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Futile Resistance

By: quintessentialquill



Stretching as discreetly as possible, Francoise packed up her sheet music and turned her attention to cleaning and disassembling her flute and putting the three segments in their appropriate slots in her flute case. She had spent the evening with four fellow musicians, their quintet having been hired to provide the music at a holiday gala being held by one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston. As much as she had enjoyed playing with the group of talented musicians, she was ready to call it a night. Chatting idly with the group, she continued with her routine, one part of her mind already thinking of what else had to be done before she could sleep tonight. 

She taught music at a college preparatory school in a tony suburb of Boston and had yet to review a slew of audition tapes submitted by spoiled rich kids who only engaged in anything artistic in order to fulfill their parents' wishes and to flesh out their high school résumés to insure their entrance to prestigious colleges. Though they always had the finest instruments money could buy, the students left a lot to be desired in the talent department. She faced the unpleasant task of choosing the best performers from amongst a selection of audition tapes she knew would be mediocre and recommending those students to the admissions board. Based upon their grades, artisanship, sports acumen, whether or not they had a gift for languages and a token display of "a spirit of volunteerism", as the school's brochure put it, the students would be evaluated by the board and granted or denied admission to the Plimpton Academy. It would probably be best if I approached this task with a slightly more positive attitude, she thought, otherwise I'll never make it through. Maybe I'll crack open a bottle of wine to ease into it... The mere thought of putting on her cozy fleece pajamas and relaxing with a glass of wine almost made her groan aloud with pleasure. 

Glancing up to see if the others in the group had finished packing up, she loaded her music, flute case and collapsible music stand into her gig bag. Seeing that everyone was similarly stowing away the last of their gear, she unfolded her body from the hard chair, stretching again as she did so. Always a caretaker, and as the informal leader of the group, she liked to make sure everyone was on their way without incident before she left a performance venue.

"While you guys are finishing up, I'll just say good-bye to the host and collect our fee," she told the group, "Pete, could you keep an eye on my gig bag?" she asked the group's French horn player.

"French," he said, using her nickname, "I would gladly keep my eye on anything of yours, you know that," Pete replied with a half-joking leer. The truth was, he really did have a yen for her and had been trying to move their friendship into a more serious category for years. She always dealt with his salvos lightly, jokingly, never letting him get too serious about things. 

"Keep your pants on, Pete, I'll be right back. Then we can leave." 

French whirled around with her usual purposefulness and headed off to find the event planner that had hired their group for the evening. Despite the fact that the event planner was diminutive in stature, she should be easy to spot. She had flame-red hair cut in a modern bob, with sharp edges and loads of layers and a penchant for wearing bright colors and bold patterns -- at the same time. On most people, the hairstyle and clothes would look ridiculous, but on Phoebe Castleman, whom everyone called Fifi, they were just perfect. Wending through the stylishly black-clad crowd of partygoers, French kept an eye out for Fifi. As she looked around, she caught sight of a delicious looking man and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, then sank like a lead balloon. He stood at the center of a group of elderly women. One of them had possession of his right arm and didn't look as though she would let go of him for the world; she was gazing up at him with adoration plain in her eyes. He looked completely at ease with the old ladies and seemed perfectly happy to remain in their company. Ugh, French thought,  typical Aidan, sweeping the ladies off their feet. They'd better watch out for him, he's lethal.

French watched the little group for a moment longer, taking in every detail of Aidan's appearance. He looked a little thinner than when she'd last seen him and his hair was slightly longer than he usually wore it; it just brushed the top of his collar in the back and a dark lock of it fell forward to brush his forehead. He had acquired a deep tan, which contrasted with his already striking blue eyes. The longish hair and deep tan made him look slightly uncivilized even though he wore formal clothes. He is absolutely gorgeous, French thought. The grande-dames he stood with had unleashed their whole repertoire of flirtatious behavior on Aidan. Batting their eyelashes, cooing, giggling, blushing and giving him playful slaps on the arm... I could never resist him either, French thought with longing and a hint of irony, since it had been she who had ended their relationship. Just at that moment, Aidan looked up and caught her eye. The air was sucked out of the room. She could have sworn that time stopped and that they were the only people on earth. Aidan recovered first, gave her a lazy smile and a slow wink. French, hoping that her eyes had not revealed her feelings, gave him a quick nod and turned away. Yikes, she thought ruefully, feeling a frisson of heat course through her body, that was close. I'd better get out of here.

French redoubled her efforts to find Fifi. At last, Fifi was spotted holding court amidst a group of men and women, gesturing wildly, her face alight and mobile with expression. French joined the outskirts of the group, waiting for Fifi to release her captivated audience. In the two years she had known Fifi, French had come to realize that she was a people magnet; men and women alike were drawn to her. French figured it was because of her incredible energy, warm personality and her no-holds barred approach to life and people. 

They had first met when Fifi had hired a group that French had been a member of to play a wedding Fifi was deep in the throes of planning. They had joked together about brides-from-hell, and French, like millions of others, had fallen for Fifi. They had become good friends since then, their paths often crossing in their lines of work. Fifi threw playing gigs French's way whenever she could and they often spent their free time together; either going out or staying in, cooking, eating, drinking good wine and enjoying each other's company. 

After extricating herself from her group of admirers, Fifi zinged up to French and swept her into a dance accompanied by the dj-spun salsa that filled the ballroom and provided after-dinner entertainment for the celebrants. "It's all down hill from here! I'm free to have a little fun now. Grab a margarita and stay with me for awhile?" Fifi demanded rather than asked, in her usual manner, running her words together in her excitement.

"Feef, I'd love to, but I've got to listen to those audition tapes tonight," French demurred.

"Oh no you don't, it's Friday night for God's sake! Kick up your heels for a change! Don't be so boring and predictable and responsible, dammit!" Fifi argued, "Come on, one little drinky-poo and if you still want to go home, I won't argue -- you can just go," she wheedled.

"Fifi, I just saw Aidan over there. Did you know he'd be here tonight?" French asked casually.

"Well, you know his father is a founding partner of this firm, right? That must be why he's here," Fifi had the grace to look chagrined at having to explain what she knew would be difficult for her friend to accept.

"No, I did not know his father was partner in this particular firm. I knew he was a hot-shot founder of some firm, not this firm, Fifi!!" French said hotly.

"Well, I did know Mr. Conal was Aidan's father, but I didn't even know Aidan was in town. I thought he was still on assignment in some godforsaken place, so I had no idea he would be here! Please believe me when I tell you that. I'd never have hired your group if I had known," Fifi said pleadingly, "you know that, right?"

If French was honest with herself, she had to admit that Fifi would never intentionally have done something like this.

With a sigh, she conceded, "Yes, Fifi, I know. I believe you. I'd better go, I can't risk running into him and having to talk to him."

"What's he going to think if you go running off? If I were him, I would definitely think that you still had a thing for me..." Fifi baited.

"I don't still have a thing for him!" French denied, " and I've got to get home and listen to those tapes, anyway."

"Hmm, pretty quick to deny that, weren't you? I don't know, French," Fifi said calculatingly, "I think maybe you're not really over him."

"I am too over him!" French protested, then to prove her point she said, "Fine, I'll stay, if it makes you happy! One drink only, and you swear you won't give me any grief when I get ready to go?"

"Not even a little grief, cross my heart," Fifi said, crossing her fingers behind her back and secretly sighing with relief that her goading of French had actually worked. She had no intention of letting French go home early. In her opinion, French spent too much time being responsible and in control. She also thought French and Aidan were destined to be together and if they were too stupid to realize it, then she'd have to help them along.

"Whoo-hoo! Let the games begin!" Fifi whooped and zipped away to get them a couple of drinks.

French hoped she hadn't just made a decision she would regret. Fifi was notorious for her love of dancing, parties and enjoying herself. Which was why she was such a good event planner. Once French found her musician friends, she told them that she'd be staying for a bit longer and encouraged them to take off, or if they wanted to, they were also welcome to stay awhile. All of them opted to leave, except Peter, which she could have predicted.

"I can't leave a sweet little lamb like you at the mercy of all of these rich, hungry wolves, now can I?" Peter asked. "I'll stay as long as you want and then I'll see you home," he added gallantly.

"Peter, we live on opposite ends of town. It would be inconvenient for you to 'see me home' as you so quaintly put it," French said a little testily. The last thing she wanted or needed was someone, namely Peter, feeling obliged to take care of her. They were good friends, but if she allowed him to do anything for her, he would take it as a sign that she welcomed his advances. They'd traveled this territory before. "Besides," she added, softening her tone a little and hating herself for lying, "Fifi already offered to drive me home. I'll be OK."

"What would you say if I said I just wanted to spend a little time with you, just having fun?" Peter asked.

"I would say 'fine, I could use a little fun, but don't get any ideas'," French countered with a knowing grin.

Knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, Peter conceded gracefully, but couldn't keep himself from admiring his view of her as he followed her back into the throngs of party-goers. They grabbed a couple of drinks and found Fifi on the dance floor. The music had switched from salsa to hip-hop, an interesting shift of genre considering the demography of the people present. Most of them wouldn't know or appreciate rap music if it bit them on the nose. Now, however, the dance floor was packed and an "I've had one too many martinis to care how silly I look shaking my rich (and in many cases old) white ass on the dance floor" vibe prevailed. Fifi was dancing with a group of people and when she spotted French and Peter, opened the circle to include them. French had always loved to dance and was at ease on the dance floor. Her confidence and grace only enhanced the beauty that she naturally possessed. She was tall and lean, with curves and muscles in the right places. Her skin was creamy bronze; people often remarked on how unfair it was that they had to go to tanning beds for hours to come even close to achieving the perfection of her complexion. The product of a white father and black mother, French had green eyes and wavy black hair. She was the perfect blend of her parents, in looks and character. Her father was a rich, uptight real estate mogul from one of Boston's wealthiest families. Her mother was from the West Indian island of Martinique, a department of France, whose inhabitants were carefree and hedonistic, enjoying all life had to offer with abandon. Having been raised by her mother alone, she had been disillusioned by the extreme highs and lows such a carefree existence could bring. She had cultivated a sense of reserve, tried to quash her innately passionate nature while maintaining a calm and cool demeanor.

After dancing a few songs, French gestured to the group that she was hot, tired and leaving the dance floor to get something to drink. Seizing the few minutes alone, she slipped outside to take in the frosty December air. Despite the fact that she was wearing only the sleeveless black silk sheath she wore when she played gigs, she wasn't cold. The air was refreshing, it stung her lungs and made her breath hitch. She crossed her arms and walked along the portico running adjacent to the ballroom.

Looking to her right, she noticed that the gardens were dressed in their most festive holiday garb. The evergreen bushes were adorned with twinkling white lights and festooned with velvet bows. A low wall fashioned from rounded river stones lined each side of the serpentine garden path. An old-fashioned lantern, flickering with real candles inside and decorated with bows matching those on the evergreens, marked the beginning of each segment of the wall. French strolled along the path, marveling at the exactness of the decorations. It always amazed her to what lengths people would go when planning and executing a social function, whether said function was a corporate occasion or a wedding. No matter how many years she made her living providing the entertainment for such events, she was incredulous when people went overboard with their spending on parties. The quiet of the garden allowed her a chance to process how she felt about seeing Aidan again. They had dated for about six months and broken up two months ago. She had been very happy when they were together. Too happy, she thought. She had been afraid of her feelings for him, knew that if she stayed in the relationship it would destroy her when they broke up, which they inevitably would. So she had broken up with him, thinking that the pain would be less if she did it sooner rather than later.

Growing up with her mother, she had learned that relationships between men and women were messy, dangerous things. French had seen her mother in the throes of despair over love affairs gone wrong too many times to count. She didn't want to be that vulnerable. She was fine by herself, she thought, without the complicated tangle of a romantic relationship. As a child, she had been the kid in class who had never colored outside the lines, had never broken any rules. She lived her adult life the same way; it made for fewer problems.

She began to feel the cold and it had the effect of bringing her from her reverie. She pivoted with her arms wrapped around herself. With her head down, she quickly headed up the path toward the ballroom. She looked up just in time to stop herself from crashing headlong Aidan. She lost her balance in the abruptness of halting and he reached out to steady her, cupping her upper arms with his warm hands. "Whoa, you almost mowed me down," he said, chuckling. His hands stayed in position on her shoulders, then slid down her arms so that he could take her hands in his.

"Sorry... I was, um, thinking," French said, feeling heat bloom under her skin, from both embarrassment and his close proximity.

"Were you thinking about me?" he asked in a low voice that made French feel another wave of heat wash over her. "I've watched you all evening and could never find a way to get to you. And here you are..."

"I saw you in there, you know, sweet-talking all of those old ladies," she said accusingly, "Don't try that stuff on me!"

He laughed, actually had the gall to laugh at her! She yanked her hands from his, thinking that he had presumed too much already and there was no way she'd stand here and listen to any more. She moved around him and was several feet away when he spoke.

"Hey, Legs, those were my mother's friends I was talking to."

She stopped in her tracks, feeling irritated that he'd gotten her riled up when she never got riled up. His mother's friends? And did he really just call her 'Legs'? She turned around slowly to face him. She would maintain her cool, apologize and leave.

"My name is Francoise," she said pointedly, "and I apologize for the misunderstanding. Good night."

"You don't owe me any apologies. And you know that I always loved your spectacular legs, Francoise," he stressed her name, calling her on her formality with him. "Have a drink with me?" he asked, moving closer to her.

"I've got to be going, but thank you, just the same," she said coolly.

"Hmmm, you've gone so cold; I like it better when you're angry," he said, moving closer and reclaiming one of her hands. "Stay for one little drink with me?"

"Jesus, are you kidding me?" she said irritably and opened her mouth to continue her set down of him when Fifi burst out of the door to the ballroom.

"Frenchy! There you are -- and you've got Aidan! Oh, my two most favorite people in the world, together at last! Is life good or what?" she gushed, linking arms with them both and leading them inside and to the bar. "He'll have a Chivas, neat," she told the bartender, "and we'll both have Cosmos."

"Fifi," French said, hating the pleading note in her voice, " I really need to go."

"Nope, you said you would dance and you barely danced at all!" Fifi retorted, "So, drink your drink and dance and have a good time!"

"Yeah," Aidan agreed, "Drink your drink and dance."

As luck would have it, a slow song began to play and Aidan took French's martini from her hand and set it on the bar. Taking her hand, he led her to the dance floor. French glared back at Fifi as he led her through the crowd onto the dance floor. Fifi just sipped her drink and wiggled her fingers in a little salute.

Aidan drew her into his arms and began to sway to the music. French tried to keep a formal dance hold, one hand resting on his shoulder and one hand in his, space between their bodies, but he drew her closer, placing her arms around his neck. French sighed and looked around the ballroom, feigning disinterest in their dance.

"You're beautiful when you sulk," Aidan said, his mouth close to her ear.

"I'm not sulking. Where do you get off with these crazy lines, anyway?" French asked, shaking her head with disbelief.

"I'm just a man who knows what he wants," he replied, "and I want you."

"Aidan, don't!"

"I do want you," he said implacably, "I've thought of nothing but you for the past two months."

"You're just saying that because you're used to getting what you want. Since you can't have me, you're determined to prove to yourself that you can! Well, I'm not going to play the game, Aidan! I'm immune to you," she lied, "so say whatever you want, because it won't work!"

"We'll see," he said confidently, ending their conversation by drawing her closer to his tall, lean body. His ploy worked well, because French was struck dumb by how delicate she felt in his arms with his large hands on her, one at the small of her back and one caressing up and down her back. He was taller than she by several inches, even though she was five feet ten inches in her skinny high heels. She felt his well-toned body against hers, smelled him, that special Aidan-ness that always went straight to her head. She relaxed into the dance, deciding to stop fighting him and just enjoy the moment. He slid a hand up her back to her neck and gently pressed her head to his shoulder. She stiffened slightly, but relaxed as his hand stoked down her back again. When the dance was over, he took her back to where Fifi was at the bar, again surrounded by a group of people.


Futile Resistance



I'm Gail Shasta. I consider myself an average forty two year old woman, maybe slightly above average intelligence, and probably nicer and more charitable than most people, but I'm certainly no Mother Teresa. I also consider myself to have only slightly above average looks, though apparently men don't view me that way, although why – in all honesty, with no false humility – I can't figure out.

I have a pleasant face, but nothing close to Helen of Troy. My light brown hair with auburn highlights is full bodied, but doesn't glow like on those women in shampoo commercials. While my cup size would be great as a grade in school, it's not one that most guys should give even a second look at. My ass is nice and round and my thighs are sleek, but not really any more so than some of my friends. Also, I'm tiny – about 5 feet 2 inches tall and 105 pounds soaking wet. Yet guys ranging in age from their twenties to sixties, and in all sizes, always seem to be hitting on me. Hell, maybe it's my pheromones, but if not I sure can't figure it out.

I've been married for almost twenty years to Brian Shasta, who's forty three. We have a very good, if not great, marriage, and probably an average sex life for people our age. Brian makes a good living as a businessman, and I don't have to work for money. However, I can't stand not being active, therefore I successfully run a charity that helps underprivileged children get all of the social services that they need.

Despite my inexplicable effect on many men, I have been able to finesse my interaction with them so that I don't encourage them yet at the same time am not rude. There's only one guy I know who causes me some consternation. His name is Rob Decker. Rob is a couple of years younger than I am, is married to an acquaintance of mine named Rosslyn, and Rob frequently does business deals with Brian. Brian and I have known Rob and Rosslyn for about eight years.

Rob makes me uncomfortable, not because he isn't charming and pleasant – because he is – but because he is too fucking good looking. I seem to get a strange tingling sensation when I'm around him and staring up (way up since he's got to be at least 6 feet 4 inches tall) into his steely blue eyes, which makes me nervous. Rob and Rosslyn live only a couple of miles from Brian and me, and I seem to run into one or both of them on almost a bi-weekly basis at a local store or at a cultural, charity, or entertainment event. They have contributed generously to the charity that I run.

*****************

Probably the worst experience of my life occurred while I was just out grocery shopping at the closest food store while Brian was in Europe on business. The store is located about halfway between Rob and Rosslyn's house and mine. It was winter so it was already pitch black even though it was only about six p. m. As I was loading my groceries into the trunk of my car in a fairly remote area of the parking lot I was suddenly grabbed by an obviously strong man who put one hand over my mouth so that I couldn't scream and lifted me off the ground with another.

A second guy, with a gun in his hand and a ski mask on, stuck the gun in my face and grumbled "Don't scream or you're dead," and then they started carrying me toward a van with an open side door. Despite what the second guy said and my overwhelming fear I started to kick, and banged my high heels into a few car doors which made a fair amount of noise.

Just as I was being tossed into the van, hitting my forehead on the doorway, I heard a noise behind me. My vision was a little blurry, but when I regained it I saw the guy who had apparently been carrying me on the ground and a big guy fighting with the guy with the mask. Several gunshots rang out in the air. I tried to exit the vehicle, but was light headed and didn't want to crash so I just flopped back down. Then I heard another shot and the guy with the mask slumped to the ground.

Then I saw my savior's face – it was Rob Decker!

"Are you all right lady?" he asked as he lightly touched my arm. 

I turned to face him.

"Wow, that's a nasty cut on your head," he continued, reaching for his cell phone – and then he suddenly stopped.

"Is that you Gail? Holy Shit!"

"Yeah, it's me; hi Rob, and thank you so much," I was able to get out before I burst into tears.

I don't think that I passed out, but I certainly was not totally with it, as the activity level around me spiked. I heard Rob on the phone yelling our location to the 911 operator, I heard other store customers buzzing around, I felt Rob's strong arms holding me, I heard the police and ambulance sirens, I remembered being loaded into the ambulance with a cop and Rob also inside leaving little room for the EMTs, and I remember waking up in a hospital bed in the Emergency Room.

When I was fully cognizant two police detectives, who identified themselves as Marge Williams and Peter Bronson, interviewed me. I didn't have much to tell. I asked them lots of questions and found out that the two attempted kidnappers both had long records for violent crimes and were out on parole. One was dead, the other handcuffed to his bed in the prison wing of the hospital. Rob was fine, had already been interviewed, and was waiting to see me.

Rob came into the room when the detectives were done and gave me a big hug, which I returned while sobbing "Thank you" about a million times. The detectives drove Rob and I to his car in the grocery store parking lot. 

The grocery store employees could not have been nicer – they had a note on my car asking me to come into the store to get replacements for all of my purchased items that had been strewn over the lot in the attack; Rob had just pulled into the lot when he saw the attack so he had no items.

The store assured me that my car would be safe in the lot – the manager moved it and parked it right next to his car – and Rob drove me and my replacement groceries home. Rosslyn was waiting for us there and gave me a hug, resulting in more tears from me.

I gave Rob Brian's contact information in Europe and he called him there. Brian could not get home until the next night.

By ten o'clock I had eaten a bowl of cereal, Rob had put all the groceries away, and Rosslyn had helped me change into a nightgown. Rob and Rosslyn were getting ready to leave when I broke down.

"I'm scared to death; I can't be alone," I wailed.

Rob and Rosslyn talked and Rob agreed to stay with me at least until mid-morning, when my brother – who Rob also had called – would arrive.

I was so terrified that I couldn't even have Rob stay in a different room; I made him sleep on the couch in the master bedroom. Despite my anxiety I was totally drained, and after Rob squeezed my hand and kissed me on my forehead – though not on my bandaged wound – I passed out more than fell asleep.

Rob made me breakfast, gave me several reassuring hugs, and stayed with me until my brother Jack arrived. After handing Jack the pain pills that the hospital had given Rob, with instructions about when to administer them to me, Rob went to the front door.

"I'll never be able to thank you," I blubbered, on the verge of tears as Rob stood at the door.

With a devilish smile he said "You'll think of a way Sultry Sue," and then engulfed me in his long, strong arms, and planted a totally non-chaste kiss on my lips. 

Despite my confusion at the "Sultry Sue" comment, I waved good-bye from the front stoop as a liquid started oozing out of my pussy and running down my thigh.

****************** 

Maybe some people can instantly bounce back from trauma like the one that I experienced. I wasn't one of them. Jack, Brian when he got back the evening after the attack, all my friends, and everyone at the charity was as nice as could be to me. Rob called me every other day to see how I was doing. Despite the warmth and support, however, I was still having flashbacks, sometimes waking in the middle of the night screaming.

After about two weeks of angst, Brian talked me into going to see a shrink.

Psychiatrist Betsy Wankel was perfect for me. After I had seen her every other day for two weeks for about forty five minutes a session I felt much better. However one thing about my visits was disturbing. Part of her therapy if I started getting antsy was to tell me to "Go to a happy place in your mind. Concentrate on something wonderful, when you felt safe."

Each time I did, however, I went back to the same place. Rob hugging and kissing me good-bye the morning after the incident. About the fifth time that that happened I had to ask Dr. Wankel about it.

"Betsy, your 'happy place' therapy is great; however there is one significant problem. It's in the arms of the guy who saved me – and it sends chills down my spine."

"That's not really surprising, Gail. It's only natural to feel overwhelming gratitude. However you need to move past that too."

"How?" was my succinct reply.

"You need to do something really nice for him, and him alone. Then you can move past it. What are you really good at that you could do for him?"

"Fucking," immediately came to my mind – though fortunately I had enough impulse control not to blurt that out. I thought for a second and then said "Actually, I'm a really good cook for certain things. At one dinner party at my house Rob raved about my lobster risotto, gushing that it was the best that he had ever tasted."

"There you have it," Betsy chuckled. "Invite just him over for a lunch of lobster risotto; after that you can much more easily move past the incident."

"Thanks," I chirped. "That sounds like a great plan!"

****************

I don't know if it was conscious or not, but I asked Rob over for a lobster risotto lunch on a day when Brian was several thousand miles away on business, and my head wound had essentially completely healed so that I didn't look like a Civil War casualty. Rob seemed very pleased with my invitation. I hardly slept the night before because dozens of thoughts – some of them G-rated, many X-rated (I guess they now call them "NC-17", but you get the picture) – raced through my pea brain. 

After my almost sleepless night, I applied a little makeup and put on a cute blue and purple sun dress that complemented my coloring – and nothing else.

"Hi, Rob," I cheerily greeted him; he was early at 11:15 a. m., and the risotto was at just at the nascent stages of preparation. "Glad that you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss your tasty offering for the world," he replied with what I do believe was a half-smirk, as he gave me a hug. "I like the dress!"

"Thanks so much," I blushed.

"I hope these flowers will be a good table decoration," he said, suddenly presenting a bouquet of chrysanthemums. 

"You didn't have to do that – this is about me thanking you," I gushed, "but they're beautiful. Thank you so much."

"Beauty for a beauty," was his unsettling reply.

I was completely nervous around him; except for the night of the attack I had never been with him alone for any extended period of time. My conversation with him, as I continued preparation of our lunch while we sipped wine and he watched, was strained. The fluid leaking from my pussy sure didn't help any. When all the burners were off and I was starting to combine ingredients Rob grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to face him; he stared at me like a cobra might when mesmerizing its prey.

"I know why you're uptight," he chortled.

"What...what makes you, uh, well, uh, thinks that me, um, I'm upset...uh, uptight?" I mumbled, unable to divert his gaze.

"Maybe because an intelligent woman like you can't put together a simple sentence when confronted with my statement," he smugly continued. "If you don't know that I think that you're the sultriest fucking woman on the planet then you're not a very good judge of emotion – and if you won't admit to yourself that you've always been attracted to me then you're self-delusional too."

With that statement he reached his right hand under my dress – and found my panty-less, shaved, sopping wet pussy.

Shortly I was sitting on my living room couch with my dress up, my legs splayed, and his tongue, lips, and fingers a blur working over my dripping cunt. The motherfucker really knew what he was doing. I was screaming in orgasm faster than I ever had before in my life.

My shaking and shuddering barely slowed him down. My only respite was when he pulled my dress completely off, leaving me with only my four inch heels on. After sucking and manipulating my tiny tits with puffy nipples for a while, while emitting a series of "Fuck yeas," he got back to work on my pussy. When he sucked my clit into his mouth while simultaneously abusing my G-spot with the fingers on his right hand, and massaging a pussy lip with his left, I had the most intense orally-induced orgasm of my life.

As I sat on the couch moaning, with pussy juice leaking onto the fabric (fortunately Scotch-guarded so that it wouldn't stain), trying to recover, Rob stood in front of me and methodically removed his clothes. When his meaty rock hard cock popped out as his boxers were removed I thought "How in the fuck is that thing going to fit into my poor little snatch?"

Rob sat down on the couch, lifted me up off of it like I weighed nothing, and then sat me on his lap, facing him. We both moaned and groaned as it took a few minutes to manipulate his meat into my little kitty, but once he was buried it felt sooo damn good. 

I tried to move down when he bucked up, and every couple of strokes tensed my pussy muscles to give his cock a little squeeze. We almost developed a rhythm before the dopamine and serotonin started flowing through my brain like the Amazon – and based upon Rob's reaction the same thing was happening to him. We gyrated wildly until his first salvo erupted in my love canal. I screamed, he grunted, as my spine turned to jelly and my whole body tingled and spasmed. It was an order of magnitude more powerful than any feeling that I had ever had before; even more powerful than the fear that I felt before Rob saved me from being abducted.

When I finally regained cognizance and we were able to carefully work his deflating penis out of my vagina, we were grinning like a barrel full of possums.

"That was the best fuck of my life, Sultry Sue," he laughed.

"What's with the 'Sultry Sue' shit?" I giggled.

"That's what all the men I know call you behind your back – it fits you much better than just plain 'Gail'" he chuckled.

"I'd get pissed at you except that you just gave me the three most profound orgasms of my life," I shot back, then playfully bit his nose.

After exchanging a few more expressions of satisfaction with each other's sexual performance I said "You know, I really do intend to feed you lobster risotto, if your hunger wasn't satisfied by eating me out twice."

"I could use some of that culinary masterpiece," he snickered, "but maybe a shower first; we're all sweaty."

I hadn't even noticed, but sweat was still glistening on both of us.

"You don't think that I'll let you shower with me, do you?" I giggled.

"Try and stop me," he laughed as he picked me up and carried me into our first floor shower stall.

The shower stall on our first floor was one-third the size of the one in our master bathroom, so sex in there was out of the question – but if it hadn't been physically impossible it most likely would have happened.

After we got out and dried off with towels I said "I need to find my dress..."

He cut me off.

"I'd really like it if you'd stay naked until after lunch – just put your heels back on."

"You pervert," I chuckled; "I will only if you'll stay naked too and let me squeeze your balls once in a while."

"Best deal I ever made," was his joyful reply.

Trying to finish the risotto preparation naked, while Rob was stroking my ass, lightly pinching my nipples, or rubbing his hand over my crotch, was darn near impossible. Finally I turned toward him – and his now again erect flagpole – and while I wondered to myself how in the hell that thing ever fit in me before I said "All right; I can't take it anymore. Fuck me again, and then maybe we can eat lunch."

I expected him to take me back to the couch; he had other ideas. He lifted me up by my ass cheeks, pinned me against the refrigerator door, with a little help from me wormed his rock hard cock back into my now-expanded pussy and then started banging away.

Refrigerator magnets and the papers they were holding flew off the refrigerator like shingles in a tornado. An ugly ceramic rooster that I had been trying to get rid of for years but Brian refused to part with because his Aunt Rose had given it to us, toppled off the top of the appliance smashing on the ceramic tile floor. Rob's dick pumping in and out of my pussy caused my world to shake more than the flying objects. 

When Rob squirted what seemed like a liter of cum into me the pleasure chemical levels in my body exceeded even those of the couch fuck; I was surprised that Rob's knees didn't buckle from the intensity of the experience

Once we came down slightly from our euphoria we carefully moved away from the broken ceramic chicken, giggling all the while. Rob swept or picked up the debris from our over-the-top sexual encounter, while still in a daze I completed lunch preparation. As we ate naked, while polishing off the remnants of a bottle of wine, I honestly said "This is the worst risotto that I have ever made in my life – but you know what, I don't give a shit! I'd take four mammoth orgasms over a bowl of fancy rice any day."

Rob laughed as he polished off the last of the recipe that was supposed to feed four people. "Hey, I'm not complaining. The way I feel this is the best food ever. I fulfilled my number one goal over the last eight years and fucked Sultry Sue – twice; and ate her twice to boot; and it was even better than I expected! I'm one happy fella!"

I smiled, and I'm sure that I blushed.

"If I didn't have a meeting with a client at 3 p. m. that I can't miss if I want to retain his business I'd stay here the rest of the afternoon," he continued while taking the last bite.

"Whatever would we do to occupy the time if you did?" I coyly inquired while batting my eyes.

"We'd think of something," he said as he chugged the last few ounces of wine.

I will still naked – except for my four inch heels – when he left. He gave me an uber-passionate kiss while squeezing my ass just before he walked out the door. After two steps he turned around with the most diabolical grin on his face that I'd ever seen, and said "See you around Sultry Sue."

As soon as I closed the door I leaned back against it and closed my eyes. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I hadn't even tried to resist, although resistance would have been futile. Suddenly I felt completely drained. The lack of sleep the night before, the expenditure of nervous energy leading up to my sexual encounters, and the emotionally and physically draining four most zealous orgasms of my life, left me with nothing in the tank.

I didn't even bother cleaning up the lunch dishes. I dragged my ass upstairs to my bed, flipped my heels off, and snuggled under the covers. Just before I nodded off for a much-needed nap I thought to myself "That diabolical smile and comment when Rob was leaving indicates that he thinks that just because he saved my life and gave me my best sexual experience ever that he can fuck me whenever he wants to."

I pondered that for a few seconds, and then pulled one of the pillows up against my chest, and sighed: "Unfortunately, he's right." Then I immediately fell asleep with a sore pussy but with a smile in my heart if not on my face.



Futile Resistance Ch. 02



French woke up in the middle of the night with a headache, a dry mouth and a large, warm man wrapped around her. Oh, no, she thought, what did I do? Lying as still as possible so as not to wake him, she took stock of the previous night. She'd seen Aidan at the party, then drank a margarita. Then she'd danced with Aidan. Then drank – no gulped – a martini. He'd brought her home and here she was: naked and deliciously entangled with him.

"Are you ok?" Aidan asked in a sleep-roughened voice.

French paused before she answered, not sure what he was inquiring about – her headache or whether or not she was 'ok' with having slept with him.

"Um, I'm fine," she said, slowly disengaging her limbs from his.

"Don't move," Aidan said groaning as he stretched his body against hers. Gathering her back in, he said, "It feels so good to hold you like this again."

"I need some aspirin and a glass of juice," French groaned, "my head is killing me!"

"I told you to take it easy on the Cosmos," Aidan tut-tutted. "You stay put and I'll make you feel all better."

French rolled to face him as he got out of bed. In the darkened bedroom, she couldn't see much of him. But, as he walked away from the bed and into the hallway, she could make out his lean body and nicely rounded buttocks silhouetted by the nightlight in the hallway. She flopped onto her back, groaning silently to herself. She really couldn't believe that she'd slept with him. Not only that, but she'd behaved like a sex maniac, saying and doing things she'd never have done without a few drinks under her belt. God, had she really told him to 'suck them' and to 'fuck me now'? As her headache hadn't affected her memory, she knew for a fact that she had said those things. A hot flush of embarrassment suffused her whole body. How could she face him?

And face him she would, because he was coming down the hall toward the bedroom again. He sat on the side of the bed with a glass of orange juice and two ibuprofen tablets. Switching the bedside lamp to the dimmest setting he turned to her.

"Here, let me help you sit up, so you can swallow these," he said soothingly. Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he helped her sit up. The down-filled comforter slid away from French's breasts as she reached for the pills and the juice glass. In an effort to cover herself, she fumbled the pills and would have spilled the juice had Aidan not been paying attention.

"Easy," he said calmly, retrieving the pill she had dropped. French had the covers clenched to her chest with one hand, so he put the pills in the other, holding the glass while she tossed them in her mouth. He handed her the glass so she could wash the pills down, watching her carefully as she swallowed. Panic was emanating from her body in palpable waves. He thought for a moment that maybe he should just tell her his intentions. Tell her that he wanted her forever and that he intended to win her, body and soul. He quickly came to his senses, realizing that if he declared himself, she would simply become equally determined not to let him have his way. He'd play it cool, he decided; he'd let her think that he would allow her to resist him and to deny her feelings for him... For now.

French flopped back on the pillow, eyes closed to block out the sight of Aidan. Her brows were knit against her headache and the myriad thoughts pounding through her brain. Aidan reached out and ran a soothing finger across the shallow furrows between her eyes.

"Turn over," he said, "I'll rub your neck and back for you. That should help you get back to sleep."

"Aidan," French protested, "this is crazy."

"I agree," he said, "it would be crazy if you turned down one of my famous massages."

"You know what I mean!" French said, but turned over nonetheless.

"Do you still have that scented oil in the nightstand?"

"Mm, hmm."

Reaching into the bedside table, Aidan located the oil. He also saw that she had acquired a couple of new toys that looked rather interesting. One of the famous Rabbit vibrators lay next to a nice-sized, lifelike dildo in a clear plastic zippered pouch. Before he could take a closer look, French's eyes flew open and she lurched awkwardly over him to close the nightstand drawer.

"Don't look in there!" she panted. She could not believe she had forgotten about the new 'friends' she'd purchased after she and Aidan had broken up.

"Um, ok, but I think I already saw what you didn't want me to see," Aidan said.

"God, I'm so embarrassed," French moaned, not registering that her naked body was stretched across Aidan's equally nude form. His cock lay snuggled between her breasts as she leaned across his lap, her forehead against his thigh, hoping that he would disappear if she couldn't see him.

Aidan was only too aware of the way her breasts felt against his cock. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, mentally ticking through the steps he took to develop pictures in his darkroom to keep from thinking about exactly how perfect, how soft her breasts were against his sensitive flesh. When that didn't work, he decided to give in to his desire to touch her. He stroked her neck as she lay across him, smoothed a hand down her back. He reached for the massage oil, poured a little in his palm to warm it before slicking it onto her smooth, tawny skin. The feel of her under his hand did little to assuage the lust that was riding him.

"Lie flat so I can reach you better," Aidan said.

French was mortified all over again, having felt his cock hardening against her breasts as she lay draped across him. Her body was on fire with embarrassment. Was there no end to her stupidity tonight? How could she have forgotten the toys were in the same drawer as the massage oil? She moved off of his lap without looking at him and lay facedown with her head cradled in her arms.

"Baby, you don't have to be embarrassed. The thought of you playing with that stuff is mind-blowing," Aidan said, knowing her well enough to know that she definitely was embarrassed, and not just about him having seen the toys, but about everything that had happened that evening.

French responded with a murmured protest that was muffled by the position of her head buried in her arms, but then groaned as Aidan began his massage in earnest. Starting at the nape of her neck, he smoothed out all the kinks and knots, moving down her back with long sleek strokes, applying firmer pressure whenever he encountered a particularly tight knot. He had straddled her thighs in order to get better leverage and though he didn't place his full weight on her, his semi-hard cock grazed her ass each time he leaned forward. He slid a little further down her legs, moving the massage to her firm buttocks, and then down to the backs of her thighs. He took his time massaging her legs and then her feet. French was lying limp beneath him, her breathing having evened into deeply relaxed inhalations and exhalations. Having thoroughly massaged the back of her, he leaned over her and whispered,

"Ready for me to do the front side now?"

While French had been thoroughly enjoying her massage, she had also been gathering her courage to deal with the situation at hand. She did turn over under him, but clutched the sheet to her chest.

"I think we should talk. About us. I mean, not about us, because there really is no us, but I mean about what happened tonight," she stammered out.

"OK. Talk," Aidan said, moving off of her. He seemed completely unabashed at being naked and partially aroused. He moved up so he was lying next to her on his side, elbow propping up his head.

"This was a mistake," she began determinedly. "I had too much to drink and I just wasn't myself."

"French, don't blame what happened on being drunk. This is me, remember? Don't lie to me or to yourself. You didn't have that much to drink tonight. You wanted it just as much as I did," Aidan said testily.

"No, I didn't," she tried to lie, but one look at Aidan's forbidding face had her admitting, "OK, I did want you. But just that one last time, sort of like a farewell. That's all."

"Don't I have any say in the matter?"

"Aidan, don't be difficult," French pleaded. "This is hard enough as it is. You know that relationships never work; one or both people involved invariably wind up hating the other even if they pretend to be "happily" married. It's a farce I refuse to play a part in. It's crazy to even go down that path when we both know better. We'll wind up hating each other and I'd rather have you as a friend than as nothing at all."

"French, I don't know anything of the sort. You've never given us a chance to find out what could be between us. Have a little faith! Not everyone in the world is like your mother and her string of loser lovers or like your father and his ice-maiden of a wife! My parents have been married for nearly forty years and they are happy together. I'm not saying that every day of their lives together has been perfect, but nothing in life is perfect. They love each other and they have entrusted their hearts to each other," Aidan said, the frown on his face and the tone of his voice making his frustration plain.

"Aidan, of course your parents would tell you they were happy and put up a good front to avoid hurting you and your brothers," French said, "but do you really believe them? Come on! Don't be so naïve."

Taking French's chin in a gentle grip, Aidan turned her head on the pillow so she had to meet his eyes. Once he was sure he had her full attention, he said,

"I'm not being naïve. I believe in their love. Hell, I believe in love period, which is more than I can say for you! God, when I think of the way you were with me earlier tonight, I realize just how much of yourself you hold back from me. I want every part of you, French. All that passion you keep locked up inside of you... I want it! Why can't you trust me?"

French was quiet for a moment. Inside, there was a piece of her that wanted to let go and love him and let him love her. She wanted to be able to throw herself into his arms, tell him how much he scared her, how much her feelings for him scared her. But, as always, something stopped her. Being so alone was agonizing, but so was the thought that he might take what she had to offer and throw it back in her face. She knew she had to strengthen her resolve and deflect him from his pursuit of her.

"God, this is beginning to sound so cliché," French said hotly, "except it's usually the woman who's arguing the merits of love!"

"All right, so I'm a woman," Aidan said with a smile in his voice. He forcefully restored a calm demeanor. He'd thought of a new tact to take with her. "If you don't believe in love and don't believe that relationships between men and women can ever last, then why not just enjoy whatever it is we have between us for as long as it's comfortable? We could see each other, go out on dates and of course, have hot sex. No strings. There's really nothing to lose if our hearts aren't involved, right?"

French realized that she'd walked right into a trap. If she said no to his proposition, he'd think she had feelings for him that she was afraid to confront, and rightly so. If she said yes, then she'd be forced to be with him, constantly waiting for the worst to happen. The idea of spending time with him again was temptingly appealing, while at the same time she was terrified that she'd reveal her innermost feelings for him and make herself vulnerable. She was already more than halfway in love with him. Constant exposure to him would get her the rest of the way there. She was certain of it. And then what? She looked him in the eye, trying to decipher what he might be thinking, trying to see if he was joking, trying to goad her into making some unseemly declaration. His eyes were serious; his face was calm, set in an open and questioning expression. He was waiting for her answer and the longer she took to give it to him, the more he might read into her hesitation.

As if on cue, Aidan said, "Baby, this isn't that tough a question. Yes or no? Nothing to lose. We go our separate ways whenever either one of us feels like it," he lied, hoping he'd never have to face that reality. He looked into her eyes imploringly, reached out to brush one of her corkscrew curls off her forehead.

"Aidan, this is crazy," French protested somewhat weakly.

"Nope. But what is crazy is that we're both here, we're both 'nekkid' and we're not having sex!" Aidan joked leeringly. "I'll have your answer, woman, and now!!" he growled, playfully biting her on the neck.

"Shouldn't we iron out the rules of this little proposition?" she asked, ignoring the goosebumps that had pricked up all over her.

"Rules, schmules. Let's just do what comes naturally, OK?"

"But, Aidan, this could get complicated..." French protested.

"Only if you make it complicated," Aidan said. His eyes darkened to a deeper blue as he looked at her intently.

French felt her resolve slipping. Am I really about to do this? Yes. God help me, but yes I am!

Aidan sensed her capitulation in the way the tension went out of her body and her troubled green eyes cleared.

"You'll see, we're going to do just fine," Aidan promised softly. He leaned in then to seal the promise with a gentle kiss.

French held still under the kiss, holding herself apart from Aidan for as long as she could. It was his tenderness that had been her undoing before and the reason she had broken up with him. It had touched her too deeply, made her feel things she had been afraid to feel. But now she had agreed to his diabolical proposition. She would have to brazen her way through whatever was to come.

Aidan placed tiny butterfly kisses against her face, knowing that she was fighting an internal battle. He reached her mouth again and gently took her bottom lip between his teeth, then the top one. French opened willingly to him then and he swooped his tongue between her lips to taste her. His head was still propped on his arm and he used his free hand to caress her face and hair.

French grew impatient with the soft kisses and fisted her fingers in his hair to pull his mouth more tightly to hers. She slid her tongue into his mouth with a hum of satisfaction. Her senses were overwhelmed by his nearness. The taste of him was as intoxicating as the martinis she'd drank earlier. His special scent filled her nostrils, a combination of his spicy, musky aftershave and that indefinable something that was his alone. She rolled onto her side to face him, the better to touch him, to explore the terrain of his body. His skin was hot and smooth as silk where it wasn't roughened by hair.

Aidan pushed her onto her back again, sweeping the sheet away from her body. He moved to cover her, deepening their kiss, taking her mouth roughly. French spread her legs enough so that his hips were between her thighs, his cock nestled against her pussy. He slid back and forth suggestively, bathing his cock in her wet heat. French rolled her hips, seeking greater contact. She slid her hands down his back to his buttocks, clenched them, pulling his hips harder against hers.

Aidan kneeled up between her legs, looked down at the way she was spread wantonly beneath him. The expression on his face had hardened; he looked at her dispassionately, heat and lust blazing in his eyes, but the tenderness that had been there before was gone. He took her hands and placed them above her head, wrapped the fingers of each hand around two slats in the headboard of her mission-style sleigh-bed.

"Keep them there," he ordered.

French drew in a shaky breath, unsure of what he was about and incredibly aroused by his commanding demeanor. She tightened her hands on the headboard, anchoring herself.

Aidan leaned over her, opened her mouth with his and gave her a searing kiss. His cock nudged against her clit as he hung over her. Except for that glancing touch and the junction of their lips, their bodies didn't touch anywhere else. French lifted her hips to his, encouraging more contact. Aidan pulled away from her, depriving her of his touch. He reached over and retrieved the bottle of massage oil. He poured some in his hands, warmed it. Reaching up, he smoothed it onto her outstretched arms, kneading the muscles. He looked into her eyes as he stroked, his intense blue ones meeting limpid pools of vivid green. He stroked her slowly and deliberately. Adding more oil, he moved his hands down over her shoulders to her chest and ultimately to her breasts.

He took them in his hands, kneaded them, circled with his fingertips but avoided touching the nipples that had become hard peaks. Her breathing quickened and he leaned down, laved his tongue over one tip, then the other, light caresses that had her catching her breath and arching her back. He alternated between one breast and the other, circling the nipples with his tongue, but never giving her what she wanted. He continued massaging the fullness of her breasts, the result being that her nipples were as engorged as they'd ever been.

French whimpered, thinking she would die if he didn't take her nipple into his mouth. Her nipples throbbed with the need for the suction of his mouth. The place between her legs seemed conspicuously empty; the muscles there contracted around the nothingness there. She writhed under him and managed to graze the top of his cock again with her body.

"Aidan, please! God! Please, do it!" she gasped.

Having achieved the desired result of having her beg, Aidan teased her for a moment longer, then sucked her nipple in his mouth. Hard. French moaned her ecstasy and reached down to cup his head more tightly to her. Without lifting his head from her breast, he grasped her hand firmly and placed it back on the headboard. Switching to her other breast, he gave it the same treatment.

French was desperate for him. She wanted to feel his body plastered to hers. Instead, he feasted on her, his mouth and hands on her breasts the only parts of him that touched her. She arched her back, lifted her hips from the bed, trying to get closer to him. The emptiness between her legs became a pleasurably throbbing ache. She felt as if her skin was too small to contain all the sensations that coursed just under the surface.

Aidan let his hands roam further down her torso, encircled her ribcage, followed the curves of her body with his thumbs. He poured more oil into his hands, slicked it over her. He leaned down, nipped at her stomach, dipped his tongue into her shallow bellybutton.

French moaned, knew what was coming next, could barely contain her delight and relief that soon she would feel his mouth on her pussy. Aidan placed a closed-mouth kiss on her mound that had French pressing her hips upward. Then, with firm strokes of his oil-slicked hands, he moved away from that highly sensitized area of her body. He rubbed the crease of her thighs and down. French's breath caught in disappointment and need, she hung poised in a state of aroused suspension, waiting for what she craved. Aidan worked oil into her skin, moving down the tops and outsides of her legs to her feet, then slowly moved up, working the insides of her legs. Reaching the apex of her thighs, his thumbs brushed her swollen, wet lips. He massaged them. Using her juices and the oil that remained on his hands as lubricant, he ran his hands, a little roughly, all over her mons, avoiding her clit, which was engorged and throbbing.

French ground her hips against his hands, desperation fueling her. Aidan spread the lips of her pussy with his thumbs and let the cool air of the room wash over her hot, wet flesh. He leaned down, inhaled the heady scent of her arousal. Extending and stiffening his tongue, he ran it from the bottom of her sex to the top, ending with a firm stroke against her clit, then lifted his head. French cried out, afraid that he would continue teasing her, yet despairing that he would stop. She reached down, tightened her fist in his hair.




Futile Resistance Ch. 02



"Put your hand back on the headboard," he said in a low voice, his tone brooking no argument.

Drawing in a shaky breath, French obeyed. Satisfied with her compliance, Aidan lowered his head again and proceeded to feast. He licked and nibbled her pussy, sucking her lips into his mouth, spearing his tongue into her as she bucked her hips against him. He gripped her hips, held her down, lightly circled her clit with his tongue. Her body trembled and she began to moan, gasping and panting, pleasure claiming her senses. She wanted more, wanted him to suck her clit into his mouth, to end her agony of sweet ecstasy. She tried to press her hips upward, found she couldn't. Shifting his hands, Aidan pressed one on top of her pubic bone, still holding her immobile. He slid the forefinger of his free hand into her, felt her muscles clamp down. He added another finger, felt her stretch wetly around him. He began to thrust his fingers in and out of her sheath slowly, twisting them as he did so. He firmed the strokes of his tongue on her clit, sometimes laving her with its pointed tip, other times flattening it, letting her feel the entire suede texture of it against her.

French panted, her breaths coming faster and deeper. Waves of pleasure coursed through her body, washing her in heat. Aidan sped up the strokes of his fingers in her. He lifted his mouth from her to watch her as he fucked her with his fingers. French gasped, bereft that he'd taken his mouth off of her. She keened, "No, Aidan, please don't stop. Please!"

He lowered his head, flicked her clit with his tongue, felt her body start to quake.

"Mmm, yes, Aidan, that's so good," she moaned and found that she could move her hips again. She ground upward, pressing her clit more firmly against his tongue, grunting, moaning and panting in rhythm with the thrusts of her hips, his fingers and his tongue. Then he sucked her clit firmly into his mouth and she exploded, bucking hard, squeezing his head between her slim thighs. Aidan pressed her thighs apart and pushed her harder, higher until she was lightheaded and felt her fingertips and toes start to tingle. She rode the crest of her orgasm for a long moment. She held her breath as she hung suspended on the tide of pleasure. He seemed to know just when to let up on her; he gentled his motions, his tongue and fingers more soothing now than arousing. She gasped for air, her eyes closed, her fingers loosely gripping the headboard. Her body was completely limp, she was drained. The muscles in her pussy clenched in spasms; apparently they were the only muscles on her body capable of any movement whatsoever.

French opened her heavy-lidded eyes. They were glazed with passion, her pupils dilated. Aidan slid his fingers out of her slickness. Her eyes widened slightly when he held his hand to her mouth and said,

"Suck them clean."

French opened her mouth, took his fingers in, tasted herself, sucked her sweet/tangy juices off of them. Aidan's composure cracked. He had held himself apart during this encounter, wanting to drown her in desire, bathe her in passion. He had driven himself mad in his seduction of her. He was painfully hard; he needed to be inside of her in the worst way. Without preamble, he thrust into her hard, drove into her to the hilt. She was so wet, so tight; her pussy clamped around him as he withdrew and thrust home again. He was beyond the point of being gentle, beyond the point of making love to her. He took her roughly, fucking her, going as deeply into her as he could.

French released her grip on the headboard, pulled Aidan's head down to give him a hot open-mouthed kiss. She met every one of his thrusts with an upward thrust of her own. The fine line between pleasure and pain began to blur as he pounded into her. All of her was focused on where they were joined; she felt herself being sucked into a vortex of all-consuming pleasure. Sweat gleamed on his body and his face was starkly set; lines of excruciating passion marked his features.

He straightened his arms, braced himself above her, changing the angle of penetration. He was able to thrust harder, at the same time stimulating French's clit on each inward thrust. French moaned, a low sustained sound that signaled the arrival of her climax. It ripped through her violently, wave after wave of it flogging her raw senses. Aidan felt the strong rhythmic contractions of her pussy and managed to thrust once more, again, then again. With a muffled roar, he came, pumping into her forcefully and repeatedly. He collapsed on top of French, his breath coming hard and fast, the pulse in his neck pounding visibly.

French wrapped her legs around his waist, the movement eliciting another spasm from her and a moan from Aidan. She turned her head, nipped his shoulder with her teeth, licked the spot, then kissed it. She stroked his back, soothed him, feeling the muscles there ripple as he struggled to regain his breath. A layer of sweat coated their bodies and as Aidan lifted himself off of her, their skin came unglued.

He collapsed next to her without a word and reached across her to extinguish the lamp on the nightstand. Exhausted, he pulled her to him spoon-fashion and kissed the back of her neck. The next thing she knew, his breathing had turned deep and regular. He slept. 

French was dazed; she felt so many things at once. A little bruised and battered, but sated from head to toe. She had been well-loved, then well-used. She was so tired, she could barely keep her eyes open, but she was also exhilarated and strangely energized. She felt the fog of contentment stealing over her, yet the niggling worry that it was temporary was at the back of her mind.

She lay awake for a time, cataloguing her feelings. As the blue-gray light of dawn stole into the sky, she drifted off to sleep, cradled in Aidan's arms.



Futile Resistance Ch. 03



French woke in the morning to a bright winter sun shining through the bamboo blinds on her bedroom window. Immediately, instinctively, she knew that she was alone in her apartment. Aidan had left. She felt a vague sense of disappointment that he wasn't there, but she also acknowledged that she needed time away from him to examine their newly forged relationship under the clear light of day.

Getting out of bed, French slid into a kimono of jade-green silk shot through with a red, yellow and black embroidered pattern. She padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When she reached the kitchen, she found a note from Aidan leaning against the coffeemaker:

'Morning, Legs - I'm at my house, working. I'll be there most of the day if you want me. Dinner tonight? 6:30-ish? I'll be by to pick you up then. Dress casually. A.

Oh, really? Dinner, she thought. For a split second, she entertained the idea that she should stand him up. He hadn't really asked if she would go out with him for dinner, had he? She wanted to see him, though, and knew that if she didn't go, she'd be depriving herself unnecessarily. She'd go.

French wasn't sure how she felt about Aidan having left without saying goodbye. She supposed that she wasn't entitled to feel anything at all about it. One of the terms of their agreement was that there were no strings attached. That meant that they could each come and go as they pleased, that they would have no real expectations of one another. She had always thought that was what she wanted in a relationship, but it felt strange to be alone after they had shared such a passionate night. Before, they always spent mornings together drinking coffee and chatting before they went their separate ways. She had missed that when they had broken up, but had eventually grown used to being on her own. She had been expecting that they would drift back into their old patterns and habits and was a bit disconcerted that they hadn't.   You've finally gotten what you said you wanted; companionship with no strings, no entanglements, she told herself sternly, expectations lead to disappointment and heartbreak. Smiling ruefully, and maybe a touch sadly, French finished measuring coffee and water and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, she took a shower, lingering under the hot spray. In spite of the unease that lingered in the back of her mind about the situation with Aidan and a pleasant ache between her thighs, she felt an overall sense of well-being. She felt as she did after a vigorous workout -- energized, centered and strong. She finished her shower and toweled off with a fluffy sage-green towel. Looking in the mirror, she had to acknowledge that her appearance matched the way she felt. She hadn't noticed until now that she had been displaying tension, strain and worry on her face. The absence of those emotions left her with a glowing complexion and relaxed visage. Well, at least the sex is doing me some good, she thought as she lavishly applied moisturizer to her body.

She dressed for maximum comfort in a velour tracksuit and a warm pair of wool socks. She planned to spend the day listening to the audition tapes she hadn't gotten to last night. She poured a cup of coffee and grabbed a yogurt and a banana for her breakfast. She went into her office-cum-guest bedroom where she sat at her desk and cued up the first tape.

She worked all day, listening to tape after tape, making notes about each on her laptop and reviewing each applicant's curriculum vitae. Surprisingly, there were a few talented students this time around and hearing their tapes made the day's task seem less onerous. She had to force herself to focus on her work, because thoughts of Aidan and last night were never far from her mind. Sounds, images, tastes and sensations of their lovemaking flashed in her mind. Her body suffused with heat, arousal curled low in her belly as she thought of the things she and Aidan had done. Over and over, she pulled her mind back to the tapes she was listening to and, more than once, she had to rewind a tape in order to give it the undivided attention it deserved. She didn't leave her office at all that day except to satisfy her body's most basic demands. She finished listening to the tapes just as night fell. It was really only late afternoon, but it was as dark as night what with the winter-shortened hours of daylight. She looked at her watch and saw that she had about an hour and a half before Aidan came to pick her up. Her stomach lurched with a mix of excitement and nervousness. How should she behave with him tonight, she wondered, and where was he taking her?

She decided pamper herself a little with a nice hot bath before he picked her up. As the tub filled, she went to her closet and surveyed her wardrobe. Casual, she thought, he'd said to wear something casual... She decided to wear her favorite pair of jeans; they were low-slung and fit her perfectly, being neither too tight nor too loose. She selected a dove-gray cashmere v-neck sweater that she'd picked up on sale at the Barney's New York clearance outlet. It was sinfully soft and molded to her curves perfectly, displayed a hint of cleavage without looking slutty or overtly provocative. Now for underwear, she thought with more than a twinge of gleeful anticipation. She chose a pewter-colored bra with lace cups and matching ultra low-rise lace boy shorts. Mmm, she thought approvingly, just the right mix of casual, understated sexiness. Can't look like I've tried too hard, can I?

Satisfied with her clothing selections, she retreated to the bathroom. She undressed, then drizzled scented oil into the steaming tub of water. She secured her curly hair atop her head in a messy knot secured with two ebony chopsticks she kept for that purpose and stepped into the tub.

She luxuriated in the bath, allowing the scented steam to permeate her senses. Leaning her head back against the inflatable bath pillow, she replayed the events of last evening in her mind. She had thoroughly enjoyed being with Aidan. Even from the first moment she saw him, she had been unable to resist or deny that she was still strongly attracted to him. She had been laboring under the delusion that she was over him; seeing him had quickly disabused her of that notion. The fact that she hadn't successfully mastered her emotions had seriously annoyed her and as she thought about it now, she felt a little ashamed that she'd behaved like a spoiled child who wasn't getting what she wanted. She knew that she'd been unpleasant in her behavior toward Aidan. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd told her to go to hell. In fact, she would have told him exactly that had the shoe been on the other foot.

She felt a little guilty when she thought of what it must have cost Aidan to persist in his pursuit of her in the face of her petulance. Well, he did ultimately get what he wanted out of it, she thought with a naughty grin, she couldn't feel guilty about everything that happened last night! Her smile dimmed as she decided that, at the very least, she should apologize and try to make it up to him somehow.

That was the hard thing, though. As a result of the turbulent home life her mother had provided, she had a hard time dealing with emotions. Even something as simple as an apology, made her feel uneasy, vulnerable and just, well... messy. She had never been physically abused, but she had been exposed to many overly adult conversations and situations growing up and they had left an indelible mark on her. Strong emotions, she had learned, led people to behave irrationally. She also knew that she never wanted to be held hostage by her emotions; she did not want to feel that someone else had power over her because of feelings she may have for that person.

She vividly remembered one incident when she'd awoken in the night and heard her mother's raised voice, shrill one minute, pleading the next. French had left her bed and crept down the hallway to her mother's room to investigate. The door was only partially closed and French saw her mother with tears streaming down her face as she looked beseechingly at her lover. French couldn't remember the man's name. Indeed, his name was unimportant, for he was just another one of the interchangeable wealthy businessmen her mother met through her job as an executive assistant at an investment firm downtown. The tall, aristocratic looking blond man stood next to the bed, mostly dressed, but his pants were still unzipped, his shirt unbuttoned. Her mother, dressed a silk wrapper, her long, curly black hair wild and loose, stood on the opposite side of the bed. The huge bed between them was a mess of expensive tangled sheets. The light in the room was dim and French remembered how candlelight had flickered across the ceiling and could recall the musky floral scent the candles had emitted. Her mother, Marcheline, had begged the man not to leave, telling him she'd do anything if only he'd keep seeing her. The man told her in no uncertain terms that he was through with her and sat down on the end of the bed to put on his shoes and socks. Not willing to take no for an answer, her mother had stripped out of her robe and stood naked before her lover.

She lowered her voice, adopting a seductive tone as she ran her hands over her silky dark skin.

"Baby, you won't ever find anyone who does you like I do," she whispered, cupping her small breasts, squeezing her engorged nipples between her fingers. She walked slowly to where the man sat at the foot of the bed.

"Aren't you going to miss this?" she asked, placing a foot on the bed next to his thigh. She ran her slim hand between her breasts, caressing herself, moving her hand ever downward until she reached the nest of curls between her legs. With her foot propped on the bed, the lips of her pussy were spread open. Marcheline's plan was working: she had her lover's undivided attention. She stroked her pussy for a moment, then probed one finger deep inside and brought it out, waved it under her lover's nose, sighing,

"Mmmm, smell me. Taste me."

The man's eyes darkened as he inhaled then grabbed hold of her mother's hand and sucked her fingers into his mouth. Marcheline had purred in delight. She took his hand and guided it to her pussy. The man played there for a long while. French couldn't see what he did, but her mother seemed to like it. She was moaning, encouraging him, begging him for more.

"Do you feel that, baby? Do you feel how wet I am for you?" her mother had purred. Dropping to her knees in front of him, she tugged at his pants and underwear until they fell in a pool around his ankles. She slid her hands seductively up and down his thighs. French had never seen a naked man before and couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of the man's thick length. Marcheline took his throbbing cock in her hands, cooing something French couldn't hear. Wide-eyed, she watched her mother stroke and tease the man's cock with her lips and tongue until finally he had taken her head in his hands and said hoarsely,

"Marcheline, take it, take it all in."

Her mother gazed up at him with heavy lidded eyes and slowly took the whole length of him in her mouth. The man moaned, eyes closed as his head fell back. French thought he looked like he might be in pain, but intuited that it might be a pain he enjoyed because he kept moaning and saying things like,

"Yeah, that's it, that it's, Marcheline, suck my cock."

Artfully, deliberately, Marcheline brought the man perilously close to coming over and over again, stopping just before he did each time. She had a look of satisfaction on her face as she worked him, like the cat who got the cream. When he begged her to let him come, her eyes glowed with triumph. Taking her mouth off of his cock, she gave the head one last long, slow lick then rose up and pushed him back on the bed. She crawled up him, took his cock in her hands and guided it slowly into herself. French watched incredulously as the man's thick cock slid into her mother. Marcheline was very petite and French couldn't imagine that the whole thing would fit. It did. Her mother sighed and murmured something when the whole thing was inside her. The man gripped Marcheline's hips tightly, his long white fingers in stark contrast with her mother's dark chocolate flesh. His fingers dug into her as he raised her up and brought her down hard again. Her mother braced her hands against his chest and swiveled her hips. From her position above him, she slowed the pace of their fucking. The man began to pant raggedly and, with sharp upward thrusts of his hips, attempted to force Marcheline into a faster rhythm. Marcheline kept the pace slow, rising up until only the tip of his cock was still inside her, then ever so slowly taking the entire length of him. Now, then, and again, she would twist her hips and grind against him.

They went on this way, with Marcheline controlling the ebb and flow of pleasure. The lovers' bodies had grown sweaty and shone slick in the flickering candlelight.  Marcheline rode him, gradually increasing the pace and force of her gyrations, spurring both of them toward climax. She arched her back suddenly as she came, crying out in sweet agony and ecstasy. The man seemed to lose control then and flipped her mother over and pounded into her with fast, deep thrusts. French thought he looked ridiculous with his pants in a bunch around his shod feet. He humped into her mother, grunting, and French thought his pale buttocks looked somehow pitiful or forlorn. Her mother spurred him on, saying breathily,

"Yeah, baby, fuck me, fuck me hard. You know I'm the best, don't you? I love feeling your cock inside me..."

He roared suddenly and French flinched at the suddenness of the sound. He pounded into her mother a few times more, then collapsed on top of her. Marcheline stroked his back, once again saying soft, soothing things French couldn't hear. The man got up abruptly. Still breathing hard, he yanked his clothes into place, fastening buttons and zippers.

Marcheline looked shocked. She sat bolt upright in bed, naked and wild looking.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" she asked, disbelief plain in her voice.

"I told you, Marcheline. It's over. You're a great lay; I can't deny that. For all the other womanly attributes you lack, you are talented in the sack," he'd said with a rueful laugh, "but I'm still going and I won't be back."

"Mon amour, please don't go," her mother cajoled sweetly, "I love you in ways no one else has... You told me so yourself! You'll never find another woman like me!" As she spoke, her voice gathered in volume and desperation.

He was fully dressed by then. He flipped open his wallet, selected a wad of bills, crumpled them in his fist and tossed them between her mother's legs where they were splayed on the bed. Her mother stared down at them, stunned.

"What the hell is this for?"

"Payment for services rendered. Thanks for the farewell fuck, Marcheline, it was good, as always. Don't try to contact me," he said dismissively and walked toward the door.

French knew she didn't have time to make it back to her room, so she ducked into the bathroom and hid behind the shower curtain to avoid being seen.

Marcheline had gotten angry then. She hurled accusations and invective at him as she chased him down the hall.  She screamed and cursed at him in a mix of French, Creole and English.  When they reached the front door, he turned and said in a well-modulated tone,

"This is exactly why I won't stay, Marcheline. You're out of control -- much too unpredictable... You knew I was married when we started this affair, but you couldn't be discreet, could you?" he asked, then went on without giving her mother a chance to respond. His face twisted with sarcasm as he said, "Nooo, you just had to call my house, didn't you? It was of the utmost importance that you speak with me in the middle of the night, wasn't it?"

Marcheline cowered in front of him, visibly recoiling from the words as though she were being physically assaulted.

He continued his diatribe, his voice still low. He spoke in an intense growl that, coupled with the harsh twist of his mouth and the hardness of the expression in his eyes, made him a greatly menacing presence.

"And when my wife answered the phone, you didn't just hang up like a normal person would have. You had to talk to her, didn't you? You had the gall to ask her if you could speak to me! What woman calls a man in the middle of the night and asks his wife if she can speak to him?! Are you out of your mind to do something like that? You almost cost me my marriage and that I won't have! I'd never lose my wife for someone like you!" he said through clenched teeth.

Marcheline was sobbing now, tears streaking her face. French came out of the shower and stood in the shadow of the bathroom door, watching wide-eyed as her mother dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the man's legs, begging him.

"Please... Don't! How can you say these things after all we've been to each other?"

"Marcheline, you've never been anything to me but a hot, wet pussy! A ready and willing piece of ass who'd do things in bed that my wife wouldn't! Women like you are a dime a dozen." he sneered.

"Please, don't say those things -- I know you can't mean them! I love you, chér... Don't leave me! I'll never call you at home again, I swear. I won't call your office, either. I promise! Please give me another chance!" she begged brokenly. "I can't live without you!"

"No, Marcheline. It won't happen. And stop groveling, it's excessive and it disgusts me," he said tonelessly. He kicked his legs free of her grasp, knocking her to the floor in the process and was gone.

Marcheline lay curled naked on the floor of the foyer for a long time, her grief coming in bursts that alternated between pitiable whimpers and gut wrenching sobs. Eventually, she got up and stumbled naked and unseeing into the kitchen and came out with a bottle of earthy Martinican rum. She sat on the big red velvet couch in the living room, taking long gulps of the rum directly from the bottle and crying. She smoked cigarettes one after the other as she talked to herself and drank, gradually working her way up to a state of fury. She began pacing back and forth in the living room, uncaring about her nakedness. Blind rage was upon her and she began throwing and breaking things. Ashtrays, vases and the small tokens of affection she'd received from her lovers over the years smashed into a thousand tiny pieces on the varnished wood floors and plaster walls.

Looking wild and untamed, she castigated her departed lover for his numerous faults. French watched her mother from the hallway, flinching every time something else was broken. Eventually, Marcheline wore herself down and passed out, sprawled naked on the couch in a drunken stupor. French had covered her with a blanket, then crept carefully around the mess on the floor to the refuge of her own bed.

The next day, Marcheline subsided into silence. She lingered in a despondent, nearly catatonic, state that lasted for a couple of days. She didn't say a word and wouldn't have dressed or eaten had French not coaxed her into doing both. Marcheline simply sat and stared into space. And at night, she prowled the house. French had woken during the night and found her roaming, ghostlike, tracing and retracing her steps. She had guided Marcheline back to bed and stayed with her the rest of the night. Though she felt frightened and confused, French had kept up appearances. She cared for herself and Marcheline for the three days of her mother's depression, going to school each day, but rushing directly home afterwards.




Futile Resistance Ch. 03



French came home from school on the fourth full day since the breakup to find that Marcheline had returned to a semblance of herself. She was nicely dressed, her hair was coiffed to perfection and she wore the makeup she customarily wore. She behaved somewhat normally, yet her eyes shone with a manic brilliance.  Her brittle smiles and shrill, forced laughter gave lie to the normalcy she had hoped to project. In a newfound quest for domesticity, she had prepared some of French's favorite Martinican dishes and cleaned the house. She feigned interest in French's activities and acted as though the past few days hadn't happened. With watchful eyes, French observed her mother's manner and thought it better not to mention what had happened with the man. Marcheline's mask had eventually cracked and she had vehemently promised French that she would do better next time to find a Papa for French who loved them both enough to stay with them forever.

That wasn't the only time Marcheline succumbed to depression. Each time a man left, he had seemed to take a little piece of her mother with him. As she had aged, there had been fewer men of the type she preferred. The wealthy, well-bred types no longer saw the exotic in Marcheline; they rather saw an aging immigrant woman, whose thick French accent and broken English had ceased to be charming. She still held allure for some men, but they were men she felt were beneath her. She had gone back to Martinique several years ago with her pride in tatters and had married the man she would have married if she hadn't met French's father. Marcheline said she was happy, but French knew that she had been desperate for the attentions of a man -- any man. She suspected that her mother didn't have respect, or even liking, for the man she'd married. When French had last visited her mother and stepfather on the island, Marcheline had glittered and glowed brilliantly when people were around to observe it. Indeed, friends and family proclaimed the newlyweds to be proof that true love would always triumph, no matter what people tried to do to change destiny. In unguarded moments, however, Marcheline looked old and tired, weighed down by grief and defeat.

French was well aware that she carried wounds from her childhood; she even understood their genesis. But damned if she could suppress the fear she felt at the thought that she might make herself vulnerable to the kind of dependency and loss her mother had repeatedly endured. She monitored herself carefully, taking care that she quashed all behaviors that were in any way reminiscent of her mother. With careful, logical planning, she ensured that there would be no unwelcome surprises and that she'd depend only on herself for her money and happiness. With a bitter twist of her mouth, French reflected that in spite of her independence, she felt as if something were missing. I have tons of friends, she thought, I own my apartment. I have a career doing what I love. Why aren't I happy? Surely being a part of a couple isn't the only way a woman can feel fulfilled? In the end, even though I've chosen a completely different life for myself, will I wind up as unhappy as Maman is? she wondered.

Shaking her head, French dismissed the thought. She would not end up like her mother! She would apologize to Aidan like the grownup she was. It wouldn't be hard to do because Aidan had never shown any tendency toward cruelty or viciousness. He would accept her apology gracefully, she knew, then allow the evening to move on as though nothing had happened. She didn't know what would happen in this new arrangement of theirs. She didn't even know what his motivations were. Did he just want companionship as he'd said last night? Or was he looking for something more? If that was the case, she didn't think herself capable of giving Aidan what he wanted, didn't think that she could escape the wreckage of her upbringing. He deserved someone who could love as easily as he did. She admired him for the emotional security he had that allowed him to connect with people so freely and totally. He was a whole person, whereas she felt as though pieces of her were missing. Maybe Aidan's beliefs about love and commitment were right after all. Maybe I'd feel more fulfilled if I could believe in love, she thought.

French checked her watch and was alarmed to see that she only had about half an hour before Aidan arrived. She pulled the stopper out of the tub and stepped out of the water she had only just noticed had gone unpleasantly lukewarm. She patted herself dry, then smoothed on lotion that was the same exotic fragrance as the bath oil she'd used. She flossed and brushed her teeth, then checked out her reflection in the mirror. She eschewed the use of make-up as usual, but applied lipstick, then blotted most of it off, leaving her lips looking only lightly berry-stained. She took the chopsticks out of her hair and shook it out. She'd wear it down just the way Aidan liked it. Satisfied with her appearance, she picked up the cut-glass atomizer of perfume she'd gotten as a gift from her cousin in Paris. It too, was the same scent as the bath oil and lotion, carrying undertones of musk and spice that were what she imagined a sultan's harem smelled like. Earthy and womanly. She dabbed the perfume in a few strategic places on her body and rushed into her bedroom to get dressed.

She was putting her socks on when the buzzer sounded. She skidded down the hall in her socks and buzzed Aidan in, saying, "Come on up, the door's open."

She rushed into her bedroom and put on black boots that were in the style of biker boots, but with urbane sleekness. She was rummaging through her jewelry box when she heard her apartment door close. "I'm back here, Aidan!" she called distractedly. "I'll be done in just a minute. Do you want someth-..." Her voice trailed off when she realized Aidan stood in her bedroom doorway.

"Oh. Hi." She hadn't expected to feel flustered when she saw him again, but she did. She felt a blush rise up her neck.

"Hi, yourself. How was your day, Legs?" Aidan asked with a smile. He looked fantastic, as usual, even though he was dressed as casually as she was. He wore jeans, an expensive looking navy blue sweater and boots. She shouldn't have been surprised because he looked stunning in everything he wore. She also knew that that fact had nothing at all to do with the clothes themselves.

"It was good. I made it through every single audition tape! I deserve a night out," French replied,  "What about you, what'd you do today?"

"I spent the day in my darkroom developing some more photos from Eritrea. There were some I held back from Time; I guess I just wanted to keep them to myself. Here," he said pausing, "let me help you with that clasp."

French has chosen a suite of chunky sterling silver jewelry to wear tonight. She'd already put on the dangly earrings and bracelet, but was having trouble with the necklace.

"Thanks," she said, lifting her hair and turning around so her back was to him.

Aidan made quick work of the clasp and then embraced her from behind, nuzzling the nape of her neck.

"You smell great."

"Thank you. It's the new limited edition Serge Lutens. My cousin Marie-Josée sent it to me from Paris. You remember her, don't you? She always seems to choose just what I'd pick for myself," French mused, realizing she was chattering a bit to cover her nervousness. He turned her around and kissed her lips lightly, then tapped a finger on the tip of her nose.

"Great taste must run in the family. You ready to go?"

"Yup. Where are we going, by the way?"

"My place."

"We're having dinner at your place?" she asked, nonplussed. "I guess I better bring the Pepto Bismal if you're cooking!"

"Ha, very funny. Why don't you grab some clothes and stuff for tomorrow?"

"Umm... There's really no need, is there? Even if it gets late, I can still come home. You only live a few blocks away, Aidan."

"I think you should bring a change of clothes and some toiletries," Aidan said with finality. "Get your stuff."

Seeing that he wouldn't take no for an answer, French quickly gathered the toiletries she needed and selected clothes for the next day. When she reached for pajamas, Aidan stopped her.

"I don't think you'll be needing those."

French's mouth opened in protest, but then she snapped it shut and closed the drawer. He was probably right anyway, she thought as she folded her things neatly into a black leather shoulder bag.

"OK. I guess I'm ready then."

"Good. Let's go," he said, picking up the bag and going down the hall to the front door.

Aidan set the bag on the floor and helped French into her coat. Taking the key from her, he locked the door while she put on her gloves and scarf. They headed down the stairs and out into the street together. French was surprised to see Aidan's car double-parked in front of her building.

"You drove here?! We could've walked. You'd better hope you didn't lose your parking space!" French teased him, "If you did, we'll probably wind up walking farther from the new parking space than if we had walked from here to there."

"We'll see," Aidan replied cagily, helping her into the car and tossing her duffel on the backseat. He slid behind the wheel of his silver Audi and pulled into traffic. They reached the corner and turned the opposite direction than they would have gone had they been going back to Aidan's apartment.

"We're not going to your place, are we?" French asked, finally catching on.

"We are. Just not the one you mean."

"You have another house?"

"Well, it's not exactly mine. The cabin belongs to the family. Dad told me last night at the party that he needed some stuff done up there and since I haven't been there in a while, I told him I'd go up and take care of it."

"Where is this cabin?"

"The Berkshires," Aidan admitted a little bashfully.

"Ah. Of course, where else but the Berkshires?" French teased.

"I knew you would say something like that. That's why I didn't tell you beforehand. Figured I'd save myself a little grief..."

"I'm only teasing. It's a long way to go for one night, though, isn't it?"

"It's only a couple hours' drive. We'll be there in time for a late dinner. I'll do the things I need to do in the morning and we can be on our way back to town in the afternoon," Aidan said. "I thought it'd be nice to get out of the city for some peace and quiet."

"It will definitely be nice to breathe some clean, fresh air," French confirmed enthusiastically. Her expression sobered somewhat as she shifted in her seat to look at him. "Aidan, I..."

"Please don't tell me you've changed your mind about what we talked about last night," Aidan tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he cut her off.

"No, not that. I just wanted to apologize for being such a pill last night. I hadn't expected to see you at the party and then I got all confused. I'm sorry for being mean."

Aidan relaxed and joked. "I wouldn't say you were mean, exactly. Bratty is more the word I would have used."

Just as she'd predicted, he'd accepted her apology without making a big deal of it. His response made it easier for her to continue, "Aidan, I really mean it. You are such a nice, good person. You didn't deserve what I did last night."

"None of it?" he asked with fake startlement, "surely I deserved some of what you did?"

French blushed, but allowed him the joke. She touched his hand lightly where it rested on the gearshift and turned back around in her seat.

*****

They made it to the cabin just before nine. Cabin was rather the wrong term to use in describing it, French thought. Constructed of rough-hewn logs, the house was a large two-story structure built in the style of a ski chalet. The first floor contained three bedrooms, a full bath and a large eat-in kitchen. The great room, with its vaulted ceilings, skylights and huge stone fireplace was the centerpiece of the first floor. The chocolate brown leather couches and chairs near the fireplace were appropriately rugged-looking and well worn. There were snowshoes, cross-country skis, board games and other sporting accoutrements in the room, which along with the scuffed wooden floor, made it plainly obvious that this was a real home to Aidan's family, not simply a showpiece.

The second level was devoted entirely to the master suite. A cozy seating area that looked over the great room was just at the top of the stairs. The overstuffed chairs were draped with homemade afghans and practically begged to be snuggled into for an afternoon of reading. A huge king-sized bed with gnarled hardwood head- and footboards was centered under a skylight through which the full moon beamed its radiant light. Sliding glass doors at the back of the room revealed a deck and hot tub. A full bath with a deep claw-footed tub and separate shower stall completed the sanctuary that was the master bedroom.

"Aidan, this is lovely. So homey," French said.

"Yeah, we spent summers here and most of our winter vacations, too. I love this place," Aidan replied, the fondness of memories evident in his voice. "Let's go downstairs and get a fire going, then we can eat."

"Is the kitchen fully stocked?"

"It has the basics. But I brought enough food for an army. Never go to the grocery store when you're hungry," Aidan warned.

The fire finally lit, Aidan and French went to the kitchen to fix dinner. True to his word, Aidan had bought what seemed to be the entire contents of the gourmet grocer in their neighborhood. They decided to have cold roast chicken with an arugula salad, roasted eggplant and red pepper bisque and crusty French bread. He had also brought strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, an assortment of nuts and cheeses and a box of chocolate truffles for dessert. While French heated the soup, Aidan went to the wine cellar for a bottle of wine.

They ate in front of the fire, talking easily, as they had always done. French had worried that the conversation would center on their 'arrangement' and had dreaded the awkwardness such talk would bring. Instead, they talked of what they'd been doing over the few months they'd been apart. It was plain to French that Aidan was genuinely interested in what she had to say. He was excited when she told him about the new ensemble she'd auditioned for and won admission to and appropriately displeased when she told him about the politics and infighting that went on amongst the administrators and her fellow teachers at the school she taught at. She, in turn, thought there was no better photographer and writer in the world than Aidan. She was so proud that he'd made the leap from writing general interest and travel pieces to more legitimate, hard-hitting journalism. He'd been very successful before, but had always wanted to tackle more weighty subject matter.

Replete after their meal, French stifled a yawn and stretched. They'd been sipping brandy as they talked and she was beginning to feel a little sleepy. She was having such a good time, though, that she hoped she'd catch her second wind, so they could continue rediscovering one another.

"You're tired," Aidan stated. "Ready to call it a night?"

"No, I'm fine," French replied, then involuntarily opened her mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn.

Aidan laughed, "I can see my company leaves much to be desired."

"No, really, I'm OK," French protested, "the long drive, the food and brandy got to me for a moment. Give me a few minutes and I'll be fine."

"What do you say we hit the hot tub, then hit the sack?"

"Sounds good, but-"

"You don't need a bathing suit, Legs," Aidan interrupted, knowing exactly what she'd been about to say.

"I hate it when you do that," French mock-sulked at him and preceded him up the stairs.

While Aidan was outside adjusting the hot tub, French undressed, folding her clothes neatly. Aidan had gotten fluffy bath sheets from the linen closet and she wrapped herself in one and swept her hair into a ponytail. He motioned to her from outside that all was ready. French she stepped outside and immediately began to shiver when the cold night air hit her skin. She dropped her towel in a heap next to the tub and climbed in, sliding down into the hot, bubbling water up to her neck. Noticing that Aidan was fully dressed, she asked,

"Aren't you going to go in and change?"

"Nope," Aidan answered and kicked off his shoes and socks.

"You're insane, it must only be twenty degrees out here!"

"I'll only be out here for a minute; it'll feel even better when I get in the water."

French couldn't stop herself from watching as he undressed. She spared a split second to wonder if this impromptu striptease was perhaps not so impromptu, but decided that that wasn't Aidan's style. He couldn't possibly know the devastating effect he had on her. He gripped the hem of his blue sweater and pulled it over his head, along with the white crewneck t-shirt he'd worn under it. The moonlight gleamed on his torso, limning his sleek muscles in a silver sheen. She could only just make out the shadow of the hair on his chest that tapered to a fine line as it reached the waist of his jeans. He unfastened his belt and unbuttoned the jeans and slid them and his boxers to his ankles where he kicked them aside. He raised his arms over his head, fingers linked, in a long stretch and groaned in pleasure.

French unconsciously licked her lips at the sight of his naked body. She absorbed every detail of the way he looked from the top of his ruffled hair, to the sleekly muscled planes of his chest, his tumescent penis and on down to his toes. Gorgeous, she thought as he moved toward the hot tub.

"Guess I'm a little bit of an exhibitionist," he joked as he slid into the hot tub. "I love being naked out here."

"Hmm, I daresay you might be," French remarked wryly.

Aidan sat on a low seat that had his chin just at the level of the bubbling water.

"Come here."

French averted her eyes from his for the merest second as she considered the request, then complied. He settled her on his lap and just held her. She could feel his cock brushing against her leg and knew that he was aroused. Still he made no move to seduce her, simply held her close. French shifted her position on his lap so that she straddled him. His hard cock brushed against the outer lips of her pussy, moving back and forth with the current of the bubbling water. She cupped his face in her hands, looked into his eyes. Then lowered her head and kissed him.

She started out with light kisses, brushing her lips across his in the gentlest of caresses. His hands rested on her thighs, but didn't move as French deepened the kiss. The only indication she had that her kisses were affecting him at all was that his hands squeezed once, convulsively, on her thighs then relaxed. She certainly felt the effects of the kiss. Heat that was not entirely generated by the hot tub suffused her body. She opened her mouth on his, sought out his tongue with hers. He let her play as she would, felt desperation rise in her as she took from him, knew she searched for even more.

French slid further up his thighs until his cock was snugged against her pussy and her breasts pressed against his chest. She felt the coil of her arousal tighten, then reached between them to stroke him. He breathed a sigh of pleasure and let his head fall back against the lip of the hot tub. Through half-closed eyes, he watched her face as she caressed his cock and used it to stimulate herself. Her hips moved, subtle gyrations that nudged him against her clit. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, as though the blood-rush of arousal affected them, too. Her skin glowed under the moonlight, studded with beads of water that gleamed like jewels.

She had braced one hand against his shoulder to steady herself as her other hand was engaged between their bodies. Aidan moved his hand from her thigh and slid it up her arm, to her shoulder, to her neck then pulled her mouth to his again. She gasped as the motion pressed her pussy more tightly to his cock. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, twisting and curling his around it now, running his tongue over her teeth, the roof of her mouth then. He reached between them, stroked his cock back and forth over her pussy. Impossibly, illogically, it felt even hotter than the water in the hot tub.




Futile Resistance Ch. 03



He zeroed in on her clit, massaged it with his thumb as he slid two fingers into her wetness. She gasped,

"Oh, Aidan, yes..."

French rode up and down with each stroke of his fingers on her and in her. She knew she would explode before much longer. She forced herself to open her eyes and focus on him.

"Aidan, I'm so close," she said huskily, "I want to feel you inside me."

"Let go, baby."

He kissed her again, matching the thrusts of his tongue to the thrust of his fingers between her legs. He felt her pussy walls clench around his fingers, knew she was on the brink.

"That's it," he encouraged soothingly, "come for me."

The sound of his voice pushed her over the edge. She threw her head back; her breath caught as her orgasm took her. She rode its waves in silence, but Aidan could feel every spasm of her pussy gripping his fingers tightly. He wanted nothing more than to plunge into her then, but deliberately held back. When she was finally able to breathe again, she leaned down and put her lips to his.

"Mmm, now it's your turn."

"I'm OK."

"Somehow I don't believe that when there's this that needs attention," she said, stroking his hard cock beneath the water.

With immense effort, he said, "I'll be fine. You ready for bed?"

"Umm... Yeah, I guess I am," French said dazedly, not understanding what he meant. Did he truly mean that he didn't want to... to finish? she thought.

Aidan slid her off of his lap, then stood and levered himself out of the hot tub. His body steamed in the moonlight. He scooped up his towel and draped it around his waist, not bothering to dry off. His hard cock jutted against the towel, making it tent in the front. He grabbed her towel and motioned her out of the tub. She went into his arms and he began to dry her with firm strokes of the towel. When he finished, he wrapped the towel around her breasts and led her into the house.

"You can have the bathroom first," he said.

French performed her nightly ablutions, then emerged from the bathroom to find Aidan standing at the sliding glass doors, still draped in his towel, gazing into the night. He looked to be deep in thought. He gave no indication that he was aware that she'd opened the bathroom door and entered the bedroom. She went to him and looped her arms around his waist, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. He covered her hands with his where they rested at his waist and turned his head. She rose on tiptoe to allow their lips to meet in a sweet, lingering kiss.

"Coming to bed?" she asked when their lips parted.

He made no verbal response, but led her to the side of the bed, stripped her of the towel she still had wrapped around her and tucked her in. French didn't speak either, but was confused when he didn't get in bed with her. He went into the bathroom. The sound of running water told her he was preparing for bed. He came back into the bedroom and in the dim light of the setting moon that streamed through the skylight, she saw that he was still naked. When he got into bed, French reached for him, seeking his mouth in a hungry kiss, determined to give him as much pleasure as he'd given her. Aidan kissed her back, gently, but didn't allow her to deepen the kiss.

He continued to kiss her, softly, soothing her. Delicately, reverently, intimately, he caressed her body with hands that sought to learn every nook, cranny and curve. But, instead of allowing their kisses to become arousing and incendiary, as had been her intent, Aidan seemed to want to pull them away from the flames.

"What's wrong, Aid?" she asked. "Why won't you let me? I know you want to..."

"It's OK, baby. Let's just sleep."

For the second night in a row, she lay naked, spooned snugly against Aidan in bed. For the second night in a row, she lay awake feeling so many feelings that were hard for her to identify. It felt good and right to be with Aidan like this; she was as content as she'd been since before they'd broken up. But, she almost felt as though he had changed some unwritten rule tonight by not making love with her. And that left her feeling anxious and uneasy, even a little angry. Was this how he would end it? Had he already lost interest in her after having had sex with her the night before -- was that all he'd wanted, to prove that he could have her whenever he wanted to? Had he merely come back into her life to hurt her or to get retribution? To end their relationship on his terms? That any of those scenarios could be possible was terrifying for her. 

She was her mother's daughter after all... What else could be expected, she thought.

She lay awake, frightened and angry and had no idea what Aidan was thinking, no idea why he'd not wanted to make love with her, no idea what his motivation had been when he made "the proposal", as she'd come to call it in her mind, last night. She was aware all during her hours of wakefulness, that Aidan was awake, too. He held her close all night, saying nothing, but the force of his thoughts was almost tangible and hung weightily between them. Mentally and physically exhausted, French eventually fell into a light sleep. Aidan lay awake, holding her close, cradling her as though she were the most delicate, precious creature, plotting his next move.



Futile Resistance Ch. 04



French had been very busy during the week following her weekend in the Berkshires with Aidan. It was the end of term at school and she was issuing final exams to her students. She had chosen a different piece for each instrument category in the orchestra for the playing portion of the students' test, which would determine their positions in the orchestra for the coming semester. Additionally, she would administer an aural skills test to gauge their sight-reading and sight-singing abilities, a written music theory test and finally a piano exam, where they would play the pieces they'd been working on over the course of the semester. Since most of these tests were conducted one on one, with students playing or singing for her individually, French's schedule was fully booked most days until late in the evenings.

Now it was Friday and she had three weeks off for Christmas Break. She had booked her quintet to play at several holiday parties. And her new chamber group had planned to meet twice weekly to rehearse. They would start hiring out and scheduling performances after the first of the year and so had begun rehearsing in earnest. Other than those commitments, she was free to do whatever she wanted.

She'd not seen Aidan very much since the Berkshires weekend. They'd met for dinner a couple of times, but hadn't had a chance to spend any significant amount of time together without the interruptions of their busy lives. She was looking forward to spending time with him without the pressure of schedules and deadlines.

She was still bothered about Aidan's reticence to make love with her that Saturday night at his family's cabin. French had fallen asleep troubled by the turn of events and had thought things would be awkward between them afterwards. Nevertheless, they had made love several times the next day, beginning with long, slow morning sex that had left her thoroughly sated, while at the same time, fueling her desire for more of Aidan. They had had a leisurely breakfast, cuddled together in front of the fire, which had inevitably led to more lovemaking. They left the cabin as late as reasonably possible and had capped off the weekend with a quick, fervent coupling once they'd arrived back at her apartment in Boston. Their lovemaking over the course of the day had gone some distance to allay her fears that he had nefarious ulterior motives. Sexual encounters notwithstanding, they had still not discussed Saturday night.

She wanted to talk to him about it, but didn't know how to broach the subject. They had carefully avoided the discussion, but French knew that they were both keenly aware that there were unanswered questions looming between them. Her busy schedule had provided the perfect excuse not to think or talk about it, but now that she had had time to catch her breath, she was unable to continue dodging the issue.

Aidan was due at her house for dinner that evening. Maybe she'd talk to him then, she thought as she put the finishing touches on their meal. The front door buzzer sounded and she looked at her watch. She wasn't expecting him to arrive for at least another hour. She went to the door and pressed the intercom button.

"Yes?"

"It's me," Aidan said, "I know I'm early, but I couldn't wait."

"I see... Come on up," French said with a smile in her voice.

She did a quick check of her appearance while waiting for him. She was dressed casually for the evening in jeans and a form-fitting, fuzzy, touchable sweater. She had showered after school and had let her hair air-dry. As a result, the heavy mass of curls had an untamed look that she only allowed when she wasn't going out. She wore no make-up as usual, just a little tinted lip-gloss. Her skin was aglow with good health and, overall, she thought she looked pretty good. She had already set out candles in the living and dining rooms and a fledgling fire blazed in the fireplace. She had just gotten it lit, thinking that if she screwed it up the first time, as she sometimes did, she'd have time to get it going again before he arrived. Luckily she'd gotten it right, she thought as she scurried around lighting the candles. Finished at last, she gave the dimly lit rooms a once over and decided that they looked romantically inviting and homey.

Aidan tapped lightly on the door, then walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"Hi," French said. As usual, her stomach dipped when she saw him. It seemed to her that each time she saw him was like the first time. Her whole demeanor softened, her eyes and voice warmed. "You brought flowers. They're beautiful, Aidan. Thank you. I should get them right into a vase," she said, going over to him to take the flowers that reminded her of the fields and valleys of the French countryside.

As she reached for them, she raised her lips to his for a quick kiss. Aidan set the flowers on the table in the entryway and wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a hug and then a more leisurely kiss. French sank into him in spite of the chill that clung to his coat. She opened her mouth under his, allowed his tongue to enter her mouth and curl against hers. Her aquiescence, the feel and taste of her fired his blood and the tenor of his kiss changed. He kissed her hungrily, devouring her as if he were starving and she the only thing that could satisfy his appetite.

French's mind went blank with need and she met the onslaught of his kisses willingly, eagerly, greedily taking him and giving herself. She put her arms around him, slid her hands up his back, to his neck and into his hair where she raked her fingernails gently against his scalp. Aidan lifted his lips from hers and gazed into her eyes, as though trying to read her thoughts. Satisfied with the burgeoning desire he saw there, he kissed her again, deeply. He slid his hands down to cup her ass, brought her body tighter to his. His cock was already hard, aching to be inside of her.

She moaned at the feel of him pressed at the apex of her thighs. She wanted him badly, too, wanted him to take her quickly, roughly on the hardwood floor in the entryway or on the hall table or up against the wall. Anywhere would be fine, as long as she could have him. She shoved his black wool pea-coat off his shoulders and onto the floor, then began working at the buttons on the front of his shirt. She pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms. They stopped their desperate kissing for a moment when Aidan's hands, tangled in his shirtsleeves, got pinned behind his back. Almost violently, he tore his arms free and French heard buttons from the sleeves of his shirt hit the floor with a clatter.

He came at her again, half-naked, intense and determined. She met him kiss for frantic kiss, sure that she'd die if he didn't fuck her soon. Her hands roved hungrily over his torso, tracing the sleekly defined muscles of his back and chest, feeling his nipples harden when her fingers brushed back and forth over them. Their kiss grew savage, their lips and tongues sucking, licking and biting. Aidan kissed a trail down her neck, pulling the neck of her sweater out of the way as he laved and sucked at the pulse point at the base of her jaw. Frustrated, he yanked the sweater over her head and paused briefly to absorb the sight of her in the sexy, sheer navy-blue, demi-cup bra she wore before quickly dispensing with it. He palmed her breasts roughly, watching as her supple flesh overflowed his hands. Her nipples, hard as diamonds, poked between his fingers. He bent down and took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucked it hard, grazed it with his teeth. Clutching his head tightly to her, French hissed, and her head fell back as pain and pleasure shot through her.

He halted and looked up at her face abruptly, then shook his head and seemed suddenly to come to his senses. His passion-glazed eyes cleared as his vision came back into focus.

"My God. What is wrong with me?" he asked, sounding dazed.

"What?" French asked breathlessly, straining upward, raining kisses along his neck and jaw, completely befuddled by the abrupt halt to their passion.

"I'm barely in the door and I'm mauling you. Look," he said, turning her to the mirror that was centered over the hall table near where they stood, "your lips are all swollen, I bruised your neck and there's a welt on your breast." As he ran down the list, he brushed his fingers lightly over the affected areas.

French took in her image. He was right. She did indeed look as though she'd been ravaged. Gone was the elegantly casual image she'd presented just a few moments before. She looked wanton, like a woman who'd been thoroughly fucked, or was just about to be. Her lips were throbbing, her eyelids heavy. Her body felt overheated by blood that coursed just under the skin, tightening it so that his every caress was magnified. She felt wonderfully and unashamedly aroused.

Her eyes met Aidan's in the mirror and what he saw in them made him say,

"Baby, please... don't look at me like that. I'm hanging on by a thread, here."

French turned to face him, took his head in her hands and gave him a kiss that had him moaning in anguished arousal. Their tongues dueled for supremacy in one another's mouths, each of them desperately trying to consume the other. Panting now, French broke the kiss and moved down his chest, licking, sucking and teasing his nipples until they were as hard as hers. She dropped to her knees in front of him, took off his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.

"God, no, Legs," Aidan said in a rasp, "I don't think I can handle that..."

French looked up at him challengingly and reached into the vee of his open pants and freed his cock from his boxer-briefs. It was hard and hot in her hands, the head completely engorged and decorated with a clear drop of fluid. As she looked up at him from beneath hooded eyes, she licked the droplet from the tip. Her mouth watered and she licked and sucked his shaft, wetting him thoroughly. She hummed with delight when he swore and anchored himself by plunging his hands into her hair and holding on. She had a feeling that he was on the edge of losing control and she liked it. He'd had her on edge enough times and now, it was his turn to be on the receiving end.

She sucked him deep, deeper than she ever had before. His cock nudged the back of her throat and she loved feeling it there. In and out, she sucked him, pausing here and there to lick and suck the head, only to take him all the way in again. When she sensed he was about to explode, she fisted her hand around the base of his cock and concentrated her efforts on the glans. Slowly, firmly, wetly, she jacked her hand up and down, rotated it, coordinating the movements of her mouth and hand.

Aidan's hands clenched tighter in her hair and his breath became faster, rasping in and out of his lungs as though he'd just finished a long-distance sprint. The sight of her kneeling at his feet, her full lips wrapped around his hard cock, the velvety stroke of her tongue and the hot, wet suction of her mouth were stripping him of his control. French looked up, saw his face tighten with ecstasy, watched him war with his desires. His eyes were closed, but she thought she could almost hear his thoughts: should he just let go and come in her mouth? Or should he drag her to the floor and fuck her properly? French didn't intend to let him make the decision. She wanted to taste him, wanted to feel the pulsing explosion of his come in her mouth, wanted to bring him to his knees.

Aidan's eyes slitted open and through the veil of his thick lashes, French saw that they had darkened to deepest blue, glittered with desire in the dim light of the hallway. He tugged lightly on her hair, silently telling her that he wanted her to stand up. French resisted, redoubling her efforts to serve him by increasing the pace and intensity of her motions. She heard his breath catch, felt his body tense as he tried to hold back.

Releasing her grip on the base of his cock, she repositioned one hand to cup his ass and the other between his legs so she could stroke his balls as she knelt before him. He spread his legs wider apart to accommodate her and to steady himself. She plunged her mouth down on him, taking him in to the hilt. Over and over, she took him, stroked him with her mouth and throat. Impossibly, it seemed, he grew even harder, longer and thicker than he had been. She felt the veins that ridged his cock in stark relief against her tongue and moaned around him.

He felt the vibrations caused by her vocalizations and knew that all was lost. He gave into his desire to thrust back at her, to fuck her mouth, as she took him in. He tightened his grip on her wild, curly hair, thrust deeply in her mouth. Once, twice... And on the third thrust, he was gone. He exploded in her mouth with a harsh gasp, a sharp intake of breath. French kept her mouth on him, swallowing as she milked the base of his cock to make sure that she got every bit of come he had to offer.

Aidan held her head in place for a moment before gently withdrawing from her mouth. He dropped to his knees in front of her and kissed her. Her lips were supple, her mouth wet, hot and so sexy. He could taste himself on her tongue. He reached for her breasts and caressed her taut nipples. He smoothed his hands up the sleek line of her back, stroked her hair and held her close for a long moment.

Having caught his breath, he drew back a little. With a devilish glint in his eye, he looked at her and asked, deadpan,

"What's for dinner?"

French collapsed into his arms, giggling.

*****

They lingered over dinner, savoring each of the three courses French had prepared. She had decided on a Spanish theme and to that effect served a spinach salad, with bacon crumbles, marinated artichoke hearts and boiled egg tossed with Sevillana dressing for the first course. Seafood paella was the second course, accompanied by a lovely Rioja suggested by the clerk at the wine shop down the street. For dessert, she had made a cream cheese flan, to which she added her own flair by augmenting it with a tart raspberry coulis.

As she served dessert, Aidan pulled French onto his lap, kissed her lightly and nuzzled her neck. When she struggled to get up and return to the kitchen to get the espresso she'd brewed, he held her in place. She finally subsided and looked at him expectantly.

"Thanks for cooking dinner, it was fantastic. You're spoiling me. I'll never want to eat at a restaurant again, if you keep feeding me like this."

"Oh, no you don't! I like to cook, but you won't keep me chained to the stove! I need a night out just as much as the next girl," she protested teasingly.

"I can think of far better things to chain you to," he said, wiggling his eyebrows lecherously. "Although, the idea of making you cook things while you're wearing a tiny, ruffled apron, a pair of those sexy heels you wear and nothing else is pretty intriguing..."

"I'll just bet it is," she said mock-seductively, "Maybe you'd like to watch me wield a feather-duster while I'm wearing nothing but the ruffled apron, too?"

"Now you're speakin' my language, baby! I've always been a sucker for a 'French' maid..."

"Pig!" French said, groaning at the pun and slapping him playfully on the arm. "Now, eat your flan while I get the coffee."

He let her get off his lap this time and found himself sitting there with a goofy smile on his face. They had been having a great time together the past few weeks. There had been a few tense moments here and there, but overall they did well together. He had thought that she would do a runner after that weekend in the Berkshires. He'd wanted her so badly that night, but had also wanted to show her that there was more between them than just sex. The drive to the cabin and dinner had gone exactly according to plan. They'd talked and laughed and felt really comfortable with one another. But he'd made a mistake in thinking that he'd be able to keep his hands off of her when they'd gone into the hot tub naked. He'd tried to change course in midstream by calling a halt to their lovemaking. That, he acknowledged in hindsight, had been a big mistake. He knew that she'd been confused, possibly even hurt, by his actions, or rather, the lack thereof. He could kick himself for giving her a reason to believe that her commitment and trust issues were well founded as they related to him. She was so skittish that he felt off-balance and was constantly second-guessing himself and re-evaluating the best approach to making her realize that a love relationship could be easy if she'd let it.

French came in from the kitchen balancing the little cups and saucers of espresso.

"OK, dig in."

They ate dessert, chatting idly throughout, sometimes teasing and feeding one another even though they were eating identical desserts. As they finished, the phone rang. French grabbed the cordless extension from the kitchen.

"Hello?" The expression on her face darkened and then she said, "Oh, Maman, comment ca va?"

Aidan collected the dessert plates, cups and saucers from the table and took them to the kitchen. As he loaded the dishwasher, French paced back and forth from the living room to the dining room, listening to the steady stream of talk coming through the phone. Her exasperation with what her mother was saying was evident, because as she paced, she sighed, shook her head, rolled her eyes and made gesticulations with her hands. As many times as she tried to interrupt, she couldn't get a word in edgewise. Finally, her mother wound down and French said,

"D'accord, Maman," she paused and listened.

"Oui... Oui, Maman..." another pause.

"Oui, d'accord. A bientôt," she pushed the 'off' button on the phone with a savage jab of her thumb and screamed through gritted teeth.

"Trouble?" Aidan asked from the doorway of the kitchen. He was drying the dishes he had hand washed while she was on the phone.

"Nope, no trouble at all, unless you consider the fact that my mother is trying to ruin my life trouble!"

"What's going on?"

"Arrrgggh!" came another little scream through her gritted teeth. "She's divorcing her husband. And guess who she's coming to visit for an indefinite time while she does it?"

"Ummm... You?"

"Got it in one. I don't know what makes her think I want her here. We won't get along. We never have and I'll just go crazy because she's so... so... so impossible! I thought I'd be free of her once she got married and lived back on the island..."

"Come on, she can't be that bad," Aidan said placatingly. "I mean, she raised you and you turned out great."

"You have no idea exactly how bad she can be..." French said bleakly as she slumped down on the sofa.

"What's so wrong with her?"

"Do you have a few free years? Because it'll take at least that long to tell that story!"

Aidan had never seen her so upset. It must be something important, he decided, so he said, "I have time. Let me pour us a brandy and you can tell me."

He didn't know that much about her mother, only what he'd picked up from context clues and from the way French didn't talk about her. He'd met French's cousin when she'd visited from Paris, but never met any other members of her family. He'd had dinner with the two cousins one evening on her last visit. He'd left the room briefly and had overheard them saying something very uncomplimentary about French's mother as they spoke in a mixture of French and Creole. French must have forgotten that he spoke a little of her language, certainly enough to understand what they'd been talking about so heatedly. When he came back into the room, they began speaking in English and had resumed the conversation they'd been having before he left. He'd wanted to know more, but had missed the opportunity to ask her about it. He wouldn't let the opportunity slip through his fingers this time.




Futile Resistance Ch. 04



While Aidan poured the drinks, French considered how much she'd tell him about her mother. No matter how much time went by, she still felt ashamed and embarrassed about anything that had to do with her mother. French knew, intellectually at least, that she and her mother were separate from one another and that what her mother did, then or now, had nothing to do with her. She had grown up and forged her own set of beliefs and values. Still, though, whenever she and her mother were together, she felt all of those old feelings well up and they both slid back into their old roles. Icy disdain on French's side; malicious teasing on her mother's.

She had never offered Aidan details about her upbringing; he knew only the basics. Aidan felt comfortable talking about his parents and brother and often did. He always spoke of them with affection, even when he was having a difference of opinion with one of them. Juxtaposed with his upbringing, hers would seem even more sordid. What will he think of me if I tell him everything? she thought. He might think that I'm just like her and I couldn't bear that...

Aidan came back with their brandy and handed her a snifter. Without a thought, French tossed hers back in one gulp.

"What are you doing?" Aidan asked, alarm edging his voice.

"Whoops," she answered, holding her glass up to the light as though she couldn't figure out why it was suddenly empty. "Umm, trying to muster up some Irish courage?"

"That won't work for you, you're not Irish, remember?" he said wryly. "Take it easy. Knowing you, you'll be passed out before you can tell me about this 'mother situation'."

"Can I have another if I promise to sip it slowly this time?" French appealed, buying time before she had to tell him the good, the bad and the ugly details of her life.

"OK. But only a little. And only if you sip it."

While he was pouring, French fidgeted on the couch, straightening and re-straightening throw pillows. Stacking and re-stacking magazines on the coffee table. When Aidan came back, she was fiddling with a painting on the wall.

"Does this look crooked to you? Because to me, it looks like the left side is much lower..."

"Nope. Looks fine to me," Aidan said matter-of-factly.

"I don't know," French hedged, "maybe I'd better go find a level and measure it just to be sure."

"Francoise Delauney, you're stalling."

"No, I'm not!" she said too quickly, "I mean, look, it really is crooked..."

Aidan took a step back and looked at the painting closely, then walked up to it and nudged it about a millimeter up on the left side.

"There," he said, brushing his hands together, "it's perfect. Now sit down and talk."

"Are you sure you really want to hear this? Because it's pretty boring..."

"It can't be that boring if whatever 'it' is has you acting so weird."

"I'm not acting weird! I can't believe you would say that, Aidan. How dare you?! And after I cooked you that nice meal!"

"Oh, believe me, you're acting very weird. So weird, that now you're trying to pick a fight," he said calmly.

Caught. Heaving a deep sigh of defeat, French flopped back into the sofa cushions and closed her eyes. After a few seconds she sat up again and made a big production out of taking the tiniest of tiny sips of her brandy, then looked at Aidan as if to say, "See, only a sip!" He rolled his eyes at her and she sighed again.

"OK, you asked for it. My mother is what my kids at school would call a 'MILF'. Do you know what a MILF is?"

"Mother I'd Like to Fuck," he supplied dryly.

"Where'd you learn that? Oh, never mind... Yeah, so she was, is, a MILF. She dresses like a tramp. Not cheaply mind you, but even the most expensive clothes, things that would look classy and elegant on someone else, look slutty on my mother because she buys everything a size too small and has even short skirts hemmed so they're even shorter. She always wore tight business suits with short skirts, low-cut blouses and indecently high heels for work. Hooker make-up. Even her hair's slutty, tousled all the time like she just rolled out of a man's bed. Let's not even get started on her leisure wear..." she trailed off with a snort.

"So, this is about the way she dresses?" Aidan asked, confused.

"No. Well, partly. You see, my mother didn't just dress the part. She was the real deal. I can't even count the number of lovers she had over the years, let alone name any of them. Well, one name I do know -- my father. And let me tell you, the fact that I know his name is a miracle, because if I know my mother, he wasn't the only man she was screwing when I was conceived." She paused to take a fortifying sip of brandy and looked at Aidan to gauge his reaction to what she'd said so far. He was listening intently, his face relaxed, as was the rest of his body. So far, so good, she thought.

"She had men in and out of our house for as long as I can remember. I was always getting to know a new 'uncle', who would pretend to like me. Children see straight through phonies, did you know that? Anyway, Maman used me shamelessly whenever she had a man over. She'd dress me up and trot me out as if I were a show pony and tell me to speak my flawless French and play my flute. Those were the only times she took any interest in my music... She would play the role of proud mother."

Laughing ruefully, she said, "Do you know that I'm an expert mixologist? I knew how to mix drinks by the time I was ten!"

At Aidan's look of disbelief, she said, "Oh, yeah, it's true. I was quite the little bartender. That was one of my 'talents'. Maman thought it was so cute to have me serve her and her lovers their drinks and hors d'oeuvres on a little tray."

"That's unbelievable," Aidan said. French's mouth tightened and Aidan could have sworn that he physically felt her withdrawing from him. He hurried on, "No, honey, I don't mean that I don't believe you, just that I can't believe a mother would shamelessly use her child that way..."

French gave an indelicate snort. "Yeah, me either. But it was what it was -- and that's only the beginning. I practically raised myself. Maman didn't have time for me. I was on my own as far as personal care was concerned; I learned to cook basic things -- I practically lived on mac-and-cheese, I learned how to run the washer and dryer and stuff like that. Got myself up and dressed for school without any help. I could count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of my recitals she attended. She always had something - no make that someone better to do. I quickly became OK with her not being around, because I'd begun to notice that she wasn't like the other moms and it was a mortifying realization."

She stopped talking again and stared into space. "I wanted what the other kids had so badly. I always felt like an outsider, especially on days at school when other moms volunteered in class or baked stuff for their kids' birthdays. I never once, in all my school history, brought in cupcakes to share with the class... Stupid thing to care about, huh?" she looked at Aidan sadly, then went on. "The older I got, though, the less I wanted her to be involved in my life. Boys had noticed her and they talked about her, about how she looked and what she wore and what they'd like to do to and with her. Some of them even asked me out, expecting that I'd be like her. Boy, were they disappointed..."

She paused, took another sip of brandy. "Once they realized I wasn't like her, they pretty much left me alone. I studied and practiced and counted the days and weeks until I could get out of that house for good. Just before my sixteenth birthday, something happened and, if I had had any doubts about her, they were dispelled that night. I found out exactly what my mother was."

French set her brandy snifter on the table and went to the fireplace. She poked at the orangey-red logs glowing on the grate and added another, positioning the logs so that they would flame up again. Standing up, she gazed into the fire, watching as it came back to life. She continued to stare at the flames as she began talking again.

"One of her men came to the house one night. Maman wasn't home; I assume she was on a 'date' with someone else. Anyway, even though I told him Maman wasn't home, the guy just walked into the house like he owned it and ordered me to fix him a drink. I asked him to leave; I was uncomfortable with him being there without Maman and he was already pretty drunk. He refused to go so I made him his drink. I left him sitting in the living room and went back to my room and shut the door. Huh," she said, expressionlessly, "that was a big mistake."

"I was lying across the bed, studying, when he barged into my room without knocking. He stood in the doorway, swaying back and forth, looking drunk and disheveled with his night-beard, blood-shot eyes and rumpled three-piece suit."

Aidan's eyes closed, as if by doing so he could ward off what he anticipated she was about to tell him next. He could picture the scene so vividly, could imagine what she, as a young girl, must have felt at being cornered in her bedroom by her mother's drunken lover.

"He asked me again where she was and I told him I didn't know, that it wasn't unusual for her to be gone from home until late. He was royally pissed and started calling her names and saying things about how he bought and sold people like her every day and that a man of his status shouldn't have to wait in line for his whore to fuck him. Then he apparently decided that he didn't have to wait. He said the most vile, disgusting things to me, treated me as if I were nothing at all, while he undressed me with his eyes and wondered aloud if I was as good a lay as my mother. He came and sat on the bed next to me. I was frozen with shock. He reached out and touched my hair, told my how pretty he thought it was. He touched me gently at first, stroked my back, my buttocks, my legs. He spoke to me softly, telling me how pretty I was, much prettier than my mother. There was something sinister in the low, whispery tone of his voice. Creepy..." she shivered as though she were hearing the sound of that voice even as she stood safely in her own living room some twelve years later.

"He pushed me onto my back and started touching my breasts through my blouse. He was breathing hard and getting aroused, his touches became bolder and rougher. He put his hand around my throat and squeezed, told me that since my mother liked it rough, I probably would, too. The situation had quickly gone beyond my ability to control." She smirked, "That is, if I had ever been in control to begin with. I knew what was going to happen and there was no way for me to stop it. I was terrified."

Aidan didn't want to hear any more, couldn't stand to listen.

"Honey, no. Stop," he interrupted. "You don't have to do this."

"But I do, Aidan. It's who I am..." she said desolately, tonelessly.

"No, it's not! That guy was a sick pervert and your mother... Your mother..." his voice broke as he struggled to find the right words.

"It's OK, Aidan. Nothing really happened that night. Well, not what you think, anyway; my virginity was left intact," she said with another bitter smile. "The guy sat there beside me with his hand wrapped around my throat and told me to take off my blouse and bra. I was scared, so I did it. He touched my nipples, squeezed them so hard it brought tears to my eyes. He was disgusting, drunk and slobbering all over himself and slurring his speech. He opened his pants with one hand and pulled out his penis. He stroked it as he continued to punish my nipples. To me it looked huge. Hard, red and angry-looking..."

"I was crying and begging him to stop. I began to panic and fought him as though my life depended on it. I pushed him away and tried to get up, but my thrashings only seemed to excite him more. He forced me down and straddled me. Told me play time was over and not to move. The 'or else' was implied and I was disinclined to find out what he would do if I angered him. He sucked on my nipples ruthlessly, bit them so brutally hard that I couldn't help but scream. He laughed at me and then put his hand around my neck and squeezed again, told me to shut up; he watched the fear build in me as he choked me so hard I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die while he brought himself off. He sat on top of me, stroking himself as I struggled to breathe, saying things I'd never heard before, things that made me feel dirty, degraded and worthless. He came after what seemed like an eternity and it went all over... My chest, my face, my hair... I was covered in it. He let me go then, stood up like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, adjusted his clothes and left my room. I heard him walk into the living room to get his keys and he left the house."

"I lay there feeling violated and scared, gasping for breath. I finally got up, took a shower and scrubbed his filth off of me," she said emotionlessly. Aidan was worried about her. She didn't seem to register the horror of any of what she was telling him. She relayed the incident almost as though it had happened to someone else.

"I waited up until Maman came home and I told her what had happened. She didn't exactly have the reaction I had wanted her to have." French said dolefully. With a sneer in her voice she continued,

"She didn't take me in her arms, soothe me and tell me that everything was going to be OK. Nooo, not my mother. Instead, she said that she was sorry it had happened the way it had, but that I had to learn about what was between men and women some time, and the sooner the better. Then, she went over to a little antique snuffbox that sat on the mantelpiece and took off the lid. She took something out of it and turned around to face me. She was beaming with pride as she held out two crisp hundred dollar bills. She said, 'Well, well, bébé, looks like I've got a little competition. You earned double what he usually pays; he must have liked you, chére.' "

Aidan's heart broke.

Finally, she turned away from the fire to look at him.

"Again, I was frozen with shock. I'd had no idea that she took money from all those men. I knew she slept with them and that she accepted gifts from time to time, but I never knew she took money for what she did. It took me a moment to put all the pieces together."

"She must have seen the wheels turning in my head as I made sense of it. She asked me where I thought my clothes came from, how I thought we could afford to live in the neighborhood we lived in, where did I think the money came from to pay for my flute and my music lessons... I was speechless. My mother was a whore. A prostitute. A high-priced, very selective one, to be sure, but a prostitute is still a prostitute, right?"

Aidan sat quietly, knowing that her question was rhetorical. He didn't respond because he knew that anything he said would sound trite and contrived. He was horrified. He ached for her, wanted more than anything to erase all of the hurt she had endured. He watched her as she stood facing him, looking at him, but not seeing him. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. He wanted to go to her and comfort her, but held back sensing that she needed to have her say.

"I lashed out at her, got right in her face and called her a whore. She slapped me then. Over and over, knocking my head back and forth as she struck me. She told me I was complicit in what she did because she did it for me. She told me I was guilty, too. She screamed at me, telling me that I was no better than her, that I was more like her than I realized, that what had happened that night proved it."

Her voice trailed off as she tried to compose herself. Her shoulders heaved as she took a few deep breaths. With an effort, she continued talking.

"I stood there and let her hit me, let her attack me in every way she knew how. I stood there and it was like something in me clicked off. I numbed out and couldn't feel or hear a thing... I guess she must have been waiting for me to respond to something she said, because the next thing I knew, she was pulling my hair, yanking my head all around and her face was right next to mine as she screamed at me that it was my fault, everything was my fault. She cursed my father, cursed the day I was born. Told me I was ungrateful and didn't deserve the breath I drew. She told me that she should have aborted me..." Her voice broke.

Aidan stood up from his seat on the couch, determined to stop her from reliving the awful scene from her childhood. With a sharp motion of her hand, French stopped him from approaching her, gestured for him to sit again.

She pressed on. "She had hoped that by keeping me, she could also keep my father. She'd planned to trap him into marriage. He was rich and well-connected and she wanted a piece of that. But her plan backfired. He set her up in the house I grew up in and gave her money each month, but told her he never wanted to lay eyes on either of us again. Ever. By then, it was too late for her to get rid of me. She told me she hated me, Aidan, she said that every day of her life since I was born, she looked at me and hated me for ruining her life."

"I think she had enough decency to feel remorseful for all the things she'd said to me. But, she never apologized, because, she meant every word of it. Probably, the only thing she was sorry about was finally having said it. We avoided seeing and talking to one another for awhile after that. I turned sixteen shortly thereafter and was able to start teaching private flute lessons at the elementary school. I stayed away from home as much as possible and I never took anything else from Maman. I stayed under her roof, because I had no choice, but I bought everything I needed and could afford to buy with the money I made teaching. If I couldn't pay for it myself, I went without."

"In her typical self-absorbed way, she didn't notice that I hadn't asked her for anything for awhile. When she figured it out, we had another ugly confrontation. I think she hated it that, even at my young age, I was self-reliant in a way she never had been and never could be. She did her best to tear me down; all the hatred she had for me came pouring out. This time was different, though. I had developed a pretty strong dislike for her, too. When she hit me, I hit her back and told her that she'd better never lay a hand on me again and walked away."

French's eyes focused suddenly on Aidan as she finished her story.

"I felt utter contempt for her. We managed to get through my last year of high school without any more problems. I did my own thing, she did hers, though she did stop doing her 'thing' at home. I graduated and spent the entire summer at a music festival in Colorado, then went straight to college. Thank God for scholarships... I haven't lived under my mother's roof full time since the day I graduated and never willingly took a cent from her since I was sixteen. When I couldn't find anywhere else to go on school holidays, I went back there. I had learned by then how to protect myself, physically and emotionally, so she never really got to me anymore, even though she tried. She purposely taunted me, telling me that I could fool myself into thinking that going to college would give me a better life, but that the truth would eventually out. She always said that I would see that I was nothing more than my mother's daughter - a chip off the old block. I refused to be goaded into a response and I could see that my self-control nearly killed her."

"I knew she was still whoring, but I just refused to acknowledge it, or her, for that matter. Until a few years ago that worked, then she started calling me, telling me she missed me and wanted to see more of me. She apologized to me for being a bad mother, told me she was sorry she had hurt me and that she had never meant any of the things she had said. She told me how proud she was of who I'd become. Idiot that I am, I fell for it hook, line and sinker. I was such a fool... A grown woman and I still wanted my mommy," she sneered.




Futile Resistance Ch. 04



"I went to see her, thinking we were going to start over and have a real relationship. I was hardly in the door before she got to the reason she had wanted to see me: money. I guess business must have dried up," she said wryly. "I wrote her a check and got the hell out of there as fast as I could. She finally went back to Martinique and got married. I thought maybe she could be happy for once. Her husband dotes on her and gives her everything she wants. And now this..."

"I don't know what happened between the two of them, but I have no doubt that my mother was at fault. She wouldn't know goodness if it bit her in the ass. I'm sure she intends to take that poor husband of hers for all he's got, so she can come back here and pick up where she left off," French said venomously.

"So that's that. Now you know exactly who I am," she finished, trying for a light tone and failing miserably.

Aidan went to her and folded her in his arms, squeezed her tight, wishing that he could take on all of her pain. He guided her to the couch and sat down with her on his lap. He held her, saying nothing, because no words seemed appropriate in the face of what she'd revealed. Aidan's mind reeled as he synthesized all he'd learned about her tonight. His primary feeling was grief; he grieved for the little girl who'd never had the stability or support that he had been able to take for granted. He grieved that her innocence had been stolen in such a cruel way. Despite the life her mother had led and the things French had been exposed to, that sixteen-year-old girl had still managed to hang on to some semblance of innocence and it had been violated as wholly as if her hymen had indeed been broken that night. Yes, she had maintained her viginity, but had lost so much more. Having cared for herself and navigated life largely on her own, French had always been perceived as mature for her age; but, for all that maturity, she'd still been a child. She had grown up the rest of the way when her mother hadn't provided her with comfort and reassurance after the abominable violation she'd endured. She'd emerged on the other side of that night a fully formed adult with scars and wounds that should have taken her years to acquire. It explained a lot, Aidan thought.

Anger was hard on the heels of the grief and sorrow he felt. He was enraged that a mother would willingly endanger her child. She had brought hundreds of men into that house, men she didn't know, men who could have been murderers or pedophiles. It was a miracle that nothing awful had happened before the night in question. That she'd told French in such cruel terms about the circumstances surrounding her birth was inconceivable. How could any mother curse the day her child was born and tell her she wished she'd had an abortion when she had the chance? How could a mother inflict such psychic trauma on her child? He hadn't met Marcheline Delauney, but after tonight, he harbored intense revulsion for her. He would do his damnedest to protect French from being hurt by her again. He wished he could turn back the clock, so he could fight French's battles for her. He wished... Well, wishing wasn't going to change anything. He'd have to do his best to help French through what was destined to be a difficult visit from her mother. He wanted to stand with her as she faced this so that she would see that he was there for her no matter what. He hoped she would see that she was worth everything he had to offer and more.

He thought she might have fallen asleep in his arms and he shifted her in preparation to stand and carry her to bed.

"Don't feel sorry for me, Aidan, I don't need your pity," French said, sitting up so she could look him in the eye.

"I don't. I'm sad because you didn't have all the things you should have had growing up. You had so much going against you. But in spite of that, you became a phenomenal woman, French. I can't imagine how you did it..."

Not willing to acknowledge what he'd just said, French ignored him and avoided looking at him.

"So. Umm. I won't feel bad if you don't want to see me anymore."

"What? Why the hell would I not want to see you anymore?" A tinge of anger crept into Aidan's voice as he slid her off his lap and stood up.

"Because now you know all there is to know about me. You can't possibly want to be with someone who's as damaged I am, someone who's had a life as fucked up as mine! So you can just go and spare us both the mess of a long, drawn out break-up," she said with more than a little anger of her own.

"That's what you think of me? You think I'd just cut and run just because your so-called mother was a whore who endangered the safety of her innocent child by turning tricks at home? Maybe I should leave if you think that's the type of man I am," he said disgustedly.

"I know you're a good man, Aidan," she tried to reason with him. "That's why I'm giving you an out. You're too decent a guy to just leave after all I've told you. Even if you wanted to leave, you'd stay, because in your mind, that would be the right thing to do. I don't want you feeling trapped in this relationship, or whatever it is we have, by duty and obligation. I'm not going to fall apart if you're not around -- I was fine before and I'll be fine again. So if you want to, you can go and there'll be no hard feelings."

"I should take you up on the offer, just to teach you a lesson," he said, through gritted teeth. French had never seen him this angry and, in an odd way, it thrilled her.

"But I won't leave, French. As angry as I am with you right now for pulling this crap on me, I will not leave. You're not the sum total what happened to you. You're not," he said, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a firm shake. "You're just you and I'm just me."

She looked up at him, felt an almost irresistible urge to push him further, to make him so angry he would just go and leave her like she knew he would anyway. She was so crippled by her past that the idea that their relationship could work seemed ludicrous. Unwisely, she had become attached to him again and knew that she'd be heartbroken when their affair ended. As she had when they dated before, she wanted to just sever the ties between them before she got in any deeper. Feeling suddenly exposed, she averted her eyes from his gaze.

Aidan seemed to sense that she was poised to flee. He took her chin and forced her to look him in the eye again, saying fiercely, "No, you're not going to run and hide behind all those walls you erect to protect yourself. I'm not here to hurt you! You've got to wake up to the fact that not everyone is as callous as your mother. It sucks that she should have been the one person in your life that you could always trust and rely on. But she wasn't. She was thoroughly evil. And that's never going to change; she'll never be the mother you want or deserve. I am sorry to the bottom of my heart that your childhood wasn't what it should have been."

He let go of her and paced a few steps away. Turning around, he looked at her intently and continued speaking.

"What you've been doing... This 'independent, I-don't-need-anyone' schtick is pretty immature, you know. You're living in the past, French! Don't you see that? You're letting what happened back then dictate your life now. You're still a victim of the past. Is that what you really want to be? Someone who's not able to see herself for the strong, stable person she is? Do you want to be that sixteen-year-old girl whose life was turned upside down for the rest of your life? You deserve better than that and so does that little girl... Don't let all of her suffering be in vain. Move on and live your life! The past is holding you captive because you are letting it. And only you have the power to set yourself free," he finished.

Speaking more calmly and with his eyes boring into hers, he appealed to her, "Baby, you've been living your life in solitary confinement. Never letting anyone come close to you because you're afraid of what will happen if you let yourself care or be cared for; you shut down emotionally, build walls around you to protect yourself. That's no way to live. Don't you see? You have so much to offer; that's why you have the friends you have, people who love you and want to take part in your life. You won't let them, but they take what you're willing to give and are happy to have it... You can't think that everyone is a sick sociopath like your mother, running around intentionally hurting people... We all have failings, French. We're none of us perfect. That means that sometimes, without realizing it and without meaning to, people will do and say things that hurt. But that's the human condition; we deal with it and move on. I would think that someone as sensitive, talented and creative as you would pick up on, and revel in, how beautiful the nuances of life can be. But all you've done is run away... You're really missing out."

He stopped talking and looked at her, waiting for her reaction. She pulled her eyes away from his and walked to the fireplace and stared at the flames inside it. Listening to him, really hearing him, was hard. How dare he? she thought with righteous indignation. Although... Perhaps what he said held more than a grain of truth. She had never thought about it in quite those terms. She could admit that, possibly, she was a victim of her past. She hadn't ever made a move in her life without considering the past, without making a conscious decision to make sure that whatever she was doing was as unlike what her mother would have done as possible. She also admitted that she did take great satisfaction from the control she exacted over her life, in direct contrast to how she'd always felt that her childhood had been chaotic. And she definitely kept a safe distance between herself and anything or anyone with the potential to hurt her. Her past did influence her present, perhaps to an alarming, unhealthy degree. But then again, she didn't know what degree of past consciousness was healthy. She didn't even know whether or not 'normal' people placed such importance on the past. She'd have to give that some thought... What she did know was that, in a way, hearing Aidan say what he had said was liberating, as if he'd given her permission to do something she'd never have allowed herself to do. Maybe she was limiting herself and closing the door to possibility. Maybe she was capable of the happiness and freedom other people had. Maybe... just maybe, she even deserved to find some happiness of her own. She didn't know the answers to those questions and didn't think she'd be coming up with definitive answers any time soon. But, maybe...

"French, I'm sorry if I've upset you by saying what I did, I can leave if you want me to. I'll understand if you don't want me around. I'm..." he hesitated, "glad? Glad seems to be the wrong word, given the circumstances, but I am glad, honored even, that you shared the secrets of your past with me. It couldn't have been easy. I'm just sorry that I thanked you for it by getting angry and giving you the burden of my own feelings in response. It probably wasn't what you needed tonight."

He paused, unsure of what to say or do. 

Grabbing the poker, French disassembled the fire and closed the screen so that it would die out safely.

Turning to Aidan at last, she said, "Don't leave. Let's go to bed."



Futile Resistance Ch. 05



A week had passed since French had told Aidan all about her past. Much to her surprise, not much had changed between them. That is, there were no negative changes. Aidan hadn't changed in his behavior toward her in any way. She didn't feel as vulnerable as she had expected she would having him know about the shameful secrets she had kept to herself for so long. Though she certainly wouldn't be running around telling anyone who would listen about them, it did feel good to have someone who knew all about her, someone with whom she could share her burden. It was an immense relief to her to be able to talk to Aidan about everything.

She was having difficulty breaking the habit of constantly diverting attention from herself. She had to make a conscious effort to remember that she didn't have to do that with Aidan anymore. She had grown so accustomed to measuring her words carefully lest she reveal too much to anyone. Whenever anyone talked about a subject she was uncomfortable with or asked her questions about her background, she had always given a glib answer and turned the tables, so that the conversation centered on the other person. I suppose that's why people are always telling me I'm a good listener, she thought. She hadn't truly realized exactly how much time and energy went into concealing so much of herself. Now that she didn't have to, with Aidan at least, she was forced to admit that it hadn't been easy to perpetuate her deceit.

Old habits die hard, she thought. This was all still very new to her and she had decided to take things one day at a time. She knew she wouldn't blossom overnight into the type of chatty person who shared everything about herself with just anyone. She didn't think she was naturally inclined to be that type of person, anyway. She could already tell, though, that there was a heightened sense of closeness between her and Aidan, as if a barrier had come down between them and they could now see one another clearly. It occurred to her now that perhaps Aidan had always seen her clearly and that was why he still treated her the same way as he always had. She, on the other hand, had begun to see him a bit differently. She was beginning to believe that he actually was exactly who he presented himself to be. He wasn't like so many of the men she had known growing up, her mother's lovers, who pretended to be one thing or the other simply to get what they wanted. Aidan was real in every sense of the word; a man without artifice or guile.

Yes, she definitely felt closer to Aidan, she thought, leaning her head against the headrest of the bench seat in which she sat. The commuter rail train she was on was making all stops between the South Shore, where she'd attended a rehearsal, and Boston. It was taking forever to get home, but the long ride provided her with some much-needed solitary thinking time. She gazed out of the window of the train, taking in the wintry sights along the way. Though the suburbs were decorated with holiday ribbons and lights, the gay decorations did little to brighten the scenery, because of the overcast, drab gray day. There was snow on the way for sure. Christmas, two days hence, was sure to be a white one.

As she thought back to what Aidan had said to her the week before, about her being a victim of the past, she knew he was right. In just the week since she'd unburdened herself to him, their relationship had changed for the better. She really had been missing out on the fullness of all the relationships she had with people. She had loved her friends as much as she had allowed herself to. Fifi especially. But still, she had maintained a safe distance. When she thought of all the opportunities that may have slipped away because of her determination to protect herself, she felt a pang of regret. She had always been prepared for the 'real' side of people to emerge, had waited for the wolf to shed his sheep's clothing. Even among her friends. They would all be very hurt if they ever found out that she hadn't fully trusted them. She had never really trusted anyone.

She vowed to change that. She would try her best to stop expecting the worst of people. Again, she had to admit that Aidan was right when he had said that people are imperfect and fallible. Everyone made mistakes now and then, and sometimes others got hurt as a result. But that didn't mean that the person intentionally meant to inflict harm. It didn't mean that the person was necessarily a bad person. She had placed herself at such a remove from people that she had become judgmental of them before getting to know the essence of the person. Judgment was the very thing that she had been afraid would be directed at her; she had feared that, subjected to scrutiny, she would be found lacking.

She had been alone for so long. 'Solitary confinement', Aidan had called it, she thought, he's a really insightful guy. She had been in self-imposed exile; she had begun to have the feeling that she was pitted against the world. She had often felt that, even in a sea of people, an invisible force field surrounded her and kept her separate from the masses. She could visualize the bubble that had confined her and protected her from everything outside it. Now the bubble had burst and she was in full contact with the world. Even though the 'bubble' was metaphorical, it seemed to her that sights, sounds, tastes and textures were suddenly more vivid to her.

Aidan. It all circled back to Aidan. With a soft smile she thought back to the night she had made her revelations. It had been one of the most difficult things she had ever done in her life. She was immensely grateful that Aidan hadn't reacted as she'd expected. She'd been sure that he would react in the way she'd imagined while preparing herself for the 'worst case scenario' in which he would judge and reject her. She had been taken aback when he'd responded with compassion. She had been stunned and had foolishly gone ahead with her 'worst case scenario' response, telling him he could leave and never come back. She was glad she had, in a way, because it had given Aidan a chance to say all the things he'd said. He'd held a mirror up to her in which she was forced to see herself in a new way. In turn, she was now on the verge of rebirthing herself.

They had gone to bed that night, both of them feeling very quiet and slightly uneasy with one another. They had spooned together in the middle of her big bed and had fallen asleep without making love. She had woken in the small hours of the morning with what she could only describe as a soul-deep yearning to connect with Aidan. They had shifted in sleep in the hours they had been in bed and were no longer curled together. Aidan lay on his stomach, his face turned towards her, one arm thrown loosely over her midriff, the other stretched above him and supporting his head. She had lain on her back and watched him, her eyes drinking in the sight of him sleeping sweetly next to her.

Tentatively, she had reached out to touch him. A lock of his too-long, thick brown hair had fallen over his forehead. She brushed it back, then let her hand linger there, tracing the shape of the widow's peak at the center of his forehead. Her fine-boned fingers lightly traced the arch of his brow, the long straight line of his nose, the bow of his upper lip and the smooth, full curve of his bottom lip. His jaw was roughened by stubble and she reveled in the way it felt against her soft fingertips. He slept on, undisturbed by her explorations. She turned on her side to face him, the better to see him, to touch him.

She didn't want to wake him from what was obviously a peaceful slumber, but she couldn't resist the urge to lean in and brush the gentlest of kisses across his lips. As she pulled away, his arm tightened around her waist and he said,

"That's it?"

French froze in the circle of his arm then relaxed back onto her pillow. Embarrassed, she darted a glace at him from beneath her lowered lashes.

"I didn't mean to wake you. You looked so peaceful. I'm sorry."

"The only thing to apologize for is that sorry excuse for a kiss," he replied, his sense of humor awake in spite of the hour and having had his sleep disturbed. "Come back here and do it right."

French cupped his face in the palm of her hand and leaned in, pressing another light kiss to his lips. When she would have pulled away, Aidan held her fast. He didn't wrest control from her, but let her do as she would. She touched his face with light as air caresses of her lips and fingertips. She paused and Aidan opened his eyes to meet hers. He saw shyness and a touch of insecurity in them.

"It's OK. Come here," he whispered against her lips.

Her eyes closed on a wave of relief and, inexplicably, gratitude. She wanted him. Not ravenously as she had earlier that evening, when passion had swept them up into its fury then spit them out when it had run its course. No. This was different, a craving not to be ignored, to be sure, but a softer, gentler hunger.

She kissed him again, softly, lingeringly, glorying in the feel of his soft lips against hers. She pressed closer, opening her lips on his and receiving the sought for response from Aidan as he opened to her. French sipped at his mouth, her tongue darting out to test the texture of his lips, delving into his mouth to rub against the varied textures to be found within.

Aidan fought against the urge to drag her more closely to him and deepening their kiss. He wanted all of her. Now and always. He held back, though, determined to let her take the lead. He kissed her back with the same pressure she exerted, conducted explorations of his own. He wished he could somehow absorb her; that he could join with her more deeply than any lovemaking could allow.

French sealed her lips to his, finally deepening the kiss. She felt her body blooming, her skin becoming heated as arousal coursed through her. Not breaking the kiss, she pushed him to his back, pressed her torso to his and straddled his legs. She molded her body to his, feeling her softness melt around the harder planes and angles of his body. She couldn't resist grinding her pussy against the bulge that was growing inside his boxers. Aidan's hands tightened on her ass as he felt the heat of her through the thin cotton pajama bottoms she wore.

Leaning up, French stripped out of the tank top she had worn to bed and tossed it to the floor. Lowering herself, she pressed her breasts to his chest. She captured his lips with hers in a fiery kiss, their tongues tangling together, breaths mingling. Aidan's hands bracketed her waist, slid up and down her back, caressing her smooth, warm skin. He moved them down and, cupping her ass, ground up against her mons. French gasped at the sensation of him, of his cock pressed hard and rampant against her pussy.

Breaking the kiss, Aidan rolled her over and onto her back. He lay alongside her, took her mouth in a gentle kiss, his lips a mere whisper on hers. His hands roamed over her, lightly caressing her breasts and the sensitive places on her neck. French pressed upward, needing to feel more of him, impatient with his teasing. Reaching up, she tunneled her fingers into his thick hair, pulled his mouth more tightly to hers.

Aidan groaned in submission, let her deepen the kiss. They devoured one another and the flames between them flared even higher. His hands firmed on her flesh; he palmed her breasts, massaging them, molded the supple flesh in his hands. Her nipples were hard nubs, sensitive even to the air in the room that brushed across them. Aidan pulled away from her, watched his hands as they played across her breasts, took in the sight of her body responding to his. He lowered his head, his tongue licking out to flick her nipple teasingly. He traced his tongue around her areola, purposely avoiding the nipple. French gasped, arching her back in her search for more. Her fingers tightened in his hair as she guided his mouth to where she wanted it. Aidan curled his tongue around the tightly furled peak and French's sigh of relief turned to a gasp as he sucked her nipple into his mouth. As he sucked, he ran his tongue roughly across her nipple. She felt a rush of desire that pooled between her legs at the velvety feel of his tongue.

French reached down and shimmied out of her pajama pants as Aidan continued to dance attendance on her breasts. She draped her leg over Aidan's, ran her hands down the sides of her body. She spread her legs wider, caressed her inner thighs and up, up until she reached the hot, wet folds of her pussy. She spread the lips open with one hand and used the other to dip in and capture her thick wetness. She slicked her fingers up to her clit, traced light circles around it. She felt her pussy muscles ripple and knew she was on the verge of coming. She wasn't ready for that yet, so she took her hand away from her clit, moved it down further to play in the wet delta between her thighs, lightly exploring her flowering sex, smearing her juices all over.

She moaned, shuddering at the sensations that coursed through her body. Aidan lifted his head from her breasts and whispered,

"Touch yourself; I want to watch you..."

A thrill of arousal rushed through her. She had never had anyone watch her pleasure herself. It seemed a wicked, wanton thing to do and that fact excited her. Aidan moved down, kneeled between her spread legs, spread them even wider so her pussy was open. He gazed down at her, seeing her wet lips spread explicitly, glistening in the darkness of the room.

French felt shy all of a sudden. She felt completely exposed, vulnerable. She tried to close her legs, but, of course, couldn't because Aidan sat between them. Her inner thighs clamped around his legs where he knelt between hers.

"Don't. You're beautiful; let me look at you," he entreated huskily. He placed his hands on the insides of her thighs, caressed as he gently pushed her legs up and open. She lay before him, legs splayed obscenely. She quivered as she felt the impact of his intent gaze on her pussy. Her inner muscles tightened, rippled in anticipation. Aidan reached out, rubbing his fingers through the wet between her legs. French's hips arched into the caress.

Aidan took her hand, guided it to her pussy, encouraged her to touch herself. Their eyes met and Aidan caught the look of uncertainty that flickered in hers. He leaned over her, kissed her deeply, fanned the flames of desire. He moved his mouth to her breasts, sucked her nipples. French gasped as heat flooded her and a new wave of wetness crested under her fingers. Slowly, she began to massage the lips of her pussy. Aidan felt the movement of her hand where it was pressed between them and levered up, resumed his position kneeling between her thighs.

French quelled the feelings of embarrassment and vulnerability she felt at having him watch her and gave herself over to the experience. She decided to let go, to abandon her inhibitions and allow Aidan to enjoy her the way he so obviously wanted to. She spread her legs wider, caressed her inner thighs. She brought one hand to her mouth, wet her fingers, suggestively licking and sucking. She slicked her wet fingers over her hard nipples, while her other hand worked her pussy with motions that mimicked the hand at her breast. Her hips rolled against the movement of her hand; her eyes closed as pleasure rocketed through her.

Aidan watched her, his cock aching for attention. She made the most erotic picture he had ever seen. The musky scent of her aroused sex assaulted his senses, had him craving a taste of her. He felt her gaze on him and tore his gaze away from her pussy to meet her eyes. They were heavy-lidded and glazed with passion. She taunted him silently as she speared a finger into her core. She added a second finger and fucked herself as she massaged her clit with her other hand. Wet, squelching sounds filled the room, along with their labored breathing.

Aidan's gaze refocused on her hands where they worked her pussy. Her breath quickened even as her movements became faster and firmer on the sensitive flesh between her thighs. She could feel her pussy squeezing her fingers in increasingly intense spasms. She was so close. She could feel Aidan's heated regard and it spurred her on.

"Oh, Aidan..." she whispered huskily, "I'm so close... I'm about to come."

Aidan's eyelids flickered, his jaw tightened as he watched her. Not taking his eyes from her, her removed his boxers and knelt between her splayed legs again. He reached down and wrapped his hand around his rigid cock. He wanted to be inside of her in the worst way, but was riveted by the sight of her, writhing in ecstasy under the ministrations of her own hand. He stroked his hard length as he watched her, knew from the look on her face that she was on the very edge. He felt the muscles at the base of his cock pulse. He stopped the up and down motions of his hand and quickly applied hard pressure at the base of his cock with his fingertips in an effort to stave off his orgasm. He closed his eyes, taking deep, measured breaths as the pleasurable pulses continued and was gratified that he'd managed to stop himself from coming. Barely.

French tumbled headlong into her own orgasm. The sight of Aidan kneeling between her thighs with his hard cock in hand, fighting the rush of his own pleasure, had given her the tiny impetus she had needed. She arched her back, her hips rising and falling rhythmically, shuddering and moaning as the spasms of her pussy gripped her fingers. She continued the motions of her hands, one on her clit, two fingers of the other buried as deeply as possible inside of her, throughout, pressing orgasm on top of orgasm upon herself. Finally, the pulses slowed and she relaxed into the bed. She traced languid caresses over her inner thighs, up her flat stomach to her breasts, where her nipples were still engorged.

Opening her passion-drunk eyes, she focused her gaze on Aidan. He was stroking his cock avidly, his fist tight around it. Up and down, his hand massaged the thick length. French felt her arousal re-ignite and stabilize at a low simmer. The sight of him masturbating was incredibly erotic. He was the very epitome of masculinity -- the muscles of his arms flexing with his motions, his large hands manipulating his flesh, one on his cock, the other deeper between his legs cupping and stroking his balls. She was entranced by the difference in the way she touched him and the way he did it himself. He handled himself almost roughly, whereas she was always gentle with him, afraid that she would be too rough.

Filing that piece of data away for later use, she maneuvered until she was on her knees in front of him. Pressing herself to him, she kissed him. Their tongues mingled, their mouths were hot and wet. French reached down and placed her hand over Aidan's on his cock. He looked down, watched their joined hands stroke him. His head fell back and he groaned. Taking advantage of the exposed line of his neck, French kissed him there, openmouthed, teeth nipping, her tongue soothing the sharpness of the bites.

Pulling away from him, she turned around and got on all fours. Looking over her shoulder at Aidan, she moved backwards so that her pussy was lined up with his cock. He accepted her silent invitation and rubbed the head of his shaft against the wetness between her thighs. Spreading her legs a little wider, he suddenly plunged into her. Her pussy clutched at him as she adjusted to the sudden fullness. Feeling the pulse of impending orgasm begin again at the base of his cock, Aidan held still inside her, thinking of anything but how sweetly her hot, tight, wetness surrounded him.

French became impatient and began to push back against him, fucking herself on his cock. He grabbed her hips, slowed her down. He stroked in and out of her with slow, measured thrusts, watching as his cock speared into her. The lips of her pussy clung to him exquisitely as he fucked her. He caressed the smooth skin of her back and ass, then leaned over her back to reach for her breasts. He cupped the fullness of them, squeezed her nipples between his fingers.




Futile Resistance Ch. 05



With increasing force, he plunged into her. She rocked backwards, meeting his every thrust eagerly. Sounds of their passion filled the room - the wet slap of their sweaty bodies meeting, groans, moans and grunts, mindlessly whispered words of sex and love. Aidan straightened again, reached beneath her body to find the hard pearl of her clit. He fucked her harder and faster, rubbing her clit in rhythm with his thrusts. French began to pant, her breaths becoming tortured moans as Aidan pounded into her, steadily driving her toward climax.

"Yes, Aidan, yes," she chanted, "Fuck me hard. Harder!"

Aidan rubbed her clit between his thumb and index finger, pressed his other hand on her lower back, forcing her legs wider, changing the angle of penetration. His cock rubbed against the front wall of her pussy on each thrust, just as he'd intended. French arched into him, tossed her head back and forth. Tingling that began in her fingers and toes consumed her body as her breaths grew more ragged and uneven. Mindless, she dropped her head and shoulders down to the pillow, extended her arms above her to grip the rungs of the headboard. Her body was coiled so tightly, she thought she would die if she didn't get release soon.

"Please, Aidan..." she whimpered.

No sooner had she uttered the words than she flew apart. She cried out with a series of tremulous, guttural growls. Powerful pulses of pleasure consumed her entire body; inside and out, her muscles seemed to flex and release. Her skin felt as though it had shrunk and the intense throbbing of her body stretched it taut, sensitized it to an almost excruciating degree. Her eyes were closed, yet varying shades of light and dark, flashes of vivid color appeared behind her eyelids. Aidan fucked into her, again, again, again sending more shockwaves through her body. Slamming into her with a final few thrusts, he came quietly undone, flooding her pussy with warmth.

Gasping for breath, he pulled her upright onto her knees so her back was to his front, taking care that he stayed inside her. She leaned against him, her head lolling back against his shoulder. Kissing her, he cupped her breasts in his hands then slid them over her taut abdomen and into the close-cropped curls at the apex of her thighs. Her body quivered, her pussy spasmed around his cock where it was still nestled within her. He played his fingers over the wetness there, sought out that most intimate juncture of their bodies. Slicking his wet fingers upward, he stroked her clit, making her cry out in anguished ecstasy. Her pussy tightened spastically with the fluttering of another orgasm and his softening length slid out of her.

Aidan flopped forward onto his pillow and pulled her down next to him. He gathered her in, not caring that they were both sticky with sweat and overheated from their exertions. He kissed her, soothed her, lifted the heavy mass of her hair from her neck to cool her. God, he thought, I wish I had the strength to do that all over again...

Tipping French's face up so he could look into her eyes, he saw that she was back to being shy. A blush suffused her cheeks and she darted her gaze away from his. That she could be shy after that was amazing to him. He'd just have to work hard to keep her wanting and wanton until she got used to it.

She yawned and he grinned,

"I'll second that," he teased, before his jaw cracked in a yawn of his own.

"I think you just about killed me," French murmured sleepily.

"Mmmm. Well, go to sleep and I'll see about finishing the job in the morning."

With a smile curving her lips, she snuggled into him and fell asleep.

*****

It was Christmas Eve and Aidan had invited her to his family's annual celebration. There would be a lot of people there, despite that fact that it was Christmas Eve. The Conal's had a wide circle of friends who attended the gathering at the family home in Marblehead, on Boston's North Shore. It had become one of the most anticipated parties held every year.

French was nervous about meeting the family. She was mentally prepared for them to reject her. People of their status were accustomed to knowing who one's 'people' were and she didn't have any people, and even if she had, there were none who would matter to them. The man who had fathered her was of the same ilk and he'd wanted nothing to do with her. She knew the type well; that was the one important thing her mother had taught her. So, she was prepared for their censure, and if they didn't greet her with outright censure, then she was prepared for the cool politesse that would accompany their introduction. They wouldn't take her seriously, wouldn't take her relationship with Aidan seriously, she thought.

That thought took her aback, because she was unaware of having begun thinking that she herself was serious about her relationship with Aidan. Yet, the shift in thought had evidently occurred within her at some point. Gone was the idea that they would amicably part ways when they had both gotten what they sought from one another. Gone was the notion that they could look for nothing more than companionship and mutual fulfillment of sexual desire. Gone was the fiction that had led her to believe that she could be in the company of a man such as Aidan so frequently and not fall a little bit more in love with him each time they were together.

Indeed, that was what had happened. She was in love with Aidan. She had been well on her way there when she broke up with him before; she had ended it though, thereby vanquishing the possibility of heartbreak. This time was different. She was equally as frightened - terrified really - as she had been before, afraid that her heart would be broken. The difference between then and now, she surmised, was the fact that she wasn't afraid of whether or not she'd be able to survive the heartbreak itself. She knew she would be strong enough to survive, just as she was now strong enough to risk the prospect of heartbreak, love and loss.

A smile brightened the reflection of her face in the mirror as she applied makeup. It was a painstaking process, given that she didn't wear makeup often; she had had to remove and re-apply her eye makeup once already because she had botched it up. Now she was almost finished, had only to apply her lipstick. The new bent of her thoughts regarding Aidan had given her pause. She didn't know when it had happened. Was it the night she had told him her secrets or had it been before then and that night been the glue sealing the deal?

Suddenly, she felt a frisson of unease. What did the acknowledgment of her feelings for Aidan mean? Did she want to marry him and spend the rest of her life with him? She couldn't be sure that marriage was what she wanted. She had always thought that marriage was just a piece of paper. People broke their word all the time. The number of her mother's lovers who had been married, men who had taken vows to forsake all others, proved that point. Those men's word had been worth less than the paper they'd been printed on.

Not only that, but she suddenly realized that she did have a quaint notion that if, when, she got married, it would be for forever. There was no room for negotiation, no room to even entertain thoughts of divorce. Yes, she thought, I am something of a romantic. I want the fairytale, the happily ever after, even though I would rather have died than admit it before now. Even to myself... Growing up with her mother, she had been taught that there was no such thing as happily ever after. She had learned through years of observation that there was no such thing as pure, true love. I think I will have to rethink that, she thought, I will need to unlearn all of the 'undeniable, irrefutable truths' my mother taught me.

But not tonight. Tonight, she would go up to Marblehead and meet Aidan's family. She would set aside thoughts of love, marriage and forever and try her best to be the best she could be, so that even if -- no when -- Aidan's parents expressed their doubts about her, they would find her behavior and demeanor unimpeachable. Casting a final approving glance at herself in the mirror, she left the bathroom.

*****

She had bought a new dress for the evening, but as they drove the forty-five minutes up to Marblehead, she was second-guessing the choice. She had loved it from the moment she'd seen it in the Newbury Street boutique. When she'd tried it on, though, she'd known that it was 'the one'. Without being too tight, the dress molded to her every curve as though it had been tailor made for her. Made of garnet red shantung silk, the dress had a scooped, low neckline and wide straps over the shoulders. From the front, it looked modest enough. From the back, it was anything but modest; the scoop in the back echoed the neckline, but dipped sinfully low on her back, leaving almost every bronzed inch of the toned flesh bare. She had accessorized the dress with matte gold strappy high-heeled sandals and a suite of jewelry in the same matte tone of gold as her shoes. The chandelier earrings were bedecked with garnets, as was the bracelet. The pendant on the matching necklace hovered just above the shadow between her breasts, drawing the eye to the hint of cleavage bared there. She had done her eyes in smoky shades of gray and wore garnet red lipstick. Her hair was swept back from her face and cascaded down her back in loose waves. She had thought she looked pretty good. Until now... and now it was too late to be having second thoughts.

Aidan had complimented her on her appearance profusely and she knew he was sincere. However, she knew she only had one chance to make a good first impression and she was worried that her dress, hair and makeup might be too... Too... Too everything and that Aidan's mother, especially, would disapprove. Normally, French wouldn't have given a second thought to what she had chosen to wear; she knew she had impeccable taste in clothing. Tonight was different, though. She wanted to be everything Aidan's parents could possibly want for him. She didn't want them thinking she was gauche or backwards or lacking in taste. She was a bundle of nerves.

As they drove, she was preoccupied with the anxious thoughts that streamed through her mind. She responded monosyllabically to Aidan's attempts at conversation. She didn't notice that Aidan had exited the motorway and pulled into the parking lot of a playground until they came to a stop and he turned off the ignition.

"Why are we stopping?"

"Because, I want to know what's wrong with you," he responded.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. We should go, we're going to be late, Aidan."

"No we're not. Are you nervous about meeting my parents?"

"Of course I'm nervous! What do you think?" she said testily.

"Their going to love you, French. Don't worry."

"Right, Aidan. They're going to love that you're dating a Black woman, who has no pedigree, no connections, no money, no nothing..." she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Would you stop it? I don't know who you think you're going to be spending Christmas with, but the people you just described are not my parents. They're going to think you are lovely and they will accept you because I've brought you home. They won't think about your skin color and they won't care whether or not you have any money. That stuff doesn't matter to them! Seeing me happy does matter to them and if you keep this up, I won't be happy when we get there and then you'll actually have a reason to worry..."

"Hmph," French said, unable to come up with an argument to refute what he'd said.

"That's right -- hmph," Aidan said. "Just relax, I'm telling you they'll love you. They really will. My dad's a sucker for a beautiful girl. He'll probably think you're too good for me, especially with the way you look tonight. I promise you, there's no need to worry, baby."

"I can't help it, Aidan. I have all of these 'what ifs' running through my mind. And all of them are really bad. I don't want to embarrass you in front of your family or give anyone a reason to say anything bad about you..."

"They won't," he said abruptly. "There's nothing bad to say. You're a gorgeous, incredibly talented and self-made woman. What's bad about that? And, may I remind you that you're the one who's doing all the judging? Give them a chance, French."

"You're right. I just want to make a good first impression so badly," she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the headrest with a sigh.

"Just be yourself. That's the only way I like you to be," he placed his hand over hers where they were knotted together in her lap. He brought one hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles, then turned it over to kiss her palm. Leaning over the gearshift, he kissed her lips. He pressed light closed-mouthed kisses to her lips at first, then teased her mouth open and delved inside to taste her. She responded to him, turning her head on the headrest to meet his lips more fully and to ply her tongue in his mouth in turn. She reached up, lay a slim hand alongside his face, held him close to her.

They made out in the car like a pair of horny teenagers. The windows steamed up as they groped at each other. Aidan kissed her neck, the expanse of her chest and hint of her breasts left exposed by the scooped neckline of her dress. French slipped a hand between his thighs, stroked the length of his cock through the fabric of his tuxedo pants. He groaned and slid a hand under the above-the-knee hemline of her dress. Up, up his hand went until he reached the apex of her thighs where it met with hot, wet flesh. Snapping his head up, he swallowed convulsively and asked,

"No panties?"

"Nope, can't wear any underwear at all under this dress; even a thong showed right through..."

"Oh, God," he groaned, "this is going to be the longest night of my life..."

"It'll be worth the wait, I promise," she teased, nipping his earlobe.

"I'm tempted to say to hell with the party and turn around and go back to your place. My mom would kill me, though," he sighed regretfully, "we'd better go before we're later than we already are."

"Let's go then and hurry! Don't make them hate me already just because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself."

He smiled and pressed a lingering kiss, full of promise, to her lips then refastened her seatbelt and his own. They were on the motorway again in no time at all. French opened the lighted mirror within the car's sun visor and groaned at the smeared mess that had started out as carefully applied lipstick. Darting a glance at Aidan, she couldn't help but laugh, his mouth was smeared with the garnet lip-stain, too.

Looking alarmed, he asked, "What are you laughing at?!"

Laughing harder, French simply handed him a tissue. She reapplied her lipstick, checked the rest of her makeup and her hair, smoothed her dress for the umpteenth time. Finally, she subsided. This is as good as its gonna get, she thought. Having decided that worry and anxiety weren't useful in this situation, she turned to Aidan and asked him to tell her more about his parents and brother and about who else would be at the party, the better to know what was waiting for her. They spent the rest of the drive chatting and French was able to forget for awhile what she was about to face.

*****

They arrived at the house -- a beautifully restored Victorian right on the rocky coast of Marblehead. The house was huge and lights blazed from all the windows. The property was decked out in tasteful Christmas decorations -- no gaudy lights or lawn ornaments like you sometimes saw in the suburbs. The snow that had fallen during the day gave the house a gingerbread quality, but on a much larger scale. Pulling into the circular driveway, Aidan got out of the car and told the valet to park his car with the family vehicles in the carriage house and to then take their overnight cases to wherever they'd be sleeping. He came around to the passenger side, opened the door for French and helped her out of the car.

"Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said. "Do I look OK?"

"Gorgeous."

"Thanks, lead on..."

Aidan led her up the front steps of the house. Normally, he would have gone in through the kitchen, but tonight he knew it would be full and bustling with the catering staff. They walked in and were immediately surrounded with warmth, cheer and music. One of the people hired to handle the guests' coats and personal belongings came up to them and divested them of their coats. Apprehensively, French relinquished the protective shell of her coat.

"Here goes nothing," she said to Aidan with a nervous smile.

"Relax."

They skirted around the throngs of people in search of either Aidan's parents or drinks, whichever came to them first. Personally, French would much rather have the drink first. Suddenly, Aidan was seized from behind then drawn into an enthusiastic hug from a man who appeared to be a few years younger than Aidan. It had to be his brother, Brian. The two men looked a lot alike, there was no doubt they were brothers. However, there were almost imperceptible differences in their features and, though both men were very handsome, French couldn't help but think smugly that she was happy she'd gotten the better looking brother.

"Brian, this is my girlfriend, Francoise Delauney. Everyone calls her French," Aidan said, proudly presenting her to Brian. "Baby, this is my little brother, Brian."

"I'm so glad to finally meet you," Brian said, "Aidan's told me a lot about you, but he forgot to mention that you are drop-dead gorgeous!"

French was bemused at having been introduced as Aidan's girlfriend and also by the fact that Aidan had apparently talked about her to his brother.

"Likewise, Brian. And, I've heard a lot about you, too," she finally managed to respond.

"Probably none of it good. If I know Aidan," Brian joked, "he probably told you only bad things about me so I wouldn't have a chance in hell at stealing you away from him. And believe me, if you weren't already spoken for, I'd definitely be trying to sweep you off your feet!"

Batting her lashes comically, French said in a pseudo purr, "Chér, if you keep flattering me like that you might actually have a chance at me..."

"Madamoiselle, I aim to please," Brian said, sketching a courtly bow.

"All right, you two! Enough flirting," Aidan said with an exaggerated air of pretend annoyance. "Where're mom and dad?"

"Coming up right behind you. Get ready, mom went crazy when I got here," Brian warned. "Acted like a mother bear who'd found her long-lost cub... You'd think she never saw us."

"Aidan, darling, you're finally here," a cultured female voice said from behind them.

The beautiful, tall woman with ash-blonde hair swept Aidan into a hug, then stood back to get a good look at him.

"Oh, honey, you're much too thin!" she fretted, "Why won't you take better care of yourself?" Placing her hand on his cheek, she examined his face carefully, sincere concern evident in her eyes. "Aren't you eating at all? And look at this shaggy hair... I've told you that you've got to do better taking care of yourself. Going off to all those godforsaken places you go..." she grumbled. 

"And what's this?" she asked, looking at a red smear near his ear. In the age old way mothers do, she wet a fingertip with her tongue and rubbed at the spot vigorously. French blushed and groaned inwardly as she watched Aidan's mother scrub at the red lipstick stain on his neck.

"Mom," Aidan said, squirming away. "I'm fine. You look beautiful, by the way," he kissed her cheek. "And the party looks like it'll be a raging success as usual." Turning to the distinguished-looking gentleman who'd stood quietly while Aidan's mother fussed over him, Aidan said, "Dad, you're looking well."




Futile Resistance Ch. 05



Ignoring the hand Aidan had proffered for a handshake, the man gripped Aidan in a bear hug.

"Good to see you, son. Don't mind your mother. She won't be happy until she's got you fattened up like me!" his father joked, patting the slight bulge under his tuxedo.

"Aidan, aren't you forgetting something," the mother said in a mock-imperious tone, darting her eyes pointedly toward French where she stood off to one side with Brian.

"Oh. Right. Mom, Dad, this is my girlfried, Francoise Delauney -- or French, as she's known to friends and family. Babe, this is my mom -- Maggie, and my dad -- Iain."

French extended her hand to Maggie, "I'm so pleased to meet you," she began and was then clasped in a warm embrace, having her cheeks pecked in turn with airy kisses of greeting.

"Darling, welcome!" Maggie said. "You are a very pretty girl, aren't you? Just look at those eyes -- and that hair! Isn't she pretty, Iain," she gushed to her husband, then went on without waiting for a response. "I adore your jewelry; that set was one of my favorites," she said and French didn't know what she meant by that, but didn't have a chance to ask because Maggie rushed on, "I must apologize in advance for not having enough time to get to know you tonight. But never fear, we'll just be the five of us tomorrow for Christmas, so we'll have plenty of time together."

"Maggie, don't scare the girl off, for God's sake, she only just got here," Iain cut in gruffly. "And let go of her so I can say hello."

Again, French's attempt at a handshake was ignored in favor of a warm hug and kisses to her cheeks. Iain stood back and examined her as closely as Aidan's mother had examined him. Apparently approving of what he saw, he kissed her hand before tucking it into the crook of his arm.

"Well. I'll introduce French around. Aidan, my boy, don't just stand there, dance with your mother," he ordered before sweeping French away.

Aidan, Brian and their mother, watched mystified as the pair receded into the crowd.

"He's incorrigible," Maggie groused with affection. "You'd better do as he says, Aidan. Let's dance. And Brian, if you know what's good for you, you'll find your Aunt Beth and do the same."

*****

Iain Conal was delightfully charming and an irrepressible flirt. She could see where Aidan and his brother had learned their tricks. He danced attendance on her throughout the early portion of the party. He introduced her to myriad people, sometimes whispering to her about the eccentricities of his guests before introducing her to them. It was his way of soothing her nerves and it worked. It was impossible to be nervous when you're giggling, she thought. Iain had danced with her, made sure that her glass was never empty and that she had her fill of the foods offered on the expansive buffet.

French excused herself from the group Iain was entertaining with one of his stories. He paused in the telling,

"Hurry back, dear, I'll be lost without your companionship," he said with a roguish smile.

"Not to worry, I'll be right back, Mr. Conal -- er, I mean, Iain," she stammered. He'd already corrected her more times than she could count; he didn't stand on formality.

She broke away from the group and made her way to the bathroom in the hall. Before she made it there, Aidan grabbed her hand and led her into the kitchen and up the stairs that were tucked into the corner of the huge space.

"Don't use the downstairs bathroom; it's for the guests," he admonished, "use one of the ones upstairs. That's what all the family will do tonight."

They reached the third floor and Aidan led her down the hall and to a turreted bedroom with an en suite bathroom.

"This is where mom put us for tonight," he said with a sweep of his arm. "The bathroom's over there. I'll wait for you."

French went in and freshened up. When she came out with hair and makeup once again immaculate, she found Aidan lounging across the bed, propped against the pillows. He patted the space next to him and she went over and sat down.

"So?" he asked, arching one brow.

"So, what?"

"Are you going to admit that I was right and you were wrong?" he asked, tickling her behind the knees.

"Never!" French giggled.

"Oh yes, I think you will. Just wait and see," he said menacingly, then lunged for her.

"Aidan, for crying out loud," an imperious voice said from the open doorway. Aidan and French jumped apart guiltily. "Leave the poor girl alone! There'll be plenty of time for all of that after the party's over!"

At the last comment, French jumped up from the bed, blushing from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.

"Come, darling, it's my turn to monopolize you. Aidan, your bowtie is crooked. Straighten it and get back downstairs," Maggie said, grabbing French's hand and leading her out of the room.

French looked over her shoulder at Aidan with wide eyes and shrugged helplessly. He rolled his eyes and flopped back on the bed. I feel like a teenager, he thought grumpily, first making out in the car and then getting caught by my mom with a girl in my room. Still, he thought with pride, mom, dad and Brian seemed completely charmed by his girl... He'd known they would be, because she was perfect for him. They would have known that he was serious about her when he'd told them he was bringing someone home with him for Christmas. He'd not told French that she was the first woman that he'd ever introduced to his parents; he'd known she'd have been even more nervous if he had. She was the only one who didn't know the significance of her presence in his family home on a holiday that was so important to his to them all.

Getting off of the bed, he went to the mirror and straightened the offending bowtie, smoothed his rumpled hair. With a sigh, he rejoined the revelry downstairs. He couldn't wait until it was over. Then he would have French all to himself, no more meddling or 'monopolization' from his parents and Brian.

*****

The party wound down well after midnight. The family ascended the stairs, leaving the catering staff to finish the clean-up downstairs. On the second floor landing, they kissed one another goodnight, with promises for more peace, quiet and time to get better acquainted tomorrow. Aidan and French left Maggie, Iain and Brian on the second floor and continued on to the third floor alone.

Aidan shut the door behind them, leaned against it and said,

"At last... We're alone."

"Don't get any ideas," French warned severely. "I feel weird enough that your mother is letting us sleep together. It would be beyond embarrassing if 'anything happened'."

"Come on, French," Aidan almost whined, "I barely laid eyes on you all night! The only thing that kept me from dragging you up here in the middle of the party was the thrill of anticipation..."

"Well, you'll just have to anticipate a little longer, like until we get back to town, because I could never do 'that' here!" she said primly. "It would be disrespectful to your parents and the hospitality they've shown me, Aidan. And besides... What if they heard us?" She asked, scandalized. Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her overnight bag and toiletries, went into the bathroom and shut the door.

When she came out of the bathroom, she was dressed conservatively in flannel pajamas. Ha, Aidan thought, if she thinks those ugly pajamas are going to stop me, she's got another think coming! He went into the bathroom to prepare for bed.

While he was away, French went over to the cushioned window seat, which granted a panoramic view of the ocean and the lights of downtown Boston courtesy of the cupola. She went over to the bed to get the antique afghan that was folded at the foot. Wrapping herself in it, she curled up on the seat and watched the foam-topped waves crash ashore. The lights of Boston looked far off, but somehow close enough to touch. She marveled at the raw beauty of the rocky beach juxtaposed with the snow-softened appearance of the streets and homes in the surrounding area. Beautiful, she thought.

Aidan came out of the bathroom and came to sit with her. Chilled, having stripped down to his boxers, he scooped her up onto his lap and re-wrapped them both in the blanket. They gazed out of the windows, shrouded in silent serenity. This is the way I always want us to be, he thought.

Tipping her face to his, he kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. In spite of her resolve to refrain from making love in his parents' house on the very first occasion she'd met them, she wanted him. She'd hoped she would be strong enough to withstand Aidan's advances, but she really didn't want to. She'd seen the determined look on his face when she'd come out of the bathroom in the flannel pj's and had known that her goose was cooked.

They kissed, hotly and hungrily, each feeling as though they'd come home after a prolonged absence. Before she knew it, Aidan had her naked and straddling his lap. He touched her all over, never once breaking their fiery kiss. French slid a hand between their bodies, caressed his cock through his boxers. He shifted, allowed her to remove them. Quietly, they joined. She rocked over him slowly, swirling her hips, lifting and lowering herself on him.

French tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath. She braced her hands on his shoulders and began to ride him with increased fervor. Aidan's hands gripped her waist, then slid down to take firm handfuls of her ass. He helped her, his hands guiding her as she fucked him. Her breath came faster, accompanied by little whimpers that Aidan muffled with his mouth. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, he bucked upward into her.

She broke the kiss again, panting. "Yes, oh yes, Aidan," she moaned. He took her hand, guided it between their bodies and ultimately to her clit.

"Do it," he commanded in a whisper.

Without a thought, she touched herself, used her natural lubrication to moisten her fingers and slid them over the button of her clit. She kept her other hand braced on Aidan's shoulder, using it as leverage so that she met each one of Aidan's firm upward thrusts with a firm downward stroke of her own. Dropping her head to his shoulder she surrendered to the orgasm that ripped through her; she sank her teeth into the muscle there to muffle her moans as she rode him through the waves. Grabbing a handful of her hair, Aidan yanked her head back and fastened his mouth on hers when he came, using her mouth to muffle his own roar of satisfaction.

Still entwined and coming down from their high, they sat together on the window seat until their sweaty bodies grew chilled.

"We should go to bed, sweetie," French said.

"I know. It's freezing, huh?"

"Mmm," came her lazy reply. Finally, gathering her strength, she lifted herself off of his lap, scooped the blanket from the floor and pulled Aidan to his feet.

"Come on, Lazybones," she coaxed. She pushed him into the bed and climbed in after him.

"Thanks for coming up here with me tonight," Aidan said. "I know my parents can be overwhelming sometimes and you handled them perfectly."

"They're wonderful people, Aidan."

"Wait a minute," he said, propping himself up to look at her incredulously, "Stop the presses! Was that an admission that you were wrong about them?"

Turning away from him, she said primly, "Good night, Aidan. Oh, and Merry Christmas."



Futile Resistance Ch. 06



Christmas morning dawned snowy and beautiful. French opened her eyes and squinted against the brightness of the day. Stretching, she luxuriated in the feel of the silky sheets against her naked skin. Obviously very high thread-count, she thought. Curious about the rest of the decor, she looked around the room in which she had slept but with which she hadn't really had time to become acquainted.

It was furnished with antiques. The sleigh-bed was, from all appearances, hand carved, varnished cherry wood. In judicious arrangement, there was an old-fashioned writing table with a delicate upholstered chair, a dresser and an armoire of the same dark, highly polished wood.

The shiny hardwood floor was covered with an Oriental rug with a deep green and antique gold design. The cushion on the window-seat where she and Aidan had made love the night before held the same tones. The nightstands positioned on either side of the bed each held Tiffany lamps, originals French thought – not merely 'Tiffany-style'. Each stained-glass lampshade matched the green and gold motif of the room, but were of different designs. With its tasteful décor and understated elegance, the room was lovely. It wasn't exactly to French's personal tastes, but she could tell the room had been decorated with an eye towards its occupants' comfort and aesthetic beauty.

Having satisfied her curiosity about the room, she peeked beneath the bedcovers Aidan had drawn over his head to ward off the brightness of the morning. Smiling, she took a hank of her hair in her hand and feathered it across his ear. When he swatted at it, she moved out of the way quickly. Another little brush, this time on the tip of his nose. And another swat. She teased him further, drawing the sprig of hair down the side of his neck. She wasn't quick enough to dodge him and his hand closed tightly around her wrist. Aidan opened one eye and glared at her.

"Merry Christmas," she said, with a syrupy smile.

The eye snapped shut and he turned onto his back, pulled her down so that her head rested on his shoulder. He drew the comforter more securely around them. French snuggled into him, caressed his chest and abdomen as she lay alongside him.

"It's getting late, Aid, don't you think we should get up? I'll bet your parents have been awake for hours already..."

"Nope. We always sleep in on Christmas morning..." he replied gruffly without opening his eyes.

"Oh."

French continued to stroke him, drawing lazy patterns in the swirl of hair on his chest and savoring the hot, smooth yet hair-roughened texture of his skin. She noticed that he had a trio of tiny moles on his shoulder that formed a perfect equilateral triangle whose outline she traced with her fingertip. She ran her hand down his torso, lightly brushed past his morning erection and on to the muscular curve of his thighs and massaged the muscles there with firm strokes. She slid her hands up again to his stomach where she dipped a finger in his belly button.

Again, her wrist was seized in a tight grip. And again, Aidan opened one eye and gave her a baleful stare. "You aren't going to let me go back to sleep, are you?" he asked, then kissed the palm of her hand and drew her closer.

"I'm bored," French pouted.

"You're bored... You could've at least woken me up properly."

"Don't sulk. Against my better judgment, I put you to sleep 'properly' last night. Remember?" she poked him in his ribs.

"Mmmm... No, I don't recall. Refresh my memory?"

"Oh, you are too much!" she laughed, "It's Christmas morning and the first thing you think of is sex? And in your mother's house, with her in a room right below us?"

"Leave my mother out of this," he said lazily, his eyes closed again.

French's caresses turned a little more menacing. She dragged her fingertips lightly across his skin, making it pebble with goose bumps. She traced the line of his collarbone, a very sensitive spot for him. She teased him, running her index finger back and forth across it lightly, lulling him with the gentle caress. Suddenly, she applied quick, hard pressure to his collarbone and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He grabbed her and rolled her underneath him.

"You're dead," he threatened.

"Oh? Show me what you've got, big boy," she taunted.

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Aidan pounced on her and began tickling her where she was most vulnerable: her sides. She squirmed and giggled, tried her best to get away from his marauding fingers. Her giggles turned into outright belly laughs and she lay helpless under his assault.

"Do you give up?"

She took advantage of his pause in tickling her and jackknifed her legs around his waist and squeezed him between the lean muscles of her thighs. Now that she had leverage, she twisted to the side taking him down to the bed. She scrambled on top of him, crowing,

"Ha - got you! I'm king of the mountain!"

"Yeah, right. I let you get me. You're no match for me, little girl," he said, putting his hands behind his head. "Get down here and give me a proper good morning, will you?"

"I will," she said, bracing her hands on either side of his head and bestowing a peck of a kiss on his lips. When she pulled away, he pushed his hands into the curly tangle of her hair, kept her in place to ensure he got the kind of good morning kiss he was looking for. Aidan savored the kiss and the feel of her body on top of his. He caressed her creamy smooth skin from the nape of her neck down to the curve of her hips, ran his fingertips lightly along the crease of her buttocks and deeper between her legs to caress the lips of her sex. Feeling a wave of involuntary, intoxicating arousal, French shivered and ground against Aidan's hard cock. Then pulled away from the kiss and smiled down at him smugly.

"Nice try, but you won't do it again."

"Do what?"

"Seduce me."

"I betcha I can."

"No you can't."

"Do you dare me?"

"What are you? Eleven?" she taunted, then scrambled out of bed when she saw the glint of determination in his eyes as he responded to her challenge.

"OK, listen. I'm going to take a shower. By the time I get out, I hope that you will have... um, calmed yourself down and re-acquired your sense of decorum," French teased, gesturing to the sheet that tented over Aidan's hard-on.

"I'd prefer it if you'd 'calm me down'," he grumbled.

"Ooohh, I'll just bet you would, babycakes," she replied. With as much dignity as she could muster while standing around stark naked, she swept into the bathroom and closed the door.

She wasn't surprised when he joined her in the shower.

"You're such a tease," he said, "come here."

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her beneath the spray of hot water. French surrendered, knowing that resistance was futile where Aidan was concerned. She looped her arms around his neck and pressed against him. Feeling hot and hungry for him, she deepened the kiss. His hands wandered over the water-slicked terrain of her body, lingered when he reached her breasts, gently pulling and twisting her already engorged nipples. Aidan grabbed the bottle of shower gel, squeezed a dollop into his palm and worked up a rich lather as he massaged her neck and shoulders.

He turned her around, so his cock rested against her bottom. He rubbed the lather into her breasts, his hands filled to overflowing with the supple flesh. He whispered in her ear, telling her in erotically explicit terms what he wanted from her, what he was going to do to her. Her knees weakened when he slid one soapy hand down her torso to the patch of hair between her legs. He cupped her mound, pressed the heel of his palm against her clit and rubbed in slow circles. His middle finger slid between the lips of her pussy, lightly caressing from her opening up to her clit and back down again. His touch was feather-light, intended to goad her into demanding - no, begging - that he take her.

French spread her legs wider; she was already yearning to be penetrated. Aidan slid his hand back up her torso, raising her arms and positioning her hands flat against the tiled wall of the shower stall. He traced the elegant line of her back from top to bottom, ran one hand down the crack of her ass, grazed his fingertips over the swollen lips of her pussy and down the backs of her thighs. She arched her back and pressed back against him, longing for his gloriously hard cock. He slid one arm around her waist and guided his cock into her tight, wet cleft.

In one long, slow thrust, he was buried to the hilt. French moaned, thrilling at the feel of being stretched around his cock, exulting in the exquisite fullness she felt. He stayed still inside her, his cock throbbing when he felt the flutter of her inner muscles around him. He withdrew almost completely, then thrust slowly into her again, setting a slow, controlled pace. He loosened his hold on her waist, slid his hand between her legs to the hard nub of her clit. He circled it softly with soapy fingers and she gasped,

"More... Harder."

Aidan kept his pace slow, his caresses teasingly light and held French poised on the brink of orgasm. He knew her well enough to know that she would be feeling impatient, knew she wanted him to push her over the edge hard and fast. He didn't want hard and fast, he wanted it slow and easy. He wanted to savor the feel of her slick heat gloving him, to take his time enjoying the feel of her firm breasts and hard nipples in his hands, to delight in her sighs and moans of pleasure.

She began to thrust back against him, increasing the pace and the force of his entry into her. She removed one hand from the wall, reached down and rubbed her clit with firm circular strokes. She moaned and rested her forehead against the wall, felt the rampant clench of arousal low in her belly. Aidan's hands cupped her breasts, palming them, tugging and squeezing her nipples. He let her take over, allowed her to plunge down onto his cock with deep, hard thrusts.

"Mmmm, yes. Harder, Aidan," French begged.

Aidan leaned forward and grazed his teeth along the line of her neck and shoulder. She shivered in response and her skin erupted in goose bumps. He reached down and moved her hand away from her clit and put it back on the wall. He lightly brushed his fingertips across the hard nub, back and forth. French needed more, wanted more and clenched her teeth, groaning in frustration and bliss.

The shower stall was full of steam and echoed with the sounds of passion. Droplets of water glistened on the lovers' bodies, a mixture of sweat and spray from the shower. Aidan applied more pressure to her clit and she gasped in pleasure. He felt her pussy walls clamp around him spasmodically. She was making breathy, whimpering sounds and cried out when he changed tactics and squeezed her clit lightly between his index and middle fingers. A repeat of the caress had her climax roaring through her. It hit her hard and would have buckled her knees had Aidan not gripped her waist to keep her upright. He rode her hard, pressing pleasure upon her. He felt the continuous ripple of her orgasm squeezing and releasing his cock as he fucked her. The low quivery moans she made and the sensations of her cunt pulsing around his cock were overwhelming. He squeezed her clit again and the responding spasms of her pussy triggered his orgasm. He exploded, making short deep thrusts into her.

Drained, he leaned over her back and braced himself against the wall with one hand, his breathing labored. French slithered around in the circle of his arms to face him, clung to him languidly as they kissed and caressed one another, prolonging the intimate moment. Aidan reached for the shower gel again and French giggled and took it from him.

"Give me that," she teased, "I think I'll wash myself this time!"

In the end, they wound up washing each other and dawdled in the shower longer than they should have. They were having too much fun teasing, playing and exploring to get out. It felt good to wake up next to him, to play with him, French thought, I could get used to mornings like this.

They slid into domesticity easily, performing their toilettes side by side in front of the big mirror above the vanity with its his-and-hers sinks. French took out her blow drier and her brush, intending to straighten her hair for the day. Aidan grimaced, saying,

"Don't. I like it curly."

"But Aidan, it's so messy and unrefined that way. It makes me look like a wild-child," she protested. "I prefer it nice, neat and tame."

"I love the wild-child in you," he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Besides, it's Christmas - don't I get a say?"

"Man, you are all about the dirty fight today, aren't you?" she said sarcastically, capitulating.

She finger-combed her hair and dried it with the blow drier set on cool. When it was mostly dry, she pulled it back from her face with a wide red headband and fluffed the curls around it. Hoping that she had chosen an outfit that projected a 'casual-yet-elegant-day-at-home' vibe, she dressed in chic stovepipe leg black wool slacks and black boat-neck cashmere sweater with a thin red stripe around the neck. She belted the pants with a red suede belt and wore red suede driving moccasins.

"Is this good?" she asked Aidan, nervous again.

"You always look good to me, baby."

"I know that, but what I want to know is, will your mother approve?" agitation edged her voice.

"Are we starting that again?"

"A simple yes or no will do, Aidan," she said tartly.

"I've got to keep you away from my mother," he sighed, "you just met her last night and you're already rivaling her in the 'who's the best at badgering Aidan' contest. You look wonderful," he said.

"Hmph."

"If you're finished primping, can we go, now? I need coffee in the worst way."

"Now who's badgering who? Yes, we can go. If you're going to stay grouchy all day, I'll need that coffee more than you do..."

"Very funny. Come here."

French went to him and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She twined her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. They were a deep, dark blue this morning and despite the playful banter, mock bickering and lovemaking they'd enjoyed, they were serious. Cocking her head to the side, she asked,

"What's wrong, Aid?"

"Nothing, really. I just wanted to hold you for a minute; I know as soon as we get downstairs, Mom, Dad and Brian will monopolize you for the rest of the day," he sulked. "I should have told them we already had plans for Christmas and locked us away for the duration..."

Her heart skipped a beat. She had had the same thought earlier, that she wouldn't have him all to herself until much later that evening. At the time, it had annoyed her that she thought of his family as competition for his attentions. And as much as she wanted to be alone with him, she didn't want to keep him from spending time with his family. She knew that they were very important to him and as she'd seen last night, Aidan was vital to them as well. The thoughts and feelings that welled up in her at finding out that he had the same jealousies as she did were indescribable.

"Oh, Aidan..." she said, completely at a loss. She couldn't quite bring herself to say all she was feeling. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaned into him and took a deep breath, savoring the scent and feel of him. They lingered in their embrace, then separated, shared a sweet kiss and headed downstairs.

*****

Maggie had spent the morning baking. Aidan and French took the back stairs that led directly to the kitchen and the heavenly aromas of cinnamon and vanilla wafted up to them as they descended. They found Maggie at the stove, pulling cinnamon rolls from the oven. She set them aside to cool and came to them.

"Merry Christmas, darlings. I thought it would be a while yet before you put in an appearance," she said, giving them each a hug and a kiss.

"Told you, French," Aidan said smugly, heading toward the coffeemaker.

"Told her what?"

"I told her that you wouldn't be expecting us downstairs this early. She thought it would be rude to loll around in bed with me..."

"Aidan!" French gasped, blushing.

"What? I'm just saying..." he shrugged.

"Stop teasing her, Aidan. She has more manners and decency in her little finger than you have in your whole body. How I failed so miserably with you, I'll never know," she scolded fondly. To French she said, "We've gotten used to lying in on Christmas morning since we started having the party every year. You would have been welcome to 'loll in bed' with Aidan to your heart's content, dear. But, since you didn't..."

She looked pointedly at Aidan and he groaned.

"See what you did?" he accused French. She had no clue what he was talking about, but whatever it was, she hoped he was in for something bad. He had it coming to him for the way he had teased her in front of his mother.

"Aidan, get the oranges out of the fruit basket and start squeezing. French, take a seat at the breakfast bar and enjoy your coffee."

When Maggie's back was turned, French stuck her tongue out at Aidan. He rolled his eyes and retrieved the oranges. He sat next to her and they squeezed the oranges together. They chatted as they worked and Maggie was delighted to see that Aidan was head over heels for this woman and thankful that French was such a lovely, likable girl. The chemistry between them was undeniable and it was obvious they got on well out of bed, too. They kept up a light stream of chatter, talking about the party and the weather and other inconsequential topics.

Aidan and French thought Maggie hadn't noticed that they couldn't keep their hands off of one another, but she had. She hid a smile when Aidan purposely splattered orange juice and pulp on French and used it as an excuse to lick it off of her. French, of course, tried to stop his teasing, but her protests only seemed to incite Aidan further.

Iain and Brian came into the kitchen just as they finished preparing breakfast. Maggie and Aidan knew they had timed their entrance perfectly so they wouldn't have to help with the preparations.

"Nice timing, guys," Maggie said ruefully, "we've just finished fixing breakfast."

"Would've been down sooner if there'd been any hot water left," Brian complained good-naturedly. "You guys took forever with your showers this morning."

French blushed and, looking down, fiddled with her coffee cup in an effort to conceal the horror that was surely evident on her face. Showers. Plural. It's possible he hadn't known they were in there together, she thought hopefully.

"What?" Aidan asked, all innocence. Looping an arm around French's neck with the casual intimacy of lovers, he asked, "Jealous, little brother?"

Great. Way to go Aidan, she thought, giving him what she thought was a discreet kick to the shin, advertise to the whole family what we've been doing this morning, why don't you?

"Don't answer that, Brian," Maggie ordered just as Brian opened his mouth to reply. "Aidan, stop embarrassing French, for God's sake. The poor girl looks like she's praying she'll wake up and find out this is a terrible nightmare! I can't say there haven't been times when I prayed the same thing with you three raising hell around here. Here, take this into the family room," she said, handing him a loaded tray. Iain and Brian grabbed the remaining breakfast items and trooped after Aidan into the other room.

Maggie put a restraining hand on French's arm when she stood to follow them.

"You'll never hold your own in this family if you can't take a bit of teasing. My guys - all three of them - can be relentless," Maggie advised. "If you let them know that you embarrass easily, they will tease you mercilessly."

"I know. I can't help it, though. Being an only child, I guess I'm just not used to families and sibling rivalry and all of that..." French tried to explain. Not to mention the embarrassing novelty of having everyone in the house aware of the fact that she and Aidan had had sex twice in less than ten hours, she thought wryly.




Futile Resistance Ch. 06



"You'll get used to it, don't worry. Let's go get some breakfast before those Barbarians eat it all!"

Maggie had outdone herself with the meal, having prepared a spinach and cheese frittata, crisp slices of bacon, cinnamon rolls, croissants and fresh fruit salad. Always self-sufficient, Maggie had lit a fire in the cozy room and it blazed invitingly. The Christmas tree towered in the corner of the room and the furniture had been rearranged around it. After they ate, Brian, at his mother's command, played Santa, complete with the red and white hat.

French and Aidan had decided not to exchange gifts with one another; they were planning a vacation for after the New Year instead. She had insisted on getting something for each member of his family, though. Finding presents for Maggie, Iain, and Brian had been exceedingly difficult. How do you buy things for people you didn't know? She had managed to find things that were impersonal enough not to cause offense yet made it evident that she had put thought and energy into finding things each person would like.

For Brian, she had purchased hard-to-come by tickets for a Red Sox vs. Yankees three-game series for the coming season. Aidan had told her he loved baseball, and like most New Englanders with any sense, he loved the Red Sox in particular. It was impossible to get tickets to the games and she had used every contact she had in her local entertainment industry network and called in a few favors to get the tickets. She knew he would love them and harbored hopes that maybe he'd take her to one of the games.

For Iain, a poetry lover and book collector, she had found a 1914 edition of Robert Frost's North of Boston in a rare-books store. The book was signed and dated by the author and was in very good condition. She had been sorely tempted to keep it for herself, but knew it was too perfect a gift not to give.

Maggie had been the most difficult to buy for. She had wide-ranging interests, Aidan had happily told her, so the choice of gifts was wide open. Like most men, he labored under the delusion that a woman with wide-ranging interests was easy to buy for. French had finally found an antique Majolica glazed Wedgwood teapot, circa 1880 for Maggie. The teapot was brightly colored and in perfect condition. French had gambled that Maggie would recognize the pot for the collector's item it was and had been pleased to note the number of antiques that furnished her house. Maggie would know exactly what she was looking at when she opened French's gift.

She had gone way over her budget on the gifts for Iain, Maggie and Brian, but she didn't regret it. They had each been genuinely delighted with their gifts. When it came time for French to open the joint gift the three of them had gotten her, she was stunned to find a necklace, earrings and ring by her favorite designer, Margaret Wynchell. Each piece was fashioned of one smooth, thick piece of sterling silver in a design that made you think they were liquid and flowing, instead of solid and substantial.


"I hope you like them, darling," Maggie said, "They were specially designed for you based upon what Aidan had told us about you."

"Specially designed? You mean you know Margaret Wynchell?" French asked excitedly.

An uncomfortable silence greeted her question. Aidan got up from his seat next to her and began messing around with the fire.

"Aidan, you didn't tell her?" Maggie asked incredulously.

"Tell me what? I absoulutely love her work! I can never resist buying it, even when I don't have the money; it's my one guilty pleasure. I know that I should tell you that it's too much and that I can't accept it, but I'm way too in love with it to do the right thing!" French gushed, rushing to get the words out, trying to soothe the tense atmosphere by reassuring them that she truly liked the gift. "I already have three complete sets, four including this one. The jewelry I had on last night was hers, too."

"I know, dear," Maggie said patiently, "I am Margaret Wynchell."

"You're Margaret Wynchell?" she asked weakly.

"One and the same. I had an inkling that you didn't know who I was when I commented that the pieces you wore last night had been some of my favorites to work on; you looked completely confused." Maggie gracefully and calmly attempted to diffuse the tension and put French at ease. "I apologize for not having time last night to explain, but when it comes right down to it, Aidan really should have told you. He knew all along whose designs you were wearing, because he told me you admired my work."

"Yes, indeed," French said, quietly fuming, feeling awkward and gauche for the first time since meeting the family, but also trying to maintain some semblance of composure. She felt like the biggest kind of idiot and it was Aidan's fault.  "Aidan really should have told me. I feel so silly, going on and on about how much I love 'Margaret Wynchell' when I've spent the night in her house, eaten her homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast and am in the midst of spending Christmas with her family. How mortifying..." She trailed off, her old insecurities boiling up inside her. She had thought she was well-prepared for Aidan's family and now this.

"I thought it would be a good surprise, babe. That's the only reason I didn't tell you. I thought you'd get a kick out of it," Aidan offered lamely.

"Woof-woof! You're in the doghouse, now, bro!" Brian chortled, obviously enjoying Aidan's discomfiture.

French glared first at Brian, then at Aidan. "Well. It was a surprise and I certainly do feel like I've been kicked. We'll talk about this later, Aidan," she said with asperity.

Turning to Maggie, she inquired about the woman's career as a jewelry designer. Maggie was eager to talk about her art with a fellow artist, someone who admired and understood what it meant to create. Though they worked with different mediums – music for French, metal and gems for Maggie – the two women spoke the same language, if slightly different dialects, when it came to the arts. They talked for some time, while Aidan, his father and brother spoke about other topics. By the time their conversations dovetailed once again, the tension that had gripped the room at the revelation that Maggie was Margaret Wynchell had dissipated.

The rest of Christmas day with the Conal family had been peaceful. They watched Christmas-themed movies and snacked on festive homemade cookies and candies while Christmas dinner was cooking. Again, Maggie outdid herself with the meal. The herb-crusted standing beef rib-roast, creamy garlic-parmesan mashed potatoes and haricots-vert were all done to perfection, making for a simple yet elegant meal. Another of Maggie's talent areas was baking. Along with the cookies and candy they'd eaten earlier in the day, she had baked an apple pie, a pecan pie and a coconut cake for dessert – each a favorite dessert of her three 'guys'.

Eventually, it was time for Aidan and French to bid his family good-bye. French thanked Maggie and Iain profusely for their hospitality and told them she hoped to see them again. They made her feel like one of the family when they told her that they definitely expected to see her as often as they saw Aidan – if not more so. Maggie promised to meet her for lunch and shopping when she was next in Boston. She knew that in spite of having been caught flat-footed with the bombshell that Maggie was Margaret Wynchell, she had made a good impression. She was pleased with how her visit with the family had panned out. She liked them and was sure that she would enjoy getting to know them better.

As Brian, Maggie and Iain saw them to the car and made sure they were safely buckled in, another vehicle swung into the drive and pulled up alongside the house. Aidan was puzzled at first, but then realized to whom the late-model Jaguar sedan belonged.

"Oh. They're late; I figured they weren't coming by this year," he said absently. "Do you mind if we go in and have another cup of coffee or a drink? Paddy and Pam are my parents' oldest friends. It's tradition for them to come by on Christmas night."


"Not at all," French assured him, "I'd love to meet your parents' friends."

They got out of the car again and saw Maggie, Iain and Brian standing on the walkway perpendicular to the driveway, exchanging greetings with a middle-aged couple. Watching the flurry of chatter, hugs, back-slapping and exclamations, French smiled, warmed at the sight of Aidan's parents' excitement at seeing their friends. Her smile faded as the group turned toward them and she was able to make out the faces of the new arrivals.

No... This cannot be possible, she thought dazedly. In less time than she had available to fully comprehend what was happening, she would be meeting her father face to face for the first time in her life. Oh, my God! she thought, panic racing through her. Time seemed to stop as her father and his wife made their way toward where she and Aidan stood. French stood rooted to the ground, stunned, feeling detached from her body. With rapid-fire quickness and without her conscious direction, her brain catalogued the scenarios that would result if she gave in to either of the two instinctive responses that came naturally when a person was faced with a threat: fight or flight. None of the scenarios yielded positive results, of course, so she just stood there, not knowing what to do. She came to her senses just as her father noticed her standing there.

"Well, well... Aidan, what have we here?" her father – her father! – asked. French felt fury boil up inside her at his mocking tone and leering, assessing gaze. He sized her up as though she were a piece of meat.

"Good to see you, too, Patrick," Aidan said, laughing. Then with a note of pride in his voice, he said, "This is my girlfriend, Francoise Delauney – known as French to friends and family. French, these are great friends of our family, Patrick Hurst and his wife, Pamela."

French shook hands with first the wife, then Hurst himself and murmured polite hellos. Patrick Hurst kept her hand in his and examined her more closely. The others moved up the walkway towards the house and didn't notice that French and Patrick didn't follow them.

"Delauney, was it?" he asked.

"Yes, Delauney," she responded with a shade of defensiveness.

He was looking at her closely, even went so far as to lift a hand to her chin and tilt it back and forth so he could see more of her face. French knew exactly what he was seeing. Had seen it herself countless times when she'd opened the newspaper's business or society pages. When she was younger, she had held his picture next to her face, looking for signs of kinship, and compared their features. They shared the same almost-jade-green eyes, the long straight nose, the bowed upper lip and full lower one. She knew she had inherited her height and slim build from him, too, because her mother was petite and curvy.

His fingers tightened on her chin and his green eyes narrowed to slits. He pressed his lips together as though to stop himself from making an outburst. French narrowed identical eyes at him and jerked her chin away defiantly. With haughtiness she didn't know she possessed, she called out to Aidan,

"Darling, I'm afraid I don't feel up to coffee after all. Would you mind if we went home?"

Aidan walked back to where she stood and looked at her closely. Apparently he didn't like what he saw.

"Are you OK? You don't look like yourself. Maybe we should go back inside where you can rest for awhile."

"No!" she said firmly. Then more calmly, "I really think it's best that I leave, Aidan. Now. Please," she added as an afterthought. Turning to his parents, her face a cool mask of formality, she said, "Mr. and Mrs. Conal, thank you for your hospitality. Good night."

With a polite nod for them and Brian, she stiffened her spine, turned and headed for the car without waiting for a response from her hosts. She knew they would try to convince her to go inside and lie down and she didn't want to face their concern over her suddenly changed demeanor.

Aidan exchanged a glance with his family and shrugged. He was completely puzzled by French's sudden behavioral change, as were Iain, Maggie and Brian. They all wore the same expressions of bemusement, confused at French's sudden formality after they had all shared such a warm and wonderful Christmas en famille.

"Alright-y then..." Aidan said, drawing out the words, "I guess we'll be going."

He kissed his parents again and shook hands with the Hursts, apologizing for his and French's abrupt departure, quietly promising Maggie he'd call as soon as he figured out what was wrong with French. He got into the car without speaking to her. She stared straight ahead in pointed silence. Aidan could feel the negativity emanating from her in waves. How she could go from being relaxed and content to this block of ice, he didn't know. She had said she hadn't felt up to staying for coffee, but she didn't look ill, precisely. He thought there was something else lurking around under that icy shell, maybe anger... And hurt? He could think of no good reason for either emotion. He decided to wait her out and let her be the first to speak and to explain herself without his prodding.

French was lost in her own thoughts. Feelings she'd thought were long banished welled up again, choking her with their intensity. Seeing her father looking happy and healthy, with his perfect, beautiful wife had made her feel dirty and unworthy. He hadn't wanted her, had discarded her when she was born. Her mother had allowed him to buy his way out of their lives with a monthly stipend that was just barely enough for them to get by on, though he had plenty of money and could have given them much more. French knew that he hadn't thought she or her mother were worth anything more than the pittance he'd given them. Probably even less. Patrick Hurst, a disgrace of a human being, had discarded her as though she were so much rubbish and even after years of proving herself worth more, she was the one who felt dirty, gauche and worthless after meeting him face to face?

She seethed with anger that Patrick Hurst had gone on with his life as though she didn't exist and at herself for caring what he thought of her. She had allowed him to occupy a huge space in her mind and heart for most of her life. The fact that she didn't know him had mattered little to her when she was a girl. He had never been far from her thoughts; she had made choices based upon what she guessed he might do or of which she thought he would be proud. She had longed for the day when he would sweep in and take her away with him and free her from the unstable, chaotic reality of life with her mother.

She had dreamed that he would be loving and kind. She would live with him and her half-siblings in their big North Shore house. She would go to a private school and wear the ubiquitous neat, tidy school uniform. She would study music with the best teachers in Boston and finally have a decent flute instead of the beat-up old pawnshop version she had played back then. She had thought she would finally feel comfortable, feel a sense of belonging and know that she was in the right place. She had imagined that her life would be easy and virtually carefree with her rightful family, that she would be understood and accepted for who she was. She could be as conservative and responsible as she naturally was without fear of ridicule. Her mother had always delighted in making fun of her because she was organized and logical in her approach to life; she had been told more times than she could count that she was just like her father which was definitely not a compliment in her mother's eyes.

Oh, the foolish, girlish dreams, French thought, more than a little mournfully. All those dreams had never come to fruition, but she had learned how to handle herself and had made a life of which she was very proud. On occasion, though, she confessed to herself, I still wonder what it might have been like to be enfolded into my father's family.

Shaking her head in disgust, French felt anger blaze forth. Patrick Hurst had looked her up and down as though he were appraising the worth of a prized calf at auction, going so far as to actually touch her. The bastard. How dare he?! God, I would have liked to slap that leering smirk off of his face... she thought. Then, with perverse pride bordering on glee, she thought, He knew me, though. He knew me. Old Hurst is nothing if not intelligent and observant. He knew my name, recognized his stamp on me. I wonder what he was thinking once he realized who I was? Damn it! I shouldn't care what that asshole thinks! He's the one who wanted nothing to do with me. He probably never even gave me a second thought, she thought bitterly, and I cried myself to sleep when I was a little girl, longing for my Daddy.

Aidan finally got tired of waiting her out. "Are you going to tell me what happened back there?"

"What do you mean? I'm tired. That's all."

"Come on, French! You weren't the least bit 'tired'," he stressed the word, "until you met Paddy and Pam Hurst. So what's up?"

In that instant, French decided she wouldn't tell Aidan that Hurst was her father. Instead, she snapped back at him, "Did you somehow miss the way that jerk looked at me? The way he sized me up? I know his type. He'd love to dally with someone like me! You know, sample a little taste of the dark, forbidden fruit and run his hands all over my smooth, dark skin... I'm surprised he didn't open my mouth to see if my teeth were sound!"

"You're being ridiculous, French," he said with exaggerated patience. "Paddy didn't mean anything by it. You're the first girl I've brought home; the first one any of the family has ever met. He cares about me and wants to see me happy. Of course he'd be interested in you."

"No, Aidan. He couldn't care less about me – other than what I'm like in bed!" she sneered, stung anew by the realization that Aidan truly did have a meaningful relationship with Patrick Hurst. "He looked at me as though I were a piece of meat! I kept waiting for him to ask you if you'd gotten a fair price for me, if I was a dirty, sexy girl in the sack and whether or not I do windows and floors into the bargain! I know men like him, Aidan."

"Whoa, French! I've known Paddy Hurst my whole life and there isn't a racist bone in his body. So you're dead wrong about that!" he wasn't shouting, though the intensity with which he spoke drove the words into her mind as though he had yelled them.

French scoffed and shook her head. What a cruel quirk of fate that she had fallen in love with a man who had known her father his whole life when she herself had never laid eyes on him in the flesh. Anger and bitterness sat like scum on top of the stew of emotions boiling through her.

"Aidan. Listen," she paused, trying for a calm tone. "Speaking solely as a woman, I don't expect you to know what it feels like to be objectified by a man. Speaking as a Black woman, I definitely don't expect you to know what it is like for a man like Hurst to undress you with his eyes, fantasizing about your exotic 'otherness', while he's deciding how little money he can get away with offering you for a fuck! Don't forget who I am, who my mother is, Aidan! I grew up around men like that – I know them when I see them!"

"Touché. I can't know what that's like for you. But I think you're wrong about Paddy. 'Speaking solely as a man'," he said in a slightly mocking tone, "you're damned right that if I saw you on the street, I'd be looking at you. In case you haven't noticed, you're freaking gorgeous! And you'd better believe I'd imagine what you looked like naked; I'd imagine what you'd be like in bed. I'd be wondering what kind of guy you go for and whether or not I stood a chance with you! Because guess what? That's what guys do! It's got nothing to do with wanting to buy you or what color your skin is! I think you're overreacting and totally misreading this whole situation!"




Futile Resistance Ch. 06



French conceded to herself that he was right about the nature of guys in general. However, she hadn't misread Hurst's reaction to her. At first, he had looked at her proprietarily and then when he'd realized who she was, with scorn and suspicion. Now that she'd had a bit of time to think about it, she wondered if he had ever told his wife about her. Maybe he was afraid that she would expose him...

At the moment, she didn't really have the time to reflect on her father's reaction to being brought face to face with her. She needed to handle Aidan with a deft and sure hand. He mustn't know that Hurst was her father. It would be far better if she managed to distance herself from Aidan gradually – again – until there was nothing left between them. She wouldn't be able to contain her hurt when his parents sided with Hurst, and against her, when they found out her parentage. They would inevitably find out; of that she was certain. And Aidan, being as close as he was to his parents – and apparently to Hurst as well - would side with them. Those types always stuck together, she thought bitterly. She would be left alone and feeling the fool. No! She would not allow herself to be placed in a position to be hurt because Aidan and his family rejected her.

"Aidan," she said, ice dripping from her voice. "Why can't you just accept the fact that your 'great friend' Paddy Hurst is a complete jerk?!"

"Because he isn't!"

"You're blind, Aidan, you can't see the man for what he is. Maybe deep down inside, you're just like him and hearing the truth about him hits too close to home," she taunted.

"And you're a bitch," Aidan retorted.

Stung by Aidan's harsh words, French sucked in a quick breath. And here we have the beginning of the end, she thought. Even though Aidan didn't know what Hurst meant to her, her father was driving a wedge between them. She knew she should be glad, that this would make severing their relationship easier, but she couldn't help feeling angry and sad that her father would ruin her one chance at happiness. Recovering quickly from Aidan's insult, she said,

"Oohh, what a great display of respect for women. Hmm," she mockingly considered, tapping her chin with the forefinger of one hand. "That comment makes me think you're a lot more like Hurst than you'd like to believe..."

Aidan made a rude snort of disbelief that she would say such a thing and then said, "Patrick Hurst is a fine man. I could certainly do a lot worse if I were like him."

French ignored him and focused her attentions inward. When she thought of how hard she had tried to make a good first impression with Maggie and Iain, she felt incredibly dumb. She'd obsessed over her clothing, the gifts she'd chosen for them and had even doubted her own ability to interact with them in a way that was acceptable to them. As though they were something special, she scoffed to herself. Actually... They were special. They were Aidan's parents and she had wanted to impress them and had wanted them to see that she and Aidan were well-suited for one another.

She was heartbroken to think that she had come so close to realizing true happiness only to have it yanked out from under her. She had made the foolish mistake of thinking that she and Aidan had a future together. The whole deal: the white wedding, the kids, the house with the white picket fence. And unbeknownst to her, Aidan had literally grown up with her father, had spent vacations, holidays and countless other occasions with him. He knew her half-siblings and she had never laid eyes on them. Wretchedly, she predicted that Aidan would defend Hurst to the bitter end and would surely feel more loyalty to the man accepted and loved by the Conals as a member of the family than he would for her.

They endured the rest of the drive to Boston with angry silence thick between them. French continued to mentally flagellate herself with a litany of would have's and should have's.  Damn it! She had landed herself in the very position she had always tried to avoid. She had ceded power to Aidan; he held her future in his hands, though he didn't realize it. She had been bewitched and besotted, had relaxed her guard, allowed herself to finally feel, allowed him to matter to her. Now he had the power to destroy her.

The knowledge that Aidan had grown up with her father made her feel sick; she wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. She knew that it was jealousy that made her gorge rise. She was most definitely jealous and resentful of the role he had played in her father's life, a role that rightfully should have been hers. She didn't know what to say or how to act with Aidan now; looking at him was a cruel reminder of how different they were. He'd had everything she had coveted while growing up. Including the love of her father. She didn't know what would happen once they reached her apartment. I hope he doesn't want to spend the night. I don't think I could stand it if he wanted to make love... she worried sadly. I'll just ask him to leave, she thought, surely he'd have no objection if I told him I was tired or not feeling well. It's my house after all – only I decide who I want to entertain!

To her surprise, Aidan headed for his place upon exiting the highway for the surface streets of the city. French bristled in her seat, even less sure how to handle him now.

"Aidan, please take me to my place."

"No."

"Do you honestly believe that your refusal to take me home will stop me from going?" she asked incredulously.

"I can be just as stubborn as you. So... Yes, I do think you won't be going home," he answered flatly.

"You... you... Ass!" she shot back. How dare he even think that he could control her! I'll fix him, she thought, puffed up with righteous anger, I'll grab my things and be walking home as soon as the car stops... I'll be gone before he even realizes it... The bastard!

Aidan pulled into the garage of his building and got out of the car. French jumped out of the passenger side before he could come around and open the door for her as he customarily did. He gave her a long, speaking look as he rounded the back end of the car and found that she had already alighted. Shaking his head, he turned, opened the trunk and began removing their belongings. French stepped right up and began grabbing for her bags.

"I think I'll just walk home now," she said coolly, trying to balance the garment bag that held her party dress, the doggie bag of Christmas leftovers Maggie had given her, her purse and overnight case. The few blocks to her apartment would seem interminable with all the stuff she carried.

"I don't think so. Give me some of that," he said, reaching out to relieve her of some of what she carried.

"No, Aidan! I want to go home. I... I can't be with you right now!" panic tinged her voice.

"That's good, French. Run away from the fact that we had an argument... You're good at running and hiding, aren't you?" he taunted.

"Goddamn it, Aidan! That's not fair!"

"It's not fair, either, that you're trying to make a federal case out of a simple misunderstanding – tarring and feathering Paddy before you've had a chance to know him! You're overreacting to this whole situation. You act as though you've been mortally wounded!"

"Maybe I have been!" she retorted through gritted teeth, because she felt she had been wounded. At the very least, an old, deep wound had been reopened. She needed to be alone so that she could try to construct a protective barrier over it in order to prevent further injury.

"Don't be ridiculous. You are driving me crazy with this 'woe is me' routine!" Fed up, he threw the things he'd been gathering back into the trunk. He then reached out and grabbed all of the items she held in her hands, threw them haphazardly on top of the heap and slammed the trunk shut.

"What are you doing? My purse is in there – my house keys!" French spluttered, outraged.

"Go inside," Aidan said, pointing to the door that led to the lobby.

"No! Give. Me. My. Things. Now!" she gritted out, stomping her foot for emphasis.

Grabbing her by her upper arm, Aidan yanked her into motion. His grip was firm, but not at all painful until French tried to jerk herself free.

"Ow, you're hurting me!"

"No, I'm not. Stop trying to fight me and it won't hurt. You won't win," his demeanor was implacable, as was his hold on her arm.

French gave an extra pull on her arm just to see if she could break away, but found she couldn't. She winced as she felt his hard fingers tighten on her arm. She yanked at her arm again and dug her heels in, using her weight as leverage against him.

"Let me go!" she ground out furiously. "You don't own me – you can't just drag me around like a dog on a leash!"

Despite her frantic attempts to get free, Aidan held on to her with ridiculous ease.

Looking pointedly at the hold he had on her arm, he said, "I beg to differ. Besides, I may not own you now, but after tonight... You will be mine – lock, stock and barrel."



Futile Resistance Ch. 07



"I may not own you now, but after tonight... You will be mine – lock, stock and barrel," Aidan had said just before dragging her the remaining few feet to the vestibule that led to the lobby of his building.

French was stunned, had no ready response to his words and thus let herself be pulled along by him. What had he meant? What was he planning? She knew that Aidan's temper could be formidable when fully aroused. She had heard him flay the skin off of his agent once and had offered thanks heavenward that she hadn't been the recipient of the sharp edge of his angry tongue. She didn't think she would be so lucky this time.

They were through the lobby door and inside the elevator before she knew it. They endured the elevator ride in silence, Aidan's fingers still wrapped around her arm. French's mind raced, wondering what he had meant by what he'd said. ...after tonight, you'll be mine lock, stock and barrel. A shiver, an odd mixture of foreboding and excitement, ran up and down her spine when she replayed the words in her mind.

They reached his floor and stepped out into the hallway. When they reached the door to his apartment, she yanked experimentally on her arm. He let go of her, but only because he had to fit his key into the lock and he gave her a look to let her know just that. Now that they were on his floor, French knew that she was as good as trapped, because the elevator required a resident's key in order to be operated, and in any case, she couldn't go home because her house keys were locked in the trunk of Aidan's car. She had thought of hailing a taxi and fleeing to Fifi's house, but Fifi was out of town. Her purse was in Aidan's trunk, too; she didn't have so much as a nickel in her pockets to pay a taxi fare.

Having unlocked and opened the door, Aidan gestured her inside with a grand sweep of his hand that dripped sarcasm. French stalked in, took off her coat and draped it over the arm of the couch. Pacing back and forth furiously, she narrowed her eyes and said,

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

In stony silence, Aidan removed his coat and hung it in the coat closet without answering her. He retrieved her coat from the arm of the couch and hung it in the coat closet, too.

"Take off your clothes."

"Have you lost your mind?" French shrilled.

"Take. Off. Your. Clothes," the command was repeated softly and slowly as he moved to the chair facing her and sat down.

"No, Aidan, I will not 'take off my clothes'," she said hotly. In typical Gallic fashion, she was gesturing wildly as she spoke. Normally, she kept what she thought of as emotional excesses, which included wild gesticulations, under wraps. Now, however, her temper was inflamed and she continued, "I don't want to be naked around you! Hell, even dressed, I don't want to be around you! And – newsflash, Aidan – despite the opinion of your friend Patrick Hurst, I'm not some slave that you can command to do your will!"

"Take off your clothes or I will take them off myself." If she didn't believe the words, the threat was backed up by the look in his eyes. He wasn't joking; she could see that he wouldn't accept anything but her obedience to his command.

French shivered again, unsettled and not entirely sure she liked the predicament in which she suddenly found herself. Aidan had never behaved this way before. At least not with her. They'd had arguments before and she knew how to deal with him, knew what to expect when his eyes fired sparks at her. But this... This was different. The implacable set of his jaw was typical of Aidan when he was angry, but his eyes... They weren't shooting fire; they were cold and hard, shuttered against the probing of her own eyes as she tried to determine what he was thinking. His face was utterly immobile, no expression marking it whatsoever. He was just too silent and that unnerved her.

Should I be frightened of him? No... I don't think – no – I know he'd never hurt me, she thought. But take off her clothes? Why? What was he going to do? Unbidden, she felt a quiver of arousal low in her stomach as her thoughts quickly flashed across all the possibilities if she complied with his command. Arousal notwithstanding, she didn't relish the idea of the vulnerability nudity would bring. Not when Aidan was in this frame of mind.

If he wanted a fight, he would damned sure get one, French decided. She stood in front of him, hands on her hips, bristling with anger and myriad other pent up emotions. Her mind was reeling after the meeting with her father and frankly, this situation with Aidan was the very last thing she wanted to deal with tonight.

"It's simple, babe," Aidan said, making the term of endearment sound like an epithet. "All you have to do is get naked and everything will be OK. Make this easy for us both, huh?"

"Fuck you, Aidan!" she blazed, jabbing her finger at him. "Just fuck off. You must be out of your mind to pull a stunt like this tonight. Tonight of all nights! How dare you defend that- that- creepy, jerk asshole Patrick Hurst!"

"French, don't push me. This has nothing to do with Paddy. What this is about is the fact that you want to run away just because we've had an argument. I'm not inclined to let you."

"Your inclinations don't give you the right to kidnap me!"

"I'm not kidnapping anyone, never mind the fact that you're acting like a kid."

"I am not being childish. You're being blockheaded and stubborn; you refuse to even consider my point of view regarding Hurst! You'd defend the man until death without knowing all the facts!"

French broke off abruptly, realizing she had said too much. She didn't want Aidan to know that Hurst was her biological father. She knew she could never withstand the agony, the heartbreak, if Aidan knew about Hurst and chose him over her. In order to save herself, she was determined to end the relationship and go on with her life.

"What facts are you talking about? I am the only one in this room who does know the facts about Paddy – I grew up with the guy! You, on the other hand, know nothing about him and you've made up your mind to hate him after ninety seconds of conversation!" Aidan exclaimed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. He'd gotten up from his chair and was pacing back and forth, crossing paths with French as she paced.

"I don't expect you to understand and I can't even tell you exactly what this is about." It's easier to sprinkle in a little bit of truth, French thought, I truly can't tell Aidan the truth about why I have an aversion to Hurst, but it can't hurt to let him think that I'm at a loss for words to explain my reaction to him.

"If you can't figure out why you don't like him, don't you think you should give him a second chance?"

"No, Aidan! I can't do that. You have to trust my instincts on this one. My conscience is screaming at me 'stay away from Patrick Hurst'!"

"That's ridiculous. You never cease to amaze me! You're brilliant at producing cockamamie reasons to wall yourself off out of thin air!" Aidan said, snapping his fingers. He continued in a mocking, singsong voice, "Poor French has a fucking feeling – an unfounded feeling - about something, for Christ's sake, so now she has to protect herself!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about! You have no idea what I've been through in my life. You can't even begin to comprehend the burdens I carry, what it was like for me growing up! If I have to build a wall to protect myself from people like Patrick Hurst, you're damned right I'll do it!"

"You're right. I don't know about that stuff, because half the time you're guarding yourself from me! You withhold things from me – don't think I can't tell when you're doing it," he accused.

"I have a right to my privacy. You can't get inside my head, Aidan! My God, just give me some space!"

"You've got way too much space already, as far as I'm concerned, living in isolation like you do. When are you going to wake up and realize that commitment isn't the big bad wolf you've made it out to be? You're too scared commit to anything or anyone because you're afraid of being hurt! Who do you think you are to check out of life the way you do? What gives you the right? How is that fair to the people in your life?"

He came face to face with her, searched her face to judge her reaction. She was visibly upset, but he sensed that she had shut down and that she wasn't hearing what he said to her. He was more frustrated with her than angry, at this point. He needed to make her know that, no matter what they fought about or how explosive the fight, there was no need to run away from him. He hadn't told her he loved her yet, because he knew she would flee. Her preconceived notions about love and commitment were deeply ingrained and it would take a lot of slow, careful work to get through to her.

"When are you going to let go of the past?" he continued. "Can't you just live life day to day like the rest of us?! Learn how to cope with the shitty cards life deals like everybody else? We've talked about this a million times before, but you don't even try, French!"

"I do try!" she cried. "I do! I don't want to do this anymore, Aidan. I want to go home."

"Too bad. You're not going! You're going to stay here and finish this!"

"It is finished! I don't want to fight with you. I'm exhausted... this is too much for me right now," she said, her voice laden with weariness.

"Fine, but you're still not leaving. There's still the small matter of the clothes you're wearing."

"You're crazy! I already told you – I will not take off my clothes! What part of that can't you understand? How can you even think sex is a possibility for us tonight?"

"I asked you to take off your clothes; I didn't say anything about sex. This isn't about sex for me."

"Well then why do I need to undress?"

"Because, Legs, if you're naked, you have to trust me. If you're naked, you can't go anywhere. And, if you're naked, I can see all of my favorite parts of you," he finished with a quirk of his lips and a wiggle of his eyebrows.

French groaned in frustration. "Stop it. I'm being serious, Aidan. I really need to go home."

"And I told you that you're not leaving. Quit being so stubborn."

"You can't make me do anything I choose not to do!" French was getting angry again. "I am my own person – I, and only I, decide what happens to me!"

"You're right. You can decide to take your clothes off on your own. Or... You can decide that you'd rather me do it for you. As you said, the choice is yours..."

"What kind of choices are those?" a note of despair crept into her voice. Hardening her tone, she said, "And you forgot the third choice, by the way. It's the one where I put on my coat, get my things from the trunk of your car and go home. Alone."

"Not gonna happen."

"Why are you doing this? It makes no sense, " French tried to reason with him. "If I take off my clothes, you have to know that it would be against my will. What would be the point? What would you get out of it other than proving to yourself that you're physically stronger than me?"

Aidan walked toward her, signaling that her arguments, her resistance to complying with his request, had taken more time than he was willing to allow. He was done listening. In an attempt to forestall him, French held a hand up.

"Wait," she said, backing away from him. "You can't do this, Aidan!"

"I can," his eyes were hot with determination as he prowled toward her. She continued to back away from him, not realizing that he was pursuing her further into his lair. He angled his body so that she would be backed into a corner; at a certain point, her only chance of escape would be up the stairs. To his loft bedroom.

"Y-you're the one who's blowing things out of proportion, now. You accused me of the same thing earlier, but now you're the one overreacting!"

He didn't reply, but continued to prowl. Ok, so reason hadn't worked, she thought, time to attack.

"What are you going to do, Aidan? Rape me? Because that's what it will be!"

"No, French, rape will have nothing to do with what will happen when you get upstairs."

Calm and deliberation marked his tone. A frisson of alarm skittered through her when she darted a glance over her shoulder and saw that she had no place to go but up the stairs. She made a desperate attempt to duck past him, but he stuck his arm out and hooked her around her waist.

She resisted, made her body a dead weight and dropped to the ground, planning to slip under his arm so she could scramble away from him. He held her easily. He dragged her to him, caught hold of her wrists and pinned both of them behind her with one of his hands. The other hand came up to her face, cupped her chin firmly and looked into her eyes.

"You can walk up those stairs, or I'll carry you," he said softly.

French's chest was heaving as though she had run a marathon. He looked into her eyes and saw a flicker of fright and uncertainty. Then came anger. That's good, Aidan thought, preferring that she be angry rather than afraid of him. She kicked out at him, hitting him in the shins. He bent and scooped her over his shoulder in a firefighter's hold. She kicked and pounded his back, cursing, threatening, trying anything and everything to be free of him. He headed up the staircase as though he carried an inanimate object, instead of a furious, struggling woman.

He reached the top of the stairs, went directly to his wide cushy bed and dumped her in the center of it. As she slid from his shoulder, he gripped the bottom of her sweater and peeled it off of her, using the downward motion of her body as she fell to the bed to aid him. When she realized what had happened, she flew at him like a wildcat.

He was ready for her attack and pushed her back on the bed. He climbed on top of her, straddling her thighs so she couldn't kick him. He managed to capture her hands where they pummeled ineffectually at his body, dragged them above her head and held them there. Her green eyes flashed as she twisted and bucked, trying to throw him off of her. She spewed venomous, hateful words at him, words that, had he stopped to listen, would have shocked him to hear her say.

He ignored her. Still holding her arms above her head, he trailed his free hand down the middle of her chest, traced the inner curve of each breast. Goose bumps rose on her body and her nipples peaked.  He cupped one breast, lowered his head to take the nipple into his mouth, sucking and laving, grazing it with his teeth through the thin material of her bra.

French fell abruptly silent, closed her eyes, fighting against the sensations that rioted through her. Out of nowhere, arousal slammed into her. With unbelievable suddenness, she wanted him with all the fury, sadness, bitterness and love that roiled inside her. She yanked at her wrists, twisting them in his grip to free them. She needed to touch him.

Other than his hard hold on her wrists, Aidan was gentle with her. His free hand floated over her body, followed, insomuch as his grip on her wrists allowed, by gentle, sipping kisses and flicks of his tongue. He raised his head from her breast, knew from her body's response, her heated skin, her tightly furled nipples and labored breathing, that she wanted him. He kissed her, delved his tongue into her mouth. Tasting her, pouring all of himself into the kiss.

French responded with reckless abandon, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, her hips bucking up against his as she tried to get closer. He released her wrists and she immediately fisted them in his hair, pulling him to her, crushing her mouth against his. She ground her pelvis up, rubbing against the ridge of his hard cock.

Aidan felt tortured, driven toward madness by the woman beneath him. He wanted to brand her as his, make an indelible imprint on her, body and soul. He was fed up with the way French pushed him away, the way her fears of intimacy and vulnerability constantly came between them. He could no longer tolerate the uncertainty, the instability, of their relationship. He wanted to cement it, make it permanent; it had become essential to him that she be in his life. She was necessary to his very well-being. He wanted her with him all the time; he wanted her to know that even when they were apart, she was still his, he was still hers.

The beast of passion reared up, consuming them both. French clawed his back, wishing she could get closer, wanting to draw him into herself, to make him a part of her. She pulled his shirt from the waistband of his pants and slid her hands beneath it, plastered her palms against the smooth, hot skin of his back, insinuated her hands into the back of his pants, gripped his buttocks, pulled him closer to her.

Aidan broke away from the incendiary kiss. He looked down at her, noted her passion dilated eyes; her pupils were huge, ringed with the vivid green of her irises. Her lips were swollen and red, wet. His cock twitched when her tongue darted out and licked her full lower lip.

"I thought you said getting me naked wasn't about sex?" she panted.

"I lied. It's always about sex when I'm with you when you're naked." He lowered his head, sucked her lip into his mouth, ran his tongue along the slick, sensitive inner surface. French's pussy clenched, twisted with arousal, as though she felt the stroke of his tongue on her most intimate parts.

Aidan pulled away from her, knelt beside her legs. He unfastened her belt and pants, yanked them down and off, along with the red scrap of panties she wore, leaving her wearing only her bra. He knelt between her thighs and then, unceremoniously, bent and sucked her clit into his mouth. Her hips arched up; she was shocked, rocked, by the suddenness of the assault. He put his hands on the backs of her thighs, pushed her legs up and back so that she was fully open to him.

His tongue delved into the center of her, stabbing in to stroke the walls of her cunt. His hands gripped her ass, holding her in place as she struggled against the tide of arousal. She was so wet, her juices musky and succulent as they coated his tongue. He sucked the lips of her pussy into his mouth, first one then the other, teased her sensitive opening. He took his time, savoring, devouring, pushing her harder and higher.

French gasped and moaned, transported by pleasure. It swamped her senses, made her mind reel drunkenly. She twisted her fingers in his hair, pressed her hips up, wanted him to plunge his tongue into her, wanted to feel the smooth heat of it licking into her. She was ravenous; she wanted everything from him all at once, wanted to feel his cock plunging into her core, wanted to feel him pulsing in her mouth as she drove him over the edge into completion.

Aidan thrust two fingers into her, fucked her with them as he sucked her clit. She made an animalistic whimper deep in her throat, clenched his fingers in the tight grip of her pussy. French hovered on the edge of orgasm, grasped for it and was bereft when Aidan pulled his fingers out of her, leaving her suspended over the breach.

"No, please. Don't stop," she pleaded.

He flicked her clit lightly with the tip of his tongue, never giving her quite enough contact to satisfy her. His fingertips, wet with her juices, played over the lips of her pussy, dipped deeper between her thighs to slip around and around the sensitive skin of her anus. She gasped at the foreign sensation, couldn't immediately decide what she thought of him playing there. He took her clit between his lips and her mind blanked as he applied suction and played his tongue over it at the same time.

His fingertip, slicked with pussy juice, slid into her tight hole. She gasped and the ring of muscle tightened against the invading finger. He slid his thumb into her pussy, used the tip of it to stimulate her g-spot. Simultaneously, he slid his finger deeper into her ass and continued the rhythmic stimulation of her clit with his lips and tongue.




Futile Resistance Ch. 07



French made a keening noise, felt as though she was stretched too tightly. She was aroused beyond bearing, over-stimulated and mindless. Aidan urged her on, heaped sensation upon sensation until uncontrollable tremors wracked her body. Hips writhing and bucking, she matched the thrusts of his finger and thumb inside her, aided the digits in their penetration of her, pushed them deeper into her.

She had never felt this way before, unhinged and entirely needy. Focused solely on her own pleasure. Aidan gave her no room, no time at all, to think about what was happening. She had no experience with anal play, had always felt faintly repelled by it. She had thought it was dirty and most likely painful. Definitely not something she was interested in trying. But here she was. Aroused beyond her wildest imaginings, wanting more – and more – of what Aidan was giving her.

Aidan was ruthless, pushed her past her inhibitions. He wanted her to know that her body, her soul, was as much his as it was hers. He, and he alone, could make her want things she had not even known she wanted. He worked his fingers inside her, his mouth on her, like a man possessed, bewitched and intoxicated by the tastes and textures of her arousal.

French felt her consciousness dim; all sensation receded, leaving a vacuum in its place. Time hung in suspension and utter silence roared through her head. She was sucked into a vortex, a centrifuge that spun her until she was all particulate matter. She was reduced to the most basic components of organic material: individual cells, molecules and atoms. She could feel each of those pieces quivering, vibrating. Suddenly, her being coalesced as her climax rocketed violently through her. The reintegration of her mind and body was exquisite agony, her every nerve scraped raw so that she felt the awful engulfing pleasure with every fiber of her being.

Reduced to a sodden, sweaty heap, she lay motionless but for the rise and fall of her chest as she sucked in air. Aidan sat back on his heels between her spread-eagled thighs and stripped off his shirt. He looked down at French, took satisfaction in what he saw: his woman, quaking in the aftermath of a mind-blowing orgasm. Senseless, open and helpless against him, boneless and melting. He stripped off the rest of his clothing and leaned over her, kissed her.

His lips were wet and pliant against hers. He devoured her mouth just as moments before he had devoured her pussy. She lay beneath him, eyes closed, still unable to think coherently. He stroked her, caressed her, forced her body to reawaken.

"Oh God, Aidan, I can't, it's too much," she murmured weakly.

"You can."

She murmured another futile protest as Aidan turned her this way, that way, to unfasten her bra and remove it. He cupped the full mounds of her breasts, leaned down to take one of her overly sensitive nipples into his mouth, laved it with his tongue. French twisted under him, trying to get away, trying to get closer. She dragged her limp arms up, pushed her fingers into the thick silk of his hair, raked her fingernails over his scalp.

He lifted his head from her breasts, caressed one hand downward, tracing a line down the center of her body. He turned her over onto her stomach, spread her legs, scooped a hand under her hips, tilted her so she was open to him. He stroked the wet lips of her pussy, the slick flesh swollen and blooming like an exotic hothouse flower.

He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance and slammed into her, parting the sensitive tissues, plunging into her until he bottomed out. She gasped and moaned, overcome by the force and precipitous nature of his penetration. He pounded into her with hard strokes, taking her breath with each one. French felt the tip of his cock against her cervix with each pounding thrust and pain mixed deliciously with pleasure.

Aidan pulled her onto her hands and knees. Leaning over her back, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back and to the side so he could access her neck with his mouth. He sucked, licked and took little bites of her. She arched her back and pushed back against him, matching him thrust for thrust until he pulled out of her with the same suddenness he'd entered her.

He pushed her over and onto her back, knelt between her legs and thrust home again. He pulled her legs up, so her ankles rested on his shoulders, caressed the long, smooth lengths of her legs as he drove into her in a slow powerful rhythm. Her cunt was slick, thoroughly wet with arousal, but still gloved him, gripped his cock tightly. Aidan fought against the urge to come; he wanted to keep going, to keep fucking her forever.

Looking down at her, he thought she was beyond beautiful with her dark curls tumbling across the pale blue pillowcase, tangled and tousled. She tossed her head back and forth, caught in passion's web. Her skin was sleek and luminous in the dim light of the room, soft as silk. He wished he could imbed his whole being in all that hot, burnished flesh, not just his cock. He wanted to meld with her, body, mind and spirit.

Reaching down, Aidan disengaged her clenched fists from the fluffy down comforter. He guided her hands to her breasts, wanting to see her cup them, to watch her squeeze and pinch her nipples. She gazed up at him from beneath swollen, heavy eyelids, licked her lips slowly. She palmed her breasts, lifted them up as though in offering to him, loving the look of pure lust that flared in his eyes as he watched her.

The rapt expression on his face made her heart twist. Would this be the last time for them? she wondered. She knew that it could very well be the last time they would make love and she wanted to make the most of it. She let her legs slide off his shoulders, wrapped them around his waist and used them to pull him down to her. She wanted to feel him, all of him, pressed against her, wanted to taste his passion as they strived for rapture. She pulled his mouth to hers and feasted.

As her tongue slid along his, Aidan's thrusts within her became even deeper, harder and slightly arrhythmic. He tore his mouth from hers, his jaw clenched as he tried to control himself. French slid her hands into his hair, tugged his mouth back to hers, fused her lips to his, sucked and licked into his mouth. She was utterly intoxicated, felt her orgasm swelling inexorably inside her.

Aidan's cock swelled further, filling her, stretching her to an almost impossible degree. Her pussy contracted around him and he moaned, determined to hold back until she came again. She moved her hands to his firm buttocks, pulled him closer, urged him to come more deeply inside her. Their bodies slapped together, the force stimulating her clit and creating amazing sensations.

"Aidan, oh God, yes, yes, yes," French repeated the overwrought mantra. "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come – " she broke off abruptly, the words becoming one long moan as a rippling orgasm welled up and overflowed. Rather than being explosive like the last one had been, this one was all warm pulsations and vibrations, her whole body trembling, buffeted gently, over and over, as though by waves lapping a beach at low tide.

Finally. Aidan was beyond rational thought, but knew his wait was over. He could surrender. He let go, feeling unbearable relief as he pumped into her and released. He could feel himself unwind from the inside out, felt his strength drain from him as he came. It felt to him like he came forever, his cock twitching and jerking with each jet of ejaculate. His body finally spent, he collapsed atop French, pressing her down with his boneless, heavy weight.

*****

Aidan left his apartment early the next morning to buy breakfast and the three newspapers he habitually read. The air outside was bitterly cold, but he scarcely noticed. He strolled down the street to his favorite bakery, whistling as he went. Francoise Delauney was his. Irrefutably his. She had been deeply asleep when he'd woken up and he'd been hard pressed to leave the cozy confines of his bed. He had wanted to give her a slow, delicious wake-up call, had wanted to sink into her melted-honey flesh and claim her once more before they got on with the new day. He had resisted the temptation because she was exhausted – and had good reason to be.

It was hard for him to conceal his satisfaction with what had transpired the night before. He had taken French, all of her, used her until she had had nothing left to give. He had dismantled her, uncloaked her, unveiled her. There was no place for her to hide, at least not from him. Then, he had put her back together again so that she now contained pieces of him, pieces that she could never get rid of.

Back at Aidan's apartment, French shifted languorously amid the tangled sheets of his bed. Her body ached, pleasantly so. She opened heavy-lidded eyes and confirmed, as she had already sensed, that she was alone. What a night, she thought. She felt ravaged and well-loved. She felt loose limbed and oddly hollow, as fragile as an Easter egg whose insides had been blown out prior to being decorated. Aidan had been merciless, had made love to her over and over again throughout the night, in every imaginable way. She blushed as she thought of the primitive response he had pulled out of her. She felt embarrassed as she remembered the depraved depths to which she had descended, was mortified that she had reveled in every kinky, tawdry step along the downward spiral. Aidan had demanded and she had answered, rousing to him again and again, responding to him, no matter what outrageous thing he said or did.

French would never be able to forget Aidan. It was impossible for her to imagine her life without him. She wanted forever with him, loved him to distraction. Can I confide in him about Patrick Hurst? If I do tell him, will he stand by me and against Hurst? she wondered. Aidan's father had known Hurst since they had attended prep school together; they had shared fifty years or so of friendship. How would Iain and Maggie react to the news that Hurst had an illegitimate daughter whom they had never heard of? Let alone the fact that said illegitimate daughter was deeply involved with their son. Would they think I intentionally became involved with Aidan to get at Hurst and, that I'm only using him for another purpose?

Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. French wished from the bottom of her heart that this new twist had never come about. Why could nothing ever be easy for her? She had struggled in life since the day she was born and now, she had a chance at happiness, had found the perfect man and she couldn't have him. I want him, she thought, I want him! I will not let Patrick Hurst ruin my relationship with Aidan. He is the most important person in my life and I will not let Hurst take him away from me without a fight. I have to tell Aidan and get everything out in the open.

Last night's lovemaking had proven to her that she couldn't hold anything back from Aidan. Against him, she was powerless, both physically and emotionally. She realized now that it was possible for a person to belong to another person and that there was joy in the possession and in being possessed. Aidan was hers. She was his. The knowledge came as a shock to her, inspired fear because she hadn't considered that such could be possible. On the other hand, she was giddy with excitement at the thought that they were irrevocably bound.

Having resolved to come clean with Aidan, she slid out of bed, headed to the bathroom to wash up. The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile when she saw that he had retrieved her toiletries from the locked trunk of his car. However, there was no evidence that he had likewise retrieved her clothing – in fact, the outfit she'd worn the night before was nowhere in sight. He was apparently inclined to hold her captive for another day. The difference was that, in light of her newly acknowledged acceptance of the depth of their relationship, she would willingly, even gladly, stay. Captivated, not captive, she thought.

She showered, letting the hot water loosen her overused muscles. She had finished her toilette and was poking around in Aidan's closet looking for something to wear when she heard the apartment door open and close. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. Aidan. She grabbed a thick pair of socks and one of Aidan's button down shirts to cover her nudity. She inspected her appearance in the mirror and saw exactly what she had expected to see. She absolutely oozed sex. Her eyes were lambent, her skin luminous and incredibly sensitive; the fine cotton of Aidan's shirt brushed against her skin like an erotic caress. Her lips were slightly swollen and red. Beneath the collar of the shirt, and scattered in strategic places on her body, were faint bruises and bite marks. She had been thoroughly had. She shivered in delight as she recalled their sinful, decadent lovemaking.

She fluffed her hair and let the loose curls fall around her face and over her shoulders. She sallied forth from the bathroom, eager to see Aidan, wanting to touch him, desperate for him. She was imbued with a new sense of hope for the future and felt lighter, more unburdened, than she had in years at the thought that she would be able to tell Aidan everything about her past. She went down the stairs, following the fragrant aroma of fresh coffee to the kitchen.

She fairly floated through the living room on her way to the kitchen. She felt rather silly that she was so eager to see Aidan. Like a schoolgirl with a crush on some handsome boy. Her stomach was fluttering with nerves and in anticipation of seeing the object of her love in a few short seconds. She was puzzled by the unfamiliar feeling that had descended upon her. With a start, she figured out that it was happiness! Pure, simple happiness. She had always wondered what it would feel like to be happy and hopeful and it was better than she had ever imagined. She fought the urge to laugh out loud with joy, but couldn't hold back the smile that split her face in two.

She reached the kitchen and to her chagrin, it wasn't Aidan in the kitchen at all. It was Patrick Hurst. The bubble of contentment that had surrounded her burst abruptly, replaced by despair and anger.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Hurst had evidently not heard her enter the room, the thick socks she wore having dampened the sound of her footsteps. He jumped, sloshing coffee all over the counter where he had been pouring a cup from the carafe.


He put the mug on the counter with a firm click and glared at her.

"What are you doing here, Hurst?" she asked again.

"I could ask you the same question, but then, I don't have to, do I? We both know what you're doing here. Just look at you," Hurst said in a mocking tone. Disdainful green eyes that were identical to hers raked her from head to toe. He smirked, "You don't look much like your mother, but it is glaringly obvious that you are indeed, her daughter." Hurst lifted his coffee mug to her in a mock salute.

French crossed her arms over her breasts. She felt naked in front of Hurst, even though Aidan's shirt covered her more than some dresses she owned. Her vulnerability had nothing to do with how much or how little she was wearing.

"Aidan's not here."

"I can see that. I had intended to talk to him this morning. To warn him about you," he said blandly, moving past where she stood in the kitchen doorway to pace the living area. "But, since you're here, I'll talk to you instead."

"I don't think there's anything we need to say to one another," French said coldly. Warn Aidan about her, indeed! she fumed. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"I have a key, naturally. Now. Let me ask you a question. How did you find out that Aidan is as close to me as my own kids? I have to admit, it was a pretty clever way of getting to me," he mused. 

French flinched at his reference to his 'kids'. She was his kid, his first-born and they weren't close at all.

"Don't flatter yourself, Hurst. I met Aidan through mutual friends. He pursued me. He never mentioned you in all the time I've known him, not by name, anyway. And I certainly had no reason to mention you, because you mean less than nothing to me."

"Considering the source, you'll forgive me if I don't believe a word you say," he sneered. "You want me to believe that, by sheer coincidence, my long-lost bastard daughter has wound up in a relationship with my best friend's son? No, I don't believe that for a second. The logical conclusion is that you used him to get to me. What is you want – money? You won't get it, so you might as well give up."

"I don't want your filthy money. I never wanted it," French retorted.

"Don't pretend that you don't want money. All women like you want money. Money is what lubes you up, it's what gets you excited."

"You're disgusting! You don't know a damned thing about me, Hurst."

"I know you better than you think. Don't forget – I knew your mother very well. And, I know your father rather intimately," he gestured to himself in exaggerated fashion. His mouth stretched into a facsimile of a smile while his eyes remained coldly calculating.

"Maybe you should be talking to Aidan. I've tried and tried to get him to leave me alone. He won't – can't – stay away from me. He held me here against my will last night. Even now he's hidden my clothes, my purse, my keys, so that I can't leave."

"Ah," Hurst said, realization dawning. "You've ensnared him with sex. That was your mother's favorite trick, too. It's how she tried to trap me. It was a near thing, too; she's an incredibly sexy woman - incredibly inventive in bed. Do you take after her in that regard?" he wondered. "At any rate, I was able to escape your mother's clutches. She never was very bright..." he trailed off.

"You pig. I don't have to stand here and listen to this," French said and headed for the stairs.

"How much will it cost to get you out of Aidan's life?" Hurst asked, sensing he was about to lose any leverage he might possibly have.

"I told you. Keep your filthy money."

Hurst groped in the pocket of his sport coat, pulled out a checkbook encased in a leather cover. He tore off a check. Apparently, he had previously endorsed it and just needed to fill in the amount.

"Come on, Francoise," he coaxed. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up to French, who had made it halfway up. He waved the check around, back and forth, as though it was a fat worm and French a hungry fish. "You know you want it. How much? Ten thousand? Fifteen? Twenty? This is an ass backward way to negotiate; I shouldn't let you know just how badly I want you out of Aidan's life. But, there it is. I want you gone, so how much will it cost?"

French stopped in her tracks and turned around slowly, prepared to skewer Hurst. She wanted to rip him limb from limb. Her eyes flared wide when she saw Aidan standing just inside the door.

"What's going on? Paddy, what do you mean you want her gone?"

"Oh! Aidan, you're back" Hurst said jovially. "You must have misunderstood me. I promised your mother I would look in on you today since you and your, ahem, friend left so abruptly last night. Naturally, she was worried about you."

French was amazed at how easily Hurst lied. Aidan set his newspapers and the box of pastries on the table and came further into the room. As he neared them, he could feel the tension swirling around between Hurst and French, felt like he was wading through it.

"What's that?" he asked, neatly nipping the check from Hurst's fingers. "Why'd you make out a blank check to French?"

He looked back and forth between French and Hurst suspiciously.

"Somebody better tell me what's going on."




Futile Resistance Ch. 07



"Well, your mother told me French plays with a fine group of musicians. I'm throwing a birthday party for Pam next month and am going to hire French and her group. That's the deposit," Hurst finished the lie smoothly.

Aidan cocked his head, pondering what Hurst had said. He wasn't completely satisfied with the answer because it didn't explain the tension that had gripped them when he'd entered the room. He decided to play along with them for the time being. He'd figure out what was going on soon enough.

French stood stock still on the stairs, her eyes wide with disbelief. This is so surreal, she thought, I can't believe this guy. Patrick Hurst and my mother were tailor-made for each other! What are the odds that two such soulless, conniving people would find each other? she mused.

"Come on down and have breakfast, Legs. I got your favorite - pain au chocolat. You must be starving. Paddy, would you like to join us?" Aidan asked, harboring hope that if he could get French to sit down and talk to Paddy, she would realize that she had been wrong about him.

"Unfortunately, I've got a meeting. I'll stop by again, when I have more time," Hurst said smoothly. With a mocking bow, he said to French, "Until we meet again, Ms. Delauney. I'll leave your check on the table – just fill in the amount yourself," he said, implying that they had reached an agreement. "See you later, Aidan."

French watched Hurst leave the apartment from her vantage point on the stairs. When the door had closed behind him, she slowly descended. Aidan was waiting for her with open arms when she reached the bottom. He closed his arms around her, kissed her.

"I love the way you look in my shirt," he murmured against her neck. "But I'd hoped you would still be in bed when I got back. I had planned to bring you your breakfast in bed and then keep you there all day."

French stood in the circle of his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. She had awoken a short time earlier with optimism and happiness in her heart that there might be some way for her to continue her relationship with Aidan, convinced that everything would somehow be okay. He had been right when he'd said that they would belong to each other after the previous night's passion. Aidan was in her blood. Parting from him, which she now knew she must do, would be like cutting off one of her own limbs.

Tears welled in her eyes as she realized that there was no hope for them. The visit from Hurst showed her that he would stop at nothing to see her and Aidan broken up. He would feed poisonous lies about her to the Conals and they would think she was some sort of gold-digger. Aidan would be forced to choose between his family and her when they found out and she didn't want him placed in such an impossible situation, didn't want him to be hurt. She couldn't tell him the truth of her parentage after all. It would cause everyone too much pain.

She had only recently learned to accept Aidan's presence and status in her life. She had given herself over to his keeping, given her heart to him. She had begun feeling comfortable with the fact that she needed him. And now, after scarcely an hour of accepting the inevitable and before she was truly accustomed to all of the changes in herself, she had to unlearn what it meant to be in love with and loved by Aidan.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat, blinked back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. If she let them fall, she knew she would never stop crying. Crying will do no good, French, she admonished herself. Pull yourself together and get through this. Act normally, eat your breakfast and then escape as soon as conceivably possible.

Feeling stronger now that she had some semblance of a plan in place, she leaned back in Aidan's arms. Pasting a smile on her face, she beamed up at him. She almost broke when she saw his adoring gaze. She wished for a future with him where he would always look at her that way.

"I figured you had a diabolical plan in that head of yours," producing the teasing tone took an enormous amount of effort. "I noticed that my clothes were curiously absent from the apartment this morning."

"You caught me. I wanted to serve you breakfast in bed. And then... Well, let's just say that you wouldn't have been needing your clothes any time soon."

Aidan led her to the couch and refused her help with putting together a breakfast tray. They ate chocolate croissants and drank coffee as they read the morning papers and chatted idly about what they read. French managed to make it through the meal without suffering a crack in her façade. If Aidan noticed that her good cheer and broad smiles were a little forced, he didn't let on.

They were still lounging around when Maggie called. French groaned inwardly when she realized who was on the phone. Aidan told her that Paddy had dropped by and teased her for being a mother hen. From the one side of the conversation she heard, French gleaned that Maggie denied having sent Hurst to Aidan's house. Aidan cast a glance at French and cocked a questioning eyebrow as he listened to Maggie. French shrugged, feigning complete ignorance as to what Hurst's motives for coming to see them may have been. Aidan finished the call, telling his mother that he and French were doing just fine and not to worry.

"Huh. That was weird. Mom said she didn't ask Paddy to come here. I wonder what he wanted?"

"I have no idea," she lied. "Imagine my surprise when I came downstairs expecting to see you making coffee only to find Patrick Hurst. He's got a key to this place?"

"Well, yeah. He used to own this apartment and when I bought it from him, he kept a key. He stays here sometimes when he has late meetings or gets in late from business trips."

"I see," French paused. Standing up, she went on, "I should be going Aidan. I've got things to do. Could you get my things from the car, please?"

"Ummmm, I don't think so. I want to know what you and Paddy were talking about when I came in. I know I heard him right. What's this about him wanting you gone?"

French's heart sank. It was beyond hope that Aidan, observant Aidan, would be fooled by Hurst's easy lies and her false bonhomie. And once he'd spoken with Maggie and determined for certain that she hadn't sent Hurst to his house, she knew he would have begun piecing things together. He was clearly suspicious and wanted answers.

"It's like he said. He wants to hire the quintet for his wife's birthday. That's all," French fidgeted and avoided looking him in the eye as she spoke.

"You're lying. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing! Stop accusing me. I'm not the one you can't trust, Aidan!"

"Why can't you be honest with me?"

"I am being honest! It's Patrick Hurst you need to be concerned with – not me! He's a lying snake," French retorted.

Aidan pushed her back into her seat on the sofa and stood in front of her. Crossing his arms, he said, "You're not going anywhere until you tell me the truth about whatever is going on with you and Paddy. You know that I can keep you here for as long as I want to, so don't even think about trying to escape. Not that you'd get very far with no clothes or shoes."

"Aidan, there's nothing going on. Just bad vibes, that's all," French protested, trying to strike a casual tone.

"Bullshit. Talk."



Futile Resistance Ch. 08



Aidan jogged through the Public Garden, across Boston Common, then up and down the streets of Beacon Hill, pushing himself to run faster. There had been a break in the bitterly cold weather, but it was still only in the low to mid-thirties and the air sliced into his lungs with every breath. It was rough going, but he had needed the run in order to clear his head. In a way, he had escaped in the same way he accused French of doing. He understood her need for escape, her need to avoid dealing with things, a little better now. She accomplished escape through building walls around herself; he had escaped by running.

He had just had to get out, had needed time to think about what she had told him. It would have been impossible to do that with French screeching at him. He smirked to himself, thinking that she would kill him if she knew he thought she'd been screeching. Truthfully, he'd been about to lose it himself and had thought it better to remove himself than give in to the urge to punch something. He'd dressed in his running clothes that morning, thinking that later in the day, once it warmed up outside, he and French would go running together or at the very least for a walk. Neither of them was used to inactivity for more than a couple of days in a row and he knew they'd both be nursing a case of cabin fever after being indoors for several days leading up to and including Christmas. Lucky for him that he'd been dressed and had been able to walk out and hit the ground running, he thought. As he ran, he replayed their conversation in his head.

"Bullshit. Talk," he had said.

"Aidan, I'm telling you the truth. There is nothing going on," French had protested. The fact that she refused to meet his eyes and was fidgeting nervously had given lie to the words.

"Hello?" he'd said, waving a hand in front of her face, "I know you're lying. I can always tell when you're lying, you know."

"Aidan, just let it go. Trust me when I tell you that you need to just let it go."

"Let what go? You're starting to annoy me, Legs."

"Heaven forbid that you get annoyed." she'd flared.

"Stop trying to pick a fight," he'd told her, calling her out on what he knew was one of her avoidance tactics: picking a fight in order to avoid a difficult discussion.

"OK. Fine. You asked for it. The problem is that I cannot imagine that the day will ever come when I will be able to tolerate Patrick Hurst. He is the worst excuse for a human being I've ever seen. He apparently feels the same way about me, thus the check he wrote. He wants me out of your life for good and is willing to pay me handsomely to see me gone. I know how important the Hursts are to your family, Aidan. So, I think maybe we should just call it quits. Find someone else, someone your family, including the great Paddy Hurst, will approve of; it's probably the most sensible thing to do."

"You're not serious. Is this about the money? Please don't tell me you're going to take the money, French."

"Damn it, Aidan, I don't want Hurst's money! I don't have – nor have I ever had – any intention of taking it. I'm insulted that you think I would! In all honesty, I was planning to call it quits with you today anyway. There's no way we could work – we're too different. Insurmountably different."

She had made her grand pronouncement with such bravado and sanctimony that he had wanted to choke her. He had almost been convinced that she meant it, except that she totally overdid it. It was too grand a statement, too simplistic, too illogical, too calm. Too everything. If he had accused her of taking the money under normal circumstances, she would have taken his head off. She hadn't and thus he didn't believe her. So he had played along, pressed her for more information, knew that eventually he'd trip her up.

"French, our relationship would work just fine if you'd let it! But that's an issue we can discuss later. You're a grown woman, Paddy's a grown man. Both of you should be able to contain your dislike for each other. Your suggestion to break up with me in order to avoid him is ludicrous! Think of how long we've been together without you seeing him. It could very well be that long again. There's no reason for us to break up. Give this some time."

"Aidan, the man offered me money – lots of money – to leave you. Do you honestly think that he's just going to fade into the background? He wants me gone. I'm sure he'll make up a scandalous, salacious tale to tell your parents in order to turn them against me. How are you going to explain that to them?"

"My parents are not idiots. They met you themselves; they can make up their own minds about you. They already have. They like you. Hearsay, even from Paddy, isn't going to change what they think of you."

French's face had blanked with surprise. She hadn't known what to say to that, hadn't been able to come up with a reasonable rebuttal. She had seemed to be having an internal struggle about what to say next. He'd watched her face and seen the wheels turning in her mind. Finally, she reached her decision. She took a deep breath and said,

"Aidan, Patrick Hurst is my biological father." She had said it simply. She may as well have been saying, 'Aidan we're having roast chicken for dinner' there was so little emotion in her tone.

"What?" he'd asked, shaking his head as though to clear away cobwebs that were keeping him from hearing her properly. Whatever he'd expected to hear, it certainly wasn't that.

"He's my father. Patrick Hurst is my father."

"He can't be. He's got Paddy Jr, Pierce and Paige..."

"Don't you dare mention their names to me!" came her fierce reply. She didn't want to hear anything about her half-siblings.

"But, French, I don't understand. Paddy would never..." he was at an utter loss for words.

"I assure you, Aidan, 'Paddy' would and he did," she said angrily through gritted teeth.

"Are you serious? How can this be possible?"

"Let me break it down for you, because you seem to be confused," she said, then continued in a singsong voice, "Hurst is a man. Maman is a woman. They fucked," she said, trying to shock him with the foulness of her word choice and also because, in truth, that was all it had been. It hadn't been making love, it hadn't even been sex between two adults who had respected each other, were attracted to one another and sought pleasure together. No, it had been fucking, pure and simple. Each of the parties involved had been using the other to get something they wanted.

"They fucked," she said again, "et voilà, nine months later, baby Francoise made her world debut."

"Stop patronizing me. I'm asking how this is possible because Patrick Jr. is the same age as you, maybe..." he trailed off and did the math in his head, " two months older. How could you be Paddy's daughter?"

"Aidan, I know you believe that everything is always exactly as it should be, but that statement's a little naïve, even for you. Hurst obviously cheated on his wife with my mother." Her voice had been laden with sarcasm and disdain that he had thought was totally uncalled for.

"Goddamn it, French, stop it! You've just dropped an enormous pile of shit in my lap; let me think!" he'd ground out. But he couldn't think; his mind was one great, big giant blank.

He had turned his back to her, walked a little distance away and stared out of his living room window, seeing nothing of the city landscape that spread out in front of him. He was having difficulty wrapping his mind around what French had told him. Paddy was her father. It just didn't compute. Paddy, the avuncular man he had known his entire life was her father?! Paddy was a fixture in Aidan's life. His earliest memories included Paddy. Holidays, vacations, graduations, births, deaths and every other of life's special occasions. Paddy had always just been there. It was inconceivable to Aidan that the man he thought he knew so well could have harbored such a secret. How could Paddy have known that he had a daughter somewhere and not want to be a part of her life?

"Did he – does he know?" Aidan asked.

"Yes, he did and he does. He paid my mother child support – or should I call it hush money? – for years. It wasn't much, but it was always on time. I'll give the guy that," came her bitter reply. "In fact, he owned the house I grew up in, deeded it over to Maman when I was a kid."

Oh God, it just kept getting worse. Paddy had known exactly where to find his daughter and had never gone to see her, had never taken any interest in her whatsoever? Jesus. Paddy wasn't the type of man who could do something like that. Paddy was a wonderful father. He had always been just as devoted to his wife and family as Iain was to Maggie, Brian and him. Paddy was the friend, the surrogate father – a confidant, the guy he'd been able to talk to about things he had foolishly been unwilling to go to his own father about.

Aidan remembered going to Paddy when he had had his first wet dream. Paddy had laughed and thrown an arm around his shoulder. He had assured young Aidan that it was all entirely normal; he'd gone so far as to suggest that with the occurrence of a wet dream, Aidan had become a man and was eligible for entry to an exclusive club. He'd given Aidan the old 'wink wink nudge nudge'. It wasn't that Aidan couldn't have gone to his dad about it, but that Paddy had always seemed a little more openly sexual than Iain was. Aidan had been naive enough to want to talk to a man's man, one who wouldn't discuss the responsibilities that came along with manhood; Iain, on the other hand, definitely would have treated the situation with the solemnity required to convey the consequences of sex to a young boy. Not so with Paddy. He had had a love 'em and leave 'em attitude and thought that a guy should get as many notches on his bedpost as he could. He'd been the type who took what he wanted and to hell with the consequences.

Aidan had thought that Paddy's theories about women and sex had been just that. Theories. Because the real Paddy – the one he had thought he'd known – didn't actually behave in that way. What he knew of Paddy just didn't jibe with the version of him that French had presented. They were two entirely different people. Paddy was loyal and faithful; a true blue husband, father and friend. Hurst - as he'd come to think of the dark side of Paddy - was a cruel manipulator. How could two such opposite personas be contained in one person? Aidan had trouble believing that anyone could perpetrate such a farce for thirty or so years. At some point, there would have been a crack, something small that gave him away.

"Yoo-hoo? Aidan?" French called him back to the here and now.

"I'm sorry," he'd said abstractedly. "I'm having a little trouble synthesizing this."

"Ha. You're having trouble. Imagine my utter delight when I met him in your parents' driveway last night!"

"Paddy would never do that..." No, Paddy wouldn't – couldn't – but, Hurst could. Aidan believed that Paddy or Hurst – hell, whoever – had probably compartmentalized his life to such a degree that he had no trouble living with what he did.

"Aidan, he did! He is my father!" French insisted, misunderstanding what Aidan had meant by his last statement of denial. "Goddamn it! I knew this would happen. You just go right ahead and defend your precious Paddy. Go right ahead; see if I care! But you can do it without me. I don't want to hear another fucking word about Patrick Hurst!"

"French, wait -," Aidan tried to stop her.

French charged up the stairs to the bedroom, intending to grab her things and get the hell out of there. Then she remembered that she wasn't dressed and that her clothes were in Aidan's car. Goddamn it! She charged back down the stairs, almost losing her footing, and stormed up to Aidan.

"Get my things out of your car. I want to get out of here."

"Honey, wait. Just calm down."

"Don't 'honey' me! I'm through with being calm. I've been calm all my life! I've tried to be the calm, dignified person people like you and Patrick Hurst would accept and look where it's gotten me! I'm done with it! Fuck you. And fuck Patrick Hurst! How dare you stand there and tell me 'Paddy would never do that'?!" she asked him, throwing his words back in his face. "Get my things!!" she screamed, beyond all control.

"No! There's no reasoning with you when you're like this. I'm going for a run."

*****

After hearing about Hurst, Aidan had walked away from her, leaving her trapped in his apartment. Fury boiled in French's veins. She wanted to tear her hair out, break things. She was seething with fury and outrage, felt that doing damage to something or someone would soothe some of the hurt she was feeling. She wanted out – out of the apartment, out of Aidan's life. Out of her life. She was sick to death of being Francoise Delauney.

She paced furiously, thinking about how she would get out of there before Aidan got back from running. Suddenly she remembered that Aidan had a spare set of keys in his studio. She ran down the hallway situated beneath the stairs, skidded across the hardwood floor into Aidan's office and ransacked his desk drawers until she found them. She left the contents of his desk a shambles, but she was beyond caring. She just wanted out.

She knew she would look like a lunatic running through the building wearing nothing but a men's shirt and a pair of socks, but she'd risk it if it meant escaping. Besides, if she was lucky, she wouldn't run into anyone; it was the holiday weekend, after all, and it was likely that most people were out of town. Or so she hoped.

She hopped in the elevator, praying that she wouldn't see anyone. She was lucky for once in her life and made it to his car without being seen. She unlocked the trunk and began rifling through her bags until she found the pair of jeans she was looking for. Without stopping to think, she yanked them on, then stuffed her feet into her running shoes. Shit! She'd left her coat upstairs. There was no way she was going back up and risk running into Aidan. She checked her bag again and found a pullover sweater. It would have to do. She struggled into it and grabbed the rest of her things out of the trunk. Loaded down with bags and boxes, she tossed the spare set of keys into the trunk and slammed it shut. Take that, you asshole, she thought with grim satisfaction as she hightailed it out of the garage toward home.

*****

Running along the Charles River now, Aidan continued to puzzle over what French had told him. Hurst was obviously a master of deception. He was manipulative, cunning and secretive. He felt a fool for having believed in the man's goodness his whole life. He was livid with Hurst for trying to interfere in his and French's relationship. How dare the man try to bribe the woman he loved in order to get her to exit stage left? What if French had actually been scared off by him and walked out of Aidan's life without a by-your-leave? Thank God she was made of sterner stuff than that. She was mad as hell, but he'd go home after he'd had time to process all of this and deal with her.

Aidan wasn't fooled. He knew that Hurst's attempt to remove French from his life had had nothing to do with wanting to protect Aidan. No, Hurst had wanted French gone so that he could protect himself. Hurst had too much going for himself to allow a mistake from his past to come blasting into the present and expose him for the creep he was. Aidan wondered what else Hurst was hiding. Hell - if he could hide the fact that he had a daughter, he could hide anything.

In fact, what was real about him? Which persona was the real Patrick Hurst? Did such a man even exist? Will the real Patrick Hurst please stand up? he thought bitterly.

Questions. All he had were questions, it seemed. Did his parents know about Hurst's illegitimate daughter? He doubted it. Not that his parents were uptight about that kind of thing. Quite the contrary. But he thought that they would have at least encouraged Hurst to have a relationship with his daughter. They were of the school of thought that parents were responsible for more than the financial upkeep of their children. A parent was a teacher, a guide, a confidant, a protector. Hurst had been none of those things for French. French especially had needed someone to look after her and care for her, considering her sorry excuse for a mother. Knowing that Hurst had been an excellent parent to his other children, but not for French, made Aidan angry. French deserved better than to be thrown away.

He couldn't imagine that his parents would have remained bosom buddies with Hurst if they had known. They would have – surely they would have – subtly distanced themselves from him if they had even an inkling of what the man was capable of. He hoped so. But then, he thought he'd known Paddy. Did you ever really, truly know a person or did you only know what that person wanted you to know? He had to wonder. God, was he honestly doubting his parents' integrity? he thought, shaken by the possibility that he was doing exactly that.

He was on shaky ground if he was thinking that way. He was unaccustomed to the idea that he couldn't trust them. Yes, of course, he knew that there were untrustworthy people in the world and those were the people he avoided like the plague. He had always surrounded himself with genuine people, just as his parents had taught him - both through what they said and did - to do. His breath came a little easier when he reminded himself of that. Iain and Maggie weren't hypocrites or phonies. They wouldn't tell him one thing and do something entirely different. There was no way they knew about Paddy and French.

Now, the question was, should he tell them? It didn't take much more than a second for him to decide that of course he would tell them. They would be as shocked as he was, but they would deal with it. They would help him - and French - deal with it. He could think of no better allies to have in this situation. They would easily see that none of this was French's fault – that went without saying. She'd been a pawn her whole life, since before she'd even been born.

He was under no illusions about French's mother, Marcheline. She had probably gotten pregnant on purpose, hoping to secure a cushy future for herself. Goddamn it. He was growing weary just thinking about it. French had lived it; it was no wonder she was skittish.

With that thought, he changed direction and headed back toward home. He realized that he needed to get to French. She would need him right now. It was time to circle the wagons. He would call his parents, maybe go back up to their house so they could figure out what to do. Between the four of them, five including Brian, they'd figure something out. Right now he needed his family – all of them, including French – around him. She needed them, too, whether she would admit it or not.

When he got to his apartment, he called out for her. She didn't answer. He checked the downstairs bathroom, then ran upstairs to see if she had gone back to bed or if she was in the bathroom up there. She wasn't there. He ran back downstairs to check the closet and saw her coat still hanging there. He was becoming alarmed. Where could she have gone with no clothes and shoes? He checked his office and saw the mess on top of his desk and it hit him – she had found his spare keys. He left the apartment at a sprint, racing to the garage to see if he could catch her.

She was gone. He ran back inside and, too impatient to wait for the elevator, took the fire stairs up to his floor. Frantically, he dialed her phone number. No answer. Again he dialed; no answer. He let the phone ring until her voice mail message came on. He hung up and called her over and over again, hoping that the constant, insistent ringing of the phone would annoy her so badly that she would finally answer.




Futile Resistance Ch. 08



*****

French had taken a taxi to her apartment and once there, had called and booked a seat for herself on the evening flight to London and from there, to Paris. She called her cousin, Marie-Josée, who lived in Paris and told her that she would be there the next day. Marie-Josée had been delighted that she was coming for a visit, but had known that something must be very wrong if French was taking a trip on such short notice. French hadn't had time to explain. She threw a few things into a bag and left for the airport.

Her life had suddenly gotten a great deal more complicated. In the space of only a few days, she had met Aidan's parents, encountered her biological father in person for the first time in her life, fought furiously with Aidan and parted from him on bad terms. Mixed in with all the stress, she had had an all too fleeting glimpse of what it meant, what it felt like, to be happy and hopeful. She had realized that Aidan was the man for her, the man to whom she wanted to commit, to spend the rest of her life with. He had stripped her bare and made her take a long hard look at what had been revealed. Her love for him, her need for him, her devotion to him had come blazing forth.

She had been shocked at the intensity of her feelings. She had always kept them buried, denied them because acknowledging them - sharing them - meant vulnerability. She hadn't realized that vulnerability was one of the things that defined loving and being in love. Trusting a lover to love, protect and cherish was part of what it was all about. Aidan did all of that for her, always had, but she had been unwilling to admit it.

So, she had told him. Patrick Hurst was her father. They had finished breakfast and were sitting around when his mother called. Hurst, in order to explain his presence at Aidan's apartment that morning, had concocted a story that Maggie had sent him there to check up on Aidan and French. Maggie had denied it. Aidan had been suspicious already, having walked in on what could only be described as a heated standoff between French and Patrick Hurst. He had let them think he was satisfied with their excuses, but he had known something wasn't right. Finally, he had forced French to tell him the truth about what was going on between her and Hurst.

She had equivocated, hoping he would just let it go. Of course he hadn't. They had gone back and forth, countering each other's arguments until he had said that his parents had made up their own minds about her and wouldn't care what anyone else said.

He was right about them. Iain and Maggie were smart people. Her conscience wouldn't allow her to sell them short. They were standup people who knew their own minds and she could tell that they were the kind of people who weren't afraid to speak up when they knew a wrong had been done. Aidan was just like them in that regard. In light of admitting that to herself, she realized that she had been stupid to withhold Hurst's identity from Aidan. If he was half the man she knew him to be, he'd be OK with what she told him; understandably, he'd be upset and shocked down to his bones, but ultimately, he'd be OK. To love, to be loved, meant to trust. She would just tell the truth.

She had then made a leap of faith, had decided to trust in him. When he had reacted with disbelief, she had been shocked, angry and scared. Angry because how dare he not believe her? Did he think she was capable of making up such a wild story? Scared because she had leaped off of a cliff and was in a free fall waiting for him to catch her. And he wasn't there. Instead of holding his arms out to catch her, he had stepped away at the last second, causing her to fall flat on her face.

How had she misread him, misjudged him, so badly? He kept telling her over and over again that she needed to trust him and as soon as she had placed full trust in him, he had deserted her. It's like it was all a game to him. Dupe poor little French in to falling in love, then dump her. The old dupe and dump. She felt like such a fool. Much more a fool than her mother had ever been, because at least Marcheline's relationships with men hadn't been based on anything but sex and money.

French passed the hours before her flight pacing the international departures terminal. She felt reasonably sure that Aidan wouldn't be able to find her there. She had turned off her cell phone, knowing that he would try to reach her. She knew that no one could get into the terminal without a ticket or boarding pass, so no problem there. The airlines wouldn't give out any passenger information if he called to ask if she was on a particular flight, so she was safe there, too. She was anxious to get underway, nonetheless, because the longer she was in town, the more time Aidan had to figure out where she was.

She was sure that Aidan would have expected her to be waiting for him when he came back from his run. Arrogant swine! she thought, As if I'm stupid enough to sit around waiting for him to come home so he could berate me and call me a liar! What a surprise it must have been when he'd returned to find her gone. 

French wasn't above feeling a tiny bit of glee when she thought of him looking for her, frantically calling and going to her apartment. How long before he realized she was really gone? Not just hiding out in her apartment, but gone far away, out of his reach?

She needed time away. This impromptu getaway would wreck her budget, but she just couldn't deal with this latest spate of trouble. Paris always made her feel better. Being broody and depressed was almost impossible in the City of Light. The beauty and permanence of the city always made her realize that she could endure even the toughest of circumstances. Historically, Paris had seen war and plunder, yet had survived to become a world capitol, a center of art and culture, one of the most beautiful places in the world. If Paris could survive, so could she.

She only had one week in Paris in which to avoid reality. After that, she would return to Boston and face the music. She knew that leaving town was only an interim solution. Actually, it wasn't a solution at all. Her little sojourn in Paris would only delay the inevitable showdown with Aidan. Or maybe there wouldn't be a showdown, she thought, as doubt sprang into her mind, maybe he would be glad she had left and would just pretend that she had never existed. It was possible that he would feel nothing but relief that she had removed herself from his life.

Tears welled in her eyes at the very thought. Though she was angry with him for walking out on her, she couldn't really blame him. She knew she was a complicated person. This latest revelation about Hurst being her father may have been the straw that broke the camel's back. Aidan was unused to drama in his life and it seemed like she had brought nothing but drama to their relationship from day one. Her fear of commitment, her inability to trust people, her aloofness... All had contributed to the constant push and pull within their relationship. While French had done everything she could to eliminate the drama in her life, the last few months hadn't been what she would call placid. Aidan deserved to have the peaceful life he wanted. She would allow him to have it.

*****

Aidan arrived at French's building and rang the buzzer. There was no answer and no way to tell if she was home and deliberately not answering or if she were truly gone. He sighed in dejection, hoping that she was there. If she was there, he had a chance of talking to her, of reasoning with her. He stood in the vestibule for a few more minutes, then buzzed her unit again. When he got no answer, he decided to sit in his car where it was parked in front of her building, just hoping that she might come home from wherever she was or, if she was inside, maybe she would go out and he would catch as she left.

He sat in his cold car, desperate to see her. His eyes never left the door of her building for fear of missing her as she came or went. As he watched and waited, he tried to figure out what she might be thinking. Knowing her, she had probably jumped to a wild conclusion about what his response to her 'news' had been. Hopefully she hadn't done anything rash.

She had been very angry with him when he'd left to go running. He had never seen her like that. Screaming and swearing at him in a way that was wholly uncharacteristic of her – she'd been totally out of control. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have left her. He should have stayed to find out precisely why she was so upset. It's not like she hadn't known all along who her father was, though. She couldn't have been upset about only that. Which only left one explanation: she was upset with him for some reason.

He called her best friend in town, Fifi, to see if she had gone there. Fifi was out of town until after the New Year, he remembered when the only answer he got was her voice mail. She was out of the country, so it was unlikely that she would have heard from French. He called Peter, the French horn player in her quintet. It galled him that he had to call the guy; they had never gotten along because Peter held a tendre for French and made no secret that he thought Aidan wasn't good enough for her. French considered him a good friend, though, and she might have gone to him if she had wanted to avoid Aidan.

"Peter, it's Aidan Conal. How are you?"

"Fine, Aidan. You?" Peter responded guardedly.

"I've been better. Have you seen French today?"

"No," surprise was evident in his voice. "I haven't seen her since the last gig we played together. Isn't she with you? Is something wrong?"

"She was with me. We had an argument and I left in the middle of it to go for a run. When I got back, she was gone. She won't answer her phone, her cell is turned off and she won't answer her door. I'm sitting in front of her place and, since there are no lights on up there, I'm guessing she's not there," Aidan finished, his tone bleak.

"An argument, huh?" Peter asked, no doubt dying to know what it had been about. "Must have been a doozy for her to run away from you..."

"Look, she didn't 'run away'," You twit, he thought. "I was just wondering if you had heard from her. Since you haven't, I'll let you go."

Peter took pity on him. With a long-suffering sigh, he said, "Oh all right. I'll try her cell and her home phone to see if she'll take my call."

"That would be great, Peter, thanks. Call me if you hear anything. I'm pretty worried about her."

"Yeah, me too. I'll call you back."

Hope grew in Aidan's heart that French would talk to Peter and then he would at least know that she was OK. He'd looked up at her apartment, seen the dark windows and felt desolate thinking that she might be up there, sitting alone in the dark. Aside from him, Fifi and Peter were the closest friends French had. If Peter couldn't reach her, he didn't know what his next step would be.

His phone chirped at him. A text message from Peter. 

Called. No answr.

Shit, he thought. Now what? He couldn't sit outside her apartment all night, her neighbors would think he was a stalker. He started the car and headed home. 

*****

French's flight was finally called, late, as was the norm at Logan Airport. The controlled chaos of the boarding process began. After being nearly knocked over by an overeager elderly couple who had been dead set on getting to their seats ahead of everyone else, she was finally settled in her seat. She just wanted the plane to take off, there'd be no turning back then and no way Aidan could find her. With an ocean between them, maybe she could start to examine with more clarity how she felt about what had happened and decide what she would do about it. Until then, she could hardly bear to think about it.

She felt so lonely, which was unusual, because she had always been a loner. Growing up, she had preferred her own company to that of others and once she was out on her own, that preference hadn't changed. She had been happy with her own thoughts and playing her flute had provided her with the escape she often craved. She wrote in her journal or read when she didn't feel like playing. She wasn't the type to fall prey to boredom. When she wanted company, she sought it, but those occasions were few and far between. Usually, she could count on Fifi to be up for doing something and more often than not, it was Fifi who insisted that she get out more in order to prevent her from becoming a hermit.

It occurred to her that while she liked being alone, she had never actually been lonely. Lonely was a whole different thing than being alone. Lonely was when everyone important to you had abandoned you. She had grown accustomed to her mother's absenteeism and no longer thought of it in terms of abandonment. In truth, her mother had never been there for her, so technically she couldn't have been abandoned by Marcheline. And her mother had long ceased to be anything other than an annoyance to her. She didn't even come close to rating on French's list of important people. Aidan, however, was different.

He had become the one person she could rely on. He was steady. Constant. She had trusted him. He had abandoned her, withdrawn from her in disgust when he heard what she had to say. It was her greatest fear come to fruition. She had known better than to let this happen to her. She had safeguarded herself from just this sort of eventuality and the one time she had let her guard down, look what happened.

She hauled her thoughts in, not wanting to travel the road they would lead her down. The plane had just pushed back from the gate. They would be airborne in a few short minutes. French dug around in her bag for the over-the-counter sleeping pills she had bought from an airport kiosk. She wanted to be blissfully unaware of the hours that lay between her and the safe haven waiting for her in Paris. Though the package insert cautioned against drinking alcohol while using the pills, she was tempted to throw caution to the wind and have a glass of wine, too. Wine and the sleeping pill would ensure that she would slide effortlessly into the numbness she craved right now.

*****

Aidan paced restlessly around his apartment. He'd racked his brain and hadn't been able to think of where she might be. He'd come dangerously close to stalking her. He hated himself for that. He wasn't like that normally. He scoffed. He hadn't been anything like normal since resuming his relationship with French. The real him would have walked away from a woman who needed so much. But French had tapped into something somewhere within him that had him wanting to give her everything, absolutely everything, she needed. He didn't know what it was about her. She was always so tightly contained, high-strung and stand-offish.

Initially, he admitted, she had presented a challenge to his masculinity. He'd wanted to figure out the mystery of why she was the way she was. Not to mention that she was gorgeous and unbelievably sexy. At first he'd thought of her as an untouchable ice-maiden. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and all of that. But, wow. Sex with her was explosive. No denying that. But it wasn't just the sex that had kept him coming back to her. It had happened gradually. Little by little, he had unraveled her and he'd liked what had been revealed. She was everything he wanted in a life mate. She was strong, loyal, classy and lovable. She would never be easy. He knew all of that and still wanted her.

He had thought they had made a lot of progress the night before. She'd tried to resist him with every fiber of her being, but she hadn't been able to do it – he hadn't let her. He had made love to her roughly, gently and in every other imaginable way, with every imaginable emotion underpinning their couplings. In the end, he thought he had shown her that he was trustworthy and that he'd always put her well-being first, but that he would no longer tolerate her continued resistance to him and to their relationship. He had thought she had finally been able to come to terms with the fact that he was in her life to stay.

Just before dawn – had it only been that very morning? – he had rolled over and taken her in his arms. He had pressed gentle kisses to her lips, waking her slowly. She had been cuddly in her half-awake state, had snuggled into him with a contented murmur. He'd kissed her more insistently and she murmured again, wanting to go back to sleep. He rolled on top of her, spread her legs and sank into her. They had both winced at the penetration, their genitalia having become acutely, almost painfully, sensitive during the many vigorous hours they had spent making love. But he hadn't been inclined to stop and he wasn't giving her a chance to resist or call a halt to the action.

He'd tilted his hips, shifting slowly back and forth inside her. He continued to kiss her, fusing their mouths together with lazy, drugging kisses. She grew wetter and hotter beneath him, accepting him easily. The wet, swollen heat of the walls of her pussy pressed tightly around his cock and he had wanted to stay in her forever. He rolled onto his back and let her ride him. She had taunted him, tantalized him, with the slow undulations of her hips. They had rocked together quietly, unhurriedly – almost casually - as they looked deeply into one another's eyes. In hers, he thought he'd seen a softening, a warmth, a knowing. He had taken what he'd seen there as signs of her acceptance - of her love - for him. The tumblers of his heart had clicked into place. Everything had felt just right, including the long, rippling orgasms that had bubbled up between them and swept gently over their bodies.

He groaned, feeling frustrated just thinking about it. At the time, he had felt fulfilled, had known that everything was going to be OK. He had to wonder now, though, if it was hubris that made him think she had really accepted and understood what he'd told her over and over again, in both word and deed. Wouldn't she be right here by his side if she had?

He had a fizzy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was desperate with the need to have French by his side and felt a fool because of it. Here he was, a grown man and he couldn't eat, sleep or even think without knowing where she was, what she was thinking and how she was doing. He feared he would turn into 'that guy' - the one who was totally whipped by his woman. Truthfully, though, he couldn't have cared less; French could whip him or do whatever else she wanted to do to him. He had it bad for her and he would stop at nothing to see her back in his arms where she belonged.



Futile Resistance Ch. 09



I apologize to those of you who have waited so long for this to be posted. I broke my arm while on vacation in September and then I had hand surgery (unrelated to the broken arm) in late October. I'm not 100% yet but I was bored stiff! It's good to be back. ~ Quint

*

French arrived at her cousin's Paris apartment mid-afternoon the following day. She was utterly exhausted after the overnight flight and navigating from Charles de Gaulle Airport to central Paris. She had opted to take the commuter train from the airport in order to economize. Unfortunately, her choice of transport didn't save time. She had then switched over to the Metró once she reached Paris proper and made her way to her cousin's apartment in the 1st Arrondissement. Marie-Josée's apartment was in a perfect location -- easy access to the Bourse, the French stock exchange where she worked, but also near museums, shopping and other attractions. But as far as French was concerned, there simply were no bad locations in Paris.

The day was cold and gray with a little drizzle. The drizzle didn't bother her because it was Paris drizzle and to her mind, that could never be bad. She had walked the few blocks from the Metro station to Marie-Josée's flat in order to get her bearings and capture the feel of Paris. She had washed her sleeping pill down with a glass of wine on the plane the night before and had slept the entire Boston to London leg of the trip. In spite of that, she was exhausted. And she didn't think it was jet lag. More likely, it was stress and anxiety with a little depression thrown in to round out the mix, caused by the knowledge that she had run away from a problem that would still be there when she went home.

Marie-Josée was working that day, but had left a key to her apartment with the building's superintendent as arranged when they had spoken the night before. French greeted the man and told him who she was. He surrendered the key and French used the red-carpeted spiral staircase to access Marie-Josée's third-floor apartment rather than the old-fashioned cage-style elevator. She knew that the old relic took forever to get moving and was in no mood to deal with cranky antique machinery. 

She was glad that her cousin was at work. It gave her a chance to collect herself before she had to offer explanations for her out of character behavior in making the sudden trip to France. All she wanted to do was sink into the big old tub that was the only luxury in the small bathroom. Maybe after a long soak, she would feel more in the mood for talking and explaining. And for thinking. She had kept true to her word and not devoted any time or energy into thinking about the situation with Aidan and Hurst. She tried to convince herself that the dullness of her thoughts and feelings were attributable to fatigue, not depression. She was only moderately successful.

Marie-Josée had left a 'welcome to Paris' note alongside a big bouquet of flowers whose scent had been detectable the moment French walked into the apartment. She took her bags to the tiny guest-bedroom-cum-office, then went to the equally tiny kitchen to prepare a cup of tea to take with her into the bathtub. As she filled the tub, French stripped down and examined herself in the mirror. She looked awful. Her normally fine-textured complexion was grainy and she had bags underneath bloodshot eyes. Even her hair was dull and lank. She rolled her eyes and shook her head; her appearance mirrored her emotional state.

She scanned the rest of her body, feeling a pang of longing and a fleeting quiver of arousal when she noted the bruises and whisker burn on the most intimate parts of her body. She allowed her fingertips to trace over the faint bruise on her neck, to slide down to the night-beard-abraded curve of her breast. She grazed a still-sensitive, swollen nipple, then followed the curve of her waist and hip to the juncture of her thighs and on to her inner thigh, where Aidan had placed a love bite.

Her hand lingered there as she remembered what it had felt like to be possessed by, consumed by, Aidan. He had been fierce in his lovemaking, forcing her to feel, know, accept and love him with every fiber of her being. She had had no choice but to respond to his demands, could not help but to love him as he loved her. French's bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears as she abruptly turned away from her image.

She sank into the tubful of hot, deliciously scented water. Leaning back against the rim of the tub, she sighed and drew in deep, calming breaths. She willed her body to relax, tried to force the tension she carried to melt away. She took another deep breath and on the exhale, she choked and was surprised when great gut-wrenching sobs erupted from her throat. The grief and despair that had filled her for the past forty-eight hours came pouring out. She grieved the loss of Aidan. She mourned the loss of that glimpse of happiness she had so briefly experienced. Her lip quirked with a bitter smile, How could she have ever dared think she was cut out for the white picket fence life? Married, with 2.5 children and a grinning yellow Labrador? She had always known that that world wasn't for her. But, with Aidan, for one tiny moment, she had thought it was possible. She was such a fool. There was no way things between them could be salvaged. The specter of Patrick Hurst would always be between them. Even if they tried to carry on as though things were normal, they would always know, each of them would always remember exactly what set French apart from Aidan. Her history, and his, were facts of life and wouldn't change just because they wished them to.

Seeing Patrick Hurst had brought the insecurities she had thought long-buried roaring to the surface of her consciousness. He had treated her with a cruel disdain that was all too familiar. While she knew it was undeserved, it was hurtful nonetheless. As a child, French had wondered what was wrong with her that her father could have abandoned her. Her schoolmates were, for the most part, from intact families and she hadn't understood why she had a mother but not a father. She had once asked her mother why she didn't have a daddy. Marcheline had told her the unvarnished truth: Patrick Hurst hadn't loved or wanted her. He had walked away from her without looking back.

French realized many years later exactly how cruel her mother had been to tell her, at the tender age she had been, that her father hadn't wanted her. Learning that her father had thrown her away had confused her, especially when Marcheline had maliciously told her that her father had three children that lived with him and were loved by him. French had been plagued with feelings of inadequacy. Her father's other children must be very special to have earned their father's love. She spent the years of her childhood struggling to discover what defect she possessed, what offense she hadcommitted that was so egregious that her father would abandon her forever. She had never been able to find anything to explain her abandonment and had never been able to make up for any supposed shortcomings. Marcheline was the farthest thing from an attentive mother and French took her mother's indifference and absenteeism as further proof that she was truly unlovable.

Coupled with the utter confusion about her parents' behavior toward her, French was subjected to the viciousness of her classmates. She was the only Black girl in her class and some of the kids were merciless. They picked on her for being a bastard and for being of mixed race. And most confounding of all, they said nasty things about her mother, things she wouldn't be capable of understanding until later, because despite being Marcheline's daughter, French was a naïf.

French coped with these things the only way she could: she withdrew behind a wall, pretended that none of what was said to her or about her penetrated the boundary she'd erected. Eventually, when her tormentors stopped receiving the pay-off -- the tears, the anger - they were looking for, they left her alone. But not before pieces of her had been chipped away. Through those initial encounters with her peers and under the cruel care of her mother, French learned that hiding behind walls, not showing a response, not allowing things or people to mean too much to her was the safest way to exist.

As she grew older, her self-esteem improved. She excelled musically and possessed a rapier-sharp intellect that was manifest in the superior marks she earned in school. She had also become aware that she possessed physical beauty. Teachers and the one or two close friends she had, had pointed out her many positive attributes. Having adopted an affinity for logic and honesty, she could only agree that she did possess them. Nonetheless, the broken little girl remained inside her. French was plagued with self-doubt whenever anything bad happened. If good things happened, she always wondered if she was trying to live someone else's life, someone who deserved to have good things happen to her. Part of her always thought that she wasn't quite good enough. 

Sighing, French's thoughts returned to Aidan. Falling in love with him had been a most foolish thing to do. Crazily enough, she thought, I had actually begun to see myself as Aidan saw me and being with him made me feel like a better person, a person deserving of good things. She had shared her most hidden self with him, had told him all the things she was ashamed of and afraid of. He had always told her that none of it mattered anymore, that none of it changed the way he felt about her. That is, until she told him that Hurst was her father.

She kept telling herself not to be angry with Aidan, that everyone had their limits. Apparently, she had heaped one too many of her imperfections on him and he had been unwilling to bear the burden. But try as she might to keep it at bay, her sense of indignation would not be denied. She was furious that he would withdraw from her and blame her for her parentage when she had obviously had nothing to do with it. She had thought Aidan's character was such that he would not recoil from this latest unpleasantness. Maybe he wasn't all I'd imagined him to be, she thought, maybe he'd been leading me on throughout our whole relationship.

As wonderful as being with him had felt for a short time, it wasn't worth the pain she felt now. Aidan had rejected her, had chosen loyalty to Hurst over loyalty to her. She had been making a groundless jab at Aidan when, during their argument, she had told him he was just like Hurst, but in light of the present circumstances, there was almost no distinguishing between Aidan and Hurst. Patrick Hurst had walked away from the problem her conception and birth had presented. Aidan had essentially done the same thing.

*****

Aidan was up early, determined to find and speak with French as soon as possible. He needed to know what the hell she was thinking that she would secret herself away from him. He had gotten precious little sleep the previous night and he was edgy, wired from the coffee he had drunk in order to jumpstart his brain. He walked to French's apartment, hoping that he would get there early enough that she hadn't left for the day. If she was even there, the grim thought lingered at the back of his mind. 

As he neared the front of her building, he saw someone sitting on the stoop, surrounded by a ridiculous amount of luggage. He drew closer and realized the person was a woman, huddled deep in a fur coat and hat to ward off the cold of a late-December morning in Boston. The woman looked at him appraisingly, stood up from her crouched position, smoothing a hand down her sides and straightening her hat.

"Good morning," Aidan said politely, sidling past her to the door.

"Bonjour, cher," the woman said, her voice sexily hoarse.

Recognition and remembrance slammed into Aidan. French's mother, Marcheline Delauney, was here in the flesh. With all the upheaval, he had forgotten that she was due to arrive. Apparently, French had forgotten as well, seeing as her mother sat on the stoop in the cold rather than inside French's warm apartment. Aidan decided not to identify himself to her just yet.

"Bonjour, comment ca va?" he replied.

"Ah, vous parlez francais," Marcheline purred coquettishly, fluttering her long lashes and darting a fetching gaze up at him.

Wow, this woman is a master, Aidan thought.

"Actually, I don't speak much beyond what I just said," Aidan prevaricated. He spoke enough to get along, but wasn't quite up to parsing words with this woman in a language other than his own.

"Alors, we speak in English. You live here?" she asked.

"Nope, just visiting someone. Why are you sitting in the cold?"

"I visit my daughter. She know I am coming, mais she is no here," Marcheline replied in charmingly broken English, shrugging and gesturing with typical gallicisms. "I know not where she is," she finished, shivering and moving closer to him, seeking warmth and protection from the handsome man who stood before her.

Aidan could immediately understand why she appealed to men. She was tiny and very beautiful, with rich cocoa colored skin and fine features. French had inherited her wonderfully mobile, kissably soft lips from her mother. Marcheline was well preserved: nearing fifty with no wrinkles or lines to mar her face. She had led a cosseted life. She so consummately played the role of damsel in distress that he imagined most men would immediately want to be the knight on a white charger who rescued her. Even knowing what she was all about, he was inclined to help her.

"Well, madame, I'll see if my friend is home and if she is, you can come up and wait with us until your daughter returns."

"Ah, oui. C'est parfait! Merci, cher," she said with an overabundance of gratefulness, laying her leather-glove clad hand on his arm. "J'ai très froid!" she finished, shivering dramatically.

Aidan held the door open for her and they proceeded into the vestibule. He went to the bank of buzzers and pushed the one that rang French's apartment.

"Mais, chér, this is my daughter's apartment," Marcheline exclaimed.

"What a coincidence! French is your daughter?"

"Oh -- that nickname," she tut-tutted, then confirmed. "Oui, Francoise est ma fille. Who are you?"

"A friend," Aidan replied.

Marcheline looked at him, as though hoping to divine his true identity through his appearance. He withstood the scrutiny, not batting an eyelash at the questions he saw in her eyes. He didn't intend to answer any of them. Rather, he hoped to turn this situation to his advantage by having her answer a few questions.

There had been no answer from French's apartment. He rang the buzzer again and they waited in silence for the answer they knew would not be forthcoming. Aidan decided to ring one of French's neighbors, the stereotypical old lady who had lived in the building for decades and made note of everyone's comings and goings.

She, of course, answered immediately.

"Mrs. Hirschbaum, it's Aidan Conal, French's friend. I'm here with her mother and we can't find French. Have you seen her?"

She buzzed them in and they went to her first floor apartment whose door was tucked behind the stairs. She opened the door the merest crack and peered at them shrewdly. Apparently, it had belatedly occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn't have opened the door to strangers. Recognizing Aidan for who he said he was, she opened the door wider and gestured them across the threshold.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hirschbaum. How are you today?" Aidan asked politely.

"This cold weather is making my bones ache," she complained the way she always did. "I should have moved to Florida years ago. I'm just getting too old for these Boston winters."

"You don't look or act a day over fifty," Aidan responded, the way he always did when Mrs. Hirschbaum fished for compliments. "Mrs. H, this is French's mother, Marcheline Delauney. She's here to visit her daughter, but French isn't answering her buzzer. Have you seen her?"

"Why, yes, I have. She left last evening at around 6-ish; looked like she was going on a trip. She had a little suitcase with wheels on it when she got into the cab out front." Mrs. H could always be counted on to have noticed the details. "I can't imagine that you didn't know she was going on a trip..." she finished speaking, her painted-on eyebrows arched in question as she waited for an explanation.

"We had a bit of a disagreement," Aidan said, his heart in his throat, reeling from the news that French had really left him. "I left to get some fresh air and when I came back she was gone."

Marcheline listened intently, but didn't comment. Aidan glanced at her and could see the wheels turning in her mind. He guessed correctly that she intended to use everything she learned to her own advantage.

"Tch," Mrs. H sucked her teeth. "You kids and your passions. My late husband and I learned the hard way never to walk out on an argument. We were divorced because of just that and the day we met to sign the divorce papers was when we realized the whole thing had been a big misunderstanding. Our pride had kept us apart," she mused. "We got remarried the same day of our divorce!"

Aidan had heard the story before and he wholeheartedly understood what Mrs. Hirschbaum was trying to tell him: Don't let pride stop you from communicating with the ones you love. He was champing at the bit to communicate with French. In fact, he had a choice bit of communicating to do with regard to her disappearing act, but of course, he'd need to find her first.

"Mrs. H, I was wondering if you still had French's spare apartment key?"

"Of course I do."

"I think Madame Delauney would be more comfortable waiting for French in her apartment. Do you mind if I let her in?"

"Not at all dear. Let me get the key."

They followed Mrs. H up the two flights of stairs to French's apartment. In spite of her claims of old age, Mrs. H was as spry and agile as anyone Aidan knew. She let them in and handed the key to Aidan.

"Please be sure to return it, won't you dear?"

"Yes, Mrs. H. Thank you for your help."

Marcheline stepped over the threshold and gracefully swept the fur hat from her head. She turned her back to him and unbuttoned her coat, clearly expecting Aidan to assist her in its removal. He was amused by her high-handed behavior, but he complied, because he was always a gentleman. As he hung the coat and hat in the closet, Marcheline dug around in her purse for her cigarettes. Aidan heard the click of her lighter and turned around.

"French wouldn't approve of smoking in her apartment," Aidan observed.

"You are correct, she would not approve. She does not approve of anything, especially not anything I do," Marcheline said, with a dismissive gesture of her hand. Cocking her head, she looked him in the eye and asked, "Are you and my daughter lovers?"

Without blinking, Aidan replied, "With all due respect, Madame, I don't think that's any of your business."

Marcheline laughed seductively. "Touché, cher. But I will tell you what I think. I think that you and Francoise are not lovers. You and she would never suit. I can tell that you are a man of passion," she said as she sashayed around French's living room, picking up and discarding knickknacks and mementoes, depositing ashes from her cigarette in potted plants. "Francoise sees the world in black and white. If you deal in shades of gray, she is a harsh, exacting judge. She is a one dimensional woman, cold and unfeeling," she finished with an exaggerated shudder.

Marcheline clearly did not know her daughter, Aidan thought, the woman had no idea how deeply French felt, how passionate she was when she felt safe enough. He also noticed that her English was quite good, her accent was not so pronounced now.




Futile Resistance Ch. 09



Declining to respond to her leading statements about her daughter, Aidan asked, "Do you have any ideas about where French might be?"

"Probably Paris, with her cousin, Marie-Josée. My niece and daughter were as close as sisters growing up and they continue to be. Always when Francoise was upset, Marie-Josée would be the first person she would call."

Aidan knew that to be true and kicked himself for not having thought of it on his own.

"I see. Well. Let me show you the guest room. I'm not sure if there's much in the refrigerator," he said as he led her down the hallway, "but there's a market down the block and plenty of places to eat out or order in. I've got a few errands to run and can't be late. If there's nothing else you need, I'd better go."

"I was hoping we could get to know each other better. Maybe have a meal together," Marcheline pouted, brushing too close to him where he stood in the doorway. She turned, crowding him, and ran a long red fingernail up and down the placket of his shirt, a fake pout on her lovely lips.

Aidan was stunned, but not surprised that she would attempt to seduce him. Seduction was clearly her objective, Aidan read the intent in her eyes. Marcheline thought nothing of betraying her daughter.

"Maybe another time, I really can't be late for my appointment," he politely declined, moving away from her without betraying his distaste. "Make yourself comfortable. Au revoir."

Aidan could hardly contain the excitement he felt over knowing where French was. He walked back to his apartment and immediately reserved a seat on the evening flight to Paris. He packed a small carry-on with a couple of changes of clothes and other travel essentials. He made a couple more phone calls to let his agent and his parents know that he'd be gone for a few days. The final call he made was to Patrick Hurst.

"Paddy, how are you?"

"Fine, son, just fine. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to stop by before I leave town for a few days," Aidan said.

"Oh? Are you off to another assignment in some far-flung place?" he asked, but then didn't allow Aidan a chance to respond. "Come on by, my boy, it's only me at home today, though, Pam's out at some charity thing this afternoon."

"That's fine, it's you I want to see. I'll see you in less than an hour."

*****

The bath had served to make French feel a bit more human. The routine of moisturizing her skin, drying her hair and dressing had provided the normalcy she had needed. She purposefully applied make-up, hoping to disguise the wan, grainy condition of her skin, attempting to affect the effect that she wore no make-up. Marie-Josée would know that something horrible was wrong if she noticed that French was wearing make-up. As close as the two women were, French felt too raw to rehash the recent goings on in any real detail with her cousin. She worked on her face, while at the same time working on her mind, digging deep to find the familiar protective emotional armor.

When Marie-Josée swept through the door, French had regained some of her composure. She was happy to be with her cousin, one of the few people on earth with whom she felt safe, accepted and loved. As girls, the two of them had spent summers and holidays together in Martinique, running barefoot along beaches and freely exploring their environs. Marie-Josée's mother, French's aunt Josephine, was inclined to let the girls do what they would, within reason. She allowed them the run of the beach during the daytime, but always insisted they be home and neatly washed and dressed for meals. She ensured that they were in bed at an appropriate time each night and French had often lain awake in bed, only to feign sleep when Aunt Josephine crept into the room she and Marie-Josée shared to make sure they were tucked safely in bed and to press gentle kisses to their foreheads. Those kisses had been a balm that had gone a long way toward soothing the wounds that were inflicted on her when she was home with her mother.

French had adored her aunt and had thriven in the predictable structure of her household. Back home, French tucked herself into bed at a self-imposed time each night. She had usually fixed her own dinner and eaten it in solitude. It was always hard to leave Aunt Josephine, Marie-Josée and their family. She had asked her aunt one time why she couldn't just stay with them forever. Josephine had looked sad and told her that she would love to keep her, but that Marcheline would never allow it. That answer made no sense to French since her mother never took an interest in anything she said or did. She wouldn't have even noticed if French were gone. She found out many years later that her aunt had indeed asked Marcheline if she could take over the care and raising of French. Her mother had adamantly refused, telling her sister to butt out and that she was fully capable of raising her own daughter. Josephine had known Marcheline had been speaking out of foolish pride and not out of any real desire to personally care for French. She also knew that if she pressed Marcheline further, she would cease to allow French to make any visits at all to the family in Martinique. Josephine knew when to leave well enough alone.

French and Marie-Josée chatted animatedly, catching up on family gossip and deciding what they might do for dinner that evening. As her mother knew her sister Marcheline, Marie-Josée knew French well enough to know that trying to pry information out of her was the surest way to make her clam up. French would tell her in her own time why she'd suddenly decided to take a trip to Paris and why she wore all that goop on her face, goop that wasn't hiding how awful she looked.

The women walked down Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, stopping periodically to look at the eye-catching displays in the shop windows. They turned into Place du Marché St. Honore and arrived at their destination: a small, typically Parisian bistro. In contrast to the chill, drizzly evening, the interior of the restaurant was warm and inviting, with wide-plank wood floors, white tablecloths and candles flickering on each table. They checked their coats and sat down at their table. Marie-Josee ordered a bottle of Bordeaux and sat back with a sigh.

"It's so good to see you," she said.

"Ditto," French said, "I love that my favorite cousin lives in one of the greatest cities in the world!"

"Makes me wonder if you're here to see me or if I'm just coincidental."

"Never doubt my affection for you, Marie-Josee," French said, suddenly serious, unable to continue the banter. Tears welled up in her eyes and she willed them not to fall. She did love her cousin. Marie-Josée was a constant in her life, trustworthy, stable and loyal.

"I was kidding," Marie-Josee said, "what's the matter, French? You're so brittle you look as though you're going to shatter. And all that make-up you're wearing is not fooling me one bit, by the way. You look like shit!"

French nearly choked on a sip of wine. Trust her cousin to cut through the bullshit. "I know. It's pretty bad, isn't it?" She took a fortifying breath and said simply, "Man troubles."

"Aidan?"

"Yes. You won't believe what's happened."

French recounted the events of the past several days as dispassionately as she could. That was the only way she could get through the telling. As she talked, the irony of the situation hit home. What were the odds that the guy she loved would, for all intents and purposes, be a member of her biological father's family?

Marie-Josee listened carefully. She expressed shock and outrage that Hurst would try to bribe her. He had acted like the creep she had always imagined him to be. The one thing she did have trouble believing was French's take on Aidan's response. She had met him a few times and had liked him immensely. She had been very happy to see French with someone who loved her and Aidan clearly did. What she knew of Aidan didn't gel with what French was telling her. Knowing French almost as well as she knew herself, she knew that French would have felt that she didn't deserve a man like Aidan in the first place. She would have assumed that Aidan had finally arrived at the same conclusion.

"French, I think you need to give Aidan a chance to explain himself."

"What's to explain? He considers Hurst a member of his family," French replied dejectedly. "If you had seen the way his family was at Christmas, you'd know what I mean. They're so close. It shouldn't come as a shock to me that Aidan chose them over me..." she trailed off wistfully.

She hated feeling this way. Her emotions, normally deeply buried, were simmering right on the surface of her consciousness. She knew they were in danger of boiling over. Yesterday, she had welcomed the novelty of acknowledging her feelings. She had learned what it was like to be possessed of a happy, healthy spirit. It was unlike anything she had experienced before and she had been unable, even unwilling, to contain it. She had been on the verge of telling Aidan how she felt about him, that she was utterly and completely open to him, incapable of further resistance. Instead, she had walked into the kitchen and found Patrick Hurst. Now, twenty-four hours later, she wallowed in the throes of despair, unable to erect the wall that ordinarily would have shielded her from reality. Instead, she was being bombarded with emotion; pain and anguish roiled inside her; she felt hopeless and regarded everything with negativity.

"Oh, stop being so fatalistic! You need to trust Aidan; I'm positive that you've misjudged him. He would never desert you because of who your father is!" Marie-Josée said passionately.

"But he did desert me! Don't you see?!" French was inconsolable.

Marie-Josée sighed and shook her head. She didn't know Aidan well, but she had a feeling that there was more to this story than French knew or was willing to see. She decided to wait a few days before she took any action of her own.

*****

Aidan let himself into the Hurst's large home without knocking, as he had done since he was a boy.

"Paddy," he called out, "it's me!"

"I'm in the study," Hurst responded, "come on back."

Aidan shut the door behind him and crossed the parquet-floored foyer and went down the hall to the study.Paddy sat behind his large wooden desk, peering over the tops of his glasses at the computer that sat in front of him. When Aidan walked through the door of the study, Paddy's eyes brightened. Taking off his glasses, he stood,

"Aidan, come in. What a pleasant surprise," he exclaimed, extending his hand to Aidan. He pulled Aidan into a half-hug and a handshake.

"The damned computer is giving me fits again," he complained. "But computers are like women, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em," he finished roguishly.

"They're not so bad if you know how to treat them," Aidan replied blandly. Whether he was referring to computers or women, Hurst would have to decide for himself.

They moved to a conversation grouping situated in front of the fireplace at the far end of the study. A leather couch and two chairs were arranged just so, with cushions and throw pillows, courtesy of Hurst's wife, added to soften the austere environment. Pam often read in the study in the evenings while Patrick worked; she had concluded that she had little choice if she ever wanted to see her husband. An utterly sweet and feminine woman, she had never been fond of the dark decor in Hurst's study. The pastel pillows and throws were incongruous, but Pam had needed them in order to feel welcome and comfortable in her husbands domain.

"Where are you off to today, Aidan?"

"Paris. But my assignment is of a slightly different nature this time around," Aidan replied casually.

"Really? Tell me," Hurst said eagerly. He found Aidan's job fascinating. Though well-traveled, he had never ventured to the types of places to which Aidan typically traveled. He was rather unadventurous when it came to traveling; he preferred five and six star hotels and villas, chauffeured limousines and cosmopolitan city life to rough and tumble or primitive locales. Nonetheless, he delighted in Aidan's work, always infinitely curious -- in the way one is morbidly curious at the scene of a car accident, and a bit horrified by the circumstances of less fortunate citizens of the world.

"I'm going to Paris to bring French back home where she belongs."

Hurst's mouth opened and closed; clearly he had been caught off guard. Aidan watched him closely, tried to discern what might be going through the man's head. God help me, he thought, if Hurst dares to show the slightest bit of relief that she's gone.

"What's she doing there?"

"We had a pretty explosive argument after you left yesterday morning."

"Nothing I said, I hope?" Hurst asked with a sincerity that Aidan saw right through.

"Actually, that's why I'm here," Aidan paused.

"How can I help?"

"For starters, stay away from French, stay out of my love life."

"I don't know what you mean," Hurst sputtered.

"I think you do. How dare you insult me by interfering in my personal life? And the bribe you offered her to get her out of my life? You're way out of line, Paddy. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Aidan, don't get yourself all wound up. Look," he said in a reasonable tone, "She's not who you think she is. She took the money, didn't she? Hied off to Paris as soon as she could," he said with such satisfaction that Aidan wanted to wrap his fingers around Hurst's neck and squeeze until his eyes popped out.

"I know exactly who Francoise Delauney is," Aidan said baldly, pausing for effect. "I know her better than I ever knew you."

Hurst swallowed nervously, but pretended to misunderstand Aidan. "You're young, Aidan. You're idealistic and altogether too trusting of people. I know what women like her are after. They want money. And they'll lie, cheat and steal to get it," he finished on an emphatically sanctimonious note.

"You amaze me. Stop with the bullshit, Hurst," Aidan said Hurst's name as though it were an epithet. "I know that you are the bastard who fathered French. She told me everything."

Hurst at least had the decency to look cowed. But only momentarily. His jaw hardened as he stood and walked over to the wet bar on the far wall of the study. He poured a hefty dram of scotch into a heavy crystal tumbler. Turning to Aidan, he proffered the glass. When his offer was declined, he took a heavy swallow of the potent liquor. Contemplatively, he paced back to the fireplace and stopped before it, rested his arm on the mantle.

"I don't owe you any explanations for my past. But, I will say this about the money I offered her: I was trying to protect you, son. If you knew what her mother was like -- you'd run like hell in the opposite direction from the daughter," Hurst had the gall to say.

"Don't call me son. And I do know what her mother is like. I met her this morning. She is every bit as selfish and blind as you are," Aidan replied acidly, furious at the thought that Hurst would try to 'protect' him, when all French had ever wanted, or needed most, was someone to look after her best interests.

Hurst's features slackened. "You met Marcheline... You mean she's here?"

The skin at the corners of Aidan's eyes tightened when he saw Hurst's reaction to the mention of Marcheline. He wore the expression of a besotted idiot, slavering over a treat that dangled just out of reach. He still wants her, Aidan thought incredulously. And come to think of it, the fact that Hurst was surprised that Marcheline was here meant that he knew she had at one time not been here. Interesting, since the two had supposedly not had direct contact with one another since before French was born.

"Yes, she's comfortably ensconced in French's apartment, never mind the fact that, as far as she knows, her daughter is missing."

"How is she?" Hurst asked tentatively, his voice strangely soft.

"As vacuous, selfish and bitchy as she always was, I'd imagine."

"There's no need for that kind of talk, boy!" Hurst admonished.

Aidan drew back in surprise. "Are you defending her? You've got to be kidding me!"

"I'll not stand by and have you insult a lady. You were raised with better manners than that."

"A lady? Now I know you're kidding," he laughed shortly and looked more closely at Hurst, who had lost a little of his color and refused to meet his eye. Understanding dawned. "You're still fucking her," Aidan said incredulously.

"That's enough! I will not discuss my personal life with you."

"Your personal life? What about Pam and your kids?"

"One has nothing to do with the other, Aidan. Marcheline's willingness to spread her legs has come in handy more than a few times over the years. You'll understand when you're older and have experienced more things."

"Don't patronize me, Hurst! What does age have to do with the fact that you've been cheating on your wife for the last thirty years? That you have a daughter who is only a couple months younger than your oldest child?"

"Aidan, that baby never should have been born. I told Marcheline to get rid of it -- I offered her the money to pay for it," Hurst said, determined to make Aidan understand the incomprehensible.

"The 'it' you're referring to turned out to be a beautiful, talented, grievously wounded woman. In spite of the man and woman who parented her, she grew up to be a truly amazing person," Aidan finished with a sneer.

Hurst scoffed, "You may think that now, Aidan... But, blood will out. She'll show herself for what she is eventually. Don't trust her with anything that's important to you. Marcheline tried to use the pregnancy to entrap me. I couldn't let that happen! Don't you get it? It would have ruined me! The - shall we say 'attraction'? - I feel for her mother doesn't obscure my knowledge of what she is. A ruthless gold-digger. Mark my words, though, that girl is her mother all over again, it's written all over her."

"She has your blood, too, you asshole. Think about that before you disparage her lineage. And for the record, the 'attraction' you feel for Marcheline is pure, animal lust," Aidan retorted. Hurst was displaying himself in an increasingly poor light. Instead of owning up to and showing remorse for having abandoned a child, he continued to denigrate French and her mother. He had apparently carried on an affair with Marcheline for decades, but had never bothered to see French. His hypocrisy was astounding. Aidan was becoming more angry by the second. Mostly on French's behalf, but also because he felt utterly betrayed by Hurst. This man had been a fixture in his family's life since long before Aidan had been born. How could they all have been so fooled by him? he wondered.

Realizing that Aidan wasn't the slightest bit sympathetic to him, Hurst changed tacks.

"I saw to it that she was taken care of; I sent a living allowance every month and even gave Marcheline the house they were living in. That girl wanted for nothing."

"That's where you're wrong," Aidan shot back. "That girl didn't have anyone to take care of her, no one to protect her. The responsibilities of fatherhood entail more than providing for a child's material needs, Paddy."

"She had more than just her material needs met, Aidan," Hurst said defensively. "I sent more than enough money and they lived in a very nice area in Brookline. She had access to good schools and plenty of money to do anything she wanted."

"She was a child, Hurst! She wasn't the person in charge of the money. Don't forget who her mother is," Aidan threw Hurst's words back at him. "Marcheline did not pass your largesse along to her daughter. French had the necessities, but that's about it. Besides, the money is not at issue here. You have plenty of money, so it was no hardship for you to provide for her financially. What we're talking about is the fact that you abandoned your daughter! You raised her brothers and sisters in the bosom of an intact family. You provided the best for them, looked out for them, taught them right from wrong. Which I have to admit is quite an irony," Aidan snorted. "You teaching people right and wrong when you'd done the worst thing a human being could ever do. That's rich."




Futile Resistance Ch. 09



Hurst said nothing in reply. Aidan stared at him for a long moment, realizing that he really didn't know this man. Outwardly, Hurst looked the same as he always had -- perfectly innocuous. The soul of the man, however, was anything but. Aidan could almost see the darkness that oozed from the cracks he had exposed by confronting Hurst with the knowledge of French's parentage and the further realization that Hurst had been unfaithful to Pam throughout their entire marriage.

"Did you ever wonder how your other daughter was doing?"

"No, Aidan, I did not. I wanted nothing to do with her, couldn't allow Marcheline to sink her hooks into me any deeper. If you're smart, you'll keep your emotions safely tucked away from those women, too. They're poison and worse than that -- absolute trash!" Hurst said, anger clear in his voice.

"Watch what you say about your daughter, Hurst," Aidan warned.

"Look at what's happening already! She's coming between you and your family! It's only going to get worse. Just like her mother, she'll try to isolate you from those of us who love you, make you think you can't live without her! She'll take and take and take until she destroys you and you'll be left with nothing!"

"She is my family! Don't you get that? I'd willingly give her whatever I have, anything she wants, to make her happy! And I already can't live without her. She's tried to give me an out more times than you can know. She gives me the same reason you offer: that she's not good enough. What you and she can't seem to understand is that she's better than all of us, stronger and smarter and more real!"

"It's all part of her plan, Aidan, and you're falling for it hook, line and sinker. Don't be a fool, son."

"You're the fool. You're the one who fell for Marcheline's scam and she's still got you panting after her. You provided her with a nice cushy life and an expensive home, which she sold for a nice chunk of change as soon as French left for college. French was a pawn in the game; Marcheline got what she wanted out of you: a lifetime of support and the only unwanted consequence was French. You got off scot free, Marcheline got what she wanted and the only person who has paid for your selfishness is French! How could you have done that?!"

"I did what I had to do to protect myself and my family!"

"Exactly. You looked out for your own best interests, meanwhile, your daughter was getting mauled by her mother's lovers -- selfish, rich bastards like you, who thought nothing of taking what they wanted, whenever they wanted it and to hell with whomever gets hurt!" Aidan raged.

Hurst stood stoically, his expression so impassive that Aidan wondered if his words penetrated.

"You make me sick!" the corners of Hurst's eyelids flinched, betraying that he was hearing what Aidan said, that he was affected by the words that rained down on him. "You've always pretended to be this righteous person, donating to all of your politically correct charities, preaching about personal responsibility and accountability. God, what a hypocrite you are!"

"Look, Aidan -- I'm sorry - ," Hurst began, only to be cut off.

"Yeah, I'll just bet you're sorry. Sorry you got caught! Don't apologize to me. I don't want it. You owe all kinds of apologies to French, but she doesn't want them from you either! She despises you. There's no way you can atone for what you've done. I hope you rot in hell," Aidan finished and walked out of the study door. He turned back and shook his head with regret, "When I think of how I defended you to her when she refused to tell me why she she didn't like you... She was right about one thing: you're an asshole. I'm warning you once. Stay away from me. Stay away from French." With that, he walked out.

It crossed his mind as he moved through the familiar rooms to the door and out to his car, that he would never set foot in that house again. He had always been as comfortable there as he'd been in his parents' house growing up. No more.

*****

Marcheline had made herself comfortable in French's apartment. She eschewed the use of the guest room Aidan had shown her to and instead appropriated the master bedroom for her own use and spent the afternoon getting acquainted with the premises and the contents thereof. When Aidan let himself back into French's apartment, Marcheline was going through French's closet, examining what she found intently, draping the things she particularly liked across the bed. Aidan watched her for a moment, saw her pull out a silk wraparound dress and hold it up to herself, looking into the full-length mirror, admiring the way the color of the dress suited her.

"Find anything you like?" Aidan asked, anger sparking in him that she would trespass, when against the instinct to protect herself, French had opened her home to Marcheline.

Marcheline yelped and dropped the dress, startled. She turned around to face him and Aidan thought he saw a fleeting look of guilt in her eyes.

"Oh, chér! I didn't hear you come in," she said, recovering quickly. "I was just hanging my clothes..."

"Don't bother; I saw what you were doing. You won't be staying here."

"But why? There is plenty of room for me here," Marcheline said.

"I've decided that you will never get another chance to use or mistreat French again. She doesn't owe you anything, yet against her better judgment, she extended you the courtesy of a place to stay while you go through your divorce. You've only been here a couple of hours and to repay her hospitality, you've smoked cigarettes which she hates, you've tried to seduce her boyfriend and now you're pawing through her belongings, setting aside the things of hers that you like so you could steal from her! I won't let you get away with it. You're not staying here," Aidan said implacably.

"I wasn't -- how is it you say? -- pawing through her things," Marcheline protested, her accent was back full force. "And I would steal nothing! I was unpacking and needed to make room for my clothes in the closet."

Aidan had to hand it to her. She had at least not denied that she had tried to seduce him. There was honesty in her somewhere, however deeply it might be hidden.

"Your suitcases are in the front hall, in the exact same spot I left them when I let you here. You'd need them if you were unpacking, wouldn't you?"

"I needed to see how much room there was, chér," Marcheline sidled up to Aidan, batting her lashes. "You wouldn't throw me out in the cold, would you, chér? Where would I go?"

"There are hundreds of hotels in this city. I'm sure one of them has a vacancy."

"A hotel? Why would I spend money to stay at a hotel when this place is going unused?"

"Because it's about damned time you paid your own way! You've sponged off of French and your... what would you call them? Lovers? Johns? Whatever. You've never paid your own way and you've never faced the consequences of your actions. That stops now!"

"How dare you!" Marcheline asked angrily. Then, thinking to win him over with frail, stunned surprise, she raised shaking hands to her throat, sank onto French's bed. "Why do you speak to me this way?"

"I'm the person who's doing for French what you and Patrick Hurst have failed to do for her entire life: I'm protecting her from predators!"

Marcheline's eyes flared in shock at hearing Hurst's name.

"That's right. Thanks to me, French met that bastard for the first time on Christmas night -- at my parents' house. He's been my father's best friend for nearly fifty years -- I have known him my entire life."

He paused, waiting for Marcheline's response. She sat in stunned silence. The look on her face was more like horrified glee than sympathy for what French must have endured.

"She saw Patrick? Spoke with him?"

"Yes. He treated her like garbage, tried to give her money to leave me."

"Ah," Marcheline nodded with a knowing smile, "that's why she went to Paris. She took the money. And I thought she'd learned nothing from me," for the first time, her voice was tinged with pride as she spoke about her daughter.

"You disgust me. She didn't take the money. I'm not exactly sure why she left, but it certainly isn't because she thought all of her financial worries were behind her. She left the check Hurst wrote her on my dining room table. She never even touched it."

"Then she's a fool," Marcheline said baldly. "Men like you and Hurst will take what you want from her and use her up. In the end, she'll be left with nothing!"

"She won't, because she's nothing like you and I'm nothing like Hurst. I love her and she loves me even if she's too afraid, too scarred by the shit you and Hurst dumped in her lap, to admit it!"

Marcheline gave a typically gallic snort of disgust and disbelief. She stood and walked past Aidan out of the bedroom and down the hall to the living room. Aidan followed her. She walked over to where she had left her expensive au courant handbag and groped inside it. She found her packet of cigarettes and pulled one out and prepared to light it. Aidan snatched it from her hand and broke it in half.

"I told you before: French doesn't allow people to smoke in her apartment," he enunciated each word slowly and carefully.

Marcheline opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly, apparently having second thoughts about going head to head with Aidan on the matter smoking indoors.

She rounded on him, in full attack mode.

"Are you so naïve as to think French is the right woman for you?" she asked incredulously. "She's not good enough for someone like you. You are from two different worlds!"

"Hurst really did a number on you, didn't he? He's called you trash so many times that you believe it, don't you? Let me tell you something. There's more to life than money and pedigrees. You've spent your whole life rubbing up against rich men and what has it gotten you? You've used people -- what has it gotten you? You're a desperate woman, whose stock in trade is no good anymore. Your marriage is over, your beauty is fading, Marcheline and you've got nothing!" Aidan hammered the final nail in the coffin.

Marcheline drew back in shock, "How dare you! You have no right to judge me. You and Francoise might just be perfect for one another -- your high horses are the same height!"

"It's not a judgment, Marcheline. You've used her since the day she was born. She was your meal-ticket, not your daughter."

"Francoise is a lucky girl; I gave her everything!"

"Oh, really? Is every girl lucky enough to get the gift of being molested by one of her mother's perverted lovers? How about a young girl being so lucky that she gets trotted out like a trick pony to serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres to the men her mother is fucking for money? Should she feel lucky that her mother absolutely delighted in telling her how worthless she is? I think you're right Marcheline, she was so lucky to have been brought up in such a wholesome environment!" he finished sarcastically.

"I don't know what you are talking about! Francoise has a tendency to see things in the worst way possible. What you described never happened!"

"Having spent a few very informative minutes with you, I know who I believe. At any rate, I don't have time to argue with you; I've got a plane to catch. I can drop you at one of the hotels at the airport, if you'd like. They're sometimes a bit cheaper if not quite as nice as the ones in town," Aidan said, going to the closet to retrieve Marcheline's hat and coat.

"I will not stay at a dingy airport hotel!" she objected hotly.

"Suit yourself, but you're not staying here either," he plopped her fur hat crookedly atop her head and steered her to the door. Marcheline spluttered ineffectually, tried to fight against Aidan's forward momentum.

"You can't do this -- you have no right! This is my daughter's home -- not yours! And what is between me and my daughter is none of your business!"

Aidan opened the door, gently pushed her out of it and handed her her coat. He stepped back inside and grabbed her luggage, put it on the landing next to her.

"I am making it my business to see that you never hurt French again," Aidan said. "That means seeing that she doesn't come home to a house that reeks of cigarette smoke and to find that her privacy has been violated or that she's been stolen from."

"You bastard. You will not get away with treating me this way," Marcheline was flustered, short of breath.

"I'm shaking in my boots," Aidan said dismissively, going back into the apartment. "Wait there."

He went down the hall to French's office and opened the top drawer of her desk. He withdrew her leather-bound address book and found Marie-Josée's Paris address and phone numbers. He entered the information into his BlackBerry® and put her book back where he had found it.

He rejoined Marcheline on the landing and locked the door to the apartment. He took the larger pieces of luggage and started down the stairs without a word to her, leaving her to carry one medium-sized bag and a hefty-looking makeup case. Marcheline clattered down behind him muttering Creole curses under her breath. It wasn't lost on Aidan that the proper little 'lady' could get as down and dirty with her language as any common street whore. Aidan knocked on Mrs H's door.

"Hi. I just wanted to let you know that Marcheline has decided to stay at a hotel. She doesn't agree with French's smoking policy."

"I thought I smelled smoke coming from up there!" Mrs. H said with open disapprobation.

Marcheline huffed and rolled her eyes. Aidan thought he heard her say something about meddling old biddies under her breath.

"I'm going to keep the key to French's apartment, Mrs. H, just to ensure that you won't be exposed to any awkward situations that might arise," he said with a speaking glance at Marcheline, nipping in the bud the possibility that she might return and somehow manipulate Mrs. H into letting her back into French's apartment.

"Oh, I see. By all means, keep it!" Mrs. H said, nervously gripping the strand of pearls she always wore. Underneath his outward politesse, Aidan was clearly angry. Mrs. H had never seen him in anything other than a good mood and she was disconcerted by the thinly veiled menace he projected.

At that, Marcheline huffed and stormed out of the building. Aidan followed with her luggage.

"Which hotel will it be?"

"The Ritz®."

"It's not the Ritz® anymore, it's called the Taj® now. Do you still want to go?"

"Whatever. I don't care what it's called," she gritted out.

He loaded her bags and drove her the few blocks to the hotel. The valet opened her door and Marcheline stepped out of the car without a word and stalked into the hotel in a swirl of dark fur. Aidan popped the trunk and the bellman removed her bags from the car and loaded them on a brass luggage rack. Aidan idled the car for a moment, shaking his head in amazement, wondering who would wind up paying for her stay at the hotel. Probably Hurst, he smirked, the two of them were welcome to each other.

He understood French's idiosyncrasies a lot better after meeting Marcheline in person; she was worse than he could have ever imagined. He was more in love with French for the fact that she had survived, even flourished, with parents like Hurst and Marcheline. Looking at the dashboard clock, he realized he had just enough time to clear airport security and make his flight to Paris. Another few hours, he thought with anticipation, and he'd be that much closer to having her back for good.

*****

French went to bed early and lay awake in the darkness, exhausted, enervated but unable to sleep. She longed for Aidan, missed him with a ferocity that surprised her. She hadn't realized until that moment that he had gotten so completely under her skin. Reflexively, she cursed herself for having relaxed her guard, for having allowed herself to feel, to hope.

Still, she wondered if Marie-Josée was right. Had she mistaken Aidan's reaction? Had she been so convinced that he would recoil from her, horrified by what she told him, that she had only been able to see what she had been expecting to see? She didn't know, couldn't recall the events clearly, and couldn't examine them objectively.

But what if she had misjudged him? What she had told him clearly would have come as a shock to him. If she viewed things from his perspective, she had to admit that discovering that she was Hurst's biological daughter would be difficult to digest. She groaned softly when she thought of how vicious she must have sounded when she had attacked him, assaulted him. She had gone on the offensive without giving him a chance to really absorb what she had told him.

Dare she harbor hope that he wasn't disgusted and fed up with her, that she had misunderstood him? She conceded that even if that was the case, she had made a big mistake by leaving town. If he hadn't been angry with her before, he must certainly be now. With all the negative things she had said to him, both the day before and since they had been involved, about the viability of their relationship, she honestly couldn't blame him if he gave up on her. The knowledge that she had possibly thrown away her only chance at happiness stabbed into her. Cynically, she thought that the misery she felt was nothing more than what she deserved. She had botched things up royally.

Her train of thought was broken when the front door to the apartment opened. French tensed where she lay, her senses heightened. She heard someone moving with surety through the darkness, his or her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet on the floor, the quiet swish of clothing the only sound. French stole out of bed and peered through the cracked door of her room. Through the gloom, she made out the figure of a man. Tall, thin and dressed in a dark overcoat, he slipped into her cousin's bedroom. Her heart thudded with terror as she wondered if she could call the police and perhaps improvise some sort of weapon to use in subduing him without betraying her presence.

She grabbed one of the decorative walking sticks, one of the many items Marie-Josée collected, from the stand in the corner and was in the hallway outside of Marie-Josée's room when she heard her cousin murmur a sleepy greeting to the prowler who apparently wasn't a prowler. She heard what sounded like clothing being removed and dropped to the floor. Marie-Josee was speaking, but her voice was so low that French couldn't make out what she said. What surprised her was the softness, the affection, that warmed her cousin's voice as she spoke to the man. She heard the sound of sheets rustling, the quiet groan of the mattress springs as Marie-Josee's lover joined her in bed. Marie-Josée giggled suddenly and the man cautioned her, Shhhhhh.

French knew she should return to bed, to allow the couple their privacy. She didn't. She stood in the dark of the hallway outside her cousin's room, listening, hearing the intimate sounds of lovers reunited. The moist sounds of open-mouthed kisses, soft sighs and the rustling of bedclothes. She heard the quickening of the lovers' breathing even as she felt the atmosphere grow tense, thick, with sexual need.

More shifting about, then the sound of a muffled moan, a greedily whispered, Oh, yes. Whatever was happening in the room so absorbed the participants that they forgot that their liaison was to be kept silent. Their voices came louder, more urgently now. French heard wet sucking sounds and Marie-Josee's lover whispered huskily, That's it, take my cock in your mouth. A hot twist of desire curled low in French's belly and she placed her hand there, not knowing whether she sought to still or preserve the feeling. She knew what her cousin must be feeling: the arousing sense of power that walked hand in hand with the supplication that was required when one pleasured his or her lover orally.




Futile Resistance Ch. 09



There was a juicy popping sound as the suction between lips and cock was broken. French heard her cousin's teasing, husky laugh. She heard them shifting again and she imagined they had repositioned themselves to fuck, wondered which pose they would have chosen. Him on top, her on top, doggie-style? Or had they adjusted themselves to facilitate soixante-neuf?

She ceased to wonder when she heard Marie-Josee's sharp gasp, then the rhythmic melding of flesh as they began to move. She couldn't see them, but had the distinct impression that her cousin and her mystery lover were far beyond a casual relationship. She sensed that each of them was very knowledgeable about what would best please the other; there had been no awkward fumbling and they had slid easily, immediately, into a matching cadence as they began to fuck.

French listened, growing feverish, as passion overtook the couple. They whispered lurid words of love and sex amidst their torrid lovemaking; words that clearly spurred them on, made them burn hotter and brighter. Marie-Josée broke first, letting loose a guttural moan, then a chorus of Yes, yes, yes... Her secret lover was swept along with her and he thrust two, three, four, five more times, grunting with each thrust until finally he stilled with a muffled roar.

French's heart was racing as she recalled how Aidan always looked at the moment of climax, saw in her mind's eye the transparent joy that was always on his face, mixed with the pleasurable agony of a soul-wrenching orgasm. Aidan gave himself over unstintingly when they made love. She hoped Marie-Josée was equally blessed and would wish her the best at the first opportunity, despite the fact that Marie-Josée hadn't told her that she was involved with anyone at all. Interesting, French thought distractedly, wonder what she's hiding?

The lovers had subsided, crooning to and soothing one another. French's mouth dropped open when she heard the man say, Je t'adore, chérie, je t'aime. She was further shocked when Marie-Josee replied, Moi aussi, mon chér. Je t'aime aussi. As she had suspected, this man and her cousin were not casual lovers.

Creeping silently back to her room, French marveled over the ease with which her cousin had said the words. I love you. Three simple words that tangled in her mind and in her throat when she contemplated the saying of them. As she curled up in her solitary bed, she regretted that she'd never given Aidan the gift of the words. She turned toward the wall and whispered with heartbreaking feeling, "I love you, Aidan" and hoped that, somehow, the universe would deliver the message to him where he lay in his own bed across the ocean. 



Futile Resistance Ch. 10



French had slept poorly and was grateful when the sky outside turned pearly gray with the light of dawn. She got out of bed and dressed quickly in her running clothes. It felt good to be up and about after a night of tossing and turning; at some point during the night, the bed had begun to feel like a prison. Had she been in her own home, she would have gotten out of bed and found something to occupy her mind until she felt sleepy again. She had been loathe to do that while visiting Marie-Josée, especially in light of the mystery lover she had discovered stealing into her cousin's room.

She crept out of the apartment and once on the street, began to warm up with a brisk walk. The streets were free of traffic, the only people about were street cleaners and shop owners going to work baking bread and pastries, readying their stores for the morning's influx of customers. She walked down Rue des Pyramides, crossed Rue de Rivoli and entered Jardin des Tuileries where she began to jog.

It felt good to move after several days of no activity. Though the morning was misty and chilly, French was enjoying her run. As she ran through the garden, she blanked her mind, purposely steering her thoughts away from Aidan. For French, running was akin to meditation; she had learned to focus her mind on her body and how it felt as she put it through the paces. When she was successful, she felt oddly rested, calm and peaceful afterwards.

Leaving the garden, she ran down the Avenue des Champs Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe. The store window displays along the way glittered with glamour and opulence; she found herself window-shopping. She relaxed her focus on the meditative run and her mind wandered. Its journey was short and led directly to the one subject she had purposely avoided thinking about: Aidan.

She couldn't help but wonder what he had been doing to pass the time since she had left. She hoped that he missed her at least a little bit and that he had had trouble finding 'normal' without her. She certainly hadn't felt normal. Her world seemed a few shades dimmer without him in it; even Paris, her favorite place on the planet, had lost its luster.

Her mindset vis à vis Aidan had changed this morning. She had begun to entertain the idea that she might try to convince him to continue their relationship when she got back to Boston. She hoped to persuade him that they could endure the strain that had been placed on them by the Patrick Hurst quagmire if they were smart about it. She would promise to keep her feelings about Hurst to herself and that she would never force Aidan to choose between her or Hurst. She would advise him to compartmentalize his life: her in one section, his family, including Hurst, in another. She knew it would be difficult for them both, but the alternative seemed worse. Not being with him in any capacity would be more awful than bore thinking about.

She was unaccustomed to being the person appealing to another for a second chance. Usually, she was the one who created distance in relationships, distance that left the other person feeling unsettled. Aidan had been in just that position for most of their time together and he had always pursued her and urged her to see that they had something special. Now it was her turn. She hoped that he had not forgotten the very persuasive arguments he had presented; it would be much easier for her to win him back if he remembered how hopeful he had previously been.

It would not be easy for her to follow through on her plan. Objective as always, even when she would be shown in a bad light, she knew that her pride would take a heavy blow. But I would rather lose face than lose Aidan, she told herself. If the way she had felt the last couple of days was any indication, she would be miserable without him. Maybe the hurt would fade in time, but she knew she would always want him. Anybody she met and became involved with would be compared to Aidan and, she was sure, be found wanting. French just didn't think she would achieve anything close to happiness without Aidan.

Being with him, but set aside from his family would be difficult. She had liked his parents and his brother immensely and she was sure they had liked her equally as much. She acknowledged that it would be strange to be involved with Aidan but not see his family. They meant a lot to him. Staying away from them seemed the best thing to do, though, because who knew when Hurst would show up? If Iain and Maggie were around, Aidan had told her, Hurst and his wife were never far behind. So, the best thing to do would be to avoid seeing his parents. She would of course tell Aidan that he should feel free to spend time with them as he normally would, that she would gladly occupy herself with something else when he visited them.

The one thing that would complicate her self-imposed prohibition on mingling with his family would be children. French didn't know what would happen if they married and had children. She was certain that she wanted a child with Aidan somewhere down the line and he had once told her that children were a part of his vision of the future, too. She knew that Maggie and Iain would be enthusiastic, doting grandparents. She also knew that she would have a hard time with being excluded from family events that Aidan and their child attended.

She shoved the thought from her mind. She was getting way ahead of herself. She needed to talk to Aidan first, see if he would even be willing to resume seeing her. If he agreed to her terms, she would gladly adhere to the rules she had put in force. Not being part of every aspect of Aidan's life would be a sacrifice, but she would take what she could get. French hoped -- prayed -- that he would see the reason behind her plan and that he still thought she was worthy of his affection.

When she arrived back at Marie-Josée's apartment, she found her cousin in the kitchen making breakfast. The women greeted each other and French noticed that her cousin had difficulty meeting her eyes. The mystery lover was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the amount of food Marie-Josée was preparing, he must still be in the apartment. They chatted briefly and Marie-Josée's nervousness seemed to increase. French finally excused herself, telling her cousin she was going to hit the shower before breakfast.

When she joined her cousin in the kitchen after her shower, the mystery man had risen from bed and was sitting at the tiny table near the window drinking a cup of coffee. French gasped when she registered who it was sitting there.

"Nicolàs?!" she asked, shock, surprise and pleasure mingling in her voice. She was across the room in a flash, throwing her arms around him when she reached him. He squeezed her tightly, laughing and exclaiming his own delight at seeing her.

They disengaged and French took a step back to get a good look at him. Only as she did, did she realize he was only partially dressed. He was barefoot and wore an unbuttoned shirt and jeans. Realization hit her with the force of a freight train. Nicolàs was Marie-Josée's mystery lover!

She turned toward Marie-Josée and narrowed her eyes. "Nicolàs was the man in your bed last night?"

"Yes," her cousin answered, concentrating far too hard on whisking the eggs in the bowl she held.

"And how long has this been going on?"

Nicolàs answered in a clipped tone, clearly on the defensive, "Almost a year."

"Almost a year and neither of you told me? This is unbelievable!"

Nicolàs's family lived in the house next door to Marie-Josée's family in Martinique. The two families had been very close and were even related in some convoluted way. Marie-Josée and Nicolàs were the same age and had been inseparable as children. People had always said how they seemed more like brother and sister than friends and neighbors. Both Nicolàs and Marie-Josée had attended university in Paris and had shared an apartment for most of the time they lived there.

French could remember Marie-Josée complaining about Nicolàs's womanizing. He was quite a gorgeous-looking man -- tall, with milk chocolate skin, a brilliant white smile and a physique to die for -- and women constantly threw themselves at him. He had gone through a phase where he caught as many of them as he could. It had driven Marie-Josée crazy and she had moved out of the flat they had shared. The two had continued their friendship, still seeing each other frequently and occasionally double dating. Neither of them had ever liked anyone the other dated. French had always thought it odd that Nicolàs and Marie-Josée would each call her and espouse in voluble detail the numerous negative qualities of whomever the other was dating.

She had never paired them as a romantic couple, but now that she was forced to contemplate it, she could see that it made sense. They were already best friends, had all of the important things in common and were just different enough to keep things interesting. Based on what she had heard last night, they were also compatible as lovers.

"No one knows," Marie-Josée explained. "We thought everyone would think we were too closely related to condone our relationship."

"Closely related? That's ridiculous! There are so many layers of 3rd cousins and once-removeds between the two of you it'd probably be impossible to figure out just how you're related in the first place," French said.

"That's what I've been telling her all along," Nicolàs said, going into the kitchen and taking the bowl of eggs from Marie-Josée. He set it on the counter, gave her a kiss, then shooed her out of the kitchen. He heated the skillet and prepared it to receive the eggs.

"I just didn't want to alarm the family. We don't know where this is going, anyway," Marie-Josée said, shrugging.

Nicolàs glared at her from the kitchen and French had the suspicion that he knew exactly where he wanted the relationship to go.

"I overheard you guys last night," she began, blushing. She paused, then cleared her throat before continuing. "I had no idea you were seeing anyone and I was going to tell you not to hide it, that you should grab for happiness while it's within your reach. It's what you're always telling me to do, so it's only right that you take your own advice..."

"That's a low blow, French, throwing my own words at me."

"Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander," French said smugly. "I really meant what I said, though. I don't think the families will be too surprised at the two of you, actually. It took me about thirty seconds to see how much sense the two of you make. I think it's great and I'm so happy for you!"

"Thanks. I'll think about what you said."

Nicolàs came out of the kitchen with their plates and they sat down to breakfast. French demanded they tell her how they had first realized they were in love with one another and a lively retelling of the tale ensued. Watching the two of them together, French felt a little jealous. They were obviously in love and unafraid to admit it to one another. They exchanged loving glances and touched each other often, giving their affection freely. Once Marie-Josée got over her silly reservations about telling their families, they would go on to have a brilliant future together.

If she managed to reconcile with Aidan, she would seize what happiness that was on offer to her. Their situation presented its own set of problems, but she would deal with each one on an individual basis. Her future may not be as certain or as bright as that of Marie-Josée and Nicolàs, but she thought she would find some happiness if Aidan would take her back.

After breakfast, Marie-Josée did the dishes while French brought Nicolàs up to speed on why she had made the sudden trip to Paris. Marie-Josée received a call on her cell phone and rushed out to open the door for the delivery that had apparently arrived. French began to cry and, ever one to console, Nicolàs pulled her on to his lap and let her cry on his shoulder. He had been her shoulder to cry on many times during their childhood and French always felt better once Nicolàs had provided his peculiar methods of dealing with whatever was bothering her.

Aidan had gone straight to Marie-Josée's apartment from the airport. He called her once he'd arrived at the building and told her not to tell French he was there for fear that she would refuse to see him. He was the 'package' that Marie-Josée left the apartment to retrieve.

When he walked into the apartment, he could hardly control the spike of jealousy that ripped into him when he saw French sitting on some gorgeous guy's lap. The guy whispered something in her ear and she giggled and pulled away from him. The guy smoothed her hair back from her face and cupped her cheek tenderly. From the look on his face, the guy definitely had feelings for French.

Aidan cleared his throat noisily and the two turned toward the source of the sound, somewhat guiltily, Aidan thought.

French leapt off of the guy's lap. "Aidan! What are you doing here?"

Her heart was hammering like crazy. She was ecstatic to see him, but nervous at the same time. It suddenly occurred to her that she must look like hell from crying and she groaned inwardly.

"I came to see you, obviously," Aidan replied from where he stood just inside the door. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his pea-coat and his face was set in an inscrutable expression. If she had had to hazard a guess, French would have said he was angry.

"Oh." Oh? God, how lame, she berated herself silently. Now was not the time to have nothing to say.

Marie-Josée beckoned Nicolàs to her side with not-so-subtle motions of her head. Aidan watched the other man's approach, coolly assessing him. He had never been jealous in his life, but seeing French all cuddled up with this man had immediately pissed him off. His jaw tightened as he restrained the urge to say something he'd probably regret later.

"Aidan, this is Nicolàs. His family lives next door to my parents in Martinique," Marie-Josée said nervously, having caught the murderous look in Aidan's eye. Confused, she chattered on, "He's a very close friend of the family. French has known him her whole life."

Nicolàs held out his hand to Aidan. As they shook hands, the two men sized each other up, not even bothering to utter the obligatory niceties such as 'How do you do?' They stopped short of glaring at each other, but only barely. French and Marie-Josée exchanged a startled glance and then both began talking at the same time,

"Um, Aidan, let's go -- " French began, while her cousin said,

"Nicolàs, we have to -- "

There were a few seconds of confusion while the women struggled to end the men's standoff gracefully. It was finally decided that Marie-Josée and Nicolàs would run the 'errands' that she suddenly remembered and urgently needed to see finished. She bustled around, gathering up coats, scarves and gloves. Nicolàs gave French another hug, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose and ended the embrace with a reassuring murmur and a soft kiss on the lips. As they left, Marie-Josée casually mentioned where they would be and when they might have lunch, thus letting French and Aidan know how much time they had to be alone in the apartment.

Alone with Aidan, French didn't know what to do or say. It seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of the room with the departure of her cousin and Nicolàs. French could hear her heartbeat, the blood rushing through her ears. She felt breathless, but not in a good way, like when she was jogging. This was more of a panicked 'I'm fleeing an axe-murderer' breathlessness.

Take a deep breath, she told herself, stay calm. She willed her facial muscles to relax, purposefully forced her shoulders into a more relaxed position. She smiled coolly,

"Let me take your coat."

Aidan surrendered the coat without saying a word. French did more deep breathing as she hung up it up. She thought she might hyperventilate soon if she didn't calm down.

"Would you like some coffee? Or how about some juice? Marie-Josée has some absolutely wonderful freshly juiced mango-orange from the organic market," she said, inwardly cringing at the inanity of her remarks. Her hands moved of their own accord, alternating between nervously straightening her sweater and trying to tie themselves in knots.

Aidan cocked his head to the side and regarded her for a long moment. He didn't know what to make of her nervousness. Had he made a mistake in coming here? Had she really been trying to dump him when she left town? Was she trying to figure out a way to break up with him even now? He'd come here feeling confident that he had handled things with Hurst and Marcheline back in Boston the best way possible and that he knew exactly how to handle French. Now he didn't know. She'd been canoodling with the hunky guy on the sofa, then the guy had kissed her in a way that seemed way too familiar for Aidan's preference. She had seemed slightly underwhelmed to see him and now she was chattering and flitting around as if she was trying to avoid talking to him about anything of substance. He didn't have a clue what to make of her behavior.

"Aidan? Coffee?" she asked softly, calling him out of his reverie.

"No. Thanks, though."

French walked to the living room window and gazed unseeing at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. This is agonizing, she thought, I wish I could just go to him and wrap my arms around him. Tell him how much I love him. She longed to do it, but something stopped her. She was too afraid of what he might do or say in response. She had sworn to herself that when she saw him again, she would tell him how she felt, but she had thought that she had a week or so to get used to the idea, to prepare what she wanted to say and to practice it. But he was here now. And she had no idea why. She turned around to ask him just that, but before she could, he said,

"So. Is Nicolàs someone special to you?"

"No! Well, yes, he is. Like Marie-Josée said, our families are very close and related in some crazy way that barely counts anymore."

"Does he always hold you on his lap, whisper in your ear and give you kisses?" His tone of voice had lost all traces of cordiality.

"Actually, yes he does and he has for as long as I can remember," French's own voice was laced with asperity. "Not that I see how that's any of your business."

Judging by his behavior, whatever had brought him to Paris apparently didn't entail a reconciliation. Angry all over again because of her gullible hopefulness, she vowed not to embarrass herself by groveling.

"I see. You could have done me the courtesy of telling me about him. All this time, I thought we'd been exclusive. And here you are snuggling up with another man in Paris."

A beat of silence passed as French absorbed what he said. What is he talking about? she wondered. Of course they had been exclusive. And snuggling up? What was that all about?

"I wasn't 'snuggling up' with anyone. Now, would you like to tell me whatever it is you came to Paris to tell me before you leave?" she prepared to dismiss him.

This encounter wasn't going as planned. Aidan felt the lid he'd kept on his anger loosen; he was going to explode like a pressure cooker. He wanted to strangle French. He was tired and hungry and he kept envisioning what had probably happened between French and Nicolàs before he'd arrived or what might have happened if he hadn't showed up when he did. It was nearly impossible to clear his mind of the image of her cozying up with the good-looking man. He didn't like it one bit that she felt so comfortable having physical contact with any other guy than him.

"Yeah, I would like to tell you: It was shitty of you to leave town -- the country - like that without telling anyone where you would be."




Futile Resistance Ch. 10



"Excuse me, but the last time I checked, I'm a grown woman who doesn't need to ask for permission to go on vacation!"

"Oh really? I would have thought that you had enough respect for me and our relationship than to just walk out without a word!"

"You're the one who suddenly needed to go for a run the other day, Aidan! You left in the middle of a conversation because what was being said wasn't to your liking! You left me there with no clothes, no shoes, no keys, no money -- no nothing! I wasn't going to just sit there and wait for you to come back!"

"Why not? I wasn't even gone that long!"

"It was too long for my liking," she shot back. "It was ridiculous of you to pull that stunt anyway. Who do you think you are to hold me captive? Besides, you can't possibly blame me for leaving after all the things you said!"

"What? Jesus Christ, French!" Aidan wasn't following her train of thought. He ran a hand through his hair, then around the back of his neck. He was really too tired to do this right now. Nothing was coming out of his mouth the way it was supposed to. He'd been mad the minute he walked into the apartment and things weren't getting any better. He decided to try a new tack.

"Will you come away with me?" he asked. "I mean... Not away away. But just to my hotel. I haven't showered or eaten since yesterday in Boston. I'm fried. Do you mind if we go to my hotel so that I can clean up and eat before we talk?"

"I could meet you somewhere later, after you've had a chance to rest."

"No. Just come with me now... Please," he added after a beat. Aidan didn't want to let her out of his sight. Now that he was here, he would keep her with him, even if that meant they spent the time together fighting about whatever ridiculous thing they were currently fighting about.

"Fine," she said, her ungraciousness masking insecurity and fear. "I'll just call Marie-Josée to let her know that I'm going out, then get my coat and purse."

She left and Aidan breathed a sigh of relief. He felt like a high schooler on his first date. French seemed schizophrenic -- skittish one minute; mad as hell the next. The rapport that they had built over the past month had totally disappeared. It baffled him that it had only been two days since they'd last seen each other and now they reacted to one another as though they were strangers.

French splashed cold water on her face in the bathroom, seeking calm. She quickly brushed her teeth and smoothed her curly hair into a clip at the nape of her neck. She grabbed her coat and purse and went back to the living room. She called Marie-Josée on her cell phone and told her their plans. She began to shrug into her coat and Aidan, who had already donned his, moved behind her to help her slide her arms into the sleeves. He surreptitiously took in her scent, her flushed skin releasing a cloud of her subtle perfume and the essence of her.

French suppressed a shudder at his nearness. Her eyes nearly fluttered shut with the desire to lean into him and draw his arms around her. How had this happened? she wondered. Things had gotten so bad and so quickly. I have to do something equally quickly to turn the tide. I need to gather the courage to just tell him.

She used the key she still had from when she'd arrived at her cousin's apartment to lock the door behind them. Aidan collected his carry-on bag from where he had left it waiting underneath a bench in the building's lobby. Before long, they had hailed a taxi and were on their way to Aidan's hotel.

He had gone straight to Marie-Josée's apartment, so had yet to check in with the innkeeper. The hotel was more akin to a bed-and-breakfast and the matronly proprietress greeted him warmly, behaving as if Aidan was a relative returning to her home for a visit. The house was old, its furnishings antique. The foyer was warm and inviting and they were directed to his room without the impersonal business that usually accompanied hotel check-ins. Aidan asked Madame if she would please have a tray sent up to his room in half an hour and she agreed to do so.

"There's a chef here?" French whispered as they ascended the sweeping curve of the staircase.

"Well, Madame does the cooking, but she is brilliant. Simple food, nothing too complicated or frou-frou. The epitome of classic French cuisine," he told her enthusiastically.

French smiled, happy to note that while so much had happened to make him feel like a stranger to her, Aidan's appetite and appreciation for good food had remained unchanged. She loved to watch him eat almost as much as she loved to watch him make love. I need to get a grip on myself. Otherwise I'll wind up on my hands and knees begging him to take me back.

Aidan's room faced the street. They stepped into a cozy sitting area immediately upon entering the room. The antique armchairs and oval shaped coffee table were situated in front of a smallish fireplace already ablaze with a cheery fire. Further into the room was the bed, made up with sumptuous looking linens and flanked by charmingly mismatched antique nightstands. In front of the large window was a round table, topped with a vase of fresh-cut flowers, which could be used for eating or as a workspace. An armoire faced the bed, behind whose doors French assumed were the obligatory modern conveniences all hotel rooms offered. The floors were of shiny parquet and scattered with well-worn Oriental carpets. Three houseplants, one in a plant-stand, one centered on the dresser and one hanging in a pot in a light-drenched corner added a wonderful homey warmth to the space.

Aidan hung their coats, then excused himself, telling her to make herself comfortable. A shower was his first order of business. He felt stale with recycled airplane air and groggy with jetlag. Hot water and a vigorous scrubbing usually helped to invigorate him when he traveled.

French sat in the little sitting area, staring into the fire as Aidan showered. Her mind raced as she composed her mea culpa. The longer she waited for him, the more anxious she became. Reticent as she'd been before, she wanted to get everything out on the table now so she would know where she stood with him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She answered it and admitted Madame, who bore a large tray covered with a snowy white napkin. She inquired as to the suitability of the room and then set the tray on the table in front the fire. She opened a bottle of red wine to allow it to breathe and then left the room.

French poured a glass of the wine and took a big swallow. It felt unnatural to drink when it was barely past noon, but she did it anyway. She heard the bathroom door open and Aidan emerged with a thick white towel wrapped around his waist. Her eye was caught by a droplet of water that dripped from his hair and onto his neck. Two days ago, she would have felt comfortable -- even entitled -- to lick it away. Now all she could do was watch, mesmerized, as it slid between his pectorals.

"Irish courage, French?" he asked drolly when he saw her sitting with the glass of wine half-tilted to her lips.

Her mouth quirked in a wry smile and she raised her glass in a toast as she answered, "You bet. I need all the courage I can get."

He smiled and shook his head, somewhat sadly French thought, and turned into the bedroom to dress. He joined her in front of fire in a few short minutes, having pulled on a pair of jeans. He looks good enough to eat, French thought, devouring him with her eyes. Shirtless and barefoot, he was delectable. She cleared her throat and gestured him to the chair opposite her. She unveiled the tray of food and poured a glass of wine for him.

"To Paris," she offered a toast.

"To Paris."

Aidan tucked heartily into the lunch that French declined to partake of. There was a fresh baguette, soft cheese and a tureen of homemade tomato soup. For dessert, Madame had baked miniature tartes aux pommes. As he ate, they chatted about anything and everything inconsequential, as if they were strangers just making one another's acquaintance. It felt wrong, but again, neither of them could broach the subject that was foremost in their minds.

Aidan swallowed the last bite of apple tart and leaned back in his chair, replete.

"I love to watch you eat." The words were out of her mouth before she could register that she'd even thought them.

"You do? You never told me that before."

"You're so... passionate about food. You relish every single bite." Slightly uncomfortable talking about something so intimate, yet at the same time wanting to say it, wanting him to know, she rose from her chair and paced slowly to the window overlooking the street. She pulled the curtain aside, gazed out onto the street and said, "You eat the same way you make love -- thoroughly, savoring every mouthful, enjoying all the tastes and textures. It's incredibly sexy," she finished, her voice a husky murmur. 

As she finished talking, Aidan's hands closed over her shoulders and squeezed. He had walked up behind her, silent on bare feet. He turned her around to face him and their eyes locked, each of them searching the other's eyes to see what thoughts or feelings might be revealed. In hers, he thought he saw a hint of uncertainty, sadness and... longing? In his she read determination and a flare of desire.

French's stomach dipped as his head lowered toward hers. She sucked in a quick breath just before their lips met, not having realized that she hadn't breathed properly since his hands had touched her shoulders. Her lids fluttered shut at the first brush of his lips. It was a feather light stroke; she would barely have felt it if she wasn't so eager to feel him, to drink him in.

Aidan's hands came up to gently cup her face, to steady her, when she swayed a little at the touch of his lips against hers. He raised his head and looked at her, trying to discern whether or not he'd misread the signals he thought he'd received from her. Is this what she wants? doubt flickered in his mind. She must have felt his gaze searching her face and dragged her eyelids open. In them he read the answer to his question.

He lowered his head and captured her lips in a deeper kiss, pushed into her mouth with his tongue. She opened willingly, eagerly, for him and kissed him back hungrily. He gentled the kiss. Slowing the pace, savoring the exploration of her mouth. There is no reason to rush, he thought, she's here now and I'll keep her here.

French wrapped her arms around his neck, pushed her hands into his hair. She pressed her body tight to his, wishing they were already naked and touching from their mouths down to their toes. She ate at his mouth voraciously, tasting apples, wine and him, feeling desperate to have all of him right then, feeling heat and desire sweep over her in a great wave.

Aidan tried to keep control of the situation. His hands, as they charted the course of her body, were gentle. He swept them up and down her back, cupped her ass gently, pressing her ever-so-lightly against the bulge growing behind the zipper of his jeans. Her hands had begun to wander hungrily over his naked torso, brushing over his nipples and down to the waistband of his pants. She unbuttoned the top button, but before she could move to the next one, he captured her hands and brought them back up to encircle his neck. She moaned in protest.

Determined to savor, Aidan gentled their kiss, slowed their pace, made every effort to rein in the intensity. He slid his hands under the hem of her sweater, touched the smooth, hot skin of her back. She shivered and rubbed against him like a cat. It was his turn to suck in his breath at the feel of her, so perfect in his hands, so perfect did they fit together. He maneuvered them toward the bed. When he felt the edge of it at the backs of his knees, he turned, reversing their positions and pushed her across the wide expanse of exquisitely soft bed linen.

He stood between her legs where they dangled off the end of the bed and removed her knee-high black leather boots. He dropped them to the floor and crawled up her body to claim her mouth again. She groaned in protest that he hadn't made any attempt to remove the rest of her clothing even as she welcomed his weight atop her. She spread her legs so that his cock pressed against her clit through their clothes. Her hands fluttered restlessly over his back, down to cup the firm cheeks of his ass, then up to ruffle his hair. She squirmed and whimpered, frustrated, demanding he give her what she wanted -- everything -- all at once.

Aidan broke their kiss.

"Slow down, baby," he said huskily.

"I can't," she whimpered, "God, Aidan, I can't -- I don't want to!"

She took his mouth in a hot, wet kiss, swept him back into the maelstrom of her desperation. He moved to the side a bit and slid a hand down her body to pull her slim red skirt, which had worked its way up her thighs, the rest of the way up. She spread her legs wider in silent entreaty. Touch me. He teased her, gently caressing the insides of her thighs through the opaque black tights she wore. She mewled in protest, pressing her hips upward. More. He continued to tease, kissing her more lightly than she would have liked, not touching her where she would have liked.

Finally -- finally -- he traced the seam of the crotch of her tights from bottom to top with his index finger, ending with a light flick of her clit. Her body jerked and she moaned into his mouth. He repeated the caress once more, then again. The fourth time, he surprised her by tearing through the gauzy fabric, which gave way under his hands as though that was what it had been made to do.

He touched her pussy, found it dripping wet with arousal. Teasingly, he slid his finger back and forth through the copious moisture, up and down along her slit, wanting to prolong the pleasure of anticipation. He wanted to drive her mad, bring her to the brink of begging and beyond.

French couldn't think for the sensations that rioted through her body, the rampant need that coursed through her veins. She, who was normally prim and proper, staid and deliberate in her actions, was unable to slow down, was unable to control her body's response to Aidan. He had once told her that she should let pleasure unfold slowly, keep her senses awake to the delights that occurred along the way instead of rushing through to the climax. She tried to, knew he was right, but she wasn't always successful. Sex with him made her lose touch with the cerebral part of her brain. With him, her body wrested control from her and she was always quick to arousal and, if he didn't hold her back, even quicker to orgasm. He had loosed the wanton side of her and it refused to be caged again.

"Aidan, please..." She struggled onto her side to face him, then pushed him onto his back. She blazed a trail of kisses down his neck to his chest, where she sucked and licked his nipples in turn, grazing them lightly with her teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation and clenched his hands in her hair, causing the clasp of the clip that had held it in a tail at the base of her neck to spring open. Her hair spilled in a fragrant cloud over his chest and he moaned.

She worked her way down his body, kissing and nipping, allowing the ends of her hair to feather over his skin, to tantalize. She unbuttoned his jeans, fumbling in her haste. Her mouth watered at the sight of his gloriously hard cock. She licked her lips and darted a glance up at him. His eyes had gone nearly navy blue with passion and his breathing was none too regular.

She focused her attention on the prize she had liberated from its denim enclosure. His cock lay in a long, hard curve along his belly. She shoved his jeans further down and dipped her head for a taste of him, trailed her hot, wet tongue along the length of the underside of his cock. It jerked toward her and she smiled, satisfied, knowing he wanted just as badly as she did. Taking him in her hand, she closed her mouth over the swollen head, ran her tongue sinuously around the ridge separating glans from shaft.

Aidan's hands fisted in her hair again and she gave a hum of pleasure that vibrated through his cock on down to the seat of his soul. He was panting, breath sawing in and out of his lungs rapidly. She did it again, he thought incredulously, I can't hold back when she's like this.

He pulled her mouth off of his cock by gently tugging on her hair. He jackknifed to a sitting position and when he saw her questioning glance said,

"I give up -- you win. You're making me crazy. We'll do this your way."

He kicked his jeans the rest of the way off, then knelt in front of her. He reached for her, yanked her form-fitting black turtleneck over her head and threw it to the floor. Her red bra hit the floor next. He palmed her breasts, leaned over sucked an engorged nipple into his mouth working his tongue over it at the same time.

She toppled back on the bed, dragging him with her. She reached between their bodies to stroke his cock as he suckled her other nipple. She arched under him,

"Now, Aidan, do me now!" she demanded.

He knelt upright again, spread her legs, then thought better of it. He tilted her hips to the side so her hips and legs were facing the wall, her torso still facing upward. He lifted her top leg and draped it over his arm, straddled the lower one. He rubbed the head of his cock once through her wetness, stroked her clit with it. French gripped his hips, pulling him closer, grinding down on him firmly, insistently.

"Fuck me! Do it now, Aidan, please," she whispered urgently.

He fitted the head of his cock to her entrance. She tensed in anticipation, held her breath. He sank into her and she exhaled a keening sigh of relief that turned into a moan of desperation when he reversed directions after pushing in only about an inch. He repeated his slow penetration of her. In an inch, then almost all the way out. In two inches, then back again. French gripped his hips tightly; trying to force him all the way inside her, but he controlled the depth of his thrusts by holding her top hip where it met the thigh.

Sprawled wantonly underneath him, her nipples hard points, her skirt rucked up around her waist, long legs still encased in the black tights, the hole he had ripped in them obscenely framing her pussy which was swollen, wet with arousal -- she was eroticism personified. He took in the image of her and felt his balls tighten, felt the rush of orgasm rising in him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the sinfully arousing picture she made, stilled inside her, fighting against the explosion of pleasure that almost took him before he was ready.

French thought she would die. Aidan was teasing her mercilessly, knew what she needed, but refused to give it to her. Her eyes were closed against the onslaught of pleasure, her senses solely focused on the feelings Aidan aroused in her. She savored the brush of air over her hardened, sensitive nipples. She was painfully aware of being only partially clothed, felt more exposed because of it. She hungered for him, wanted him to fuck her, to fill up the empty, grasping place inside her. The feel of him, the blunt, bulbous head of his cock partially penetrating her was exquisite. She loved the feeling of the first thrust of him inside her when they made love and this way, she got to experience that feeling over and over again.

Aidan surged into her all the way, taking her in one smooth thrust. She cried out, arched and twisted beneath him as her body reacted to the sudden fullness. He held still inside her, took the time to enjoy the wet heat, the grasping flutter of her pussy as she experienced the first orgasm of their encounter. He would give her more soul-shattering, earth-shaking orgasms before he finished with her.




Futile Resistance Ch. 10



He began a series of long, slow tantalizing thrusts into her, bottoming out with each one. She grunted each time he seated himself firmly within her, each time she felt his cock at the mouth of her womb. He reached impossible depths with each stroke and the pleasure he gave her was sharp, bordering on pain. She wanted more.

Aidan pulled out of her, straightened the leg that had been draped over his arm and pushed her hips flat. Her eyes flew open in protest, locked on his in silent plea. He spread her legs apart, gazed down on the enticing, inviting sight of her pussy, dripping wet, the lips engorged and kissable, suckable. He scooted back, draped the one leg over his shoulder and bent over her. Covered her with his mouth, luxuriated in the taste and texture of her.

"Oh, God, Aidan yesssss," she moaned. His mouth was so hot against her sensitive flesh. He circled her clit with his tongue, teasing her again with light strokes. Her clit throbbed; her pussy became wetter. He stroked his tongue down her slit, penetrating her with just the tip. She pressed her hips up, gripped his head, pleading for more. He held her hips down, determined that she should have only what he wanted her to have, when he wanted her to have it.

With great restraint, Aidan moved his mouth slowly and thoroughly over her, using lips, teeth and tongue to explore the folds of her pussy. With deliberation, he sucked and licked, tortured her by grazing her clit with his teeth. The scent of her filled his senses, familiar, intoxicating. She belonged to him. His cock was hard as a pike, clear fluid leaking from the tip; it pulsed, ached to return to its rightful home. But first...

He focused his assault on her clitoris. Sucked it between his lips, played his tongue over it. Engorged and sensitive as it was, it took only a few strokes of his tongue to send her flying apart. French bucked beneath his mouth as her climax rocked through her, intense spasms making her cry out and moan in ecstasy.

He kept his mouth on her, gentling, soothing her as the spasms slowed. She quieted and he stretched up along her body. She lay limp beneath him, eyes closed, her face relaxed, chest heaving from exertion. He kissed her, his mouth wet, flavored with the taste of her. He used his tongue explicitly, thrusting artfully, demanding a response.

She gave him what he asked for, devouring him with the same voracious appetite with which he devoured her. She reached between them and found his cock, rigid and wanting. She felt the slickness of pre-come on the head, smeared it around using the soft heel of her hand. He moaned into her mouth as she guided him to her opening. She opened her eyes, looked up at him, his face tight with the strain of holding back.

"Aidan," she breathed, her lips a hairsbreadth from his, "Now. I need you to fuck me. I want it. Hard."

He pushed in, parting the swollen tissues of her pussy, making room for the thick, hard length of him. He lifted himself onto his knees, spread her legs wide, draping one over each of his arms. He pounded into her, going deep - so deep - with every thrust. French braced her hands on the headboard, held herself still so she could receive every hard, pulsating inch of his cock inside her fully.

Aidan felt her pussy tighten on him, knew he was lost. But he wanted her with him. He changed the rhythm of their fucking, adding a little twist of his hips at the end of each thrust, rubbing against her clit.

"Oh, God, yes, yes, yes..." French panted.

"I can't hold back," Aidan gritted out, "you're so tight... So hot."

He drove into her, harder, faster, their bodies making crude wet, slapping sounds upon impact. His pubic bone against her clit sent waves of agonizing delight into her body. She was melting. She brought her hands down from above her head, cupped her breasts, pulled on her nipples. Her clit throbbed in time with the stimulation. Almost there.

Aidan watched her, was on the verge, on the very edge. She was so sexy, uninhibited and she was this way only with him. He made her this way -- wild, wanton. Open. Ready. Needing and wanting him. The thought tipped him over the edge and he came hard, shoving into her with sharp jerks of his hips that sent French flying again. The muscles of her cunt clamped down in spastic paroxysms, draining his cock dry.

He lowered her legs and fell forward, catching himself on his forearms. They kissed, putting a capstone on their lovemaking. She shivered, her pussy still spasming around his cock. Seated deeply within her, he thrust again, nudging her womb, massaging her clit, setting off another spate of quivering spasms inside her.

He broke the kiss, looked down at the woman beneath him, brushed a damp tendril of hair back from her face. She was delectably tousled, a little sweaty, a lot satisfied. She opened her eyes, met his gaze, infused her own with warmth, acceptance of the inevitable. Love.

He nodded slowly but didn't speak. He understood, but now was not the time for talking. He yawned hugely, his jaw cracking. Jet lag. French smiled contentedly, stroked his face tenderly.

"Get some sleep, Aid," she whispered.

He pulled out of her in a long, slow slide of heat and wetness. Moving to her side, he dragged her around to face him. He gave her a hard kiss then turned her around and spooned her from behind, one of his hands cupping a breast. A few breaths later, he was deeply asleep.

French woke a few hours later in the dimness of Aidan's room. It was already almost full dark outside. She slid as quietly as possible from the bed, not wanting to wake Aidan. She scooped her clothes and shoes from the floor and tiptoed to the bathroom. She didn't turn on the light until she was all the way inside with the door closed.

She squinted against the glare and stifled a laugh at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her hair stood on end and she looked ridiculous with her skirt bunched around her waist and with the big hole in her tights. She did a quick clean-up then smoothed the skirt down over her hips, straightening the wrinkles as best she could. She hopped on one foot putting on one boot, leaned against the sink to put on the other one. She finished dressing, putting on her bra and skinny black turtleneck, smoothing her wild hair with water from the sink. She hadn't been able to find the clip she'd worn before on the floor in the dark.

She shut off the bathroom light, quietly opened the door. She tiptoed into the sitting room where the fire had burned down and there were only a few dimly glowing embers. She found her coat and handbag, slipped quietly into the hallway, closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

Aidan woke and reached for French, startled to full wakefulness when all he found was a cold indentation next to him instead of a warm woman. He listened, lying perfectly still, reaching out with his senses, searching for any sign of her. She was no longer in the suite; he knew it with certainty.

What the fuck?! he thought, anger rising in him with the force of a tsunami. I'm going to kill her.



Futile Resistance Ch. 11



French's mood was the best it had been in days; she felt as light as air and imbued with a wonderful positive energy. This time she would make sure she stayed happy. She sat in the backseat of the black Mercedes-Benz® taxi and drummed her fingertips on her thigh. Parisian cab drivers were known for their speedy driving, but she was impatient and willed the driver to go even faster than he already was. She wanted to hurry back to Aidan. He was exhausted from his trip and had been deeply asleep when she left. She hadn't bothered to wake him, thinking she would probably be back before he even knew she had left. Now that they had reached an understanding of sorts, she didn't want to be apart from him anymore. She would retrieve her belongings from her cousin's house and spend the rest of her time in Paris with Aidan.

She cautioned herself not to move too fast, not to be too optimistic. She couldn't help it, though. Aidan had proven that he wanted her, without a doubt. And not just sexually. She had looked into his eyes, had fallen into those deep, dark blue eyes, and seen everything she needed to know there. She was sure he loved her. Or almost sure, the monster doubt reared its head. Stop it. You know it. You know him. He wouldn't have come all this way if he didn't love me, she told herself. Right?

Ignoring the doubt that had constantly undermined her, she told herself that this time would be different. They hadn't talked yet, but she would make sure that they did as soon as she saw him again in less than an hour. She hadn't told him that she loved him, hadn't pitched her plan on how they would be able to continue their relationship. But, she was sure he'd agree to it. Especially, after the afternoon they had spent in bed.

She blushed at the thought, crossed her legs over the twist of arousal that shot low across her abdomen. It never ceased to amaze her that he could pull such a wicked sexual response from her. She had never been so uninhibited with other men. Not that there had been many. Her friend Fifi, a world-class connoisseur of men, thought she was too uptight to enjoy sex, while French had often wondered what all the fuss was about. Now she knew. Maybe it was all about finding the right person.

With the few other lovers she'd had, she felt detached during sex. She couldn't stop thinking about other things, mundane things, when she was intimate with other men. It was decidedly un-sexy to compose a grocery list or run through her schedule for the next day in the middle of sex. And when she wasn't thinking about random stuff, she was feeling self-conscious because she wasn't 'into' the whole experience. She'd felt even more self-conscious when she tried to fake an interest in what was going on. To her ears, she'd sounded like an absolute idiot, her responses patently false. But the men hadn't seemed to mind. Come to think of it, she wasn't sure they'd even noticed.

With Aidan, it was different. He could look at her in a certain way, he didn't even have to touch her, and she'd go up in flames. She wondered if it would always be that way between them. She hoped so; she was getting used to being with him, doing things that would have shocked her to death if she had thought of them before. She liked doing those wicked things, liked being free enough with him to tell him what she wanted, what she needed, from him. As it turned out, she trusted him enough – loved him enough – to be herself with him without fear of rejection or reprisal. If only she could learn to transfer that sense of freedom from the bedroom to all aspects of their relationship.

She leaned her head back against the seat with a little smile on her face. Yes, this time will be different – I'll be different. I'll make sure of it, she promised herself. She would do her damnedest not to let her fears and trust issues rule her anymore. She pledged to herself that she would try very hard not to respond in her habitual fashion to situations that made her uncomfortable or frightened. It was imperative that she vanquish those habits in order to move forward in her life; she realized, now, how much she had held herself back by indulging her rampant distrust of people. She knew, deep down in her heart, that she could trust Aidan. The first trial of her newfound determination to break free of old habits would be to lay her heart bare to him. She wanted him to know how she felt about him, wanted to tell him as soon as she could. In that direction lay true freedom.

The cab pulled up in front of Marie-Josée's apartment and she jumped out and ran inside. She bounded into the apartment only to find it empty. Her cousin and Nicolàs were still out. That suited her plans just fine. The less explaining she had to do, the less time she'd be away from Aidan. She was very eager to get back to him and didn't want to waste time chatting with her cousin and Nic. She flew down the hall to her room and stripped off her clothes. Pinning her hair up so it wouldn't get wet, she took a quick shower. She performed her usual post-shower ritual cursorily and darted back down the hall to her room. She rang for another cab, then dressed in jeans, a lush, sage-green sweater and her running shoes.  She repacked her airplane carry-on bag and was ready to go.

She was back on the street and into the taxi in record time. She bade the driver take her back to Aidan's place and once they were on their way, called her cousin to let her know about her change of plans.

"Hey, it's me."

"How did it go?" Marie-Josée asked eagerly.

"Fine. More than fine, I think," French replied, a smile in her voice. "I was just calling to tell you that I'll be spending the next few days with Aidan at his hotel."

"Ohhh, really?" came her cousin's exaggerated reply. "I guess things must have gone pretty damned well for you two!"

"Well, we still have some talking to do," French blushed, "we got a little – um – sidetracked earlier."

Marie-Josée guffawed and said, "Oh, I'll just bet you got sidetracked, little cousin! I knew he didn't come chasing after you for just a talk!"

"Anyway, as I was saying... I don't know exactly what's going to happen, but I think we're going to be OK."

"I knew it! Aidan's no fool; he knows a good thing when he's got it."

"What about me? I know when I've got it good, too! Hey, for that matter, I know when you've got it good," she added pointedly, referring to the clandestine affair Marie-Josée had been having with their close childhood friend.

"Touché, little cousin, touché. Will we see you before you leave town?"

"Yes, definitely. I'll call you tomorrow so we can schedule dinner. There's New Year's Eve, too. We should do something fun."

"You sound so happy, French. I'm glad. And yes, we should do something fun to ring in the New Year," Marie-Josée concurred. "Let's talk tomorrow."

"OK, 'bye," French flipped her phone closed, ending the connection. She had sounded happy on the phone, much more ebullient than she had sounded in years. She grinned foolishly to herself, thinking, I'm downright lighthearted!

*****

Aidan paced back and forth in his hotel room. He was furious with French. They had made love, he had fallen asleep and she had left! She didn't even leave a note to let him know where she had gone or when – if – she would be back. Now here he was, feeling like a fool for having chased her to Paris to claim her forever after as his own, and she had simply left.

He was frustrated beyond belief and wasn't sure that he had any fight left in him where French was concerned. He had reached his limit. He had launched a prolonged campaign to win French over and he now faced the possibility that perhaps she just wasn't going to come around. He had coddled her, confronted her and consoled her – all with a view to helping her grow to trust him and to see that not everyone in the world was out to get her.

Had she gone back to Nicolàs? he wondered bitterly. He was tormented by the very thought of the two of them together. He hadn't had a chance to find out who Nicolàs was and he was boiling with curiosity about the man and jealous into the bargain. Who was he to French? Why would she let him handle her with such familiarity? He didn't want to believe it of her, but it looked as though she was in some sort of... relationship with the guy.

He was being eaten up inside with the desire to find her and bring her back again. But he refused to do it. He was tired of chasing her, tired of trying to make her change her mind about him and how good they were together. His patience with her had been exhausted. Maybe it's time for me to cut my losses, he thought morosely.

If there was any hope that they would resume seeing each other, it would be up to her to make the first move. He knew it would kill him to stay away from her, to wait for her to initiate contact, because what if she didn't? He knew her well enough to know that fear, pride and pure stubbornness had often prevented her from doing things that would, to her twisted way of thinking, make her appear vulnerable. He was prepared to face the real possibility that that could happen now. I may never see her again, he dropped into a chair in front of the fireplace and stared at the leaping flames glumly.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when he heard a light rap on the door to his room. An annoyed Aidan wrenched open the door and glared at the person who dared to interrupt him while he was stewing in his anger and self-pity. It was French.

"Hi. I'm back," she said cheerfully.

He dragged her inside and slammed the door behind her.

"Where were you? Did you go see Nicolàs?" he sneered.

Her friend's name sounded foul the way Aidan said it. She drew back from him in surprise and distaste.

"Aidan, what's the matter with you? Have you been drinking?" she asked, puzzled at his behavior.

"What's the matter with me? I woke up alone, French, and after some pretty hot fucking, too. Fucking, I might add, that I crossed an ocean to get. And you want to know what's the matter with me?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. What the – no, she told herself. Remember your promise: respond differently to things! You will stay calm. You will not lose your temper. You will talk to him, find out what bug crawled up his ass calmly. Like a rational adult.

"I'm sorry if you were worried, Aidan, but please don't use that type of language when you talk to me," it just about killed her to stay calm.

"Oh, I wasn't worried. I am pissed!" he jabbed a finger at her. "You left my bed to go to your Martinican boy-toy and you thought I'd be worried?"

"My what? You think that I -? With Nicolàs?" French was incredulous. She flopped down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and laughed.

"That's funny to you? What am I supposed to think when I walk in and find you in the arms of another man?" he asked angrily. He grabbed her hands where they lay along the chair's armrests and pulled her to her feet. "You were sitting on his lap, for Christ's sake! He kissed you! You let him touch you and I can't stand it!" he said through gritted teeth.

Her laughter at his idiotic notion died in her throat at hearing his tone. When she looked into his eyes and saw the torment there, the fire of possessiveness burning bright, she melted inside.

"Oh, Aidan – " she began, only to be cut off by the scorching kiss he pressed to her lips.

He took her mouth ruthlessly and without finesse, the need to stamp her as his overwhelming him. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting warm mint and her. He hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her tight against him. Mindless with jealousy and the need to claim her, it didn't register on him that she had wrapped her arms around his neck and was responding to his kiss. He simply plundered, took, poured all the conflicting emotion – anger, jealousy, fear, frustration and relief that she was with him – that swirled in his mind into the kiss.

French's own senses were awhirl, Aidan's rough treatment of her breaching yet another sensual stronghold inside her. She hadn't been able to think and had stood struck dumb when he first seized her, kissed her. Then she had felt the velvety invasion of his tongue in her mouth, felt the glorious strength and heat of his body when he molded her close. He took her breath away. She felt her knees wobble and wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, wound her fingers through his hair. As always, he sent fire racing through her body, awakened desire and need in her.

Aidan's cock had quickly grown painfully hard behind the button-fly of his jeans. He needed to bury himself inside her more then he needed to draw his next breath. He dropped to his knees in front of her, undid her jeans and pulled them roughly down her legs. She almost toppled over and he caught her and lowered her gently to the floor in front of the fire. He yanked her shoes off and tossed them over his shoulder, her jeans and silky panties followed. He scaled the length of her body and took her mouth in another hard kiss. Mine! Mine, mine, mine! The words roared in his mind, underscored everything he did. He knelt between her thighs, had sense enough to check that she was ready to take him before he plunged inside. He groaned when he touched the warm, supple flesh that had begun to grow slick for him. She was ready.

With a shaking hand, he quickly undid the fly of his jeans, pushed them down just far enough to free his cock. He positioned the blunt head of his cock at her entrance and paused, tore his mouth from hers. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs and he took just a second to calm himself down, fought to subdue the beast that raged inside him. Mindless with want as he was, he was far beyond being able to be gentle with her at this point. He craved her, needed to feel her wrapped, wet and tight, around him, but he didn't want to hurt her. He never wanted to see her hurt.

French writhed under him, rubbed against his cock where it pressed against the opening to her cunt, waiting for him to plunge inside. She frowned when he paused and opened her eyes to find him looming above her. He appeared to be having second thoughts about what they were doing. Not wanting him to stop, she reached up, cupped his face in her hands, drew his head down to hers. Green eyes met deepest blue and she suddenly understood the battle he fought. She pressed her swollen lips to his and whispered,

"Take me."

He thrust into her hard, her words feeding that primitive part of him he'd tried to rein in. French gasped at the sudden invasion, felt herself stretching to accommodate his cock, which was impossibly thick and hard inside her. He pressed deep, touching the core of her, then withdrew. The walls of her cunt clung as he pulled out, then slammed home again. She arched her hips to meet his next thrust. She met the driving force of his body eagerly, relished walking that fine line between pleasure and pain, had discovered that she liked it. It was like eating something that was very spicy, yet tempered with something sweet. Exciting. Addictive. Delicious. Decadent.

Aidan strained over her, the words mine, mine, mine echoing in his head. Her pussy was supple and hot around his cock. Bracing himself above her, he watched her face as he took her, memorized each beloved feature: the tiny frown of concentration that creased her brow, the luxurious fall of her thick, curly hair, the light flush that had washed over her face. Her mouth – God, that sexy mouth! he thought – was slightly open and the pink tip of her tongue darted forth to dampen her lips. His balls tightened and he slowed his strokes within her.

"No, don't stop," she begged, "do it harder, faster."

He groaned and increased his speed. The sexy little noises – grunts, gasps and moans – she made quickly had him back on the edge. He didn't know if he could hold back, didn't really want to. He wanted to let loose and take what he wanted for once. He had given himself to her unstintingly – apparently unsuccessfully – and for so long that he selfishly felt that, somehow, he was owed a freebie. He felt his orgasm boiling deep within him, churning inside, creating an incredible sense of pleasurable pressure.

"You're mine, French," he rasped hoarsely, "Mine."

"Yes, Aidan – God yes," she cried out, drowning in the deluge of the orgasm that suddenly dragged her under. She bucked beneath him, dug her nails into his back to anchor herself against the pleasure that knifed violently through her. It battered at her, spiraling on and on, seeming to increase in intensity with each pounding thrust of Aidan's cock inside her. She had been surprised by the suddenness of her climax, had been sucked in, overwhelmed by the never-ending onslaught of pleasure. She was awash in a thrilling agony of blissful sensation.

Seeing, feeling – hearing – her go wild beneath him made Aidan's head spin. Contrary to the thoughts he'd had only moments before, he willed himself to last just a little longer, wanting to give her more. He knew any such effort would be futile, though. He let go and came explosively, jerking and pounding into her even harder, even deeper, than he had been before. He couldn't believe the intensity of his orgasm; it left him utterly drained. It was more like he hadn't come in weeks, rather than just a few hours.

He collapsed on top of her and felt the soft material of her sweater against his face, hazily remembered that they hadn't undressed completely. She stroked her warm, soft hands up and down his back and a wave of sleepiness washed over him. A voice in his head told him that he must be crushing her, but he didn't want to move. Nonetheless, he pushed himself up on his elbows and moved off of her to lie on his back next to her on the floor in front of the fire.

French groaned at the loss of his heat and the comfortable feel of his weight on top of her. A sense of lassitude stole through her body and she couldn't summon the energy to do anything more than pull on her panties, which were tangled around one of her ankles. She flopped back down and snuggled close to Aidan.

"Wow. What was that?"

"Nothing." He shrugged carelessly.

"Nothing, huh? It felt a hell of a lot better than any nothing I've ever felt in my entire life..." French wouldn't let him get away with calling what had just happened between them 'nothing'. As much as the night of her capture in his apartment, this had been a claiming. At least she thought that's what it had been. If so, her job of convincing him to continue their relationship would be easy.

"Look, it was nothing," Aidan said, exasperation in his voice. He yanked his jeans up, refastened them, then sat up and leaned against one of the armchairs.

"Aidan... You kept saying 'mine mine mine' and you want me to think that was nothing? Well, sorry. No can do," she challenged him a bit smugly.

He was caught. He hadn't realized that he had spoken the words aloud. "Who – exactly – is Nicolàs?"

"Nicolàs is no one. I've known him for as long as I can remember; I probably spent as much time with him as I did with Marie-Josée growing up. We were the 'Three Musketeers'," she smiled in remembrance as she sat up and arranged her legs Indian-style. "But I do love him – how could I not? He's a wonderful person. But my only feelings for him are as a dear friend, or even a brother or cousin. And the best news is that I just found out this morning that Nicolàs and Marie-Josée have been lovers for over a year."

"Oh," Aidan said. He'd been apoplectic thinking she had gone back to the 'other man' after he'd made love to her. Now he felt the tiniest bit like an idiot. He scowled and continued, "I've been torturing myself with the image of you and him together since I saw you earlier."




Futile Resistance Ch. 11



"Were you jealous?"

"Hell, yeah. I was furious the second I saw you sitting on his lap and when he kissed you and touched you like he had every right to, I wanted to kill him. And you, too!"

"Oh," French was pleased that he would be jealous of her. "Nicolàs has sort of a twisted way of solving problems. We are very close, but he's never done that whole kissing bit before... I'm sure he was trying to 'help', hoping that you'd get jealous and that your jealousy would force a final outcome to our problem."

"He succeeded. Almost too well; he's lucky I didn't knock those pearly white teeth down his throat..."

"He probably would have liked that, too. He was pretty pissed when I told him what had happened between us."

"Would you care to enlighten me about that? I'd sure love to know what drove you out of Boston so suddenly..." he asked sarcastically, pissed off that she had discussed him with her cousin and Nicolàs.

"I guess it is time we talked. I wanted to do it earlier, but..." she blushed again, her eyes darting to the bedroom as she thought of what they'd done instead of talking that afternoon.

Aidan's expression softened slightly as he said, "I love it that you blush when you think of what we did in there," he said, tilting his head toward the bedroom, "it's cute."

"It's embarrassing," she demurred. "I feel like a schoolgirl who's been caught looking at naughty pictures!"

"Hmmm. You like naughty pictures?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows at her in that ridiculous way he had, "I can show you naughty pictures and we can see how far down your body that blush actually goes..."

"No, thank you," she said, blushing still further.

"Where did you go when you left, by the way?"

"Back to my cousin's. To get my things and bring them back here. I should have left you a note, I guess... Actually, I probably should have asked before moving myself in here. Pretty presumptuous of me, huh?"

"I wanted you to stay."

"Oh. Me, too." He used the past tense, came her panicked thought. What does that mean? "My suitcase is still in the hallway outside the door."

She moved as though to get up and get it, but Aidan gestured for her to stay put. He got up to retrieve her bag from the hallway. While he did, she wriggled into her jeans, thinking that it was a bit beneath her dignity to sit around in her panties while they hashed through their issues. She watched as he moved her bag to a position just inside the door, trying, unsuccessfully, not to read anything into his placement of the bag. Had he put it there so I can access it quickly when he kicks me out?

"Do you want to come sit, so we can talk?" she asked, gesturing him to one the chairs in front of the fireplace. "There's something I want to tell you."

"I don't know if I can handle any more of your revelations, French," he half-joked, getting comfortable in the chair.

Her stomach did a funny little dip. I knew it, she fretted, everything is ruined! He's fed up with me.

"I know. I'm sorry for being such a mess. It's more than you bargained for, huh?" she asked. She paused, then decided to press on without allowing him the chance to tell her just how right she was about that.

"I've figured out how to do this, Aidan. We can keep seeing each other. I'll keep myself in the background of your life. I mean, I know how important your family is to you, so I'll just stay away from them and that way there's no risk of me running into Patrick Hurst and everything would be OK... We could go back to the way things were before I met your parents and before you found out Hurst was my father. It was good then."

She was pacing around the room, her hands flapping around nervously as she talked and so missed the mystified expression that crossed his face.

"What are you talking about?"

"Us. Aidan, I've missed you so much these past two days. I miss our talks. I miss our quiet time. I miss kissing you and making love with you. I just haven't felt like myself without you. I know it'd be hard for you to choose between your family and me. And I know that Patrick Hurst is as much your family as your mom and dad or your brother. There's no escaping that. What I'm saying is that if we were really careful, you'd never have to choose. You could have all of them and me without being disloyal to any of us." As she talked, her panic receded. This isn't as hard as I thought it would be, she thought with amazement, and this plan of mine isn't half bad!

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying."

"Please. Just hear me out. I want to be with you, Aidan. I won't run away anymore. I'm so sorry for all of the nonsense that's gone on up until now. But, compared to the 'Patrick-Hurst-is-my-father' bombshell, the rest of it seems pretty inconsequential, doesn't it?"

"Um. I guess it does?" he asked, completely bemused. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. She couldn't possibly be saying what he thought she was saying. Outrage rose in him, but he decided to wait for her to clarify what she was saying before he gave vent to his increasing ire.

"You can have all the space you need to be with your family. We could even trade off holidays, birthdays and things like that. Sort of like divorced parents do," satisfaction with her plan colored her voice as she thought through it and developed methods of dealing with some of the difficult situations that would invariably arise.

"You could spend one birthday with me, and the next one with them. Or maybe we could even have two celebrations for special events. One on the day of, when you could celebrate with them, then on the day after you and me could celebrate. Or vice versa..."


"No."

"No? Aidan, please just hear me out! This could work for us," came her desperate reply to his disagreement with her plan.

"No. You must be out of your mind to think I'd go along with something like that!"

"Oh," she said flatly, her face and tone devoid of expression. She immediately began the familiar ritual of berating herself for expressing her feelings, her needs, her desires. He doesn't want me under any circumstances. I guess I'm not as smart as I think I am, she thought, I can't seem to learn my lesson where Aidan is concerned and there have been ample opportunities for me to have done just that.

"I understand."

French retrieved her coat from the closet and, with hands that had gone suddenly icy and wooden, struggled to put her arms into the sleeves. She jerked in surprise when Aidan ripped the coat from her hands and threw it to the floor. Her eyes widened in alarm when she saw the look on his face.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to finish this here and now. I'm not going to let you just run away again. I'm sick to death of you acting like a child! You need to learn how to cope, French! No more retreating from the playing field when the game gets a little rough for you!"

French was completely taken aback and didn't think to temper her response.

"What the hell do you mean I need to learn how to cope? Wasn't that what I was trying to do? Coping with a bad situation by coming up with a solution? A solution that you immediately shot down without giving me a chance to finish telling you the whole plan!" she glared at him accusingly.

"Grabbing your coat and leaving isn't coping, French. Packing your bags and leaving the fucking country isn't coping! Deciding to avoid my parents for the rest of your life isn't coping!" His tone was contemptuous.

"You're a fine one to talk, 'Mr-I'm-going-jogging-so-I-can escape-my-bastard-lover'! Please," she said with disgust. "You run away just as much as I do, despite your hypocritical claims to the contrary."

"Is that what you think?" he asked, shocked by the off-the-wall conclusion she had apparently drawn. "You think that I left the other day because I didn't want to be around you because of who your father is?"

"I don't think it: I know it! I've played that conversation over and over in my head: 'No, Paddy wouldn't do that, French. What about Paddy Jr, Pierce and Paige? I don't understand how he could do that!'" she used a high-pitched whine as she relayed that portion of their previous conversation. "Believe me, I caught your meaning loud and clear," she finished in her normal tone.

Aidan looked at her, stunned. Then a rough, humorless laugh erupted from his throat. He ran his hands through his hair, then said feelingly, "You idiot."

French opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off with a slash of his hand before any sound came out, "God damn it, French! I could fucking kill you for causing all of this trouble. If you had waited for me, we wouldn't be here right now."

"Don't blame this on me! You said what you said and you can't take it back just because you feel bad about it now. You can't jerk me around like this, Aidan."

"Listen to me," he enunciated slowly, as if she were mentally challenged. "I was upset with Paddy – with this whole fucked up situation - not you. It came as a total shock to me that he could do what he did to you when he always acted like the perfect citizen, the perfect father and husband."

French stood perfectly still, her expression closed, her arms crossed in front of her as she listened to him. Then she said, "But you kept saying, 'Patrick wouldn't do that'. It sounded to me like you were defending him and that you didn't believe me, though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what you thought I had to gain by claiming that asshole as my biological father."

"Try to understand where I was coming from. Thirty odd years of knowing someone as well as you know your own parents and he turns out to be a total dirt bag? Not to mention how bizarre it is that I just happened to be in love with the dirt bag's illegitimate daughter," he finished. "Nobody – not even a Pulitzer Prize winning author – could make something like this up; this 'coincidence' of events is too bizarre to be real!"

He paced away from her, then turned back around.

"I will admit that I shouldn't have walked out on you right then, French, but I just couldn't think with you screaming at me like you were. I needed a few minutes to think about it, to decide what to do. I wasn't gone very long before I figured all that out and then I came home and found you gone."

French waited to hear what he had decided. Her heart had leapt when he said he was in love with 'the dirt bag's daughter'. She hoped he still was and would give her a second – no, it would be the third time for them – chance.

"I looked everywhere for you, called you a million times and couldn't reach you. I sat in front of your apartment thinking that you had to go out sometime and when you did, I'd be there to catch you. I even called that prick Peter to see if he had seen you," he became even more frustrated just telling her what he had done to try to find her.

She laughed a little at his last statement. Aidan and Peter had never gotten along. He must have been pretty desperate to reach her if he had called his archenemy.

"I was upset by the whole turn of events, too," she entreated, willing him to understand and forgive her, "Frankly, I expected you to be disgusted by me and I expected you to remain loyal to your family. I just had to get away – I couldn't just sit there and wait for you to come home and dump me."

"I see. So you assumed the very worst about me. That's just great. I'm glad we've established such a high level of trust in this relationship," he said acerbically. "Especially when I have never given you a reason not to trust me!"

"I know, Aidan. I should have known better. But I was upset, too, and you wouldn't be the first person I've known to judge me for who my father is or for being a bastard. My own mother treated my like shit every day of my life because of Patrick Hurst!"

"But I didn't treat you like shit – I didn't judge you, French, and I never have! You are the one who leapt to judgment about me when you assumed you knew what I was thinking or what I would do! I'm offended that you would think that I would ever be disgusted by you and that I would ever break up with you for something you had nothing to do with!"

He paced the length of the room, needing an outlet for his anger and frustration. He had never laid a hand on a woman and never would, but he thought he understood what drove weaker men to do it. He wanted to grab French and shake some sense into her. Instead, he stopped pacing and faced her. There wasn't a modicum of calm left in him, so when he spoke, his voice betrayed the frustration he was feeling.

"I did everything I knew how to show you who I am and that I'm not like the other people who've hurt you, but you refused to see it. You're always so caught up with protecting yourself from so-called threats that you can't see what's right in front of you. I was offering you me, French, but you obviously didn't want me!"

Past tense again, she thought. A lump grew in her throat. It was looking more and more like he had come to Paris to decide whether or not to end things with her. She had thought that the decision had been made in her favor after they had made love earlier in the day. But perhaps not. She gazed unseeingly into the middle distance. Her mind was curiously blank, as though her senses had been utterly overwhelmed by what Aidan was telling her and simply shut down.

When she didn't reply he continued in an impassioned tone, "We keep having this same argument and I'm sick of it. It's not normal for me to have to constantly prove myself to you when there has never been a breach of trust between us! I've never given you a single reason to doubt me, but you've never trusted me. And I don't think that's something I can deal with."

"I do trust you, Aidan," she said. "I always have."

"You show your trust for me by running away to protect yourself from me? By shutting yourself off from me? God, you're more tightly guarded than the Pentagon!"

French lost her temper, "Aidan what do you want from me? Can't you see I'm trying? I'm doing the best I can!"

"No. I don't think you are. Your first instinct is to run away from me instead of running to me. I've tried and tried to get you to see that you can trust me and that I would never hurt you! You just can't see it, though, can you? You refuse to believe in me."

"Aidan, I do believe in you, but just try to understand!" she pleaded. "Imagine how I felt, finding out that Patrick Hurst has been involved in your life since you were a baby, was more of a father to you than he was to me. I saw how close your family is and how that closeness and affection extended to Hurst," she turned away from him. "I didn't think I stood a chance if you had to choose between me and your family..."

He walked over to her and took her by the shoulders, "French, you need to learn to trust. You'll drive everyone who cares about you away if you don't overcome this insane need to protect yourself."

He let her go, but stood in front of her, waiting for her response. It was a long time coming. She refused to meet his eyes, stared into the fireplace.

"But this is different, Aidan. This situation with Hurst isn't the same as keeping people at arms length. Hurst is my biological father! He abandoned me, threw money at my mother to see that we stayed away from him. Yet, he loved you and you're not even his son. He loved his other children. But not me. All these years, I consoled myself with the thought that he was incapable of loving anyone. But then you kept telling me what a great guy he is and how great of a father he is to his kids and how great he is with you and your brother. It put a lie to the story I had made myself believe all my life. You need to understand that the stakes were a lot higher for me with this, Aidan. I felt like I had to run for my life, to preserve and protect what I had managed to build for myself and to put some distance between you and me."

"You were running for your life and that meant away from me..." Aidan said with bitter incredulity.

"Please try and see it from my point of view!"

"You are so stubborn. Can't you just say, 'I was wrong and I'm sorry'?"

His question took her aback. She knew she was wrong and she was definitely sorry for doubting him, because when she really thought about how well she knew Aidan, she knew in her heart of hearts that he wouldn't have dumped her. She was sorry she had left town so suddenly, without giving them a chance to work through the problem. She was sorry that her actions had seemingly put an end to their relationship because it was obvious that he didn't think of her in a positive light anymore. And, in her mind, she deserved to lose him. She had shown herself to be an extremely poor judge of his character. They had talked again and again about her needing to trust in him, but in the end, she had been the one to betray his trust.

"You're right. I was wrong and I'm very sorry for what I did," she quelled the urge to try to excuse or rationalize her behavior again. To do so would lessen the impact of her apology, which was truly from her heart. "Please forgive me, Aidan."

"I do forgive you," there was a 'but' hanging in the air, but he left it unspoken.

"Thank you. I probably don't deserve your forgiveness," she said formally and with a careful detachment as she reached down to pick up her coat and began to put it on. "Thank you for giving me a chance to apologize and for being gracious enough to accept my apology. Maybe I'll see you back in Boston? It's probably too soon for me to be 'just friends' with you, but... maybe we can try that later?"

Aidan flopped down in a chair and heaved an exasperated sigh. This woman would be the death of him.

"I don't want to be friends with you! Do you think I came all the way over here because I want to be friends? You're out of your mind!"

"Aidan, I honestly don't know why you came here. I thought maybe you wanted closure. Or maybe a 'hot fuck' – isn't that what you called it before? – or whatever," she sounded tired, run down. She rubbed her temples as though she had a headache.

"You idiot," he said, walking over to her. He removed her coat and tossed it on the floor again.

"I'm sick of taking that coat off of you. Leave it off, wouldja?" he said, once again only half-jokingly. "You're doing it again. You can't just leave, French."

She looked into his eyes and saw frustration mixed with the heat and possessiveness that darkened them to deepest blue. The same dark heat that appeared in his eyes when they made love. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the easy slide of arousal that so typically occurred when he was near. She backed away from him a little so she could better see his face.

"What's going on?"

"What's going on is that I'm not letting you leave. We have a problem that needs to be dealt with, not run away from. So let's deal with it. Together."

"OK..." she said, not sure how they would resolve their problem in a way that they could both live with.

"But here's a new rule for future reference: don't go running off when we have an argument; stay and let's talk it out before you do anything rash."

"We have a future?" she asked hopefully. "You mean you liked my plan to deal with your family?"

"Hell, no."

French's expression went totally blank with confusion.

"That plan sucks, baby. We're not even going down that road. When has avoidance and compartmentalizing ever solved any problem?"

She frowned, "Well, I don't see any other way. I can't be around Hurst. You didn't see how he treated me. Like I was a piece of property or something. He offered me money, Aidan," she shivered at the memory, "like I was some gold-digging whore! I can't just forget that or that he threw me away when I was born!"




Futile Resistance Ch. 11



"I don't expect you to forget that, French. It's impossible for me to forget it, too. When you told me all about your childhood it made me so angry that whoever your father was would leave you at the mercy of your mother. I still really can't believe that that heinous individual is none other than my father's best friend."

He was quiet for a minute, thinking of the past, of all the happy occasions the Hursts and Conals had shared. They weren't real to him anymore, though. Hurst was a fraud, had been keeping a terrible secret from all of them. He had had an ongoing affair with French's mother, but had never had contact with his daughter. He had to have known that Marcheline was a selfish woman and that she would be an equally selfish mother. But he hadn't cared. He hadn't cared that he was betraying his wife and their three children, his closest friends or, worst of all, his daughter.

"Listen, I'll tell you just what I told Hurst. You are my family. I loved Paddy," he said, "But, now that I know exactly who and what he is, I want nothing to do with him."

French's mind had gotten hung up back where he said he had talked to Hurst.

"You talked to Hurst about me?" she asked tentatively, wringing her hands nervously.

"Yeah. I told him I knew everything. He tried to deny it at first. Then he tried to justify what he did in the most reprehensible way. I told him he was a liar, a hypocrite and a pretty sorry excuse for a human being."

"You did?!" alarm tinged her voice.

"Yeah, I did. I found out, too, that he and your mother never stopped seeing each other," he said quietly, not sure how French would take the news.

"What?! You can't be serious... Maman always spoke of him so angrily. How could she be sleeping with him after what he did to us?"

"I am serious. I'm sorry if that hurts you. He told me that they had reached an 'understanding', a financial understanding from what I could tell. But he is oddly infatuated, almost obsessed, with your mother. When he talked about her, the look on his face was sort of dreamy and besotted. It was pretty creepy."

"This is unreal," French walked away from him. She felt betrayed all over again. Her mother had been seeing Hurst for all these years? A woman didn't have an affair for some thirty years and not develop some sort of feeling for her paramour. In typical fashion, her mother had put her own desires, her own feelings, before those of her daughter. She had known that, as a child, French had longed for her father. Instead of making sure that Hurst did the right thing or doing the right thing herself, Marcheline had sided with her lover, the deadbeat dad.

"I'm so tired of being hurt by my mother," she said sadly.

"I know, baby, and I'm so sorry she hurt you again. If you don't mind, can we talk about Marcheline a little later? Right now, I want you to know that I told Paddy to stay out of our lives, French. If I never set eyes on him again, it will be too soon. You don't have to worry about seeing him. You won't. And if you do, I'll be there."

"But... What will your parents think? Do they know about Hurst and me?"

"No, I haven't told them yet; we can tell them together. I can only guess at what they'll think, but I'm pretty sure that they'll side with us. When I called them to tell them I was coming here to bring you home after an argument, Mom wished me luck and told me how much she liked you and how she hoped to get to know you better. She dropped a very unsubtle hint about hoping to even out the family on a more permanent basis – a little more estrogen to balance out all the testosterone," he finished, referencing that his mother had raised two very masculine, mischievous sons who were the image of their father in looks and personality.

"I don't know that my dad will be able to just end his friendship with Hurst. They've been best friends their entire lives. I know he'll be as hurt by this as I was; so will Mom. I don't know how this will all shake out," he said thoughtfully.

"This affects Pam and their kids, too. It could get pretty messy if everyone finds out. But I know that Mom, Dad and Brian really like you; they think you're perfect for me. That's not going to change just because of what Paddy has done. It's not your fault and I'm sure that if it comes to it, you'll be the choice they make, French."

French didn't know what to say. No one had ever come to her defense before; no one had ever been on her side. For Aidan to have said that she was his family now elated her and made her feel scared at the same time. She didn't really know how to be a part of a family, day in and day out. She had spent time over the years with Marie-Josée, Tante Josephine and Uncle Bertrand in Martinique, of course, but that had been for only a few days or weeks at a time. With Aidan and the rest of the Conals, she was dealing with the rest of her life as a member of a family, every day, every night. It was almost overwhelming.

Aidan sensed that she was pulling away from him emotionally and gripped her shoulders, shook her a little.

"Hey, it's going to be fine, baby, don't worry. Trust me."

She looked at him, saw the sincerity and the love in his eyes, knew that she had to take the leap. It was now or never.

"I'm really scared, Aidan. I've never done this before."

"I haven't either, but I feel like I have to. No matter how hard you've tried to push me away, I haven't been able to let you go," he sounded chagrined to admit it.

"I'm glad," she said tearily. "I have to tell you something."

"Oh no, not again," he deadpanned.

French punched his shoulder playfully. She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, she thought. "Um. Aidan, I think I... I think I'm in love with you," she finished in a rush.

"You think you're in love with me?" he asked in mock outrage, "After all this, you're still not sure?"

He began to tickle her, went straight for the sides of her waist where he knew she was most sensitive. She giggled and squirmed, trying to get away from him. She ran away from him toward the bedroom. He cornered her between the bed and the wall, then picked her up and dropped her lightly on the bed. He pounced on top of her and continued to tickle her, giving her raspberries on her neck whenever he got an opening.

Gradually, the tenor of their embrace changed. He did more caressing than tickling and the raspberries he'd given her neck became kisses. French looped her arms around his neck, brought his head down and sipped from his lips. They kissed lazily, taking their time, relaxed and content.

Aidan finally pulled away, "You think you love me?" he asked, serious this time.

French looked at him, feeling soft and warm inside. "I know I do. I love you."

The words rolled off her tongue easily this time and she felt good to have finally said them. Aidan kissed her leisurely, rolling onto his back so she was on top of him. He wrapped her tight in his arms, filled with contentment at the knowledge that they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Relief burst through him. He'd finally won her! She had finally said the words and said them first. Deep down, he had known how she felt about him, but he had also known that she needed proof from him that he wasn't going to run out on her or use her. She had been fragile, skittish as an abused pup. He'd taken a few risks along the way, calling her on the carpet for her fearful behavior and pushing her past her comfort zones, but in the long run it had paid off. Finally, there are no obstacles in our way, he thought joyfully. But then he remembered...

He broke their kiss and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Um, remember when I said earlier that we'd discuss Marcheline later?"

"Yes, why?"

"Well, I think I should tell you that I met her back in Boston."

"You met her? Oh, shit! I forgot she was coming! Oh, my God! Was she furious with me?" French jumped off the bed in a panic.

"Not at first..." Aidan hedged.

"Oh, my God! I can't believe I forgot about her! I was just so upset about the fight we had and I just completely forgot. How could I do that? Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she finished with feeling.

"Relax. I don't think it's that big of a deal. She was sitting on your stoop, wrapped up in a big fur coat and hat, when I stopped by. We got Mrs. H to open your apartment with your spare key."

"Thank God!" came her heartfelt reply, relief evident in her tone, "so she's OK?"

Aidan thought French's relief that her mother was safe and sound was a little too heartfelt. Marcheline didn't deserve to be protected and cared for by French. But that was French. On some level, even though she knew it was completely irrational, she wanted her mother's approval. She had been doing Marcheline's bidding for so long, waiting for that magical day when she would receive her mother's unconditional love, that she found the habit hard to break. The anxiety she felt at the moment was a byproduct of an ongoing cycle of behavior.

Displeasing Marcheline, and she was always displeased about something, had meant that French would be held hostage emotionally. Marcheline had dangled absolution for various 'sins' in front of French like a carrot in front of a balky horse, telling her that if she did this or that to atone for said sin, she would receive a reward. In the end, she had never come through with the promised treat, whether it was attending one of her daughter's recitals or buying her something she wanted. There were times when she would do something special with or for her daughter, but only to keep hope alive in her young heart that someday her mother would be happy with her and to ensure that her daughter was easily manipulated. There had been no child as easily manipulated as love-starved French.

"Don't thank God just yet..."

"What do you mean?" The anxiety was back.

"We had a little tête-à-tête that didn't exactly work to the finish in Marcheline's favor."

"What do you mean?" I'm starting to repeat myself, she thought, say something else!!

"I put her in your guest room and left her there when I went to see Hurst. When I came back, the whole place reeked of smoke and I had already told her you wouldn't like it if she smoked inside."

"She doesn't care what I like or don't like; she always does just exactly what she wants."

"She was also digging around in your closet, piling the nicer stuff on the bed. I, ah, assume she meant to, um, appropriate them for her own use. So, I kicked her out. Made her go to a hotel until you got home."

"Oh, God! That must have been awful for you!"

"Actually, it felt kind of good. I have to say – your mother's tough to take... and that's putting it mildly," Aidan told her with a frown.

"I know. You have to be careful what you say to her. You're lucky she didn't go off on you. She can get really ugly when she wants to!" she dropped onto the bed next to where he still lay.

"She was plenty ugly, trust me. But, since I'm not afraid of her and couldn't care less what she thinks, I told her exactly what I felt like telling her. I'd seen enough of her obnoxious behavior to have a better idea what it must have been like for you to live with her. I couldn't let her get away with disrespecting you and she won't get a chance to do it again. She can either respect your – our – wishes if she comes to visit or she won't set foot in any place we call home."

"Oh, Aidan... Thank you for that," her eyes and voice softened as she looked at him, gratitude and love shining in her eyes. He made her feel safe for the for the first time in her life. "I'm sorry you had to deal with her. I had hoped that I'd get a chance to sort of finesse your first meeting with her, but with everything else... I forgot."

"It's ok. Besides, I probably made things worse for you when you get back," he told her ruefully. "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I made her carry her own bags downstairs!"

French squealed and punched his arm. "You did not make her carry her own bags?!"

"I did. Well – just the little ones. I practically killed myself carrying all her stuff upstairs; I wasn't about to lug it all down again by myself!"

"Oh my God, what did she do?" French asked with horrified curiosity.

"She was all superior and puffed up; terribly indignant, with her delicate little nostrils flared like I reeked of dog-shit or something. She swept into the Taj® hotel like she owned the place, swanning past the valet and doorman like they weren't even there."

French collapsed next to him on the bed, shaking with laughter. "Now I'm convinced. You really did meet my mother. You described her to a T! God, I would have paid money to see you two go at it!"

"Don't worry. I'm sure there'll be other opportunities. A lifetime of them," he promised her as he reached for her.

They stripped each other's clothes off without ceremony. Their mouths and bodies fused together, their hands roamed. French pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him. She knelt, hovering above him on all fours, and dipped her head to kiss him. His hands covered her breasts, fondled her nipples. He reached around her, cupped her ass, tried to pull her more fully atop him, but she resisted.

"Not yet," she told him.

She took his lips again, licking greedily into the warm cavern of his mouth. His hands roved her body, igniting her passion. She trailed kisses onto his neck, sucking and biting. Working downward, she gave the same attention to his nipples. Touching them in turn, lightly with her hands first, then with her teeth and tongue. She sucked hard, drawing them into her mouth and flicking her tongue roughly over them. She knew how much he liked that.

She moved further down, ran her soft hands over his chest, just grazing his hardened, sensitive nipples. The contrast between the rough treatment she had given them and the soft caress she now favored them with had Aidan holding his breath in anticipation, wondering which sensation he would feel next. She smoothed her hands down over his muscled abdomen, following them with her mouth, sometimes just brushing her lips over the surface of his skin; at other places, she nipped him or licked him or sucked.

She moved further down the bed, pushed his legs apart. Kneeling in the vee they formed, she stroked the tendon that joined thigh to torso, the warmth of her hands on that sensitive cord causing him to shiver. She bent and sucked where her hands had just been. The scent of him was concentrated there and it was purely masculine. She lingered, inhaled the heady essence of him.

His cock twitched when she exhaled, her hot breath washing over him. Its length had already formed a thick, hard curve along his stomach. She cupped his scrotum in her warm palm, then bent and ran her tongue all around it. Aidan's legs stiffened and his fingers, which had previously been lightly stroking her hair, tightened at the sensation of her tongue on his balls.

French moaned, reveling in the knowledge of the obvious pleasure she gave him, sending vibrations through the thin skin of his sac to his testicles. He wanted her to take him into her mouth, but at the same time, he didn't. He wanted her to go on loving him, touching him, like this forever.

Suddenly, French removed her mouth and hands from his body altogether. His eyes flew open to find her kneeling upright between his legs, her arms crossed under her very incredible breasts. Her head was cocked to the side and she was apparently expecting him to say something.

"Well?" she prodded.

"Well what? Why'd you stop, baby?"

"Don't you have something to say to me?"

Aidan's mind was completely blank. Did he have something to say to her? He couldn't remember.

"Ummm. That felt really good? Please don't stop?" he asked her, panting slightly.

"Oh, you! That's not what I mean and you know it," she said indignantly, punching him high on his leg.

"Hey, careful with the merchandise! I'm sorry, baby, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to remember right now. Except 'that felt good; please don't stop'," he joked.

"Your response to what I said earlier," French said shyly, not meeting his eyes. "You know... that I love you."

"Oh, that. Haven't I already showed you in a million ways that I do? I mean, geez, give a guy some credit for dealing with that mother of yours!"

"Aidan, I'm warning you! You better just say it."

"Baby, I love you."

"Finally! I love you, too," she grinned like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

"Now... can we please get back to 'that feels good; please don't stop'?" he asked her with a waggle of his brows.

French laughed and clobbered him with a pillow.

***** THE END *****

Thanks to everyone who read and voted for my first story ever! I greatly appreciate the feedback and encouragement you've given me along the way. Knowing that you enjoyed reading about French and Aidan (and were waiting for the next chapter) helped me plod along when I had no idea where they were headed next! Best Regards ~ Quint



Futile Resistance



"You guys looked hot!" Fifi said, in typical fashion. French rolled her eyes and grabbed her martini, took a sip to compose herself. Aidan moved, his body forming a barrier between French and Fifi's group. He sat on a barstool, drawing hers closer to him practically in the same motion, so that her knees were sandwiched between his legs before she knew what had happened. French scowled at him, "Don't you know when to quit?"

"Not when it comes to you. I don't know what you've done to me, but I'm smitten," he said half-jokingly, placing a hand over his heart.

"Geez," she said rolling her eyes and taking a big gulp of her drink. "So, Aidan, what have you been up to?" she asked breezily. She figured she might as well talk to him since he was sitting there staring at her. His certainty, his arrogance, was disconcerting to her, but she'd be damned if she'd let him see it. She finished her drink in a gulp that gave lie to her apparent coolness and signaled for another.

"Am I making you nervous?" Aidan asked, leaning closer to her.

"No. Why do you ask?" French replied nonchalantly, looking everywhere in the room but at him. Peter caught her eye from the dance floor and beckoned her to him. She shook her head and turned back to Aidan, eyebrows arched.

"No reason. I spent the last two months in Eritrea, Africa," he responded to her earlier question. "As you know, there is spill over of the tribal unrest in Somalia and Ethiopia into Eritrea. I went there to document exactly how bad things are there. I sold my photographs and story to Time magazine." 

French was taken off guard again because she'd assumed that, being a travel writer, he'd been in some glorious corner of the world enjoying a taste of the exotic with a view to bringing a piece of that back to the US with his stories and photos.

"Oh. I'll be sure to pick up a copy when it comes out," French said politely, but couldn't stop herself from blurting, "What are you doing here?"

"My father is the founding partner of the firm. He and my mother like for me to be at these things when I'm in town. A small thing for me to do since I refused to go into the family business, I figure."

"Ah, ever the obliging son," French sniped.

"Why can't you stop being so judgmental?" Aidan asked, annoyance plain in his voice.

"Because I've done this with you before. That's why," French said flatly. "You wouldn't let there be a this between us!"

"Ugh," she said, disgustedly, "I don't want to argue with you, Aidan. There's no point, is there? We're not together anymore, what we had is in the past. You need to realize that." With that, she grabbed her drink, took a healthy sip. "Hmm, these are good!" she said, apropos of nothing.

"Maybe you should take it a little easier on the Cosmos," Aidan warned. "Isn't this how you want me, a little tipsy, with lowered inhibitions?" French cooed tauntingly, batting her lashes and leaning forward into him, resting one hand on his thigh. She had a split second to notice how muscular his leg was under her hand before he kissed her. She was too stunned to react at first, then opened her mouth in shock. Aidan seized the opportunity gratefully and slid his tongue into her mouth to taste her. French sank into the kiss for a long heart-stopping moment, then regained her senses and abruptly pulled away from him. She felt flushed and hot, turned on and embarrassed at the same time, because she never engaged in public displays of affection. She reflexively reached for her drink again, but he pulled it out of her reach.

"I'll take you home," he said. Turning to Fifi he said, "I'm taking her home."

Fifi, never happier than to see her friends together, surrounded them with a flurry of kisses, hugs and promises to talk to them both tomorrow. She had them in their coats and out the door before French knew what had hit her. She felt, knew, she must resist him, even though his kiss had stopped her heart, because his kiss has stopped her heart. This wouldn't be good for her, she thought sulkily. She wasn't normally sulky or petulant, but she'd been nothing but since she'd been in contact with him tonight and that made her mad.

"Do you need to see to your car before we go?" Aidan asked politely.

"Nope, I took the T," she replied.

"I don't have a car here, either. So we'll have to take a taxi."

"I can get myself home," French said hotly.

"I know you can," he replied mildly.

They got into the cab and she gave the driver her address. Aidan slid her across the taxi's vinyl seat so she was pressed to his side and wrapped an arm around her. The streets of Boston were congested with typical Friday night partiers and holiday revelers, so it took them longer than it normally would have to make it to her place. They made inconsequential small talk along the way. He began drawing absentminded circles on her neck where it was exposed above the collar of her coat, occasionally playing with curls that had escaped from her up-do. French, unwillingly enjoying the caresses, kept a dialogue running in her head, listing all the reasons why this guy was just too slick, too arrogant, too wrong for her to fall for again. When they arrived at her place, he paid the driver and helped her from the car.

"I'll walk you up, then I'll walk the rest of the way home," Aidan said.

French knew that it was pointless to argue with him so she led him up the steps to the brownstone in which she'd bought an apartment. Once she'd opened the door to the vestibule, she turned, ready to dismiss him. She stuck her hand out, hoping he'd be content with a handshake and be on his way.

"Thank you for seeing me home, Aidan," she said politely.

"It's so cold out," Aidan said, taking her proffered hand, toying with her chilled fingers. "I've got to walk all the way home. You could at least invite me up for coffee."

"Oh, for God's sake. Come up," French said huffily, walking into the house without waiting for him. He followed her up the stairs to the third floor and French was aware of his eyes on her the whole way up and was thankful that her long alpaca coat shielded her from his gaze. She opened the door to her apartment and stepped into the warmly lit space. She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the coat-rack, reached for his and did the same. "Coffee or something else?" she asked, turning to him.

"Something else," he replied in a low voice. He reached for her somewhat roughly and kissed her, eating at her mouth with his until she opened for him. Having gotten what he wanted, he gentled the kiss, exploring the heat of her mouth with his tongue. French felt her wits spinning away with each sweep of his tongue in her mouth. Aidan's kisses were incendiary; before Aidan, she had never been kissed with such passion. She felt a wave of yearning for him, a craving to be connected with him, yet she knew she could not allow herself to give in. His desire for her was evident in the way his hands swept up and down her body in ardent, arousing caresses, as though he could absorb the very essence of her with his hands.

She began kissing him back, wrapped her arms around his neck. He groaned and pulled her even closer to him, his hands cupping her ass, pressing her against him in a way that left no doubt as to how much he wanted her. She ran her hands through his longish dark brown hair, passion sweeping her away. Why shouldn't she take what he was offering, she thought, one last time with him wouldn't do her any harm and would probably do her some good, maybe it would get him out of her system... 

Having made up her mind to have him, she pulled away from him and walked down the hall to her bedroom, confident he'd follow. He watched her go, his eyes glued to her sexy ass, loving the way her hips swayed as she walked, her sexy high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She'd worked the back zip of her dress down when she noticed she was alone. She went back to the door, poked her head out and said,

"Are you coming or not?" He looked entirely bemused at the change in her, having expected her to resist him every step of the way. He had made up his mind to have her and had begun planning the chase that would lead her back into his life once and for all. He was mildly disappointed that he wouldn't get the chance to woo her, but he was no fool: he would always open the door to opportunity when it knocked. He walked down the hall toward her, unknotting his bowtie as he went. When he reached her, he draped the tie around her neck and pulled her to him for another kiss, sliding his hands inside the open back of her dress. He pushed it off her shoulders and knelt down to help her step out of it. Standing up, he took a step back to get a good look at her. She now wore his untied bowtie, a black bra of silk and lace, tiny black bikini panties, matching thigh high stockings and those sexy black heels. He exhaled in a whoosh.

"Jesus, you're gorgeous, French."

French went to him and kissed him deeply, hotly, their tongues mating. She slid her hands between them and began undoing the tiny onyx buttons of his tuxedo shirt. When it was mostly unbuttoned, she pulled it from his waistband and up over his head. She wrapped her arms around him again and reveled in the feel of his hot skin against hers. He walked her backwards until her the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed. He sat her down, knelt at her feet, took off her shoes and began to roll her stockings down, stroking the long lengths of her legs as he went. He lay her on the bed and came to lie next to her. He spent a moment absorbing the sight and feel of her body, glimmering bronze in the dim light cast by her bedside lamp, her skin soft as silk. She reached for him, needing to feel him against her. She ran her hands up and down the smooth hot skin of his back, chafed her legs against the fabric of his tuxedo pants as he kissed her again.

He rained kisses down her neck, lingered at the place where her neck and shoulder met, then slid one silky bra strap down her shoulder. He ran his fingertips across the tops of her breasts, cupped high in the scallop-shaped cups of her lacy bra. Her skin was hot and smooth under his fingers. Her nipples hard peaks under the thin fabric of her bra. He reached behind her and, unable to make himself delay gratification, unfastened her bra.

French let out a shaky sigh of relief and yanked the bra off and tossed it aside. She pressed her breasts to his chest, rubbing the tips back and forth, shivering when the hair on his chest abraded her nipples. "Suck them," she entreated. Aidan was vaguely surprised at her command; she had never been one to say much during sex. He didn't stop to dwell on it except to briefly note that the sound of her husky voice made him crazy with lust. Her breasts were perfection. Firm and full, they fit his hands perfectly. Set amid burnished bronze flesh, the peaks were like milk chocolate kisses he had to taste. He lowered his head immediately, taking a nipple in his mouth, sucking it, circling it with his tongue.

She felt the stroke of his tongue on her nipple in a curl of arousal low in her belly, felt herself getting wetter. She was torn between wanting him to continue what he was doing and wanting him to fuck her. Hard. Deep. Now. Her hands speared through his hair as she dragged his mouth to hers.

"Aidan, I want you to fuck me," she whispered. Aidan felt his arousal spike even higher at hearing her explicit words.

"It'll be better if we wait, Legs," he teased, trying to slow the pace of their lovemaking. He cupped her face in his hands, opening her mouth with his for another kiss. He slid his hands up to her hair, fingers searching for the pins that kept the curly mass contained. One by one he pulled them out and her hair came tumbling down in wild ringlets that reached past her shoulders. "I love your hair like this," he whispered, "you should wear it down more often." 

He nuzzled her at that sweet spot where neck meets shoulder and back up to suck at the pulse in her neck. She writhed beneath him and tipped her head back, lost in sensation. She stroked her hands down his back and around to the front of him, grasping at the fasteners of his tuxedo pants. Once they were open, she slid her hands inside and stroked his hardness. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, she ground herself against him, a blatant parody of what she wanted from him.

"Oh, God," Aidan said, shuddering, trying to hold on to even a shred of control. He wanted to go slowly, savor each and every moment of their encounter. He wanted to watch her unravel for him, to draw pleasure from her slowly. She was making it impossible for him to hold back. She pulled his mouth to hers, giving him another devastatingly erotic kiss.

She rolled him to his back, straddled his thighs. Giving him a searing look that nearly stopped his breath, she hooked the tips of her fingers in the tops of his pants and boxers, drew them down slowly, teasing the skin she revealed with flicks of her tongue. At the bottom of the bed, she pulled the pants completely off and set them aside. She removed his socks, massaged his feet firmly, letting him feel the heat of her body.

"Now, I've got you just the way I want you," she taunted as she crawled up his body, stopping when her head was on a level with his hips, her face hovering over his cock. He stiffened, trying to resist the urge to grab her by the hair and thrust into her mouth. She placed a hand on his cock, stroked it slowly, felt the wetness at its tip. He clenched his teeth, stifled a curse at the feel of her hand wrapped around him, torturing him with the slow strokes. He fought to keep his hips still, to keep from forcing her to caress him harder and faster. French lowered her breasts to his cock and slowly, deliberately ran the silken wet head of it over her nipples. He watched her, enthralled by her fascination with his cock, awestruck by the erotic sight of his hard cock nudging her stiff nipples. He felt as if his skin were being turned inside out when she finally took him in her mouth. He moaned as he felt the wet heat of her close around him, clenched his fists and put them behind his head to keep from grabbing her and fucking her mouth ruthlessly, which is what he wanted to do. She was killing him. His head supported by his arms afforded him a better view of her working on him and he thought he'd never seen anything so hot in his life. He closed his eyes against the image, the only way he could think of to haul himself back from the brink of climaxing. When he opened them and looked down, his eyes met with her heavy-lidded green ones. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she took him deeper into her mouth, deeper still until he felt the tip of his cock at the back of her throat. It was almost his undoing.

He dragged her away from him with a growl, pulled her up until she straddled his head. He yanked the silky black fabric of her panties aside and buried his face between her legs, tongue seeking to taste her. She pressed herself harder against his mouth, whimpering, begging him. "Mmmmm, Aidan, please."

She rocked herself against his tongue, wanting to feel it against every part of her overly sensitive flesh. His tongue slid to the top of her sex, flicked over her clit and then he sucked. She came apart then and he felt the strong pulses of her pussy against his mouth. He continued to flick his tongue against her clit, spinning her orgasm out for a long moment. Breathing heavily, she lifted herself from his mouth, slid down so she was straddling his hard cock. She leaned over and kissed him deeply, loving the taste of herself on him, feeling how wet his mouth was from being on her. Reaching down, she struggled out of her panties. Then, caressing his cock, she stroked it through her wet sex, teasing herself and him. Aidan put his hands on her hips, steadying her, stilling her so that he could push up and into her.

Her eyes closed at the feel of him. Her back arched at the first pressure of his cock against her opening. He pulled her down, just so the bulbous tip of him was inside her. Again, he almost exploded at the feel of her tight, wet heat clenched around him. Tiny spasms squeezed him as a small orgasm shook her. She plunged down suddenly, taking every thick inch of him inside of her. Mindless with need, she ground her clit against his pubic bone, triggering another mind-blowing orgasm.

She shuddered above him, letting the waves of pleasure course through her. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Green eyes glittering, she said, "Aidan, fuck me."

With one hand holding her by the neck, he tugged her mouth to his, kissing her deeply, his tongue fucking her mouth, devouring her. His other hand was firmly planted on her waist, pulling her to him tightly each time he thrust upward. French tossed her hair back and began circling her hips, dancing on him in a sensual grind. Aidan's whole being was focused on the place where their bodies were joined. His breathing became more labored as he felt his balls tighten, feeling his impending climax beginning deep in his spine.

"Oh, fuck, yeah," he said through clenched teeth, "fuck me. You feel so good, baby."

He thrust up into her harder, faster, deeper than before and French felt herself teetering on the brink.

"Ohh, Aidan, I'm coming again," she gasped in the instant before le petit mort consumed her. Her slick walls tightened around his cock, sucking him deeper, milking him and he lost it. With a muffled roar, he came, feeling as though his soul was being torn from his body in exquisite torment. With each jet of come, he plunged into her, setting off more spasms within her. She gasped, pressed down on him with her hips, seeking closer contact, wanting to have him inside of her forever.

Francoise collapsed on top of him, feeling limp and exhausted. Aidan wrapped his arms around her, stroked his hands soothingly up and down the slim line of her back. She had surprised him tonight. She'd never been that way with him before. Sex with her had been good, great even, but he'd always felt that she held something back from him. She had tried to do that tonight, but for whatever reason, had changed her mind. Once she had decided to have him, she had consumed him with reckless abandon, reaching for what she wanted and taking it. She was a study in contrasts: cool and controlled on the outside and all fiery heat on the inside. He was more convinced than ever that he wanted her. Forever.

Francoise stirred and lifting herself wetly off of him, slid to his side and curled against him, one arm and one leg thrown across his body. She gave a bone weary, deeply satisfied sigh. Reaching up, she kissed him softly.

"G'night, Aidan," she said, sleepily.

Aidan gathered her closer, stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head and whispered, "Good night, Legs."