by Monica James
Once I catch my breath, I wash away my shame of coming like a pubescent teen.
Stepping from the shower, I dry off and slip into what I grabbed in my haste to flee from Carrie—my ripped blue jeans, white V-neck T-shirt, and the black blazer from earlier. I run my fingers through my hair and apply some cologne.
Once I’m done, I exit the bathroom and see Carrie standing before me in a tight-fitting long-sleeved red dress. As I watch her zip up her black heeled boots, I roll my tongue back into my mouth. “Ready? What do you feel like eating?”
I refrain from expressing my indecent thoughts and smile. “Your choice.”
Once I’ve laced my Chucks, I peer up and almost come in mere seconds once again when Carrie watches me with a hunger in her eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “I feel like something spicy.”
You and me both.
After feasting on Brazilian cuisine and two bottles of wine, we caught a taxi to Brooklyn, a cocktail bar located around rue Oberkampf in the 11th. Seeing Paris by nightfall is like experiencing something out of this world. Carrie’s nose was all but pressed to the window, spellbound by the lightened magic.
I love this city, but being here with Carrie is like seeing it for the first time.
She saw the beauty in everything and appreciated the smallest of things. I’d almost forgotten how exquisite the Eiffel Tower looked when illuminated by the millions of twinkling lights, but being with Carrie has opened my eyes to a lot of things.
I pay the cab driver and offer my hand to steady Carrie as she steps out on the frost-coated curb. She accepts with a small smile. I expect her to let go, but she doesn’t. Her warm fingers interlace mine as she drags me down the busy sidewalk. I play off her affection as her one too many glasses of wine with dinner.
After talking to Liz, I’m thankful we’re coming here because Google told me this place is notorious for its whiskey. They apparently have over thirty different types to try, and I intend to sample each. Beneath the bright orange fluorescent sign stands a mass of people, smoking or chatting with their friends.
With our hands still locked, Carrie leads the way, and we enter the very cool, trendy bar. I can’t remember the last time I was in a place like this because Liz wouldn’t be caught dead in a bar like this. I instantly relish in the thought.
“Drink?” Carrie yells over her shoulder to drown out David Bowie blaring from the speakers. I pull a face because it’s a no-brainer.
We wait in line, both taking in our environment, and even though this place is pretty spectacular, it pales compared to the feel of Carrie’s hand in mine.
Like Carrie, it’s the simplest of things that mean the most to me, which is why I haven’t kissed another woman or wanted to kiss another woman after Liz. But as I peer down at Carrie’s pink glossy lips, I want nothing more than to break that rule.
A busty blonde gestures us over to order our drinks, and the moment we reach the bar, I know she’s interested. She studies me from head to toe, uncaring that Carrie is by my side. “What can I get you?” she asks in a thick Russian accent.
“Your finest whiskey and…”
“Make that two,” Carrie says, bopping to the music.
The barmaid doesn’t shy away from giving me a final once-over. Reaching for the top shelf whiskey, she’s uncaring that her ass cheeks are hanging from her short shorts. Once upon a time, I probably would have gotten completely pissed and taken her back to my hotel, but now, I wish she’d hurry up.
“Whiskey? We’re in for a big night then?”
Carrie smirks, and it’s too endearing for words. “Oh, there’s a table,” she says, pointing at a small circular booth at the back of the room. “I’ll go grab it. You’ll be okay?”
“I think I can manage to carry two whiskeys without your help,” I tease, but I should have known there is always more to Carrie than meets the eye.
Standing on tippy toes, she leaves me winded when she whispers into my ear, “No, I meant you’ll be okay defending your junk from the barfly making fuck-me eyes at you. I don’t want her to spit in my drink.”
“Why do you think she’d spit in your drink?” I ask, turning slowly so our faces are mere inches apart.
Even in her boots, I’m still a head taller, but the temptation seems greater because those lips…those fucking lips. “Because”—she peers up at me through her long lashes—“I’m pretty sure she’s the one who wants to be holding your hand. Or something else.”
Instantly, my fingers squeeze gently around hers because she feels it too. I thought she was oblivious to us holding hands, but clearly, I was wrong.
“Your drinks,” the bartender says, snapping us from a moment, which stuns us both.
Carrie almost collides with the man beside her as she severs our connection. The disappointment drags me under because I don’t understand what just happened. And I will apparently never find out because Carrie makes a beeline for the booth.
Digging into my back pocket for my wallet, I pay for our drinks and suddenly wish I’d ordered ten more.
My heart is in my throat when I make my way through the noisy crowd. On any other day, I’d have paid attention to my surroundings, but right now, the only thing I can focus on is Carrie. She appears flustered and nervous as she shifts in her seat. What is she hiding?
Whatever that was back at the bar has left her uneasy. When she meets my eyes, she smiles, but it’s forced. Not wanting to make it a big deal, I present her with her whiskey. “Bottoms up.” She accepts and scoots over so I can sit.
The booth barely sits one person, but I slide across the leather and hope to god whatever this awkwardness is between us fades. When our thighs innocently touch, she downs almost half her drink but then splutters it back up, coughing loudly.
“Dove, careful. Whiskey is like a kiss—best enjoyed slow.” Damn me and my mouth. It was supposed to be a joke, but Carrie’s scarlet cheeks reveal I have embarrassed her. I probably sound like some perverted creep.
Not wanting to be boxed in with all the other men she’s spent her time with, I take my own advice and sip my drink, scanning the room. We have a fantastic viewpoint, and my interest instantly falls to three people sitting at a long table across the room from us.
Their backs are to the brick wall, so I can see their legs and hands. And both are telling me a scandalous story. Leaning back, I watch in interest as a flaming redhead is wedged between two men who look like brothers.
The redhead leans toward the more robust looking of the two men, linking her arm through his as she whispers something into his ear. Whatever she says has him grinning as if he’s just won the lottery. I notice they’re both wearing wedding rings.
Waist up, one would be forgiven for thinking they’ve just witnessed a tender exchange between man and wife, but waist down, it’s an entirely different story. The redhead may be canoodling with one man, but she has no qualms about playing footsie with the other.
The man to her left, the younger and far more attractive man, plays aloof, sipping his drink, but there is nothing aloof about his hand sliding up her leg. She’s wearing a very short dress, and when she shifts her legs, I can see why. Easy access for bachelor number two.
Carrie follows my line of sight, gasping when she sees what holds me captive.
The room is shadowy enough for your average partygoer not to notice the wicked activities after dark, but when you’re looking, it’s hard to miss.
“Oh my god,” Carrie says, shifting closer to me for a better view. I’m thankful our bout of uneasiness has escaped us for now because she doesn’t hesitate to press her body to mine. “Is he…yup, he is.” She answers her own question when the redhead’s mouth parts as do her legs.
The man continues delving his fingers in deep, and when he hits her sweet spot, she buckles and leans into her husband, biting the side of his neck. He thinks she finds him irresistible, but the poor sucker, he’s got a lot to learn.
This is like a train wreck—I need to lo
ok away—but I’m mesmerized at how someone can openly cheat with their spouse literally feet away. This is the ugly side to love. The love I have been faced with these past six months.
But something about this doesn’t make me clam up; it does the complete opposite. It inspires me to never, ever shape my characters into selfish, philandering arseholes. It makes me want to write a story for every person who has been cheated on.
My hand is curled into a fist, a fact I’m unaware of until Carrie places her cool hand over my very angry one. “Dance with me.”
It’s not a question but rather a statement, and when she downs her whiskey and stands, I know she means right now.
I follow suit and toss back my drink as I’ll need all the Dutch courage I can get on that dance floor. We pass the threesome, the redhead clearly climaxing as her oblivious spouse strokes her neck. I am suddenly so fucking angry.
But Carrie leads me and my rage toward the dance floor.
I have no idea of the song or when the last time I danced was, but the moment Carrie presses her body to mine, all reservations are long forgotten. I know what she’s doing; she’s distracting me so the memories I’ve tried so hard to erase from my mind don’t drag me back under.
The song suddenly changes into something slow and sensual. The change of pace surprises her, but now that I’ve got her, I don’t plan on letting her go. Wrapping an arm low around her waist, I tug her forward so not even a wisp of hair can pass between us.
The sharp movement stuns her as her eyes widen, the pupils instantly flaring to alert me to her heightened state. But she started this, and now, it’s time I finished it. She nervously places one hand on my bicep and wraps the other around my shoulder. Unable to help myself, I wrap my fingers around her nape, drawing our faces together, and then we move.
Her body molds perfectly to mine as she slides against me, allowing the music to rule her. We never break eye contact, both watching the other closely, not knowing what comes next. Her breath is laced with whiskey; combined with her trademark scent of strawberries and cream, it’s a fragrance I could easily become addicted to.
When she rubs against me, I know I already have.
I’m rock solid, and she can feel it as I’m pressed against her center, but that fact only seems to spur her on as she grinds down and groans. Her skin is on fire, and when I gently tighten my hold around her neck, pulling us even closer together, I’m certain she detonates around me.
Her lips are a hairsbreadth away. I could close the distance and give in to temptation, but once we connect, I won’t be able to stop. Her fingers toy with the strands of hair curling at my nape, and when she licks her lips, I know she wants it too.
Our bodies move in sync, and this dance elicits images of me throwing her onto our bed and burying myself between her legs for hours. I want those strong thighs wrapped around me as I eat her out before fucking her into submission. I want to be gentle. I want to be rough. I want to take. I want to give. I want it all. With her. And I want it now.
My cock springs against her, desperate to escape its confines, but Carrie’s arousal soon turns to dread when her eyes pop open. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Untangling her body from mine, she races through the throng of people with her hand over her mouth as she finds the bathroom.
Well, this is a first. My cock rocks under a blanket in the fetal position, unsure what just went wrong. I’ve sickened many women before but not to the point of physically being ill. Leaving my pride on the dance floor, I push my way past gyrating bodies to go find Carrie.
Once I push open the bathroom door, I don’t have far to look. The retching coming from the last stall is a dead giveaway to where she is. “Sorry, ladies. I’m not looking,” I call out, cupping both hands by my temple to protect their modesty. This is Paris, however. No one seems to care.
“Dove?” I knock gently on the door and am greeted with an echoed groan. “Let me in.”
“No,” she manages to say between vomiting.
“Come on. Let me prove to you that I’m not that bad of a dancer.” It was supposed to be a joke, but when I’m greeted with a groan and more retching, I don’t hesitate to slip my finger through the gap in the door and unlatch the flimsy lock.
“Oh,” I say when I see her slumped over the toilet bowl, her beautiful hair cascading around her. “Let me help.” I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to do that, but I drop down beside her.
“Go away,” she says, her voice echoing off the porcelain.
“Nope, that’s not going to happen.” I pull back her hair and gently rub the back of her neck.
“This is so embarrassing.”
“Nonsense. It happens to the best of us.” Been there, done that. But what she says next has me wondering what the hell is happening.
“Even to your ex-wife?”
A wave of utter confusion passes over me, and it takes me a moment to find my voice. “What has Liz got to do with this?”
“Everything,” she replies. I am so sodding confused right now. I wish she’d face me, but I know that won’t be happening anytime soon. Rubbing her back, I gently brush back her hair. “Stop being so nice.”
“I’m not nice,” I rebuke because I wasn’t nice a few days ago when her sister was riding my face.
But she won’t hear a word of it. “You’re the nicest person I know.”
“You clearly need to get out more then.”
She laughs, but it’s strained. I need to know what’s going on.
But when Carrie continues to vomit up her wine and dinner and the chaser of whiskey, I know this conversation will have to wait.
Once Carrie was done throwing up her guts, she allowed me to help her from the bathroom and out of the bar. She was embarrassed, and in turn, she barely looked at me. She washed up and then fell into a deep slumber.
I was exhausted because I’d been awake for well over twenty-four hours, but I was too restless to sleep. However, Carrie’s deep breathing soon lulled me into submission as I slept beside her—but on top of the blankets and not underneath.
I woke around six and showered since Carrie was still out like a light. I decided to get us some coffee because no doubt she’d be waking with a hangover. I quietly open the door when I return, unsure if Carrie is still asleep, but when I hear the low hum of the TV, I know she’s awake.
I don’t know what to say to her because last night, something clearly upset her. I just don’t know what that was. And when she mentioned Liz, I was confused even more. When I enter the living room, Carrie sheepishly looks up at me. She’s dressed and looks a lot better than I thought she would.
“Hey. How are you feeling?” I pass her a cup of coffee, which she accepts with a small smile.
“I’m okay. I’m really sorry about last night. I had way too much to drink. This is why I made my New Year’s resolution. Me and alcohol have a love-hate relationship. It won’t happen again.”
A big fat elephant remains in the room, and I have no idea how to address it. Does she not remember the things that were said? Or done? I decide to ask her.
Sitting on the armrest of the sofa, I sip my black coffee, gathering the balls to ask her something she may not want to talk about. “What happened last night?”
The cup trembles as she draws it to her lips. She takes a sip of coffee before replying blankly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I figured as much. “Carrie, that isn’t fair. Clearly, whatever happened had to do with me. Did I upset you somehow?” I’m grasping at straws.
“No, of course not.”
“Then what is it?”
She lowers her eyes, tugging at the frayed hem of the blanket wrapped around her. “You’re wrong.” I wait for her to continue. “It had nothing to do with you. This is all me.”
Now, I’m even more baffled.
The harder I press, the further she will retreat. In this instance, I can’t help but compare her to a wounded animal. Whatever secret she’s guarding is one
she won’t reveal anytime soon.
“Can we just drop it?” she asks, lifting her eyes and appearing hopeful. “Please.”
Every bone in my body is screaming at me in protest because I feel something for this woman, and I want to know if she feels something for me too. But I can’t force her to unburden her soul because if I push, Carrie will run.
I think back to her admission on the plane when we first met. How she said she’d had twenty-one boyfriends and that she was a serial dater. Each to their own as I clearly am in no position to judge, but I can’t help but now think there’s a reason for that number. I want to ask her what was wrong with these men she dated, but I don’t.
“Okay,” I begrudgingly reply. I can’t force her to talk to me, but I’m disappointed she won’t.
“What shall we do today?” She is clearly happy to change the subject.
My mood is a little flat, but we are in Paris, and I’m here to do a job. “How about we do more sightseeing?”
She nods happily and stands. “I’ll just brush my teeth.”
And just like that, this conversation is over.
When the bathroom door closes, I blow out an exasperated breath. Reality sinks in and reminds me that even though it feels like longer, I’ve only known Carrie for four days. I thought I knew her, that she would share almost anything with me, but I was wrong.
Her cell chimes on the coffee table, and without meaning to, I look down at it to see who has sent her a text. When I see Mason’s name flash on her screen, I squeeze the paper cup in my hand.
C’ing as u bailed on me last nite. C u 2nite? You kinda owe me LOL. Besides...I wanna talk.
I pale because not only did he just butcher the English language, but he’s texting Carrie for a date. When were numbers exchanged? And talk? About what exactly?
This is absurd and needs to stop now. Just because I have an unhealthy obsession with Carrie doesn’t mean she feels the same about me.
