The Parisian Novels & Stories

Liam, Lukas, and I had been in Paris for two days. We have already visited tourist spots, including the Louvre and the Eiffel tower. Lukas is staying in another room, citing the fact that he doesn’t want to step into our room with us in a passionate embrace.

Kyle felt satisfied that he had his full strength back already. Kyle saw that it was still night, and he relaxed. If he wanted to, he could fly through the night, head right for his target—but he wanted to savor his time. Paris in 1789 was a special place. It was still, he remembered, rife with prostitutes, alcoholics, gamblers, criminals. Despite the nice veneer and architecture, there lived an underbelly that was long and wide. He loved it. The town was his for the taking.

Something in my chest loosens that I have not felt loosen in a very long time. "First time in Paris?" Olivier asks, catching my expression in the rearview mirror. "First time living here." He nods approvingly. "You will love it. Paris is not a city you visit. It is a city you come back to." "I've never been before." He shrugs in the specifically Parisian way that means this detail is irrelevant. "Then Paris has been waiting for you." I look back out the window. Paris has been waiting for me. I decide to believe that.

CHAPTER 14 The Devil’s Bellows Was there ever a city fouler than Paris? The whole place was putrid. The food stank, the air stank, the water stank, and the people stank worst of all. No wonder it was the French who invented perfume. It was needed to knock out the fetid odors leaking out the hairy crevices of every Parisian. The metropolis was built on a foundation of human waste. Take two steps across any yard and your feet would scuff up some vile fart entombed two millennia ago by Roman soldiers.

~Alyona~ We reached Paris, “the City of Love,” because of the romantic atmosphere it exudes. The City of Love isn’t just a random nickname given to Paris; it’s the perfect description. Anyone visiting the French capital would provide for all the romantic vibes they find there.

Aiden wasn't her driver after all. Aiden entered the car and ignited the engine... Soon the car was set in motion... Noticing the awkwardness in the car, Aiden tried initiating a conversation. " What do you think about Paris so far? " He inquired as he drove... " Well... It's okay... " " Hm... Do you know what Paris is known for? " " Yep... It's known as the city of love. It's even said that couples who meet each other in Paris get to stay together for a lifetime. "

The luxurious penthouse overlooking the glittering Eiffel Tower was bathed in soft golden light from crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the iconic monument sparkling against the Paris night sky. The air carried the faint scent of expensive perfume, polished marble, and the distant aroma of rain on Parisian rooftops. Genevieve Laurent, a 24-year-old French heiress, stood trembling in the center of the living room wearing only a sheer black negligee, her heart hammering with dark, shameful anticipation.

The city was stained with pink and gold, bathed in the dull light of the sun that disappeared before meeting the greenish waters of the Seine River. I just sat at the table where the gentle waiter with reddish cheeks suggested with a gesture of head, and absorbed the most banal behavior that pedestrians on Rue des Francs Bourgeois had. Someone laughed next to my table, and I realized how strong the Parisian accent was, differentiating them from the other French.

Paris muttered. “What do you mean, miss?” “I’m canceling the table,” Paris whispered to the waiter, slipping fifty dollars into the pocket of his vest. “I was never here.” Without waiting for a response, Paris turned and walked quickly—almost running—out of the café. She put her sunglasses back on, lowered her head, and slipped away before Matteo or Rose could turn toward the door.

Gary, in his three-piece suit and a fresh haircut, looked simply delectable tonight. "Why?" Brittany asked, turning to face him and leaning on the rails, returning his gaze. "Because Paris, was the first big city, in all of Europe, to have street lamps." He replied, joining her at the rails and leaning over them, smiling calmly at her. She looked at him in amazement, "Really?" She asked. His cologne smells like lavender, with a deep masculine musk. "Yes," he answered, his smile widening, "Gas lamps, of course, but for a 19th-century metropolis, not too shabby."