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Samantha knew she had to be strong and not break down and cry when her solicitor rang and told her the arrangements following Richard’s death were completed and she had lost the fight to stay in her apartment. There had been times when it seemed the heartache, the pain of Richard’s death, the misery of being confronted by his vengeful wife would overwhelm Samantha as she fought to keep what Richard had said would always be hers. But now the fight was over.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but there was nothing in Richard’s will that gives you ownership. He paid the mortgage but he didn’t leave it to you in his will.”
Sam did her best to be defiant. “I take it no one’s going to mind if I go away for a few days? I mean can anyone change the locks or anything?”
“Oh God, no. You have three months before you’re required to vacate. Legally no one can do anything during that time.” The solicitor paused. Then he asked, “What were you thinking of doing?”
Sam wondered if he really cared. “I’m not sure yet. I just want to get away. Escape from all the memories.”
“That sounds like a good idea. It’ll give you time to think everything over so you can start rebuilding your life when you get back.”
Sam didn’t want to think about rebuilding or even returning. As soon as she said the words she knew she wanted to get as far away from London as she could. And she knew exactly where she was going.
In the space of an hour she had gathered her passport and credit cards, dressed in a cashmere sweater and jeans, packed a suitcase, rung the magazine she worked for as a freelance editor and told them she was going on holiday and would take the manuscripts she was working on with her. She backed her car out of the garage and headed for Portsmouth and the ferry services to the west coast of France.
Sam wanted to go back to the place she remembered from her teenage years, on holiday with her parents and intent on learning about the wonders of other places, other peoples, and other cultures. She longed to recapture some of that innocence, walking the beaches and cliffs of the Côte Sauvage, the windswept southern coast of Brittany that has been battered by the mountainous waves of the eastern Atlantic for thousands of years.
* * * * *
Leaning against a rail on the deck outside the passenger lounge, enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair, Sam offered a silent prayer of thanks the sea was smooth; the waves turning a golden orange as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon. She could hear the dull throb of the engines and see the trail of white foam thrown up behind the ship. In only seven hours she would be driving south from St-Malo, every kilometer taking her further away from the sadness that had enveloped her since Richard’s death.
“Your hair looks very beautiful in the setting sun,” a voice said, and Sam turned.
“Oh?” she said to the young man standing behind her with a slight smile on his face.
“Yes. If you don’t mind my saying so.” He spoke English with a strong French accent.
Sam noticed he dropped his gaze unashamedly from her face to her breasts. “I suppose not,” she said and started to walk away.
“Oh, it is purely an artistic impression,” the young man said quickly. “I am an artist so I can’t help noticing feminine beauty.”
Something made Sam stop. She knew she was being rude to the young Frenchman and it suddenly felt nice to be paid a compliment.
“It’s kind of you to say so,” she said, her voice softer.
Sam took in the thick mass of black, wavy hair the young man kept sweeping back from his face with his right hand. His fingers were long and slender, those of an artist. His eyes were blue behind tortoiseshell glasses, his smile natural and unforced. He did not look like someone who made a habit of picking up women with casual compliments.
The young man stepped forward and pulled open the door of the lounge.
“My name is Alain Bazon. Can I buy you a cognac –?”
“Samantha. Sam. Yes, all right, that would be nice.” She went to sit down at a table while he made his way over to the bar.
Alain bought the drinks and said as he joined her, “It is a shame you shorten your name to something so masculine. Samantha is so much nicer than Sam.”
“I was named after an aunt.”
“It is still a beautiful name,” Alain said, raising his glass to her.
“Is everything beautiful for you?” Sam said sharply, regretting immediately it sounded like a criticism. But she went on, “My hair, my name –“
“Merely as beautiful as the woman who carries them,” Alain said.
Sam was about to laugh when she saw he was being serious. There was no way she would describe herself as beautiful. She knew she was attractive, and her hair was a lustrous golden-blonde, but she thought her breasts were too big for her petite frame, her tummy was rounded and her bottom was plump and curvy. Sam sighed as she remembered Richard telling her how much he adored her body; it seemed like forever since her lover had made her cry out in the blissful Malatya Escort release of orgasm.
“Don’t tell me. In a moment you’ll find the courage to ask if you can sketch me in the nude. Just slip out of those clothes, Madame, you’ll say, and I will immortalize you. Before I ravish you, of course.”
Alain laughed. “Oh, please, Sam…nothing so predictable. A true artist would not combine the two. He would sketch single-mindedly until the portrait was finished. There would be no thought in his mind for lovemaking until he put down his charcoal.”
His eyes held Sam’s and he lowered his voice theatrically. “However, once the work was done and he was sharing a drink with his gorgeous model who would compliment him on the accuracy of his portraiture, she might well be happy to thank him in whatever way seemed appropriate…”
Sam couldn’t help smiling. She was flattered Alain was trying so hard to seduce her.
Alain smiled and shrugged. “That, at least, is the fantasy,” he said lightly. “Not to mention owning a huge studio apartment in the center of Paris and selling my paintings to a world-famous dealer for millions of Euros.”
Sam laughed with genuine amusement. “It’s nice to have dreams when you’re young.”
Alain gave her a piercing look and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing.
“Sam, I am 24 and you are no more than ten or fifteen years older than me, and it is obvious from the absence of wedding ring you are not the ‘Madame’ you claim to be.”
“You’re very perceptive,” she said.
“An artist’s eye for detail. Now, it is your turn to buy the cognac as I am a struggling artist, and I would be very willing to listen if you wanted to talk.”
“Oh god, there’s no way I want to tell you my life story,” Sam said dismissively. But she still found herself buying a bottle rather than just two more drinks, deciding it wasn’t everyday a handsome young Frenchman was prepared to listen while she explained why she was running away from everything and everyone she had ever known.
* * * * *
Sam couldn’t recall the moment she stopped talking and drifted off to sleep, but she woke to find her head resting in Alain’s lap and felt his hand lying across her chest, his hand cupping the weight of her left breast. For a moment she wondered whether to be offended but then decided she liked the feeling of Alain’s warm fingers holding her. The bar was empty, the bartender gone.
“Bonjour,” a voice said from above her. “There is just time for coffee and croissants before we dock.”
She sat up, a little embarrassed for having fallen asleep on the young Frenchman although he seemed quite unconcerned.
“God, I must look a fright,” she said and ran her fingers through her tousled hair.
“Of course not. You are –” he started to say and Sam cut him off.
“I know. Beautiful.”
Alain grinned, and Sam couldn’t help wishing for a moment their time together could have been longer. The phrase ‘strangers passing in the night’ came to her mind.
She led the way to the top deck café, now serving breakfast, and asked, “Where are you headed when we dock? Is someone meeting you?”
“I am going home. To Auray,” Alain said. “It is a pretty town in southern Brittany. I must hitchhike because I am a penniless artist.”
“I’m going to the Côte Sauvage,” Sam said, keeping her voice light. “And I have a car. I could give you a lift if you like?”
Alain shook his head. “I could not impose, Sam,” he said.
“Why?” Sam guessed his protest was for show but she played along. “I’ve said I’m going that way.”
“Yes. To forget for a while,” Alain said, his voice full of sorrow for her. He paused and then said, “Alright, that would be most kind. And my father will be only too happy to provide a room for you.”
“Oh but I couldn’t –” Sam started to say, thinking Alain meant in a private house.
Alain shook his head. “He is the patron of the best hotel in Auray. Very small but très chic and he is a true artist in the kitchen. Papa will repay you for the kindness of your giving me a lift.”
“That sounds perfect,” Sam said. And she meant it.
* * * * *
Sam smiled at Alain’s skeptical look when he saw she was driving a Porsche, but he visibly relaxed when he saw how skillfully she drove out of St. Malo and on to the N137 south towards Rennes. They stopped for lunch just outside the city and then Sam turned southwest towards Vannes and Auray, driving into the small riverside town around four in the afternoon.
Following Alain’s directions, Sam drove carefully down a steep cobbled street that brought them out at a picturesque stone bridge across a river. There was a half-timbered building on the other side with tables and chairs outside.
“This is the old quarter, St. Goustan,” Alain said. “There is the hotel. Will you park in front while I go in for a moment? I will not be long.”
“Yes. Of course.” Sam wondered how Papa would react to Alain having brought an unexpected female guest.
Alain’s Malatya Escort Bayan father turned out to be warm and welcoming, kissing Sam on both cheeks. He picked up her bags and led the way to a tastefully furnished room with a view of the river winding slowly and gently downstream.
“Oh this is perfect, Monsieur Bazon. Thank you,” Sam said, genuinely pleased.
“Please, call me Philippe, Samantha. You will join us for dinner? I hope you will not mind sharing a drink with Alain beforehand because we do not eat until after I have attended to my guests.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I look forward to it.”
Philippe Bazon smiled and left the room and Sam started to unpack, amazed to find herself happily humming a French melody she remembered from a holiday she had taken with her parents a lifetime ago.
* * * * *
The night was warm and dry. Sam walked down to the hotel’s bar wearing only a light cotton print skirt and a sleeveless cardigan buttoned up the front. Although her breasts were too big for her not to wear a bra she still went without, wanting to be unfettered, free, to have the pleasure of feeling her nipples rubbing against the gorgeously soft wool. It was part of her new persona, a sensuous woman who didn’t feel self-conscious wearing nothing under her sweater and skirt.
Alain was waiting for her and Sam felt a little thrill of sexual desire when she saw his smile of pleasure at seeing her. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and dark brown corduroy pants. He looked tanned, handsome, every inch the young artist, carefree and delighted to respond to her need for romance and laughter.
“I ordered you a Kir Royale,” Alain said and handed her the mix of crème de cassis and white wine. It was strong and fragrant and Sam loved the way the alcohol instantly relaxed her, made her alive to the sound of the river, the smells drifting in from the dining room, the coolness of the leather seat against the cheeks of her bottom, bare beneath her skirt. The thrill of desire she felt earlier grew stronger and her cunt felt creamy, making her aware of how long it had been since she had been fucked. Her arousal suddenly made her possessive as she listened to Alain’s stories about his life in Paris.
“And are there girls, a girlfriend?” she asked.
“No one special,” he said. “No one who would miss me if I was not there.”
“That’s a pity,” Sam said, and Alain smiled at her.
They talked until Philippe called them for dinner and served gigot of lamb and locally grown vegetables. The food and wine were superb and Sam joined with Alain’s toast to his father, agreeing his son had not exaggerated his skill in the kitchen. Philippe Bazon glowed with pleasure, delighted by the compliment.
“Will you come for a walk with me?” Alain asked when they had finished eating and Sam emptied her coffee cup.
She looked across at Philippe, half-hoping he would object. The wine had lowered her inhibitions and she was enjoying having not one but two attractive Frenchmen treat her as the center of attention.
“But of course, you must,” said Philippe, smiling at her. “You should see the gardens of the ruined monastery. They are beautiful in the moonlight and it is said to be haunted from the time when Brittany had its own kings.”
“That would be lovely,” Sam said, grateful Philippe showed no resentment at the attention his son was paying her.
She followed Alain as he led the way out of the hotel and toward the bridge over the river. When they reached the mid-point he stopped and leaned over, watching the waters as they swirled away into the darkness.
“When I was young I used to come here all the time,” he said. “I would talk to my mother in my mind and believe the river carried my words to her.”
Sam asked, “What happened to her?”
“She died in an accident. A speeding police car left the road and smashed her car into a wall. Papa bought the hotel with the compensation we were given by the government. I hardly knew her: I was only three when she was killed.”
“There is no need for you to be,” Alain said and Sam saw him smile in the glow of the overhead streetlight. “I only told you because standing here reminded me.”
“Did it work, the river carrying your words?”
“I like to think so,” Alain said and smiled. He started walking and Sam followed him up the cobbled street to the town square. There was a blaze of light from a bar that was still open and two old men were sitting on chairs outside, talking softly.
“Bonsoir,” Alain called as he and Sam walked past.
They came to an iron gate in a high wall between two buildings. Alain pushed it open and said, “Here. This is the entrance to the monastery gardens.”
Sam followed him, her senses suddenly filled with the scent of blossom on the night air. What was it Philippe had said? That the garden was full of ghosts from medieval times? Sam felt as if a much more recent ghost was standing beside her. The remembrance that she had so often shared Escort Malatya such experiences with Richard was very strong as she walked with Alain along a gravel pathway between neatly mown lawns and rhododendron bushes heavy with flowers. Sam walked over to an iron-framed bench, resting her hands on the back as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the smells and the silence.
Alain came up behind her and bent his head into the curve of her neck, his lips barely touching against the smooth skin. Sam let out a soft sigh and Alain kissed her neck more firmly, sliding his lips up under her hair to the lobe of her ear. He bit it gently, making Sam shiver with renewed arousal. Instinctively she moved her legs apart and leaned back against his chest, unresisting as his hands closed over the fullness of her breasts, cupping them through her cardigan.
Sam opened her eyes and tried to turn so she and Alain could kiss but he held her with his body against the back of the bench. She gasped when he started opening the buttons of her cardigan and exposed her heavy breasts, filling his hands with their soft weight, caressing them and rolling the stiff tips of her nipples between his fingers. She felt him press the hardness of his cock into the furrow between her buttocks and realized she was moments away from being fucked.
“Alain…please,” Sam said softly, her voice betraying her desire. “I want to, but not here. Can we go back to the hotel?”
“Of course,” and he released her from his embrace and stood back so Sam could button her cardigan.
The sense of unease Sam felt in the gardens lessened with every step she took towards the hotel. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the guest rooms Alain paused for a moment and said, “I must just say goodnight to Papa.”
Sam leaned over to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Thank him for inviting me to stay,” she said softly.
“It is our pleasure. I hope you will remain for as long as you like. At least until you find the peace you are looking for.”
Sam smiled but didn’t reply.
She walked to her room and closed the door behind her, leaving the light off and the curtains open so she could stand and watch the river, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. There was a soft tap and Sam drew Alain into the moonlit room and put two fingers on his lips as a signal not to speak.
She watched Alain’s face as she unbuttoned the sleeveless cardigan and drew it off her shoulders. Then she hooked her fingers inside the waist of her print skirt and pushed it down over her hips. As she did so, Sam shook her hair to fan it across her shoulders and down her back, the movement making her breasts jiggle and sway.
“Now you,” she said softly as she sat on the bed, her face level with his groin.
Alain stood in front of her and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his pants. He dropped it on the floor and stood with his hands by his sides as Sam reached up and ran her hands down along the smooth skin of his neck and across the muscles of his chest. She moved her hands lower, marveling at the flatness of his stomach, delighting in the warm smell coming from his skin. She put her lips to it, wanting to taste his flesh, the taut muscles rippling in response as she opened her lips and trailed her tongue across the smooth surface.
The Frenchman rested his hands gently on her head as Sam reached for the buckle of his belt. She flicked the clasp, ran the zip down, and opened his pants. His cock was already hard, the head protruding above the waistband of his briefs. She hooked her fingers inside the waistband of his pants and briefs and pushed them both down his legs. He quickly stepped out of them and kicked them away. The movement made his cock quiver and sway and then it stood out hard and straight from his groin, the tip throbbing, precum dripping from the glans.
For a long moment Sam stared at Alain’s cock. She loved its size, the smell of it. She wanted to taste it, make love to it with her mouth, suck his sperm from it. She stretched her arms up to lay her hands on his chest, spreading her body into an attitude of worship as she opened her lips and sucked as much of his cock into her mouth as she could.
Slowly and carefully Sam worked her ovaled lips down the length of Alain’s cock, working the glans past her palate. She still hadn’t captured all of him when the head entered her throat, his cock filling her mouth with its heat and salty flavor, semen trickling down her throat and into her stomach. He tasted wonderful.
Bit by bit, Sam released the saliva-slick length of Alain’s cockshaft from the confines of her mouth. She swirled her mouth round the swollen head when it appeared, pressing her lips against the ridge behind his glans to squeeze out delicious droplets of sperm which she swallowed. Then she took him back into her throat, inhaling the masculine scent of his pubic hair and pendant balls.
A low groan of pleasure escaped the Frenchman’s chest and he bent at the waist to reach under Sam’s outstretched arms to take her breasts in his hands, squeezing their weight softly in time to the movements of her head and mouth as she feasted on his cock. She gurgled with pleasure and increased the hot suction of her mouth, hollowing her cheeks to draw at the long shaft and the bulging head.
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