Chapter 2: The challenge
The scent of bergamot and freshly ground coffee beans wrapped around Paul like a familiar, dangerous embrace. Odette’s apartment was a world away from the steel-and-glass austerity of chambers. Warm lamplight pooled on worn Persian rugs, illuminating walls crowded with vintage French theatre posters – bold reds and blacks advertising long-forgotten revues. In the corner, a grand piano, its lid closed, gleamed darkly under a single lit candle flickering in a Murano glass holder. The air hummed with quiet jazz from hidden speakers, a counterpoint to the rain whispering against the tall windows overlooking a leafy Chelsea square.
Paul stood awkwardly near the overflowing bookshelf, nursing a tumbler of expensive Scotch Odette had poured without asking. He felt oversized, clumsy amidst the curated bohemian elegance. His gaze kept drifting to her, curled like a satisfied cat on the deep velvet sofa. She wore soft cashmere trousers and a silk camisole the colour of claret, her pixie-cut hair slightly mussed, her green eyes watching him with unnerving focus over the rim of her own glass.
"Stop hovering, Paul," she murmured, her voice husky. "You look like you're waiting for sentencing." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Relax. The tribunal is adjourned for the evening."
He forced himself to sit in the armchair opposite, the leather sighing softly. The Scotch burned a welcome path down his throat. He remembered the feel of that carpet under his knees in his office just yesterday, the dizzying scent of her, the absolute silence she’d demanded and he’d willingly given. His cheeks warmed.
Odette tilted her head, studying him. "You’re thinking about yesterday," she stated, not a question. "My… urgent consultation." She took a slow sip of wine. "You were surprisingly efficient. For a barrister."
The flush deepened. He focused on the candle flame, its dance reflected in the dark piano lacquer. "It… seemed the most expedient way to resolve the matter," he managed, the words stiff, absurd.
A low chuckle escaped her. "Expedient? Mon Dieu, Paul, you make it sound like filing a motion." She uncurled herself slightly, placing her glass on the low table. "It was pleasurable. Exceptionally so." Her gaze sharpened. "You enjoyed it too. Don’t bother denying it. I felt it."
He couldn’t deny it. The memory alone tightened his gut. The surrender, the focus, the sheer rightness of it. He met her eyes, a flicker of defiance warring with profound vulnerability. "It’s… something I find… satisfying."
"Satisfying?" She arched a perfect eyebrow. "A rather tame word for the fervour you displayed." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes gleaming with predatory curiosity. "Tell me, Paul Ashworth. When did you discover that particular… aptitude?"
The question hung in the candlelit air. The jazz saxophone wailed softly. The rain intensified, drumming against the glass. Paul stared into his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. He saw not the Scotch, but the memory she’d conjured – the first time. The terrifying, exhilarating genesis of this… arrangement.
It had been months ago. After a gruelling arbitration victory she’d spearheaded, drinks had spilled over into late-night cocktails at a members' club. He’d offered her a lift home in his Jaguar. She’d invited him up "for a nightcap," her smile promising more than whisky. Her apartment then, too, smelled of coffee and old paper.
He’d been painfully awkward, perched on this very sofa, trying to make witty conversation while his pulse hammered. She’d watched him flounder, that same amused, assessing look in her eyes. Then, without preamble, she’d stood, walked over to him, and placed one small hand on his chest. He’d frozen.
"You watch me," she’d stated, her voice low, direct. "All the time. In meetings. In the corridor. At the coffee machine." Her fingers traced the line of his lapel. "You think I don't notice?"
He’d stammered something incoherent, heat flooding his face.
She’d laughed softly, not unkindly, but with absolute certainty. "It’s alright, Paul. I’m used to being watched." She’d stepped back slightly, her gaze travelling down his body and back up, lingering on his mouth. "But you… you watch differently. Like you’re hungry."
He’d been unable to speak, pinned by her perception.
Then, with a fluid movement that stole his breath, she’d gathered the skirt of her cocktail dress and hitched it up, just enough. She’d leaned back against the edge of the grand piano, one leg slightly bent. The lace trim of her stockings was stark against her skin. Her eyes held his, challenging, utterly confident.
"You want this?" she’d asked, her voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated through him. "To taste me?"
The bluntness, the sheer audacity of it, had shattered his reserve. He’d nodded, a jerky, desperate movement, his throat impossibly tight.
"Then kneel," she’d commanded, her tone brooking no hesitation. "Show me how hungry you really are."
He’d obeyed. Sank to the rug before her, the world narrowing to the triangle of lace and skin she presented. His hands trembled as he’d touched the warm silk of her thighs, pushing the fabric higher. Her scent, rich and musky, had flooded his senses. He’d hesitated only a second before pressing his mouth against her, the first tentative touch igniting a firestorm in his blood.
Afterwards, spent and trembling, he’d remained kneeling, his forehead resting against her thigh. Her fingers had combed gently through his sweat-dampened hair.
"Not bad, Paul," she’d murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Not bad at all. You’ve done this before." It wasn’t a question.
He’d lifted his head, meeting her gaze, still dazed. "Yes," he’d confessed, the word raw. "I… I like it." He’d swallowed, the admission terrifyingly honest. "I like it… on you… most of all."
Her smile had been slow, triumphant, like a cat presented with cream. "Do you?" She’d traced the shell of his ear with a fingertip. "Well. Perhaps I’ll let you do it again sometime."
Hope, reckless and desperate, had surged through him. "Whenever you want," he’d blurted out, the promise hanging foolishly, vulnerably, in the air.
She’d laughed again, a bright, bell-like sound that echoed in the quiet room. "Oh, Paul," she’d sighed, stepping away and smoothing her dress down. "Be careful what you offer."
Back in the present, Paul took a long swallow of Scotch, the burn anchoring him. The candlelight flickered across Odette’s face, highlighting the knowing curve of her lips. She hadn’t moved, still watching him relive the memory.
"Foolish offer," he muttered, the words thick.
"Was it?" Odette countered softly. She uncurled fully now, rising from the sofa with feline grace. She padded barefoot across the rug towards him, stopping mere inches from his chair. The scent of her skin, warm and subtly floral beneath the claret silk, washed over him. She looked down at him, her green eyes fathomless pools in the dim light. "You meant it, though. Didn’t you? ‘Whenever I want.’"
He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t deny the truth thrumming through him. He nodded, once.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. She reached out, not touching him, but tracing the air just above his shoulder. "Good." Her gaze drifted downwards, past his tie, lingering deliberately. "Because right now," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, velvet purr that vibrated deep in his core, "I find myself… distracted again." She tilted her head towards the piano. "Stand up, Paul."
His breath hitched. The command was clear, echoing the first time. The Scotch glass felt suddenly heavy in his hand. He set it down clumsily on the side table, the clink loud in the sudden silence. The rain drummed harder. The saxophone mourned.
He stood. His legs felt unsteady. She turned, walking the few steps back to the grand piano, her movements unhurried, assured. She leaned back against its polished edge, exactly as she had that first night. Her hands went to the waistband of her cashmere trousers.
Paul watched, transfixed, as she undid the button, then the zip. The soft fabric whispered down her hips, pooling around her ankles on the rug. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside carelessly. The claret silk camisole ended high on her thighs. The lace tops of sheer stockings were stark against her skin.
She didn’t speak. She simply looked at him, her expression expectant, imperious. The candlelight gilded the curve of her hip, the shadowed triangle beneath the silk hem.
The memory of yesterday’s surrender in his office, the phantom taste of her, the echo of her command – "Silence would be appreciated" – crashed over him. The promise he’d made months ago, foolishly, desperately, now hung in the warm, coffee-scented air like a binding contract.
He didn’t hesitate this time. The ingrained reserve, the barrister’s composure, dissolved like smoke. He crossed the short distance on legs that felt both leaden and weightless. The thick rug met his knees with a soft thud. He looked up at her, silhouetted against the dark piano, a goddess demanding worship.
Her hand came down, not to guide, but to rest possessively on the crown of his head. Her fingers tightened slightly in his hair, a silent affirmation of ownership. Her gaze held his, unwavering, commanding.
He leaned forward, drawn by the scent of her, the heat radiating from her skin beneath the thin silk. His hands found the warm silk covering her hips, gathering the fabric slowly upwards. The anticipation was a physical ache, a sweet, submissive agony. He heard her soft intake of breath as the cool air touched her skin, felt the tremor that ran through her thigh beneath his palm.
The silence stretched, thick and charged, broken only by the rain and the distant saxophone’s lament. Her fingers tightened imperceptibly in his hair, a silent, urgent command.
Paul closed his eyes for a fleeting second, inhaling her essence, the promise, the power, the terrifying freedom of surrender. Then he obeyed.
The scent hit him first – warm skin, bergamot, and beneath it, the intimate musk he craved. Paul leaned forward, pressing his face against the soft silk covering her mound. His hands tightened on her hips, anchoring himself against the dizzying pull. He pushed the camisole higher, revealing the dark triangle of curls, the smooth skin of her lower belly. The air grew thick with her arousal.
He inhaled deeply, letting the scent flood his senses, obliterating the Scotch, the rain, the jazz. His tongue traced the seam of her through the silk, a deliberate, slow stroke. Odette gasped, her fingers tightening convulsively in his hair. "Enough teasing," she breathed, her voice strained. "The silk. Off."
He obeyed instantly, hooking his fingers into the delicate waistband of her underwear. He slid them down her thighs, the silk whispering against her skin. She lifted one foot, then the other, allowing him to pull them free. He dropped them beside the discarded trousers. Her nakedness before him, leaning against the grand piano, was stark, powerful, demanding.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed his mouth directly against her, his tongue finding her slick heat. Her gasp was sharp, followed by a low moan that vibrated through her body and into his mouth. Her grip on his hair became almost painful, guiding him, holding him exactly where she wanted him. He focused entirely on sensation – the texture of her folds, the taste of her arousal, salty and complex, the way her muscles clenched around his probing tongue.
He mapped her responses with practiced devotion. A flick here earned a sharp intake of breath; sustained pressure there drew a deeper groan. He listened to her body, feeling the tension coil tighter within her. Her hips began a subtle, insistent rock against his mouth, seeking more friction, deeper contact. He adjusted, increasing pressure, circling the sensitive bud with relentless focus.
"Oui," she hissed, her voice tight. "Just like that. Don't stop." Her thighs trembled against his shoulders. Her breath came in ragged gasps, punctuated by sharp little cries. The sounds were raw, primal, utterly unlike her polished courtroom voice. They fueled him, driving him to push her further, higher.
He felt the exact moment she shattered. Her body went rigid, a choked cry escaping her lips as her hips jerked hard against his face. Her grip on his hair was fierce, anchoring her as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through her. He kept his mouth firmly against her, his tongue working gently, relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor, every shuddering aftershock until she finally slumped back against the piano, breathing heavily, her hand loosening its grip but still resting possessively on his head.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by Odette's slowing breaths and the relentless drumming of rain against the windows. The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Paul stayed kneeling, his face still pressed against her damp skin, breathing in the mingled scent of her climax and her perfume. His own arousal was a hard, insistent ache trapped within his trousers, a secondary thrum beneath the profound satisfaction of having served her perfectly.
Slowly, gently, Odette’s hand shifted from gripping to stroking. Her fingers combed through his hair, smoothing the strands he knew were mussed from her grasp. The touch was unexpectedly tender, almost affectionate. He stayed perfectly still, savoring it, the taste of her pleasure still vivid on his tongue.
"Paul," she murmured, her voice soft, husky with spent satisfaction. Her fingers traced the shell of his ear. "Tell me something." She paused, her thumb brushing his temple. "Is there any circumstance... any situation at all... where you wouldn't do this?"
He lifted his head slightly, just enough to rest his chin against her thigh, looking up the length of her body. Her face was flushed, her eyes half-lidded, a look of sated contentment softening her features. The question hung in the air. He searched within himself, past the lingering haze of arousal, past the deep-seated need to please her. The Thames view from his office flashed in his mind, the sterile binders, the potential humiliation if anyone knew. None of it mattered.
"No," he said, the word emerging rough but certain. "I can't think of any." The commitment felt absolute, terrifyingly exposed.
A slow, intrigued smile curved Odette’s lips. Her green eyes regained their sharp, assessing glint. "Really?" Her fingers tightened slightly in his hair, not painfully, but possessively. "Such unwavering dedication." She tilted her head, studying him. "Perhaps we should make this... harder for you. A little game."
Paul blinked. "A game?" His competitive instincts, honed in countless courtroom battles, flickered awake despite the fog of desire and submission.
"Mmhmm," she hummed, her smile widening, becoming playful, dangerous. "Testing the limits of your... commitment. Seeing if any circumstance truly exists where you wouldn't kneel." She traced his lower lip with a fingertip, smearing a trace of her own wetness. "Think you're up for it?"
The challenge was clear. It cut through the lingering intimacy, replacing it with a sharp, electric tension. His barrister's mind, momentarily sidelined, snapped back into focus. A game? With her? It was absurd, perilous. Yet, the thought of proving his devotion, of meeting any challenge she devised, ignited a fierce spark within him.
"Any circumstance," Paul stated, his voice firmer now, meeting her gaze directly. "Name it. Whenever, wherever. I meant what I said." The recklessness of the promise echoed in the quiet room.
Odette threw her head back and laughed – a bright, genuine peal that echoed off the piano lid. It was a sound of pure delight, tinged with disbelief and a hint of triumph. "Oh, Paul," she sighed, shaking her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Your willingness is... astonishing." She leaned down, her face close to his, her breath warm against his cheek. "And utterly exploitable. This will be fun."
Her laughter echoed in his ears, mingling with the rain and the distant saxophone. The scent of her arousal, mixed with bergamot and candle wax, filled his senses. The ache in his trousers intensified. A strange mix of exhilaration and profound unease tightened in his chest. He’d just signed a blank cheque written in his own submission, and Odette Dubois looked ready to cash it.