Rhapsody (Butcher and Violinist 1)

I stared at it, trying to figure out what the small fountain could be serving.

Jean-Pierre stood on my right. “Would you like some?”

“What is it?”

“Absinthe.”

“This might sound stupid, but would it make me hallucinate?”

“Aww. la fée verte.” He chuckled. “You’ve heard her reputation of being the green fairy. Well, the truth is you won’t see fairies and other things, but. . .you will have one hell of a day.”

I laughed. “Then why does it have such a big reputation of being hallucinogenic?”

“One of absinthe’s ingredients is wormwood which contain thujone. That’s a hallucinogen. Oregano has the same compound. So in large amounts of wormwood and oregano, you would hallucinate.”

“But we’re talking a large amount?”

“Enough to die from alcohol poisoning first.”

I studied the fountain again, admiring its beautiful antique quality. It was like I’d taken a time machine back 150 years to a Parisian café.

I grinned. “Are you going to try some?”

“Yes, if you do it. I’ve had it before, but drinking it with you, should be fun.”

Jean-Pierre gestured to the tailor’s assistant.

Victor went to the fountain and what continued was a dance. I watched the whole ritual in fascination. He pulled out two crystal glasses, placed a flat antiqued spoon on the top of each glass, and then he set a sugar cube on top of each spoon. A long green bottle of absinthe came next. He poured a small amount in, letting the pale green liquid trickle over the sugar.

Next, Victor sat the sugar cubed-top glasses underneath the fountain taps.

I stared at the clear liquid in the glass. “What’s in the fountain?”

“Chilled water.”

Victor twisted a sleek knob at the back of the fountain. Slowly drops of water left both taps and fell upon the sugar until the cubes dissolved. A sweet scent filled the air. I knew the name of the fragrance, but I couldn’t catch the scent’s memory.

Victor’s father took over.

Alexandre brought over my glass, he spoke in French.

Jean-Pierre translated. “Alexandre wanted you to know that you’re the first woman to have a glass in his shop, and he’s been in business for over thirty years. Most women usually shake their heads no and let their husbands drink it.”

I took the glass. “I’m honored.”

Alexandre continued.

I waited patiently as fast French words danced out of his lips.

Jean-Pierre chuckled. “He said that absinthe’s popularity grew in the 1840s due to French troops having malaria. It was supposed to help with that. The troops brought home their taste for it. He hopes that when you go to America, you’ve found a taste for it too.”

I turned to Alexandre. “Merci, monsieur.”

Jean-Pierre and I toasted.

I took a sip. The cool liquid reminded me of black Jelly Beans. A sweet licorice. I swallowed some more. “I like it.”

“Then, let’s enjoy the day.” Jean-Pierre guided me to the back.

I followed, taking a few more sips of the absinthe.

We spent the time in Alexandre’s shop laughing as Jean-Pierre showed me the fabrics that he loved.

“The different between a $5,000 suit and a $50,000 one, is savant-level sewing and impeccable fabrics.” He took my free hand and gently placed my fingers along the soft materials. A silky texture smoothed against my tips. “The rarer and more elusive the furry animal the more premium the fabric.”

“Hmmm.” I tasted some more of the absinthe. “And now. . .it is time for you to strip and model.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I would love to watch you. . .do anything.”

He laughed. “What do you want to see me in?”

I scanned the space. “Anything in here. I love a man in a well-tailored suit. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He curved his lips into a delicious smile. “I’ll try anything on, if you help me undress in the dressing room.”

“Hmmm. I think I can be of some help.”

I never got my fashion show from Jean-Pierre that afternoon, but I did get fucked in the back of the dressing room. He lifted me up, like he did on the Eiffel tower and even the shower this morning, pumping his cock into me and making me moan.

I came hard with the taste of absinthe on my tongue.

The next day, we journeyed some more through Paris.

Jean-Pierre drove.

Rafael and Louis followed in the cars behind.

The whole ride, Jean-Pierre told me about the country’s interesting culture. Many of the French mocked the snobbish capital-dwellers of Paris. Still, Jean-Pierre believed all French cities and towns held a people that lived life with passion.

“That’s why so many writers flocked to Paris.” He maneuvered his car with sensual skill. Even when Jean-Pierre drove, he turned me on. And that accent didn’t help either. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway. They painted a picture of the city as profound and romantic.”

I want to hump his brain.

All I could do was lounge in my passenger seat and enjoy every word as the stunning city sped by my window. As this sexy man drove me forward. As my world continued to open up to new surprises each day.