That Night In Paris

by Sandy Barker

  I glanced over at his hand, which held his glass by the stem and slowly swirled the wine.

  Oh, what a beautiful hand. I want that hand on my bare body. My libido was winning. I needed to distract it.

  “So, tell me, how did all this happen?”

  His mouth twitched, nearly a smile. “You mean this? You and me here?”

  “You know I do. Don’t be coy.”

  “Coy?”

  “You’re fluent enough to know that one.”

  He nodded and the smile broke across his face. “True.” His eyes locked on mine. “Well, I got on the train on Friday morning—only two days ago, non?”

  He was right—it had only been two days since he’d left Rome. The tour was doing odd things to my perception of time. It was as if each day lasted several days, but at the same time it was all going by extremely fast.

  “And on the train, I realised it was too soon to say goodbye. I only just found you and I didn’t know when we would see each other again. When I got home, I could not pull myself away from thoughts of you.” My eyes were riveted to his. “I could not write up my notes from the interview. I was,” he sighed, “distracted. The whole day, the whole next day—yesterday.

  “So, last night I sent a message to Dani, because I have her number, and we exchanged several messages. And I decided to come here, to see you.” I found myself gently nodding. “And this morning, I got in my car—very early, before the sun came up—and I drove here.”

  “Oh, wait, you drove here?”

  “Oui.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “It was about seven hours.” He said it as though he’d just popped down to the shop a mile away.

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  I let the words permeate, and my warring minds hushed. I was left with one definite thought. I wanted to kiss him. I needed to kiss him, but we were in those stupid deckchairs. I stood up as elegantly as I could and reached out my hand. “Come here.”

  He stood, effortlessly, and looked down at me, his features ill at ease and questioning.

  “It is okay? That I came.”

  I had no words. Here was this man whom I barely knew—really, it was true, I didn’t know the man—not yet—and he’d driven across half of Western Europe to see me. No man had ever done anything like that for me before. Instead of speaking, I wrapped a hand behind his neck, stood on my tiptoes and pulled his lips to meet mine.

  It was as though we’d both been holding our breath and the kiss was letting it go.

  His hands found the small of my back and our bodies pressed together. His lips were soft and warm, his kiss was ardent, confident. I never wanted it to end, and my lady parts were doing a jig in my freshly changed knickers. Maybe we wouldn’t need the second bedroom after all. My libido, clearly in the lead, was smug.

  But if that was true, and I really wanted to believe it was, why did I have tears in my eyes?

  The kiss did eventually end, as all kisses do. He stroked the side of my face. I couldn’t remember any man ever doing that before either. How was it possible to be so turned on and nearing emotional wreckage at the same time?

  “Wait here,” he said, leaving me perplexed and wanting more of him. He disappeared inside and after a few moments, came back out to collect the wine bottle and the platter of food. “Will you bring the glasses?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I followed him back inside. He had moved the sofa so it faced the window. He placed the platter and the wine on a small table in front of the sofa, then opened the window so the fresh breeze wafted into the room.

  “Those chairs,” he said. “Too far apart. Now we have the view and we can sit together.”

  “Perfect.” I placed the glasses on the table and sat down—much more comfortable than the stupid deckchairs.

  Jean-Luc sat beside me, reached for both glasses and handed me mine. “It is better, oui?”

  “Oui.” I twisted my body so I faced him and put a throw pillow behind my back. I didn’t know how much longer I could just sit there and make polite conversation. “You know what?”

  “No.”

  “Look, I’m just going to come out and say this, because you came all this way and we’ve known each other a long time …” My voice trailed off as I watched a frown settle on his face. “It’s not something bad. I—I only want to be honest.”

  “Okay.” The frown was still there.

  “Here goes. I am madly, I mean madly attracted to you.” As if I had flicked a switch, the frown changed into a grin, and he ran a hand through his hair. “See? That, right there. Every time you do that, I want to do it.”

  “Go ahead.” He lifted his chin and raised that single eyebrow, challenging me. It was such a stupid thing to want to do—like out of a romance novel or something—but I lifted my hand and trailed a fingertip over his hairline, then ran my fingers through his hair, resting at the nape of his neck and stroking it softly. He closed his eyes and the softest moan escaped his lips.

  My lady parts were on high alert. How could something so simple cause so much of a reaction—in both of us? I pulled my hand away and his eyes opened.

  “See what I mean?” I asked quietly. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “And kissing you? I mean, that’s just … next level.”

  “Is that not a good thing?” Ah, there it was, the million-pound question. I was at the point where I needed to decide: put a halt to the physical stuff in case it led to unwelcome feelings, or ride it out, so to speak.

  My libido won, a victory for the lady parts.

  “It is a very good thing,” I answered.

  He placed his glass on the table, then leant close and kissed my cheek—not one of those quick taps, the French way of greeting someone, but a sensuous kiss where his lips lingered, and I felt his breath on my ear. Oh, good lord. “I agree,” he whispered.

  The kiss trailed under my jaw and I lifted my chin, gently leaning into to him. “So, if the kissing is ‘next level’, just think of what the lovemaking will be like.” I had, Jean-Luc. I had spent many hours thinking about the lovemaking. Those were long coach rides.

  The kissing moved to my throat and I reclined as Jean-Luc’s body moved over mine. I had the presence of mind to keep my wine glass upright—just. He saw it and with amusement in his eyes, took it from me and placed it on the floor. He shifted, his body stretching the length of me, the weight of it held by one of his taut, muscular arms.

  “Cat-er-ine,” he almost whispered. “Look at me.” I did. He dipped his face to mine and captured my lips with his. This kiss was possessive, hungry, and my arms went around his back, feeling the muscles rigid underneath his T-shirt. His erection pressed against my inner thighs and I lifted a hand to his neck and entwined my fingers in his hair.

  I had never been so turned on in my life.

  He broke the kiss and I nearly cried out in protest. He pressed his forehead to mine, our heavy breaths mingling in the space between us. “I have something, in my room.”

  “I’m on the pill,” I said, understanding instantly.

  “Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

  “Not this time.” This time? I obviously thought there would be at least one repeat performance, maybe more.

  We both reached between us, undoing our own jeans. I shimmied mine down, along with my knickers, and he did the same. When he entered me, his eyes locked with mine and the pleasure was acute.

  We fell into a harmonised rhythm, all the while watching each other intensely. I felt the orgasm building inside me, surprising me, and closed my eyes to give myself over to the wondrous cascade as I came. Jean-Luc was still moving inside me and when I opened my eyes a slight smile played on his lips. I gripped him with my legs, pulling him into me and he came with his face buried against my neck.

  He lay on me, the full weight of him nearly crushing me, but I didn’t want to let him go. Our breathing slowed, and he must have realised he was resting on
me. He pressed himself up with one hand, hovering over me. “Désolé, ma chérie.” I shook my head. He kissed me, lightly, his tongue playing across my lips, and I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be licked and nibbled.

  How utterly delightful.

  Although we had shared something incredibly intimate, there were nervous chuckles as we reinstated our various pieces of clothing and tidied ourselves up. I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

  Closing the door, I leant my head against it. “Holy cow,” I said to myself quietly. I had never had an orgasm just from sex before. Ever. I thought they were a myth perpetuated by Hollywood scripts written by men. I may have just had the best sex of my life.

  Whatever it was, my libido was doing a victory lap.

  Of my two minds, I was fervently ignoring the one telling me to be kind with Jean-Luc’s heart. If I really didn’t want him falling in love with me again, I was doing a poor job of it. A niggling thought keep popping to the surface. This is not how old friends reconnect.

  I walked over to the sink and turned on the cold tap. I splashed some water on my cheeks, careful to avoid my mascara. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. My cheeks were still flushed, and I had that post-orgasm glow cosmetics companies the world over have tried to bottle. I met my own eyes. “Do not break his heart. Again.” I said it aloud—in a soft voice, yes—but aloud so I knew I was serious.

  I had no intention of falling in love with Jean-Luc—or anyone—and I would have to figure out a way to let him know, before we parted ways again.

  I had a quick wee, freshened up my lady parts again and went back out to the living room. Jean-Luc was standing with his back to the room, looking out the window. “Uh, I’ve finished in the bathroom.” Men liked to freshen up after sex, too, right?

  He turned, smiling, suddenly a little shy. “Thank you. Oui, just give me a moment.” He almost jogged past me. I guess they do.

  I hated this part—the after-sex part. It was why I rarely stayed the night, and I never let him—whoever he was—stay the night. It went: sex, goodnight, blissful sleep all by myself. But it was only 5:00pm. We were hardly going to bed at five o’clock!

  Jean-Luc came back into the room and we stood looking at each other like adolescents across a dance floor. “I think if we are to finish the wine and the cheese, we should move back out to the balcony, yes? Otherwise, we will just end up making love again, and although that is a nice way to spend the evening, the wine will get warm.”

  A burst of laughter broke free. Thank God for a man with a sense of humour.

  “Agreed!” We carried the rest of the wine and the platter back to the view, making do with uncomfortable chairs while I told him about our adventures in Venice.

  “And then, in perfect English—I mean, it sounded like he’d learnt English in England, he wishes us a good evening and says, ‘I hope you enjoyed the gondola ride.’” Jean-Luc threw his head back and laughed, and it echoed out across the valley before us. What a lovely sound.

  “Jaelee, she is, ah, how would you say?” He rolled his wine glass between his hands as he mulled over his choice of words.

  “In French or in English?”

  A finger pointed at me as if to say, “Good point.” “Perhaps it is more flattering to her in French.” He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Perhaps it is more flattering if we don’t finish the sentence.” He replied with a wry smile. “Anyway, Lou and I tipped him—heavily—and gave him a gushing thank you, which, I hope, made up for it.”

  “She was very bold, that night in Paris.”

  “When she approached you on the street?”

  “Oui.”

  “She was. I get the feeling she is quite forthright in general.” His look told me I needed to explain “forthright”. “She is clear about what she wants.”

  “Ah, oui. That seems true.”

  “Her being forthright worked out for us, though,” I said.

  “It did.”

  “But I can’t help thinking, maybe her path in life would be smoother if she was more …”

  “Empathetic?” he supplied.

  “Yes, sort of. Maybe, more kind. No, hold on, that sounds wrong. She is kind, in her own way. She’s generous and she can be very thoughtful. Only I think her manner … sometimes she could be less abrasive.”

  I could tell from his face it was another “look-up word”. “Harsh,” I added, to clarify.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you get to converse in English much?” I hoped my non sequitur made sense.

  He smiled and tilted his head. “Is it obvious?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That I don’t.”

  “No. I just had a thought that it might be a little exhausting for you, translating everything I’m saying.”

  “It is not conscious, or it is a little for the first few minutes of speaking, yes, but soon I start to think in English and it is fine.”

  “Good. Parce que mon français est très mauvais.”

  “She says in perfect French.”

  I shrugged. “That’s my problem. I can say I don’t know how to speak a language in such a way that I sound fluent in the language. It can be very confusing for people.”

  “I am sure.”

  We finished the bottle and Jean-Luc went back inside for another of the same. He opened it while standing in the doorway, and he lightly scolded us for quaffing too quickly. “I only have one more bottle after this one.”

  “No problem. I think we can pace ourselves for the rest of the night.”

  “But there is tomorrow night too, n’est-ce pas?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Oui, you are here until Tuesday morning, yes? I have booked for two nights.”

  It was both a lovely and a terrifying thought. Most of me wanted to spend the night, have the whole of the next day with him, then spend another night with him before saying goodbye—so much of me—maybe ninety per cent. But the cautious me, the part that knew I wasn’t going to start a relationship with him, hesitated. For a second.

  I let the ninety per cent win. “That sounds wonderful. What do you think we should do while we’re here?”

  Besides have lots and lots of sex. Oh, and take a bath.

  Chapter 16

  After a hot-pink sunset so beautiful I’d rushed inside for my phone so I could take photos, Jean-Luc cooked us a quick and simple dinner of pan-fried trout, baked potatoes topped with farm-fresh butter, and steamed asparagus—my favourite.

  I love most meals I don’t have to cook myself, but Jean-Luc clearly knew what he was doing in the kitchen and everything was delicious. I also loved watching him gracefully move around the compact kitchen, as though he’d lived in the apartment for years, instead of a few hours. I let my mind linger on the fantasy again, the one where we lived together and it was the end of a normal workday. It was naughty of me, indulging those thoughts. Perhaps I could blame the wine.

  I loved the food, but Jean-Luc had served me as much as he’d served himself and being “just little”, I was nearly full when I placed my knife and fork next to each other on the plate.

  “That was delicious,” I said, hoping to reassure him.

  “You are finished?” He eyed the half-a-potato and small piece of trout I’d left on the plate.

  “Yes. I loved it, but I think you’re like Anna, wanting to feed me up.” He smiled, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

  “So, you do not have room for dessert?” he asked as he stood and cleared away the plates.

  My mind leapt to something extremely adult and a little crass, so I left the thought unsaid. “Uh, not right this minute, but I do love most desserts. What’s on offer?” Is it you?

  “Just this.” He held up a block of dark chocolate Lindt.

  “Hah! Brilliant. I love dark chocolate. A lucky guess.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “I, of course, knew this about you.” We both knew there
was no way he could have known. I’d been mad for milk chocolate as a teen.

  “Right, I see.” We smiled at each other across the kitchen island.

  “Or, I could run a bath for you?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” Once he’d said it, all I could think about was luxuriating in that bath. And once I’d followed Jean-Luc into the bathroom, where he turned on the taps and poured in a generous dollop of bubble bath, all I could think about was sharing the bath with him.

  He lit the three candles that sat on the windowsill and flicked off the bright bathroom lights, and the room filled with a warm yellow glow. “There,” he said, turning to me at last. “Oh, let me get your wine.”

  “Bring yours too.” He looked at me, his head tilted to the side and a slow smile spread across his face.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  ***

  “This may be the best bath I’ve ever had.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually, I’d like to go on the record to say that this is the best bath I’ve ever had. There’s that,” I said, pointing to the view, “there’s this tub—amazing—and the bubble bath smells divine. I mean, honestly, I am being spoiled for every other bath for the rest of my life.”

  “Anything else?” he teased.

  “Hmm. Oh, and the wine!”

  “I see.”

  We were head to toe in the giant bath and the bubbles were high under my chin. They only came up to Jean-Luc’s chest, which was muscular with fine dark hair in a triangle that I knew trailed down his stomach in a thin line. He had a terrific body—not too bulky like some guys—just deliciously fit and masculine. I stared at this chest and arms shamelessly while he held one of my feet captive between his hands.

  “Oh, and you,” I added nonchalantly. I placed my wine glass on the windowsill.

  “I wondered if you noticed I was here.” I looked into his eyes and pulled my foot from his hands. Carefully, so we didn’t lose any bathwater, I crawled up his body until I was lying on top of him.