Date: September 1996
Location: Loire Valley, private château dinner hosted by Canal+
Actress: Catherine Deneuve
Alexander's Status: Fresh off Cannes success; quietly negotiating European streaming rights for AEG's boutique films via Canal+
Actress's Status: Eternal icon, post-*Indochine*, carefully protecting her legacy while eyeing legacy-defining roles; rumored to be untouchable — by design
It was the kind of dinner you only get invited to when your name means something printed on a building.
The château shimmered under low chandeliers and candlelight, nestled in the Loire Valley, surrounded by the kind of garden that once hosted monarchs before revolutions tore them down. The wine was older than most of the guests. The laughter sounded rehearsed. But not hers.
Catherine Deneuve was across the table — framed in candlelight, wearing black satin with pearls like moonlight pressed into a necklace. Her blonde hair swept back as if wind had dared not disturb it. She didn't laugh often. But when she did, it had the weight of earned amusement.
Alexander Kaine didn't sit beside her.
He sat opposite.
Exactly where she could watch him.
"You're the American?" she asked, not as a question — more like a provocation. Her voice had the timbre of cinema history: smoky, detached, dangerous.
"Only geographically," Alexander replied, lifting his glass.
"And mythologically?"
He tilted his head.
"That depends," he said. "Do you believe in reincarnation?"
She smiled faintly. Not fond. Not unkind. Just… knowing.
"They say you're building an empire."
"They say you're still its queen."
That made her chuckle — just once, deep in the chest.
"I was never interested in thrones," she said. "Only the velvet."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, ignoring the producers and politicians flanking them. Every man in the room was watching her. She was watching him.
"I heard you called me something," he said.
Her eyebrow arched.
"A myth in a suit."
She said it as if savoring the shape of it. No apology. She was Deneuve — she didn't apologize. Not even to men who owned half of Hollywood.
Alexander stood, came around the table — slowly, the room quieting like a theater house before curtain. He stopped beside her chair.
Then, gently — deliberately — he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
But he didn't kiss it sweetly.
He kissed it like a seal on a contract. Like a dare. Like a threat.
When he let go, her fingers lingered in the air a moment longer than expected.
"You should be careful," she said, eyes steady.
"Why?"
"Men who believe in their own myths tend to forget how the story ends."
Alexander didn't smile. He didn't need to.
"Then I'll just have to rewrite it," he murmured.
Someone across the room tried to restart conversation. Someone else dropped a fork.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she rose, smooth as a curtain draw, and let him offer his arm.
The two of them walked out into the night gardens — slow, silent, as if Versailles had just declared war on Los Angeles.
Out there, away from the room and its cameras, the air was colder. Stars stretched above the hedgerows like waiting spectators.
Catherine looked up at them.
"I hate men who think they own the future," she said.
Alexander turned to her.
"I don't own the future," he said.
She looked at him sideways.
"I am the future."
She laughed then — full, throaty, not distant this time. And she didn't say no when he whispered something in French only she was meant to understand.
They didn't return to the table.
And no one asked why.
They arrive in the private upstairs salon. Catherine removes her gloves one finger at a time, with deliberate slowness — as if each gesture were a lesson.
Alexander removes his coat without a word. Places it over the back of the chaise, as if they've done this before — in another life, another palace, another war.
He pours brandy. She doesn't take it.
She steps closer.
"You believe in rewriting myths," she says, slowly.
"I do," he replies.
Her hand touches the center of his chest.
"Then write _this_ without words."
Catherine's fingers trace the line of his jaw, a cool touch against his warm skin. Her eyes, dark and knowing, hold his gaze as she steps even closer, her silk gown whispering against his trousers.
The room is a canvas of shadows and light, the flickering candles casting a warm glow on her porcelain skin.
"Your heart races, Alexander," she murmurs, her breath hot against his ear. "Does the chase always end this way?"
He doesn't blink, his eyes never leaving hers. "Only when the prey is worth the hunt, Catherine."
She smiles, a slow curve of her lips that promises both pleasure and pain. Her hands move to his waistcoat, deftly undoing the buttons with a practiced touch.
The fabric falls open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. She leans in, her hair brushing against his skin, and he feels her lips, soft and teasing, at the base of his throat.
"Tell me," she whispers, her voice a low purr, "what does the king do when the queen commands?"
Alexander's hands find her waist, strong and sure, pulling her flush against him. "He obeys, of course. But only if she asks nicely."
Catherine laughs, a sound like tinkling glass, and steps back, her hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders. She pushes, and he allows himself to be guided back onto the chaise, the cool leather a stark contrast to her warm touch.
She straddles him, her gown pooling around them like a lake of black silk.
"Nice enough for you?" she asks, her hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm against him. Her eyes never leave his, watching, waiting.
Alexander's hands grip her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "More than enough," he growls, his voice rough with desire.
She leans down, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that is both soft and demanding. Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
He can feel the heat of her, the wetness of her mouth, the taste of her desire. It's a dance, a battle, a symphony of sensation.
Catherine pulls back, her breath ragged, her lips swollen.
She stands, her body swaying as she moves to the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, a study in desire and dominance. She turns, her eyes meeting his in the glass.
"Come to me, Alexander," she commands, her voice low and sultry. "Show me what you can do."
Alexander stands, his body moving with a grace that belies his size.
He approaches her, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. His hands find her waist, his touch firm and sure. He pulls her back against him, his body hard and ready.
She can feel him, the length of him, the heat of him, pressing against her.
"Like this?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in her ear.
His hands move, sliding up her body, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, hard and aching.
Catherine gasps, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Yes," she breathes. "Just like that."
His hands continue their exploration, sliding down her body, over her hips, her thighs, the cool silk of her gown a stark contrast to the heat of his touch.
He lifts the fabric, his hands finding her bare skin, the soft, smooth flesh of her ass. He squeezes, his fingers digging into her, pulling her closer, harder against him.
Catherine turns, her hands finding his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. She pushes, and he falls back onto the chaise, his body sprawled out before her.
She straddles him again, her hands sliding down his chest, his abs, to the waistband of his trousers.
She undoes the buttons, her eyes never leaving his, and pulls him free, her hand wrapping around his length, her thumb brushing against the head, slick and wet.
"Catherine," he growls, his hips bucking up into her touch.
She smiles, a slow, sensual curve of her lips. "What, Alexander?" she asks, her voice a low purr. She leans down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Tell me what you want."
Alexander's hands find her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You," he growls. "I want you. All of you."
Catherine sits up, her hands sliding up her body, to her shoulders, pushing the straps of her gown down, the fabric falling, pooling around her waist.
Her breasts are bare, her nipples hard and aching, begging for his touch. She leans down, her lips brushing against his, her tongue sliding into his mouth, teasing, tasting.
Alexander's hands find her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, his touch firm and sure.
He rolls them, pinches them, and Catherine gasps, her body arching into his touch. She can feel the heat of him, the length of him, pressing against her, begging for entry.
Alexander's hands find her hips again, his fingers digging into her flesh.
Catherines hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. She can feel the heat of him, the length of him, the power of him, filling her, completing her.
The tension reaches a crescendo, their bodies moving faster, harder, chasing the release. Catherine's breath comes in short gasps, her body trembling with the intensity of the pleasure.
Alexander's grip tightens, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding.
With a final, deep thrust, Alexander releases, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. Catherine follows, her body convulsing around him, waves of pleasure crashing over her. She cries out, her voice a mix of pleasure and surrender, her body collapsing against his.
They remain entwined, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Catherine rests her head against Alexander's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. She can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin against hers.
"Catherine," Alexander murmurs, his voice soft, gentle. "You are a queen among women."
She smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips. "And you, Alexander, are a king among men."
In the quiet of the room, they lie together, their bodies still entwined, their spirits intertwined. The night is young, and the dance of desire continues, a timeless ballet of power and pleasure, of recognition and surrender.
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An :
Hey everyone! I'd really love your thoughts on how each chapter is structured. Do you like the way the story flows? Would you prefer a shorter intro, more buildup, or for the NSFW scenes to be the main focus—or maybe have the narrative lead directly into them? Your feedback won't just help shape the rest of this novel, but will also guide the next book, which i have released today: "F'ing in Indian Tv shows".