CHAPTER 1
Lydia stood before the Eiffel Tower on the edge of a crowded tour group of obnoxious Americans, bored out of her mind. She'd been promised a trip she'd never forget, an adventure to boggle her mind and warm her on cold nights. There was nothing adventurous about this, despite the night that showed the landmark in all its glory. Her nerves crawled, her temper spiked, and if she had to listen to the guide's nasal tones one second longer...
"Lydia?” A deep voice rumbled through her. Right behind, heat rising over her as his breath tickled the shell of her ear. A presence ready to claim her, to bore into her very soul.
Her heartbeat kicked into double-time. “Yes?"
Eyes downcast, she turned her head slightly, but could see very little of the man, despite the streetlights and the continual stream of vehicles passing. He wore a dark shirt and trousers and tempted her with the scent of Brut. Her body trembled. That was the scent worn by the first boy she'd ever made out with. A romping session outside the school gym on a moonless night that found her pressed against the brick wall and her boyfriend dry humping her crotch to orgasm, while his tongue lashed around hers and his fingers groped her breasts.
"You're to come with us,” another voice replied, softer, tempting, but with just as much command. There was a familiarity about it, and Lydia turned toward the newcomer. Again, dark obscured his features and his clothing helped camouflage him in the night.
"Why?” The word came out on a whispered breath. Yes, their approach intrigued her.
"Your adventure awaits."
The first man stepped closer, fingers dusting across her elbow, dissipating the scant barrier her long-sleeved cotton blouse provided. Goose bumps flared over her skin, riffling the hairs to attention. That's when Lydia dared a full look in their direction.
Both wore fedoras and, beneath those, Zorro-type masks covered their features. Mystery men with broad shoulders and sculpted muscles that rippled beneath their shirts and made a girl want to wrap her arms and legs around. Yes, her trip to Paris was already looking up.
"Who are you?” Lydia was up for adventure, but she wasn't stupid.
"We're cataphiles.” The second one's smile showed off his dimples. Recognition spiked through her.
"Mark?"
A slight nod confirmed her guess. “So much for the disguise."
Her best friend and sometimes lover. He'd suggested Paris. Shoot, he'd even driven her to the airport. Then clearly hopped the next flight to join her.
She looked at him in puzzlement while he doffed the hat and whipped off the mask. Long fingers ruffled his brown hair into place. He stuffed the disguise into a canvas duffel draped over his shoulder.
Dozens of questions flooded her mind, but only one came out. “What's a cataphile?"
"Someone who loves the Paris underground. You wanted excitement and adventure.” He swept his arms out to encompass the city. “This is it."
"What ... what are we going to do?” Lydia hated when her voice trembled.
The deep voiced man leaned in. “Baby ... we're going to fuck you."
Oh God! Brent!
Rugged, tanned and scary as shit. Mark's other best friend. The one whose dark eyes devoured her with looks that said he knew what she looked like naked, even though he'd never had the pleasure. The one she'd secretly longed for, yet feared because Lydia knew she'd never measure up. Brent was born to have a trophy woman at his side, not a mousy petite bookworm like her. He lived in her fantasies ... and Mark knew it. Hell, he knew all her deep-dark fantasies, her wants, her goals, her fears. He'd done this for her. Love swelled her heart. Lust did the same to her clitoris.
Brent lost the disguise as well, passing it over to Mark to place in the bag. One swipe of his broad hand smoothed his hair into place. His dark eyes glittered with the promise of ... God, she couldn't begin to imagine of what. Too many thoughts and fantasies swam through her mind.
"Come.”
Lydia stood before the Eiffel Tower on the edge of a crowded tour group of obnoxious Americans, bored out of her mind. She'd been promised a trip she'd never forget, an adventure to boggle her mind and warm her on cold nights. There was nothing adventurous about this, despite the night that showed the landmark in all its glory. Her nerves crawled, her temper spiked, and if she had to listen to the guide's nasal tones one second longer...
"Lydia?” A deep voice rumbled through her. Right behind, heat rising over her as his breath tickled the shell of her ear. A presence ready to claim her, to bore into her very soul.
Her heartbeat kicked into double-time. “Yes?"
Eyes downcast, she turned her head slightly, but could see very little of the man, despite the streetlights and the continual stream of vehicles passing. He wore a dark shirt and trousers and tempted her with the scent of Brut. Her body trembled. That was the scent worn by the first boy she'd ever made out with. A romping session outside the school gym on a moonless night that found her pressed against the brick wall and her boyfriend dry humping her crotch to orgasm, while his tongue lashed around hers and his fingers groped her breasts.
"You're to come with us,” another voice replied, softer, tempting, but with just as much command. There was a familiarity about it, and Lydia turned toward the newcomer. Again, dark obscured his features and his clothing helped camouflage him in the night.
"Why?” The word came out on a whispered breath. Yes, their approach intrigued her.
"Your adventure awaits."
The first man stepped closer, fingers dusting across her elbow, dissipating the scant barrier her long-sleeved cotton blouse provided. Goose bumps flared over her skin, riffling the hairs to attention. That's when Lydia dared a full look in their direction.
Both wore fedoras and, beneath those, Zorro-type masks covered their features. Mystery men with broad shoulders and sculpted muscles that rippled beneath their shirts and made a girl want to wrap her arms and legs around. Yes, her trip to Paris was already looking up.
"Who are you?” Lydia was up for adventure, but she wasn't stupid.
"We're cataphiles.” The second one's smile showed off his dimples. Recognition spiked through her.
"Mark?"
A slight nod confirmed her guess. “So much for the disguise."
Her best friend and sometimes lover. He'd suggested Paris. Shoot, he'd even driven her to the airport. Then clearly hopped the next flight to join her.
She looked at him in puzzlement while he doffed the hat and whipped off the mask. Long fingers ruffled his brown hair into place. He stuffed the disguise into a canvas duffel draped over his shoulder.
Dozens of questions flooded her mind, but only one came out. “What's a cataphile?"
"Someone who loves the Paris underground. You wanted excitement and adventure.” He swept his arms out to encompass the city. “This is it."
"What ... what are we going to do?” Lydia hated when her voice trembled.
The deep voiced man leaned in. “Baby ... we're going to fuck you."
Oh God! Brent!
Rugged, tanned and scary as shit. Mark's other best friend. The one whose dark eyes devoured her with looks that said he knew what she looked like naked, even though he'd never had the pleasure. The one she'd secretly longed for, yet feared because Lydia knew she'd never measure up. Brent was born to have a trophy woman at his side, not a mousy petite bookworm like her. He lived in her fantasies ... and Mark knew it. Hell, he knew all her deep-dark fantasies, her wants, her goals, her fears. He'd done this for her. Love swelled her heart. Lust did the same to her clitoris.
Brent lost the disguise as well, passing it over to Mark to place in the bag. One swipe of his broad hand smoothed his hair into place. His dark eyes glittered with the promise of ... God, she couldn't begin to imagine of what. Too many thoughts and fantasies swam through her mind.
"Come.”
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