The first pitcher of ale we'd drunk in the dimly lit bar had broken the first-meeting weirdness, what little of it there was, between us. The second had made our tongues as loose as leaves in a breeze. And the third, the one that's nearly empty? That's the one that must be making my head feel fuzzy. Fuzzy and nearly uncensored.
"I'm glad you said ‘yes’ to stopping in at the bistro.” Luc lifts his mug in silent salute. “I hoped you'd agree, but I would not have blamed you had you declined my offer. After all, not every man you meet in the subway station is ... how shall I put this?"
"Not a lunatic?” I suppress a giggle.
"Exactly! Not of the honorable, ordinary, just-want-to-get-to-know-you variety. Like myself, naturally."
The past two hours had shown that Luc Granville was anything but ordinary. A chef by trade, vintner by lineage, the twenty-nine-year-old native Frenchman divided his time between Paris and St. Duchesne, a small town an hour's ride north of the city. His family owns a vineyard and most weekends during the growing season Luc lends a hand among the vines. He's single, intelligent, and has a sense of humor that needs little translation. We've been laughing so easily that it feels like we're old friends rather than new acquaintances.
"I'm glad I said ‘yes', too. The train ride wasn't nearly a long enough time for us to get to know each other.” Maybe it's the fact that we've just met, or the openness I see in Luc's eyes, or even the thought that he seems so drastically different from what I'm used to dealing with. Whatever the reason, I feel completely at ease with this man. Talking with him is effortless—and agreeable, on so many levels. Who could have known that conversing with a man could bring so much pleasure? Still, I can't help but imagine him naked.
"I'm having a great time with you, Luc. I'm glad you came up to me on the platform. Honestly, though, I thought you were coming to tell me that I was an ugly, uncouth American.” I place a hand over my mouth to stifle the belch that appears suddenly.
Wrinkling his forehead, Luc scowls. It is the first time I've seen him do anything other than smile or grin, and the new dimension his displeasure gave to his face is decidedly intriguing. A tremor shoots up my spine as I focus on the furrows between Luc's brows. With an accent that grew thicker with each glass he drank, Luc says, “Don't tell me you actually believe that foreign propaganda? That-that-that crap that's spread around in other countries about the French thinking Americans are crude? Rude? Disgusting?” He practically hisses the last word, as if it was too vile to pass his firm, yet soft-looking, lips.
"Yeah, well, that about sums it up. That's exactly what we hear, so yeah, that's pretty much what I expected from you. It's my first day in Paris, like I said before. And you, Luc, are my first experience with a Paris ... Pari ... Paris-guy.” A hiccup echoes my words. “I figured you were going to herd me out of the country. At the very least I thought you might try and pitch me off the platform and onto the tracks."
"You must be joking! Nowhere is something that barbaric done!” His outrage would have been comical if it wasn't so damn sexy. My panties moisten. I hold tightly to my beer mug, so the trembling of my fingertips won't be as obvious as it feels.
"I can see you've never been to New York, have you?” I smirk. “If you had ... well, I can promise you, you would never have made a statement like that!"
A tilt of his head, a small move forward and Luc's lips find mine across the table. We kiss for what feels like hours but are, I know, just seconds. His mouth is hot on mine, his lips firm yet tender. Luc touches his tongue to my lower lip gently but as I open my mouth to him he pulls back, ending the kiss. Without his lips on mine I feel empty, chilled.
A smile plays around the edges of Luc's mouth as he spoke. “No, I have never been to New York. I have never been to the United States. Only Europe and Australia. Oh, and once to Japan, but never to New York. I have seen many foreign films, of course. And I studied the culture and language of your country in school, of course."
Running a finger along the rim of my mug, if only to keep myself from running the same finger along Luc's whisker-stubbled jaw line, I nod. “So that's where you learned to speak English so well, in school. I wondered."
"Yes, most children in Europe learn some English skills. It comes in handy, I think, when we need to converse with beautiful women on subway platforms."
"I'd say.” The air feels electrically charged since our kiss. A new crispness, a clarity, exists that hadn't been here earlier. I hold my breath, yeaning for the feel of his mouth on mine again. Even in my relaxed state I'm not confident enough to lean forward and kiss him.
Time for me to go. End the night on a high note, right? Always leave ‘em wanting more—or cut and run before making a fool of oneself, I always think. I've had enough beer that I could do something stupid.
Like I said, time to go. “This has been great, thanks.” I stand but before I can say another word Luc stands, too
"It has been magnifique. And if you are ready to depart, I will walk you home. Unless, that is, you live a great distance. In that case I will dash home and get my car so that I may drive you home. Will that be necessary?"
Silently I shake my head. His charm, manners and almost old-world chivalry stuns me.
"Fine. Then, we will walk.” Luc smiles. “But first, you will have to tell me where you live, Kim, so that I will know what direction to turn when we leave. Do you know your address?"
My voice returns in the form of a very undignified giggle. A giggle that lets me know I'm tipsier than I'd first thought.
Do I know my address? For an instant I draw a blank but then, as if by some divine intervention, it comes to me.
"Eighty-four rue de Flexures.” My tongue slips around the foreign words effortlessly and for an instant I wonder if I'm not nearly as drunk as I first thought. Then, I take a step, tripping over the table leg and falling right into Luc's arms.
Oh well. So much for the idea of not being drunk. But at least I'm finally pressed against this handsome man. This handsome man with a hard-on.
* * * *
"Yes, yes, that's right. Oh, Kim, you are so delightful,” Luc murmurs as he sprinkles kisses along the side of my neck. His voice is low and hoarse, and almost desperate in its wanton desire. “Oh, yes..."
My fingers push aside the fabric of his jeans and press deeper into his clothing. Luc wears no under shorts, and his erection fills my hand instantly. I tug his cock to freedom, sliding my fingers along his silky steel shaft with my own share of wanton lust. I squeeze the cap, wondering how he looks. I'd love to see his body, see what I'm touching but the alley is dark. We've made it to a block of my apartment, but the casual touching and kissing that began as soon as we'd left the café had quickly become intense. The first secluded spot we'd found that would let us indulge the frenzied pitch our desire had risen to was this alley. It felt amazing to hold his cock, to feel his body tremble beneath my touch, but still ... I would have loved the chance to see every inch of his hot, hard, male body with my own eyes.
"Yes, ma chere, touch me.” Luc's cheek, with its stubble, stung mine as he nipped my earlobe between his teeth. “My turn, is it not?"
"Please,” I moaned. My voice was barely recognizable even to my own ears but the heat in my nether region was familiar. I shifted as Luc tugged my zipper down. Wiggling my ass, not minding the brush of brick on my skin as he pushes my jeans down my hips, I fall back against the building I'm leaning beside and spread my thighs as far as I can. “Please, touch me Luc. Please..."
My hand pistons along his shaft as his fingers slide between my swollen labia. Arching my back, I groan as he finds, then gently pinches, my engorged clit between his fingertips. I nearly come after the first few strokes of his hand but Luc grows still before I can find the peak.
A chuckle, throaty and sinfully sexy, fills my head. I press myself against him, wanting more—so much more—of what he offers, but Luc chuckles a second time.
"No, not yet,” he murmurs. Kissing my forehead, he pushes
his cock hard against my palm. “Not yet, chere. Stroke me, stroke me hard. I want to feel you touch me; want to feel your hand on my hardness once more before we come. Stroke me hard and fast, Kim. Then we will see about taking our pleasure."
Never before has a man been so open with his desire. The way Luc's told me what he wants excites me further. Licking my lips, I look down to the place where I know his erection is. My hand disappears into the darkness, clutching his penis. Again, I wish for light—even the wavering light of a flame will do! Anything, just so I can see this divine man's flesh with my own eyes.
Sadly, there is no light, but there is heat. Luc's hips move in time to the rhythm of my hand, and his head falls back as I stroke his cock. A groan comes from deep within his body, like the sound of a large, satisfied cat. His purring ratchets up my desire yet again. My pussy drips, slick with my need and my hips begin to move, too. Luc's fingers slide against my slippery slit, the tip of his index finger finding my soft, wet entrance. He presses inside, and my muscles clench around his finger.
"Now. Come with me now. Let me stroke you until you can stand it no more,” he whispers, stroking my clit more forcefully. His cock is hard, my pussy soft and the heat between us makes me perspire. My heart trips double time and I feel the first twinges of my climax at exactly the same instant Luc's cock spasms.
My body shudders as we convulse against each other. Two strangers sharing a moment of passion in a dark alley, never to see each other's bodies but knowing them more intimately than words can say. In my beer-induced haze, I vow never to forget the feel of this man's cock, or the touch of his fingers on my sex. I didn't get to see Luc's body, but I won't forget it, either.
Chapter Three
My day isn't going well. First, there was the missed Metro train. Then, the run to catch the bus that would bring me within four blocks of my destination. Oh, and the pounding headache I had, leftover from last night's beer fest, made everything more annoying, including the bitch teacher who was, even now, humiliating me in front of the entire class.
"A bit more to the torso, I think. See how his musculature is sharply defined in the upper chest region? Yours looks a bit flat.” Adrienne's paint-stained index finger hovers above my sketch pad. She jabs, pointing out the offending pencil strokes. “See? There. And there. Your strokes, they are not good. You need practice. Practice, practice, practice! They are too flat. Much too flat,” she proclaims in her you-can-do-better-can't-you? tone before moving on to the next student. I pull a face at her skinny little behind, hoping, not for the first time, that the skin-tight black pants she favors give her a galloping case of crotch rot.
I feel heat sear my cheeks. Not only had the other eleven students been privy to this verbal dressing down, but the object of my sketch had heard it all, too. And he was what really counted at this very moment. The finely chiseled male model who sat in the center of the room had been the object of my sketching for the past hour, but also the center of a rather interesting—and very sexual—little daydream I'd been having. One that had been started last night, in a dark alley, with the very same man. I can't wait to hear Luc's explanation for this, being a male model. Why hadn't he told me?
Shit. Now it was all ruined. The sketch. The come-hither expression I'd been giving Mr. To-Die-For Luc as I slipped the spaghetti straps of some filmy negligee off my shoulders in my imagination. Shattered, each and every glorious, panting, tortured breath he took as he ogled me, his tight jeans barely able to restrain the turgid flesh behind his fly—
"All right, class,” Adrienne called out, clapping her hands as if chasing away a gaggle of geese. “Enough for today. Tomorrow we'll work some more on the male form.” She turns and raises an eyebrow at Luc. “In all its glory. Until then, perhaps you can all contemplate the mysteries of pencil, paper and musculature. Adieu."
Bitch.
Standing, I turn. Beside me, Celine is shoving her sketchpad into her lumpy, oversized bag. Celine always looks like she'd shopped in a dumpster and had thrown whatever she wore together in thirty seconds or less. The French version of casual chic, I suppose. Whatever, she still looks remarkable, in an artistic sort of way. She catches my eye and smiles.
Leaning close, she says in a low voice, “Don't pay any attention to her. You know how she is. She's done that to all of us. Probably didn't get any again last night. I heard from Julie that the big A's fiancée dumped her."
I snort. It's hard to believe a woman that bitchy could find a man to tolerate her. “So she's got to take it out on us?"
Celine shrugs philosophically, in typical Parisian style. “C'est la vies, non? Where there is bitchiness, there is usually a bitch. We, dear Kim, have a super bitch in our midst. Pay her no attention, and continue with your work. And remember, good is in the eye of the beholder. Adieu!"
"So long.” Leave it to Celine to put this into perspective. I take a last look at my sketch, sigh, and close the cover on my pad. The brown leather tote I carry my supplies in is a gift from my godmother, the woman who helped finance this year-long experiment. It still smells new, as if it had come from Saks the week before instead of a month ago.
A month. That's how long I've been at the prestigious Sauvignon Academy of Arts. A month to settle in, absorb the ambience of the land and begin my life as a real artist. Or end it, if Adrienne was to be believed. The woman seemed to take delight in ridiculing my work. Not me, the only American in a class filled with French students. No, that would be too blatantly cruel. No, Adrienne pointed out flaws in my work—over and over, day after day. Four weeks. I'm ready to explode.
"I did not get to see your work. You have put it away too quickly."
The voice was as smooth as caramel, so deep and sultry it brings prickles of heat to my already heated body. It is him. Luc. The model, the man of my dreams, the—
"Really. I wanted to see what the-the ... how do you say it? What the excitement was about."
Slowly, I turn. He's put his shirt on, but there was no denying it—the man standing so close I could smell the warm, musky scent of him is one hot male specimen. I inhale deeply, remembering the touch of his fingers against my skin.
"Hmm, you want to see the excitement, do you?” I wiggle my brows, wishing I'd taken the time this morning to do more than slash lip gloss on my mouth. Even a hint of mascara would've helped, but there had been no time. Between the beer and alley sex, I'd overslept. “Well, I wouldn't mind seeing a few things myself. That is, if you're willing to show them to me. Again."
Luc's brows come together and I resist the urge to press my fingers to his forehead. He is beautiful, even in the casual denim shirt and faded jeans he's wearing. So different from last night's fashionable look, but still incredibly sexy. How can I be so lucky? To meet him today, when I thought I'd never see Luc again? Cupid must be smiling on me. The hammering in my chest, and the warmth in my center, remind me that I've made the right choice about Paul. Not that I really need to be reminded, but if I'd had any doubts at all they'd be history. How could I feel such a huge gush of pleasure and excitement over seeing Luc if I had any real, deep feelings for Paul? I couldn't. In one burst of good fortune, I'd learned once and for all that I'd made the right decision about ending my relationship with Paul.
"Pardon?” The long, strong length of Luc's neck is exposed as he tilts his head to the left and stares down at me, a puzzled expression on his face. His sexiness steals my breath away and there is a sharp hammering in my chest. Can one die from desire? In this instant, I believe they can.
"Pardon, but I think I may have ... have—” Luc's fingers wave in the air beside his head, as if he's looking for the correct word to continue the conversation. It's strange to see him grapple with the language. Last night he didn't seem to have any problem communicating—with or without his clothes in place. Was it the beer that had made him so chatty?
Boldness overcomes my usual reserved character. Grinning, I tease, “You may have what? Forgotten what you've already shown me? Is that it? You
're losing track of what you've already revealed? If not to my eyes, exactly, then to my hands and ... other parts.” A tremor shoots through me, stiffening my nipples. They press against the fabric of my shirt. Luc's glance at their hard points tells me he's noticed. Does he remember how my breasts felt beneath his frenzied touch?
Adrienne's voice cuts, yet again, into the stupendously wonderful erotic daydream I'm having. It is like a burst of frigid water on my hot, willing body. My spine stiffens as I turn toward the door.
"I would think, mademoiselle, that your time would be better spent with pencil in hand than in flirting with my model.” Lifting one overly thin eyebrow, Adrienne pursed her lips as she stared at me. Refusing to rise to her malicious bait, I lock eyes with her and count to ten. I won't let her goad me into a confrontation, not in front of Luc. In private, I might scratch her eyes out, but here I'll keep my calm at all costs. Dismissing me with a small snort, she turns toward Luc and says, “I have things to discuss with you. Tomorrow's session, for one thing. And,” she lowers her voice so drastically both Luc and I lean forward to hear her next words. “Other things. More personal things. If you will, follow me. We will talk in my office—in private."
With an apologetic smile, Luc follows Adrienne from the classroom. For a long moment I stand, silently, beside my chair. How has my day gotten so screwed up in such a short time? And how did my Prince Charming turn into a frog?
Chapter Four
"No, I'm not just having rebound sex. It was—well, it was fast, drunken, casual sex but I didn't do it because of Paul. Actually, I realized with Luc that I'm over Paul. Way over him.” Absently, I drag my pencil across the vellum sheet of paper attached to the board on my lap. Before me, Luc's face comes to life. His chiseled chin, big eyes and strong jaw line. They're all as I remember them from last night. Thinking of today's encounter does nothing creative for me—not unless you call raising my blood pressure a creative gesture.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 Page 10
