform to their expectations.”

“What did they expect of you?” She folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them.

His hands slid beneath the sheets to hold her hips, possessively gripping her. His cock still inside her made her body tingle with new awareness.

“Father wanted a Wall Street man. Mother wanted me to marry one of her friend’s daughters to open social doors. Neither of those even remotely appealed to me.”

Callie could sense that it made him feel trapped. His body tensed and his mouth formed a firm line.

“I’m sorry.” She kissed his chest right above his heart. They made a strange pair. The man who had everything was trapped. She who had nothing and no way to really live was also in a way trapped. Yet they’d made Paris an escape for both of them. The only question was, how long could they both run?

Chapter 17

She’s one of the most talented I’ve ever seen,” Antoine Pichot said as he joined Wes in the observation room. They were in the bottom basement of the Louvre, in a private viewing room that had a window with a one-way mirror. For the last week Wes had brought Callie here and let her spend half the morning learning a new medium or style, with a new artist every day. Then he’d take her out to see the city in the afternoon and then home to bed, which happened to be his favorite part of the day.

The routine had been pleasant and oddly fulfilling. He couldn’t imagine wanting anything more from his life in the past week than to be with Callie. While she took her lessons, he’d spent his time on commissions and at lunch he’d come to pick her up and take a few minutes to admire her work without her knowing.

“She’s mastered watercolor, oil, acrylic, graphite, charcoal.” Antoine ticked off the mediums on one hand. Antoine was one of the few painters who practiced old-style portraits with oil. Wes had made only one call and sent pictures of Callie’s sketches before Antoine had agreed to coach her.

His beautiful Callie stole his complete focus. Perched on a stool before a large easel, she had her golden hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. An over-large white button-up shirt, one of his old ones, covered in splatters and smears of paint, hung around her full, luscious figure. She looked adorable and fuckable.

“I knew she would be brilliant.” Wes smiled.

Antoine, a few years older than Wes, had expressed an interest in Callie—damned French men and their insatiable appetites. Then again he couldn’t judge when it came to sexual hunger, but seeing Antoine’s appreciative gaze sweep over Callie’s body made him forcibly control his jealousy and his natural possessiveness when it came to his woman.

“Who is she? Where is she from?” Antoine braced his hands on the windowsill.

“Just a girl from a small town in Colorado. A true i

“Wes!” She beamed at him. “I’ve almost got this imitation work down.” She pointed proudly at a Degas ballerina she’d painted. It was perfect. He peered closely at the original piece next to hers, then back at hers. Brushstroke for brushstroke it was perfect. He couldn’t tell them apart.