Page 29 of Sinful Escape

Yeah. Nah. Not even that. Anyway, I gotta go. Thanks for the laugh

Glad I could help

We said our goodbyes and I put my phone onto charge on my bedside table. It was nearly midnight, and as if on cue, a yawn tumbled from my throat.

No matter how tired I was, I always read before sleep. It settled my overactive brain.

But when I went to fish my romance novel from my bag, I froze. It wasn’t there.

Shit. I’d left my book and the visa letter on the table at Pierre’s.

No way was I ever going back there, even after what Zali had said. It would be too weird. And it would probably give Pierre the impression I wanted to finish what we’d started.

Then again . . . maybe I did. Was that so bad?

I had no idea what the answer to that was.

My empty stomach twitched with a punishing reminder that if I never saw Pierre again, I would never eat his delicious soufflé au fromage in my favorite French restaurant.

The cruelest thought crawled through my brain like the plague . . . once I was booted out of Europe, there were many wonderful things that I may never get to do again. Let alone all the ones that I’d always planned to do but had never got around to.

God . . . I’d wasted so much time.

With that damn ticking clock in my head, it’s time to make things happen.

Chapter Seven

Day two of the tour started with me guiding nine guests through the massive crowds at the Louvre Museum. It was usually one of my favorite aspects of the trip, but my mind struggled to focus. On any normal day, I was a wealth of trivia, spouting fascinating tidbits about priceless artifacts like a history professor.

Today was not a normal day.

Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of last night with Pierre. Statues that I’d previously considered magnificent works of art suddenly appeared erotic. Paintings that once enthralled me with the artist’s attention to color and detail now oozed desire and lust.

Passion and nudity were everywhere.

My body temperature sizzled, and the ache between my legs was like an earthquake set to split me in half. As we pushed our way through the crowds to admire one work of art or the next, each step had hot flushes flaring from deep inside me. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Pierre looking at me with blazing desire in his chocolate irises. I could still feel his hands on me, caressing my breasts, fondling my erect nipples. My body was like a pincushion, and little needles of lust pricked me at every opportunity.

Damn, it was good, but it was so fucking distracting.

In an attempt to tame my newfound libido, I spent extra time at the Mona Lisa. No erotica there. Nope. Barely even any flesh. And better still, I recited dozens of facts about the famous painting that served to keep my mind on track and my horny bits shackled.

It was only when my group started to drift away that I reluctantly moved on.

The next picture ruptured my Mona Lisa bubble. An ancient painting by Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix. The giant masterpiece was writhing with naked bodies. Men with massive erections and just as many flaccid dicks too. Topless women draped in fabric and naked ones prancing around showing off their ginger pubic hair. Why were they all redheads in his paintings? Was that a sign?

It’s a sign, all right. A sign that I’ve lost my mind.

Death of Sardanapalus was a brutal painting depicting a king who was willing to destroy all his possessions, including women and children, to reign supreme. But today, I didn’t see the blood and gore; today, I saw an orgy.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. After three hours of battling my schizophrenic brain, I did something I’d never done before. I decided to abandon the tour group. Gathering them beneath a giant statue of a young man with his crown jewels on full display, I pinched my temples. “I’m so sorry.” I had to raise my voice over a screaming child nearby. “But I have a headache. I have to go.” Putting on an Oscar-worthy act, I felt terrible as, feigning pain behind my eyes, I relayed brief instructions, complete with suggestions on what they absolutely must see.

My Del Reys squeaked across the black and white mosaic tiles as I dashed past statue after statue. Cocks and tits were the obvious theme. Jaysus! I’ve fallen into a kinky vortex!

Outside at last, I paused at a stone pillar and sucked in enormous breaths. Adrenalin blazed through me. My eyes darted about . . . the traffic, the blazing sun, the thousands of people.

I probably looked like a junky who thought zombies were chasing her.

What I needed was a good walk. Exercise and I were not friends. Even yoga was impossible—especially downward-facing dog. Suffocating in a mountain of boob was no fun.

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