Your French Kisses (Boyfriend Material Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  “He’s drinking it down.” Reid takes his hand from me, and I instantly miss it, wanting it back.

  But instead, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His touch lights me up like sparklers on New Year’s Eve. “That’s better.”

  Tingles spread across my body. “Are you drinking the day?”

  He smiles, and it’s both naughty and happy. “This is a day I want to enjoy every last drop of.”

  “Me too.”

  We head downstairs, and he grabs a book. The photos of Paris. He buys it, then gives it to me. “This makes me happy. Keep it.”

  I know I will keep it always. Someday when I’m seventy, I’ll look at it and remember the afternoon I spent in Paris with the man from London who made my heart beat faster and harder than it had before.

  7

  Reid

  The clock is ticking.

  That can’t be avoided, but I can’t let it dictate my every thought.

  This is exactly what it is.

  A dessert, a drink, a treat.

  You don’t get to have chocolate for every meal. But you damn well better delight in it when you do.

  With her hand in mine, we cross the bridge over the river, passing tourists snapping selfies. We could take a picture. We could exchange numbers. Share the image. But then what?

  Trade little texts while she’s in New York going to school and I’m an ocean away?

  Instead, I squeeze her hand and I focus on the here and now. Only that. Taking mental snapshots. Making memories I can call up. Something I do little of in my digital life. But I want to live fully in this incredible, real moment. “This is the most perfect day. I just want you to know that.”

  She smiles at me, and it makes my heart flip.

  That’s unexpected.

  Frankly, a little inconvenient too.

  Because that’ll make it harder to get on the plane. And I have to get on the plane.

  “I know that,” she says in a bit of a whisper.

  “And do you know what would make it even better?” I ask, continuing down this carpe diem path because it’s all I can do here.

  “Is there anything that could truly make it better?” she asks, a little tease in her tone.

  The sound of her voice, a little naughty, a little flirty, winds through me. “Well, there are a few things.”

  Her eyes dance with dirty thoughts. “I can think of a few things too.”

  “More than a few,” I add.

  “Lots. So many things.’’

  I groan. “You’re going to make this day quite hard. But truth be told, I was thinking we should walk around the Luxembourg Gardens.”

  She lifts her chin, licks her lips, and says, “Take me there.”

  How can a woman sound innocent and naughty at the same time? But she does. She absolutely does, and I love it madly.

  We wander through all sorts of flowers. I don’t know the names. Or the kinds. Maybe they are irises or lilies. Possibly tulips.

  Marley seems to know them all, as we walk through rows of flowers, bursting with color, ruby red and bright pink and sun-drenched yellow.

  She rattles off the names, but not like we’re in botany class. More like “I’ve always loved irises” or “Tulips are nature’s flirts.”

  “Are you a tulip?” I ask.

  She spins around, wiggles her eyebrows. “What do you think?”

  It’s a loaded question, and I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  I step closer, inches away. The air is charged, buzzing with possibilities. Somewhere beyond the walls of the garden, the city rolls by.

  But here, the garden is an escape with a woman I didn’t know mere hours ago. A woman I will say goodbye to in another few hours.

  A woman who has lips that look so damn kissable.

  “Right now,” I say, holding her gaze, “I’m not thinking.”

  I lift my hand and stroke a thumb along her jaw. She gasps, then whispers, “Don’t think.”

  “I’m definitely not thinking one bit,” I say as I move closer, my lips so tantalizingly near hers.

  “I’m only feeling,” she whispers.

  I thread my fingers in her hair, press my lips to hers, and drink in a kiss.

  I savor every last drop.

  I indulge.

  And I memorize.

  Because I don’t want to forget this kiss.

  This day. This moment.

  It feels different from other moments.

  She’s different from other women.

  Soon we’ll go our separate ways, but I always want to remember the American woman I met one afternoon in Paris before I had to catch a flight.

  That’s how I kiss her.

  Like I’ll never forget the taste of her sweet lips, the softness of her breath, the way she melts into me.

  Or maybe I melt into her. Because this kiss goes to my head. My mind is a blur, and my body is humming sweet yet dirty music as I kiss her softly, tenderly.

  Then a little bit harder.

  She feels so right in my arms that I have to wonder if I believe in love at first sight.

  But that’s rubbish.

  That’s not the way of the world.

  That’s not the way of my world.

  Only, for a few stolen moments, it feels like it could be.

  Like with a handful of afternoons that spill into the next and the next, we could become that.

  She slinks her arms around my neck, bringing me closer, her body pressed to mine.

  Yes, a few more days of this, and I’d be in love with her for the rest of my life.

  That’s the problem.

  8

  Marley

  I’m not going to claim to be an expert on kissing.

  Sure, I’ve had my fair share of locking lips. But it’s not as if I keep a list of kisses, and if I did, the ratings would be “good, but not great.”

  When Reid kisses me, I know this is great.

  I know this is some kind of kiss.

  His lips are soft and confident. His touch is both tender and electric. And he smells so damn good. Like soap and pine and man. My senses are throwing a party as this stranger in a strange land lights me up with his lips, his touch, and something else too.

  Something intangible. Something wonderful.

  Something that I know will be over far too soon.

  Is that why this kiss is so incredible?

  Because it exists in its own parallel universe, one where I’m staying in Paris, and he’s living here, and we’re spending the evenings together wandering the passages and cobblestoned streets as rain falls? Of course, it’ll rain in Paris in our universe as we kiss at cafés and shops and under street lamps.

  And we make plans to meet again tomorrow.

  That’s what this kiss is.

  A kiss for tomorrow.

  A kiss that is tinged with wistfulness, with longing, and with a wish for it to be more than one kiss.

  A wish for it to last.

  But it can’t. Because we’re both leaving.

  I break the kiss, and he looks lust-drunk.

  It’s so sexy, and I want to put that look on his face again and again.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his jaw.

  “That was . . .”

  “Incredible?”

  I give him a flirty grin, shaking my head. “Nope.”

  His brow creases. “No? Am I going to need to try harder?”

  “I won’t object to that, but I was simply going to say I’m pretty sure it was the best kiss in the history of first kisses.”

  He leans in close again, dusting those lips over my cheek to my ear, then whispering, “I want to keep writing in that history book.”

  This man.

  This man and his funny, clever, vulnerable ways.

  “I want that too,” I say, but because we can’t have what we want, he takes my hand and we walk through the gardens toward the exit.

/>   “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’d like to spend the rest of the day with you until I leave.”

  I lean my shoulder against his. “You can presume away.”

  As we exit the gardens, he says, “So, Marley. What would you do if you lived here in Paris?”

  “Like, for a job?” I ask as we turn onto a block teeming with pretty boutiques.

  “Actually, I wanted to know what you’d do with me, but sure, we can start with work.”

  “Reid,” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why is that silly?”

  I tap my chest. “I’d do you,” I say, bold and direct.

  He stops in his tracks, blinking, then drags a hand through his hair. His gaze turns hot, and he reaches for me once more, bringing me close. “You are magnificent.”

  “So are you.”

  Then he shows me what a second kiss for the record books is. My knees go weak, my skin sizzles, and I record this moment too.

  But, like all of today has so far, it ends too soon. We resume our pace. “So, to answer your question, I’d probably do something where I could talk to people. Maybe work in a shop.”

  “I’d come to your shop every day.”

  “Stalker much?” I tease.

  He scoffs. “Please. You’d be mine if we lived here. I’d come to your shop at the end of the day, and we’d walk to a brasserie, sit down, order a glass of wine, and watch the city go by. All while we were in our own world.”

  I swoon, my heart shimmying for him. “Are you the most romantic man I’ve ever met?”

  His grin is so delicious. “I better be.”

  I run my fingers down his shirt. “You are. It’s official.”

  We walk past a stationery shop selling pens and gorgeous writing paper. The thought briefly occurs to me that we could keep in touch, send letters, little notes.

  But keeping in touch seems far too dangerous.

  Like leaving out a tempting treat you couldn’t actually have.

  “Anyway, so what would we do after dinner?” I ask playfully as we pass a jewelry store peddling lockets.

  “I’d find all the most romantic places in the city to kiss you again. Since you need to fill in a whole history book of entries.”

  “So I would record those kisses?”

  He nods exaggeratedly. “I would fully expect you to. Record, tabulate, rate.”

  “You want me to rate your kisses? Maybe I already am.”

  He tugs me into a quiet alley framed by an arch and curling ivy, and seals his mouth to mine, dropping a hot, tempting kiss on my lips before giving me a hot, naughty stare.

  “Are you trying to set a record?” I ask, my skin heating up.

  “What would the record be exactly? What’s the category?”

  “The category is winding me up.”

  “And I trust it’s working?” he asks, a devilish quirk on his lips.

  “Everything you do is working.”

  He smiles, but it fades into a sigh as he presses his forehead to mine. “I wish . . .”

  A lump rises in my throat. “I wish too.”

  “I wish I had another night here. I wish my plane wasn’t leaving this evening.”

  “I wish we could slow down time.”

  “I wish I met you yesterday.” He stops. “Is that crazy?”

  I shake my head. “No. But I’m glad I met you today. And I’ll miss you tonight.”

  He swallows, exhales. “It would be crazy, right?”

  We both know what the other isn’t saying, but I say it anyway. “To see each other again?”

  “Yes, I want to. But how can we?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know how we could without upending everything.”

  “I know.” He sounds as sad as I feel. “I want to see you again, Marley. You have to know if things were different, I’d take you out tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. I wouldn’t think twice about calling you. Or texting you. I wouldn’t take days. Or hours. I’d ask you now and I’d see you tomorrow.”

  My heart thumps harder for him. “I’d say yes, Reid. I’d definitely say yes.”

  He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But I live in London.”

  “And I live in New York.”

  “And we just met,” he adds.

  “And I don’t know what I’m doing with my life when I finish school.”

  “You might wind up in Alaska.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Doubtful, but you never know. I do have to focus though. Use the opportunity to figure out what I want to do. I have a scholarship. To keep qualifying for it, I need to hit a minimum GPA. That has to be my priority.”

  “As it should be.”

  I draw a deep breath, prepping myself to say something hard. “We need to just enjoy this for what it is.”

  He smiles, one corner of his lips curving up. “One perfect afternoon in Paris?”

  “The most perfect one ever recorded.”

  “Let’s keep making it better,” he says, and that seems like a fair enough deal to me.

  9

  Reid

  There is no doubt.

  I can’t imagine looking back on my life and ever having had a better day.

  In fact, it’s so damn good that I’m tempted, more than I’ve been tempted before, to do something wildly ridiculous.

  Like try to stay in touch.

  As we walk by the Tuileries, I want to say, Screw this long-distance issue. Give me your number and let’s talk.

  But what would that look like? Late-night phone chats? All-day-long texts that would distract me as I tried to work my way up at the firm and as she went to school?

  That’s mad.

  So we talk now instead. I ask her about her favorite things.

  She tells me about her friends, how Bethany is a hugger and Emery is a giggler, and how the three of them were like sisters in school, depending on each other, helping each other through painful breakups and even more painful exams.

  When it’s my turn, I tell her about my sister and how we’ve always been close friends. I talk about the books I love, the articles that capture my interest, and my allergy to early mornings. I also confess that pop music is brilliant.

  “Pop like Taylor Swift or Katy Perry?” she asks.

  “Or P!nk or Lady Gaga.”

  “Whoa. I like you.” She squeezes my arm.

  “Thank you. I was hoping I’d pass the pop music test. And that you’d have the same taste in music.”

  She arches a dubious brow. “Did I say I had the same taste? I’m a Bruce Springsteen gal. Bryan Adams. And the Eagles.”

  “What generation are you, woman? Lost in time?”

  “I like Jackson Browne too.”

  “Are you secretly fifty? Were you born in the seventies?”

  “I’m retro.”

  “You can call it that, but I’ve never met anyone with a seventies retro kink.”

  She wiggles her brows. “Maybe that’s not my only kink.”

  I groan. “That’s a door I’m going to kick wide open. What are the others? I require details. Each chapter, and every sordid verse,” I say as we pass a boutique with a pink window display showing off teddies and bras, panties and stockings.

  “I have a wicked fetish for lingerie,” she says, pointing at all the lacy numbers.

  “You do?” I ask, my voice gravelly, thick with a new bout of lust.

  She stares longingly at a white-and-pink bra with some sort of crisscross straps. “That’s my favorite. I never bought a lot of lingerie in college since it’s expensive, but I have always loved the prettiest things. I love looking and touching, and I love the way wearing them makes me feel.”

  I loop an arm around her waist. “How does it make you feel?”

  She turns to me and whispers, “Beautiful.”

  My body longs for her. My mind aches for her. I bring her closer, unable to resist kissing this woman. “You are beautiful,” I say, as I kiss her one more time.
/>   A slow and lingering kiss.

  If I’m not careful, I’ll ditch my flight simply to spend one more night with her.

  The thought is tempting. So damn tempting.

  And once it lands in my head, the idea that I could do that? It’s too powerful to ignore. “I could stay another night,” I blurt out.

  Her eyes flutter open. “Tonight?”

  “Yes. I know it sounds crazy. Insane, even.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she says. “But . . .”

  I swallow roughly. “But what?”

  “But what if I don’t want to get on my plane in the morning?”

  “Then you’d stay here with me,” I say, even though we both know that’s a foolish dream. I won’t be here either.

  She ropes her arms around my neck. “Fine. I’ll stay here with you, and we’ll dance on a rooftop garden, and we’ll watch the stars. We’ll go to The Marais and duck in and out of antique shops, and pop into the Musée Rodin whenever the mood strikes.”

  I pick up the thread easily. “There are Monets to be seen. Don’t forget the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “We’ll kiss in front of a Van Gogh that’s rumored to be magical. And then there will be more magic when we go clubbing in Oberkampf.”

  I groan appreciatively. “I like your story of our romance. Clubbing in Oberkampf sounds dirty and delicious.”

  “That’s how we’ll dance, Reid. Our bodies will be tangled together.”

  “Inseparable,” I add, my voice going low, smoky.

  “People will watch us,” she says. “They’ll pretend not to, but they won’t be able to take their eyes off us.”

  “They’ll be jealous of the young lovers,” I add, stroking her hair, running a thumb across her jaw, picturing our sultry nights.

  “They’ll be jealous because they’ll know that when we leave, we’ll be that couple.”

  “The couple who can’t take their hands off each other.”

  “Or their eyes,” she adds.

  I can’t stand this. I can’t take the tension. Or the reality that I’m leaving and so is she. I press a kiss to her lips, then ask the inevitable. “What would happen if we stayed in touch?”