A History Mystery: Day Four / Part Two

The Personal Journals of Morgan Victoria Beauchamp

Monday, October 27

Dearest Mama,

Could a woman have a more perfect birthday? Already the night wanes and the dawn fills my bedroom with soft pink light, but I cannot lay my head down for one minute without recording the most perfect day, and night, of my life.

As I mentioned before, I let Mattias take my classes for the day. No great hardship for him as there are one or two coeds he likes to show off for. However, judging by his dismay, I ruined plans for a surprise party at work. After the dressing down from my moldy colleague yesterday, I refused to face a group of reluctant well-wishers. I’m sure I saved us all a moment or two of awkwardness. Instead, I slept until noon then rushed off the Riverside Spa. They were more than happy to wax, polish, and massage my body then finish it all off with blood red polish on my toes and fingers. I don’t normally go for the dark colors, but somehow it felt right. Red seems like a color Jean Baptiste might like on a woman.

Smoothed, brushed out and made up, I was ready for anything. And that meant a trip to the boutique so Carlo could stuff me into a dress which was essentially a large rubber band that squeezed me from cleavage to mid-thigh. No room for anything but the barest thong underneath. The compression alone did more for me than a Wonderbra ever could. Red, would you ever believe it? But accented with a narrow line of black crystals from top to bottom, which Carlo made sure ran over one nipple.

Slut factor? 110%. Did I look good in it? Surprisingly, in an hourglass goddess way, yes, and I felt even better. Because of the wax job, I demurred on stockings but instead chose a pair of shoes guaranteed to get me arrested for solicitation. The first pair of red shoes I’ve ever owned, they’re strappy, sparkly, and slutty, and I adore them. I could have recouped all my expenses today by selling them at the bar. I had at least half a dozen invitations to swap, sell, or toddle my little shoes with the bow across the toes, and hot ass, up the stairs with numbers in the four digits thrown at me. But I’m ahead of myself.

Though I was sure we’d end up back at his home or mine, we had agreed to meet at the Bombay Club for dinner and drinks at seven. I’d never been there, but he assured me he considered their steaks and the atmosphere to be most acceptable. I’ve heard the martinis are wonderful, but with the salaries I and my colleagues earn, we haven’t tried it out.

I was nervous, so took a cab and arrived early. I was invited to wait in the foyer or sit at the bar. I chose the bar and spent a pleasant few minutes learning about martinis from a most attentive bartender. When asked for his opinion, he poured me one he called Breathless, and left me in no doubt he wanted me to believe I left him breathless. As I tasted my first sip, I felt Jean Baptiste enter the restaurant, and as the smooth mixture of vodka and chocolate liqueur slid down my throat, burning a trail that left me breathless, I spun in my chair.

As my eyes focused on him and his gaze met mine, the slight frown on his face faded. My heart leaped in my chest and I swear, I could almost hear the beating of his heart in time with mine. As if he heard mine, he walked toward me, magnificent in black Armani, the only spots of color a deep burgundy rose in his button hole and a red silk handkerchief folded just right in his breast pocket. For a moment, as my black velvet wrap slid from my shoulders to elbows, it seemed as if his eyes burned red. Like a physical caress, as he slowly sauntered toward me, his eyes took in my appearance from head to toe, stopping to look at my feet. What is it about an ankle strap that turns men on? And he was turned on. I could tell by the intensity of the heat in his eyes when he raised his gaze back to mine. The world around us disappeared in that moment and when he lifted my hand to his lips, my heart skipped a beat then resumed at double time. From that moment I was entranced. I know we ate, I know we drank, I’m pretty sure the restaurant sang Happy Birthday to me. I don’t remember any of it with any more clarity that I’d remember a dream.

How long we spent at the restaurant, I don’t know, I was just giddy being with him. Before leaving, over coffee and dessert, Jean Baptiste pulled a box from his inside breast pocket. Before I had a chance to even wonder over the contents, he laid the open box before me. Inside lay a necklace, so exquisite, I once more had trouble breathing. Rubies. Diamonds. Antique gold. Simple. And I’m sure, extravagantly expensive. A choker of perfectly matched rubies and diamonds, one set between the other from clasp to clasp.

When Jean Baptiste lifted it from the case, my eyes met his. Hardly breathing, I locked my gaze with his as he put the necklace on me and set the clasp at the back. My God. The weight of it felt solid, like old and extremely valuable heirlooms. I’m no judge of jewelry, but I can guarantee I’ve never worn something so luxurious in my life.

“You make this bit of jewelry beautiful,” he said and lightly kissed me on the lips. And just like that, I tripped off the edge of the earth. I fell in love. And just as any woman in love would do, I leaned forward and kissed him back. “Take me home, I want to model this necklace properly,” I said.

The next thing I knew, we were in a cab and I gave the driver the address to my little coach house apartment in the Garden District. In the cab, I sat on his lap while his long fingers toyed with the necklace and the edge of my dress. His lips teased my neck, and I’m sure he could feel the blood pulsing through my jugular. He nuzzled my neck, his tongue stroking my skin and I clung to him, one hand combing through the thick hair at his nape. His scent, something crisp and manly with a hint of leather made me dizzy. Once at outdoor steps leading to my over the garage home, he carried me. Me! No man has ever carried me since I hit puberty. And without a gasp or grunt. I’m no dainty flower, and yet, he only smiled at my protests and carried me through the door and into the bedroom. I was more winded than he was!

Ah Mama, I know now for certain, until this night, until Jean Baptiste touched me, I’ve never experienced the art of making love. No man has ever made me feel beautiful. No man has ever touched my heart. If there was any further to fall in love, his love making took me there. I can’t count the climaxes, the releases, the number of ways we came together, but it was magic. From the moment he laid me on the bed until he slipped from it just before dawn, we didn’t sleep. We barely spoke. We touched, we watched, kissed, explored, learned and played. Quite simply, we loved.

I’m exhilarated and yet, exhausted. Today I have a late afternoon six hundred level seminar and I should hit the library for research, but I simply cannot see climbing out of bed for several hours. His scent is there, on my sheets. I want to sleep wrapped in his arms, but instead the sheets and pillow perfumed with our combined essences will have to do. I don’t yet know where we’ll meet tonight. He said he’d find me. The little voice in my heart says now that we’ve found each other, we’ll always be able to find one another again.

It’s a good thing that yesterday I told Mattias to call and wake me if he didn’t see or hear from me by three. I suspect it will be his call that wakes me. So, for now, dressed only in the necklace, I sleep and I will dream.