Book III - Chapter XI - Christian and Anastasia Fanfiction - Honeymoon in Paris

Il n’y a que deux endroits au monde où l’on puisse vivre heureux: chez soi et à Paris.

~Hemingway

CHAPTER XI

«Bienvenue à l'Hôtel de Crillon, Monsieur et Madame Grey. And may I extend my congratulations to you both. Welcome to Hotel de Crillon, sir, madam, » our hotel concierge greets us both in French and in English.

“Merci beaucoup,” I respond.

“Thank you,” Ana replies, and the middle aged, slightly balding concierge smiles at us both professionally.

“My name is Durrant Rodell. Any of us at the concierge desk would be more than happy to assist you to fulfill your requests. A simple phone call is sufficient to have one of us advise you and make all kinds of reservations for you. Theaters, concerts, museums, transportation, a French interpreter should you wish one, a guide, a chauffeur, a coiffeur, a personal trainer, anything you wish. As the concierges at Hotel de Crillon, we will do our utmost to bring you the best Paris has to offer, Monsieur and Madame Grey.

This is our hotel manager in charge Mademoiselle Elisabeth Dubois. She will escort you to your suite,” he says indicating a young woman in crisp business suit. She blinks a couple of times, and then extends her hand in greeting.

“Pleasure to meet you Monsieur and Madame Grey,” she says, and Anastasia narrows her eyes. With the movements of her jaw, I can pleasantly see that she’s gritting her teeth. She extends her hand to the hotel manager first.

“I’m Mrs. Ana Grey,” she says, then motioning towards me, she indicates, “and this is my husband, Mr. Grey,” she says.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Mademoiselle Dubois replies, and takes us to our suite. The manager's and Anastasia’s high heels click on the checkered Italian marble floors.

“Monsieur and Madame Grey, welcome to the Bernstein Suite,” she says opening the door letting us in.

“This suite was named after the famous composer who was fond of staying here. As you can see the sublime terraces offer an outstanding view of Paris and the Eiffel Tower. I hope you have a pleasant stay at l'Hôtel de Crillon. If there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know,” she says and leaves the room, after her gaze lingers on me a few seconds longer making my wife shake her head.

Anastasia stands in the middle of the living space and looks around the room curiously. The walls are covered with ornate mahogany paneling and it has classical paintings displaying French nobility. The décor is red and gold soft colors, and large marble coffee table is occupying the middle of the room. There are fresh cut pale pink roses strategically placed around the room.

  

“There’s a piano,” she says pointing at the wooden piano perfectly matching the suite’s refined, elegant and romantic feel. “That there is, Mrs. Grey,” I reply with dark eyes. “I wonder what the bedroom looks like. Come,” I say taking her hand.

 The room is quite large, about 430 square feet. But then again the entire suite is over 2600 square feet from what the brochure had told us. Red and gold décor continues into the bedroom. The décor is a mix of classic 17^th and 18^thcentury French. The sun is setting outside, and evening lights from the city is slowly seeping through the terrace door. Anastasia’s eyes widen when she sees the terrace. She quickly makes her way to the double French doors and opens them. The city is glimmering in light. Eiffel Tower is lit up and shining in all her glory. The way the tower is warmly lit, and the dark metal against the black of the night makes it an undeniably graceful sight. Thousands of bright white lights are sparking all over the tower, creating a magical scene, gracing the city of love and light with her majesty.

“This hotel...It’s like a castle Christian!” she whispers in a hushed voice. I look at my wife unblinking. 

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I love it! It’s beautiful! Is there a particular reason why you chose this hotel?” she asks after seeing the glimmer in my eyes.

“Actually, yes. The hotel was built by King Louis XV in 1758 as a palace, and of course, it’s built in the grandeur of the 18^th century architecture. I think a duke lived here. Then other nobles resided in the palace until French Revolution. It was seized at the time. In fact, the French-American treaty was signed here in 1778 which was recognizing the Act of Independence of the United States.”

 

“So, you chose it for its historical significance?” she asks me with quizzical eyes.

“Yes and no. This hotel withstood a lot of turmoil in its long history. And look how grand it made her in the end?” I say in a sweeping gesture. “I want that endurance for us. No matter what we live through, no matter what difficulties we face in life, I want us to come on top, and better than ever,” I whisper. Her lips curve in a half smile, half sadness.

“You say the most romantic things, and take my breath away, Christian,” she whispers. “And I love you for it. And I love you for being you, and I love you for loving me!” she says her eyes brimming, and she reaches up, snaking her arms around my neck.

“For you Anastasia, always hearts and flowers,” I reply. She swallows hard.

“Kiss me,” she whispers as her lips find mine. She doesn’t have to say it twice. Our lips mold into each other as we’re consumed with passion in the city of love and lights. Her hands travel into my hair and her fingers tangle and pull my hair, merging us further. Her tongue parts my lips, and forces her way into my mouth, making me gasp for more of her. I suck her tongue, caress it with mine in a lovers’ tango in my mouth, and finally push my tongue into her mouth. She groans, and hitches her right leg around my waist trying to mount me.

La Vie En Rose - Louis Armstrong

“Whoa! Ana, slow down! You’re going to unman me, baby,” I groan into her mouth.

“Please!” she begs.

“We have a dinner reservation, soon.”

“Please... I don’t care for dinner, I’m in the city of lovers!” she insists begging in my mouth.

“You want me to take you, here? On the terrace?” I ask incredulous.

 

“Please. Don’t make me beg, Christian! Because I will... You brought me to the most romantic place on earth. I want to make love to my husband!” she says nipping my lower lip and sucking it to soothe the slight sting. My breath comes hissing through my teeth.

“Fuck the dinner plans! What do you want Anastasia?” I ask with my eyes dark.

“I want you anyway I can get you...” she says giving me my own words back.

“Have me, you shall then, baby,” I reply. “We’ll utilize this bench,” I say pointing the bench with cream colored cushions. The sun has completely set, and the city lights are glimmering in the distance. The terrace is in relative darkness.

“Come,” I say my gaze darkening. I sit on the bench, and pull her onto my lap as if she’s riding. My right hand travels up her leg and my hand cups her sex over her lace panties. She moves her hips, pushing her sex into my palm, and arches her back. My erection is straining against my pants, and she’s trying to rub herself over my growing cock to get some friction. I insert my finger into the lace of her panties and rip them freeing her sex into my waiting fingers. She’s deliciously wet. Her skirt is pushed back up to her thighs and the sight of her like this on my lap is intoxicating. My left hand moves under her blouse. I slowly push it back up, and pull it off her. Her long hair falls in waves on her nearly bare back. She arches her back and pushes her breast closer to my face making me grin. My fingers dip into her bra pulling it lower freeing her breast. I repeat the process with the other breast, and her nipples stiffen with the slight evening breeze.

Anastasia shivers on my lap. My fingers skate over her breast, tantalizing her. A shiver runs through her back again and she gyrates her hips on my lap, begging for some friction. With my left hand I cup her breast, and toy with it while I capture the other one with my mouth. As my thumb circle over her nipple, my right finger mirrors the action over her clitoris. I continue to tease the other nipple with my tongue, slightly sucking, and nipping. She groans. I roll and knead her nipple between my thumb and index finger, and tug the other one between my lips. My eyes are fixed on her face. She tilts her head, eyes closed, trying to absorb all the sensation.

I flick her nipple with my tongue, and briefly letting go of it I whisper to her: “eyes open, baby. I want to see you get undone...” I murmur in a husky voice.

“Husband! Take me please,” she begs.

“All in good time baby. First I want to get you all good and soft, and ready to take me all the way in,” I reply. My lips travel to the base of her breast nipping and sucking, making strategic stops. I capture her other nipple while I squeeze her delectable derriere with my other hand, I run soft, delicious circles over them. Her right nipple is now between my lips, I slightly nip it, and just then lifting her skirt, I land a spanking on her ass, making her arch her back even in a exquisite curve and toss her nipple further into my mouth and dip my finger into her sex at the same time.

“Christian! I need you now!” she begs further. I unzip my pants quickly and my erection springs free. I lift her buttocks off my lap, and slowly place her over my aching cock and slowly bury it all the way down into her greedy sex. My cock fills, and stretches her to the max. She sits on me, balls deep and without moving her up, I swivel my hip as I keep her stationary, then I slowly lift her up. As she comes down on my cock rather hungrily, I push up and impale her deep. She meets me thrust for thrust.

“Ahhh!” she groans. Then her lips find mine. I pull and tease her nipples with one hand while I guide her buttocks with the other, and our lips are locks in a passionate love making.

“Suck me!” she groans into my mouth. She’s becoming quite the demanding Madame, of late! I grin at her hunger for me. She rides high on my cock, tilts her head back as my lips slide down to her chin, and neck then down to her breast, sucking forcefully, and I pull the other nipple between my thumb and finger elongating it. She gyrates her hips, speeds up her movements, and her sex starts contracting, squeezing deliciously inside, trying to pull my cock in deeper, milk it for all I’ve got, stroking, and teasing. When I take a deep pull on her right nipple, her sex squeezes my cock hard, stroking it, and she comes loudly in waves. As she pushes her nipple further in my mouth, her left arm leans back, holding onto my leg tight, riding me like a bronco, and it’s my undoing seeing her unravel in my mouth, and riding my cock hard with her sex. I come in thick spurts into her. As I thrust into her two more times, she finally collapses onto me, her arms wrapped around my neck and I tenderly kiss her.

When I move her off my cock, semen runs down her leg, and she bites her lip. A blush runs her cheeks Marking her that way and her lip biting is a very heady combination for me. I swoop her off the floor, holding her in my arms without even bothering to zip up and carry her into the en suite bathroom.

 

“Bath time,” I say. And this time, I want to enjoy my wife in the tub.

****❦ ♡ ❧*****

My hands seek for her in the bed. As my hand reach for the dent on the pillow her had created, I feel the cold there, and her absence wakes me up immediately. I only feel secure when she’s in the bed with me; only feel comfort when my arms and legs are draped around her upon waking up. She is my comfort zone; my safe place, and the main source of my anxiety. I quickly find a robe, and put it on and go out to look for her. She’s not in the living room, or the dining room.

Did she go out without telling me? Anxiety rises in my, but I decide to check the terrace and that’s where I find her. Wrapped in a bathrobe, perched on a patio chair, gazing into the city of love.

She is looking into the distance, lost in the sights and sounds of the city; she doesn’t even realize when I stand right behind her.

“Hi,” whisper slowly as to not to scare her. She turns around and looks at me with her big blue eyes.

“Hi, Christian!” she says turning her head to me smiling; but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Is she worried about something?

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, unblinking. But she answers me with a question.

“Do you know what are my top ten favorite movies?” she asks still looking ahead. I shake my head without breaking my gaze, and answer a soft, "No."

“One of them is ‘Sabrina.’ Not the newer one, but the one with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. Have you ever seen it?” she asks in a distant voice.

“I don’t believe so. What is it about?” I ask trying to hide my rising anxiety.

“There is a girl named Sabrina Fairchild who lives over the garage at the Larrabee's palatial Long Island estate. She has a crush on David, who is the young Larrabee heir and a playboy. She grows up watching their lavish parties and balls the family throws from a nearby tree. Her father is British and is the chauffeur of the family. When he discovers her crush on David, he disapproves because they’re not of the same stock, and packs her off to Paris so she can learn to cook like her mother who died a long time ago. She goes off to Paris for a couple of years. She can’t cook, but she learns elegance, sophistication and charm which turn out to be her thing. She comes back home with a chic haircut, a smart suit making her look very grown up, and a French poodle. She looks so stunning and David is taken by her.

Her father tells Sabrina...” she says and pauses, her eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, " 'he’s still David Larrabee, and you’re still the chauffeur’s daughter. And you’re still reaching for the moon.' To which she responds, ‘no, father. The moon is reaching for me.’ But his family is bent out of shape with this attraction because they want him to marry a nice rich girl so the wealth of the families merge. David has an older brother Linus – a Yale graduate,” she says looking at me, “who also realizes what a radiant creature Sabrina has become. But of course, Linus and his hardliner father will do anything to end the romance and Linus decides to get Sabrina out of the way so his brother can marry the rich girl.”

“What an ass!” I reply. She smiles a little, and continues with the story.

“Linus manipulates Sabrina throughout. He essentially becomes Sabrina’s chaperon and his feelings begins to change all around. The moment Linus begins to realize he is in love with Sabrina, his success feels hollow and so does his life as a result. You know the old adage, love conquers all. Linus sends her off to Paris, and he’s supposed to be coming along, but of course he doesn't. His initial goal was just to get rid of her, and then he has a change of heart...he follows her, goes after her. And the rest is history. Paris is their savior,” she says and shrugs.

“Ana, what made you think of this movie?” I ask cautiously.

“Can’t you see?” she asks.

“No, I can’t. What is it am I supposed to be seeing?”

“I’m Sabrina in a way. You brought me to this beautiful city, to this opulence,” she says gesturing around. “I might as well be your chauffer’s daughter. I have nothing, and yet you... you still wanted me. You love me... And I’m completely, utterly, and helplessly in love with you, Christian Grey! I don’t know what I would do if you didn't want me. If you didn't love me or stopped loving me, I would simply die,” she says, her eyes misting and looks up at me.

“Baby! Why...” I say, but don’t get a chance to finish my sentence. Anastasia hurls herself at me, and our lips meet. When we stop kissing, we’re both breathless.

“None of this 'I may not want you' nonsense, anymore! There is no one else I would ever, could ever want besides you! You’re the one for me Ana. Don’t you see that baby? This is our honeymoon. What brought this on?” I ask.

“Just the overwhelming extravagance, my unbelievably handsome, loving husband... I just felt unworthy of you all of a sudden. It’s still like a dream to me. I’m so scared that I will wake up and you will disappear. I love you so much, it scares me, Christian,” she says her eyes brimming; her thoughts mirroring mine.

“I love you more than you can ever imagine, Ana. Now, let’s go have breakfast, and then you and I will explore the city of love,” I say smiling pulling her in my embrace.

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

“What will we see first?” she asks excitedly as we are being driven in the car. We are in a Mercedes SUV. Taylor is in the front sitting next to one of our French security details Philippe. Gaston, his twin brother is already on location, doing a sweep. I hold Anastasia’s hand in mine, and look at her.

My answer to her question may be unoriginal but it’s completely truthful, “The Eiffel Tower.”

“Not the Louvre, or Champs-Elysées, or Arch de Triomphe or Notre Dame or Versailles Palace?” she asks grinning.

“We will see those as well, but I want to show you what inspired me in college. The Eiffel tower helped me understand the principle of unity; because it has a masterful combination of industry and grace. That’s why I made sure that industrial elegance and curves were incorporated in the Grey House. Beauty of the curved line can balance the cold rigidity of metal. And of course the view from atop is to die for!”

“Do we have a guide?” she asks.

“Of course,” I reply smiling.

“But you seem to know Paris so well. Why the guide?”

“So, I can observe my wife enjoying herself in this magical city,” I reply truthfully.

When we arrive at the Eiffel Tower, Gaston is waiting with our middle aged guide. He’s a man in his 50s. He’s wearing business casual. He’s not a very tall man, in fact slightly shorter than Anastasia. He has a warm demeanor and a knowledgeable presence. He smiles warmly and professionally giving both of us an equal amount of his attention.

“Bonjour Monsieur et Madame Grey! How do you do? I am Jaques Painlevé. I will be your guide this morning.”

“Thank you,” we both say at the same time.

“Allow me to introduce you one of the most recognizable structures in the world; the Eiffel Tower. She is 324 meters tall and it is about 1,063 feet in your measurements. It was completed at the end of the 19^th century and became the tallest structure in the world at that time, and it was until 1930 when the Americans built the Chrysler Building. The man behind the tower was Gustave Eiffel, and it was built for the World Exhibition in 1889. She held in the celebration of the French Revolution in 1789. Did you know that while the Eiffel Tower is a steel structure, and weighs approximately 10,000 tons, it actually has a relatively low density, weighing less than a cylinder of air occupying the same dimensions as the tower?” he asks and looks over his rather large eye glasses that were left over from 1980s for an effect. Anastasia gets curious and asks:

"How could 10,000 tons of steel weigh less than a cylinder of air occupying the same dimensions as the tower?” Painlevé’s eyes light up like a student who studied hard for an test and the question he was hoping was asked is in the exam.

“Ah, the Madame is interested in the sciences!" he gushes rubbing his hands together. "It shall be my happy duty to educate you on the topic. The metal structure combined with the non-metal components of the tower weigh approximately 10,000 pounds. 7,300 tons of it is metal. If you were to melt down all the metal, it would fill the 125 square base to a depth of only 6 centimeters which is about 2.36 inches assuming a density of the metal to be 7.8 tons per cubic meter. The tower has a mass less than the mass of the air contained in a cylinder of the same dimensions that is 324 meters high and 88.3 meters in radius. The weight of the tower is 10,100 tons compared to 10,265 tons of air,” he says grinning to have explained it to its scientific specifications.

Anastasia turns her back to him and looks up at me as her eyes lit up and she's stifling her giggles.

“What?” I whisper quizzical.

“He’s just like an older, much shorter and French Sheldon Cooper,” she says smiling.

“Who is Sheldon Cooper? An ex-boyfriend of yours from your Physics class?” I whisper through gritted teeth.

“No, silly!” she giggles more. Monsieur Painlevé blinks and looks quizzical without knowing what we are whispering about. I shake my head. “She’s just making an observation,” I say for his benefit, and he smiles politely in response. Then I turn my back to the guide, look down at Anastasia and ask her:

“Ana, you’re driving me crazy! Who the hell is Sheldon Cooper?” I ask my gaze fixed on her darkly. She smiles and answers.

“Hold on to your hair Mr. Grey. No one you should be worried about. He’s a character from a TV show called ‘The Big Bang Theory’. He’s a geeky theoretical physicist who is always very egotistical and he often brags about his smarts, totally lacks social skills, weary of germs, and physical contact, introverted, and always makes an observation or makes a statement that no one understands or even cares for that matter, like, ‘What part of an inverse tangent approaching an asymptote don’t you understand?’" she says imitating a masculine voice.

"When our guide inserted the math facts of the tower, I thought he reminded me of Sheldon’s character, and I was right," she shrugs, but my gaze gets darker on her. She frowns, "And, for heaven’s sake, stop looking at me like that!” she hisses scolding me. “Can’t I make an observation without you getting jealous of a fictional character?” she murmurs and I sigh.

“Please remember that I only have one type; and that’s Christian Grey,” she whispers. I hold her hand tightly and turn to our guide. Motioning him to go on.

“The best view is of course observed from the third floor,” he says in his French accent. “Shall we?” he indicates the entrance with his right hand. We take the elevator to the third floor and finally the city of Paris is spread before us in all her magnificence.

“Behold the beauty that is Paris,” says Monsieur Painlevé. He talks about the history, and the people involved in creating this masterpiece. Then he leaves us to ourselves to enjoy the spectacular view Paris from third floor of the tower. Once our tour is over, we eat lunch at the Le Jules Verne’s Restaurant located on the tower’s second level. The place is booked weeks in advance at times which is why our reservation has been made before we arrived in Paris. It has a great wine selection, and exceptional French cuisine.

But the highlight of the day is the Versailles. Painlevé meets us at Chateau de Versailles.

“Bienvenue sur le château de Versailles," he says. “The Château de Versailles is a rags to riches story among Baroque architecture,” explains Monsieur Painlevé as his eyebrows steeple, and he pushes his glasses back up on his nose once again.

“The palace and the surrounding gardens are spectacular and exquisite in detail; but it stood in the middle of a field which once was neglected. The inspiration of these gardens came from the Italian renaissance, but of course Italians would have never reached that opulence or magnificence as the French would,” he adds proudly.

Anastasia clears her throat. “Mr. Painlevé, don’t you think that statement is a little racist?” she asks.

He blinks at her as if she started speaking in pig Latin. “Not unless it’s the truth Madame. Truth cannot be construed as racist, which by the way is a very American expression. It’s not perceived as such here. Even Italians know that. You know how the saying goes, Madame. Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks are French,” he says proudly, “the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian –of course I dare say that French make better lovers than Italians, but I digress- and it’s all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the police are German, cooks are English, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss and it’s all organized by the Italians,” he says.

“I’m quite sure Italians make great cooks as well,” challenges Anastasia.

“Oh, that’s debatable Madame. What do they have? Pizza and pasta… I can’t think of anything else.”

“I love pizza and pasta,” replies Anastasia completely amused teasing the hell out of this man who takes her jokes seriously.

“Mon Dieu! Monsieur Grey! You must immediately introduce the young lady to real food. She has been deprived!”

“I was told that Italians taught French how to cook. Was I misinformed?” Anastasia asks innocently, and Painlevé’s hand immediately goes up to his mouth to stifle a gasp. I squeeze Anastasia’s hand to remind her to slow down to save the poor man from having a heart attack and protect the Gaelic and American relationships. Taylor is trying very hard to hide his grin as the French security twins are looking impassive.

“I would say you were grossly, egregiously misinformed Madame! French cuisine is famous for its sauces, bread, cheese and wines. I shall immediately refer you and Monsieur Grey to some French restaurants where you can experience the true magnificence of the French cookery,” he says fervently.

“What do you think about the Greek food?” Anastasia asks, changing directions.

He sighs, “Greeks are such a great civilization. To be fair ma’am, they gave us democracy, science, and little cubes of charred meat that taste like sweat. It is a known fact that French cookery is superior over all of the cuisines in the world.”

Anastasia’s eyes first go wide with his answer, shocked, but also dance with mischief as if she’s having great fun while starting World Kitchen Wars I. It’s time to stop her.

“As enticing as the culinary discussion you two are having, I’d like to see the grandeur of this French architecture,” I say pointedly. I pull Anastasia’s hand and she’s flush on my side.

“What’s gotten into you? You were about to give that poor man a coronary and perhaps start the World Kitchen Wars I,” I state in a slow, forbidding voice into her ear.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either,” she says biting her lip. “I feel like a troublemaker. I just couldn't stop,” she whispers back. I narrow my eyes on her.

"Maybe you need to be spanked, Mrs. Grey,” I whisper into her ear, and hear, rather than see her hitching breath.

“I’ve been a bad girl. Perhaps a punishment is in order, Mr. Grey,” she whispers in a husky voice, flushing.

By the time we get inside the castle, Anastasia’s amazed with all the opulent, gilt splendor of the eighteenth century palace, and she utters, “I am completely in love with Versailles!” utterly taken by her surroundings, and it is apparent that she's all forgiven by our tour guide.

After our guide gives us a tour of the Palace, he bids us his adieu before leaving us to wander through the place on our own. He shakes Anastasia’s hand, then shakes mine saying, “you have in your possession a very outspoken, a very passionate spouse, sir. I congratulate you! She must have French in her ancestry. I am therefore honored to meet you both,” he says and takes his leave. I am completely baffled and taken aback how Anastasia affects the other people.

“Come, Mrs. Grey, let me show you what other megalomaniacs do for the women they love,” I say darkly and take her into the Hall of Mirrors. The early afternoon light floods through the windows to the west, lighting up the mirrors that line the east wall and illuminating the gold leaf décor and the enormous crystal chandeliers. Anastasia is completely mesmerized, as if she’s in a spectacular dream from which she doesn’t want to wake up.

“Yes, it is interesting to see what becomes of a despotic megalomaniac who isolates himself in such splendor,” she murmurs as I’m standing by her side. She’s trying to get a rise out of me on top of what she has done to poor Monsieur Painlevé.

I gaze down at her cocking my head to one side. “Your point, Mrs. Grey?” I ask with humor.

“Oh, merely making an observation, Mr. Grey,” she says waving her hand airily at the surroundings. I smirk at her response following her to the center of the room where she stands and gawks at the view. There’s something amazing in this picture. The view of the spectacular gardens glimmer in the mirrors, but then also my stunning wife’s image is reflected back on every single mirror. I gaze at her boldly, darkly, salaciously. She’s completely, incredibly and utterly beautiful, especially with the way the light is accentuating her chestnut hair.

“I would build this for you,” I whisper. “Just to see the way the light burnishes your hair, right here, right now,” I say in a low, husky voice as I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You look like an angel,” a mischievous angel, but an angel nonetheless. I kiss her right below her earlobe, and taking her hand I murmur, “We despots do that for the women we love." She flushes, still shy when she receives a compliment. I follow her through the room, and when she turns back to me with desire in her eyes, I hold her face gently in my hands, and kiss her with all I’ve got, our embrace reflected in every single mirror like Rodin’s “The Kiss” statue.

When we break our kiss, she whispers, “You’re very brazen Mr. Grey.”

I smile at her salaciously and admiringly. “We’re in the city of love, in a palace built on a piece of neglected land which used to be a small hunting lodge, but Louis XIV restructured the location into an icon of absolute power and timeless domination – sort of like my less than humble beginnings,” I say shrugging.

“And what you are now…” she adds. I smile at her but my smile doesn’t reach my eyes. My gaze is focused on her. “Did you know that there are 357 mirrors, 17 glass doors, marble walls, chandeliers, and splendid paintings in the ceiling: it creates a heavenly splendor which of course was the Sun King’s intent here. But you Ana, standing here... you are like the brightest shining jewel of all. The sight of you in here, looking at me like this...with love and admiration is a sight simply breathtaking in its majesty. I’m simply awed, Ana. You do that to me,” I whisper softly. She swallows hard, and her arms snake around my neck.

“Take me back to the hotel, or find a private room in this palace, I don’t care which. Right now, I’d be completely happy if you just took me down here,” she whispers wanton.

“Mrs. Grey, you've become completely insatiable. What have I created here?” I reply with a grin.

“Would you have me any other way, Mr. Grey?” she asks smiling.

“I’ll have you any way I can, baby… Any possible way I can. Come, let’s go,” I say and we take off to the Hotel de Crillon.

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

“Get in your comfy clothes, and walking shoes, baby,” I remind her in the morning.

“Where are we going today?” she asks excitedly after breakfast.

“It’s a surprise,” I grin.

She groans in response. “Baby, this is a remarkable city with so much to do. You can spend a lifetime here and still not have seen or experienced everything. Ernest Hemingway lived in Paris, and he said, ‘If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is movable feast.’ That single sentence captures everything about Paris. I want this to be an experience you will never forget. He also said, ‘Il n’y a que deux endroits au monde où l’on puisse vivre heureux: chez soi et à Paris.’ “ I say in French slowly. She looks at me enamored. Her chest is rising up and down quickly to accommodate her rising passion. She’s flushed. She gazes at me darkly as she walks around the table to stand before me:

“I have no idea what you said, but it sounded so hot, I feel like hurling myself at you!” she whispers licentiously.

“I said that ‘there are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris.’ I was quoting Hemingway. But once you are bitten by the love of Paris, there’s just no cure for it. You’re in love with this city for life,” I say grinning, and turning my chair towards her direction so she can sit on my lap, cowgirl style. She wraps her arms around me, and we are lost in our kiss, until Taylor discreetly comes in and clears his throat.

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

“Musée du Louvre is one of the greatest museums in the world,” I explain Anastasia.

“What? Are we not utilizing Monsieur Painlevé’s mean guiding skills?” she asks smiling, batting her eyelashes innocently.

 “No. I decided that you've given him hard enough time yesterday, and the poor man deserved a bit of a break from you. You’re too much to handle,” I say grinning, and she bites her lip in response. I release her lip with a tug of her chin, and whisper, “Luckily, I like you that way.”

“Why luckily, Mr. Grey?” she asks narrowing her eyes.

“Let’s just say that, it turns me on; makes me feel alive.”

“It’s not fair, you know!” she whispers.

“What’s not fair?” I ask.

“That you turn me on in an overly crowded, one of the world’s biggest, most famous museums, leaving me hot and bothered!” she says slowly exhaling, trying to calm herself down. I grin wide, and feel so much alive and in love with my wife.

“Let me show you some of my favorite exhibits here,” I say and pull her in the direction of the Department of Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities: Hellenistic Art. I bring her in front of the statue of Aphrodite.

“Venus de Milo,” she whispers.

“Yes. According to the Greek mythology, Aphrodite is the Greek goddess and sexual rapture. She was born from the foam of the sea in Cyprus. She, as you can see has supernatural beauty. Zeus was afraid that the male gods would fight over her, creating problems. So he married her to Hephaestus, the dour and ugly god of fire and smithing. He was overjoyed at being married to the goddess of beauty and he forged beautiful jewelry, and a cestus, a girdle for her. But of course that just made her more irresistible to men. The cestus was recognized as a symbol for its magical powers to compel love, strengthen her potent sexual attractiveness. She was unhappy, of course, for having married someone without her will, and soon took companionship from other gods and even mortals. She was a lover of Ares, the god of war; Adonis, the god of beauty and desire, and also Anchises who was seduced by Aphrodite and was a mortal lover of the goddess.

She was also believed to be the cause of the Trojan War after making Paris fall in love with Helene. Her seductions and temptations were a constant source of pleasure and danger both for Gods and mortals who fell under her captivating spell. They were robbed of their wits, and enticed into actions they would not normally take. She was a combination of pleasure and danger. Aphrodite was not bad. She was just in love with love. She was incredibly passionate with love and a helpless romantic. Look at her face…”I point.

“It’s timeless and emotionless. Her elongated silhouette is very sensual, realistic yet other worldly. Even though the sculptor was seeking to create the divine beauty,” I say walking around the statue, and pointing at her, “this timeless masterpiece created a fine answer to the eternal quest for beauty we all have. The result is this goddess of love and beauty, born out of the foam of the sea.”

She looks at the statue carefully, jealously.

“You are my Aphrodite, Anastasia. You’re the timeless love and beauty that belongs to me. You’re the masterpiece…” I say to her reverentially.

 “Why…” she says and stops looking at the statue. “Why do you think that we’re all mesmerized by such beauty? Even I can’t take my eyes off of her…” she comments.

“It’s simple. We can all appreciate the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film. Beauty is pleasing to the eye. A masterpiece of God’s creation, and we like to see the reflection of it in captivated forms such as these…” I explain.

She nods, and smiles.

“I am in total awe of your knowledge, and your confidence, and your Adonic beauty, Christian.”

“Adonic beauty?” I ask grinning.

 "Yes! I think you are a masterpiece. A masterpiece that belongs to me…” she whispers. “I think if they've made a statue of you, people would be gazing at him five thousand years from now and admiring the masterpiece of God’s creation that you are. I just hope the title says, ‘Mrs. Anastasia Grey’s husband’,” she says smiling brightly.

“I like that title, Mrs. Grey. I like it a lot.”

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

“Mr. and Mrs. Grey! It is a pleasure to have you on board of the Fair Lady. My name is Nicholas Perri; I’m a former captain myself, but now the shore manager to the Fair Lady. This is Captain David Madison,” he indicates a lean blonde man with a crisp Captain’s uniform who extends and shakes my hand firmly, then shakes Anastasia’s hand, saying, “ma’am.”

“And this here is your First Mate of the Fair Lady, Alain Benoît,” he indicates a dark haired, tall young man  about my age, who smiles brightly, and proffers his hand first to Anastasia, and croons:

“Enchantée Mademoiselle, welcome aboard,” he says professionally, but I don’t miss the slight gleam in his eyes; he’s taken by my wife. Sure enough he takes Anastasia’s hand, and kisses the back of it.

My eyes are fixed on him. I bet you are delighted! He purposefully calls her Miss. I make sure he know that she’s Mrs. Grey, my wife.

“Elle est Madame Grey. Ma femme! Je suis M. Grey. Son mari!” I wedge myself between his arm and my wife’s hand.

“Je m’excuse, Monsieur Grey,” fucker apologizes, and adds, “Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer. Bienvenue à bord.” Sure you do! Bastard!

“Moi aussi.”I say as my gaze is firmly fixed on him. Then I turn to the shore manager, and indicating a private corner, I say, “A word, Mr. Perri.”

“Please, call me Nick, Mr. Grey.”

I give a slight, imperceptible nod to Taylor, who leads Anastasia away to distract her by saying, “this way Mrs. Grey.” Anastasia looks confused, but follows Taylor. When Perri and I walk about twenty feet away from the Captain and the First Mate, I turn the full intensity of my gaze on the shore manager:

“I don’t want Benoît on the ship during our stay. I’d like you to appoint another First Mate for this week.”

“I beg your pardon Mr. Grey? Has he offended you in any way? I assure you sir; his show of manners is purely French and not outside of the norm here.”

“Don’t assume to give me a lesson on social norms; I know the customs having lived in France myself. I’m paying €63,000 for the charter of this vessel for the week not to mention added expenses which will grow well over €100,000. I want a different First Mate that my wife and I can be comfortable of being around.”

“Very well, sir. We will send another First Mate replacing Mr. Benoît. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“Yes,” I say smiling having resolved the problem. “What year was the ship built?”

He smiles in response. “She was built in 1928 sir, but refitted in 2005 and 2006. It took about 2 years to complete the project. She’s an English vessel, sir,” he adds proudly.

“The workmanship is exquisite,” I say assessing the vessel. “What is her length? I’m assuming it’s about 120 feet long...” I say.

“Very close sir! Her length is 121 feet and the beam is 20.3 feet and her draft is 10 feet sir.”

“What sort of engines does she have?”

“We have two 230 horse power Gardner sir which permits 10.5 knots of speed.”

“Impressive. Size of the crew?”

“Six, sir.”

“What sort of water-sports do you accommodate from the boat?”

“If I may make an observation, sir, you know your ships very well. You’re asking all the right questions. Well, we have a 5.2 meter Boston Whaler tender with 130 horsepower engine, 4 meter Avon tender with 40 horsepower engine, and two Laser sailing dinghies, two canoes, water skis and tow, snorkeling gear, and diving gear, sir, should you wish to take advantage of them.”

“We will. What sort of communications and entertainment facilities do you have on board?”

He grins in response. “You’d be pleased to know that we have Satcom and cellular communication facilities, sir. We also have Wi-Fi internet access, comprehensive audio-visual systems, satellite TV, and iPod docking stations throughout the boat, Mr. Grey. Allow me to take you and Mrs. Grey around for a tour, sir!” he says indicating with his hand, ahead, and I nod.

I walk towards my wife taking her hand, and tour the Fair Lady which will accommodate us for the last week of our honeymoon.

*****❦ ♡ ❧*****

Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine. So is Odessa. London is a teenager, an urchin, and this hasn’t changed since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman.

John Berger

L’Americain de Paris, c’est ce que l’Amerique a fait de mieux. (The American in Paris is the best American). 

F. Scott Fitzgerald

The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Next update: January 25th - Friday. I have a translation project to finish. Thank you for your patience.