by Fifi Flowers
As luck would have it, she was my Avril. My heart beat wildly seeing her at one of my favorite places. Moving closer to her, I could see that she already had a cart half filled with books, and was still adding to it as I stepped up to greet her.
“Bonjour, Avril, how are your knees?” I loved the smile she presented as she turned toward me—it made me weak in the knees and my pants tight.
“Bruised and a bit of a mess still, hence, the leggings and flat ankle boots,” she said twisting one of her legs and pointing her toe. “They should be fine next week, perhaps a nice shade of yellow by then.” She laughed and then added, “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.” I swear she batted her eyelashes at me, but I couldn’t say for certain.
“I couldn’t very well leave you injured in the street. It was my duty and a pleasure…” I wanted to say more about what great pleasure it brought me to be able to touch her, but I stopped myself and changed the subject. “I see you found a few treasures.” I nodded at her stack of books.
“Yes, this book bazaar is wonderful. I could easily fill two carts and I haven’t made it around to every stand yet.”
“I adore this place, too. I’ve been coming here since I was a little boy. Used to come with my grand-père. Hmmm… I haven’t been here since he passed.” Not wanting to be a downer, I asked, “Do you mind if I tag along with you?”
There was that heart stopping smile, again. “Not at all. How long ago did your grandfather pass away?”
“It’s been quite a while, but it feels like yesterday. He passed down his love of books to me. Telling me tales about the book world and those who created books, he pulled me in deep. We discovered this weekend book mart together.” I looked around the space as we made our way to the next vendor and I swear I could hear my grandfather telling yet another tale. “What are you looking for? Anything in particular?”
“I have a few more requests to fill and, of course, I must purchase a few for my own library. You?” she asked as she began sorting through a box of religious books with tattered covers.
“A few requests, as well,” I answered as I looked into her cart, noting what kind of books she had purchased. More religious books, but this time they were about non-secular art and architecture. I should’ve made an excuse right there and then. I should’ve walked away, and yet, I couldn’t. I couldn’t walk away, not from her, not from my Avril.
And so, I spent the rest of the afternoon strolling from table to table with her occasionally telling her some of my grandfather’s stories until we had gone from one end to the other, I relished every moment by her side. I loved when a few brief moments developed that provided me with an excuse to touch her. Close enough to take her in; she smelled as good as she looked. But, it was her enthusiasm for the books—whatever their subject—that invigorated me. I had never met a woman that appeared to be as interested in the written word as I was. Still not ready to leave her, needing more time with her, more of her, I asked her to accompany me to a café. “Join me for a cup of coffee or hot chocolate or…”
Cutting me off, she denied me. “Sorry. I’m meeting someone,” she answered quickly while placing her final purchase in her cart.
“Oh,” I said, lowering my head, looking and sounding pathetic. So unlike my usual behavior with women.
I wondered if she had sensed my defeated tone when she touched my arm and started to explain rapidly. “Actually, I’m meeting a group of book bloggers. I only know one personally. It’s a fun group.” Realizing, I was not looking at her face, but rather at her lovely hand gripping me, she pulled away and uttered nervously, “I better get going.” It was her turn to look down.
God knows, I shouldn’t have even cared with whom or where she was going. I never should’ve approached her. I should’ve turned the other way when I saw her. I should’ve left the marketplace right away, but I couldn’t. I wanted her. I would make sacrifices to spend time with her. That’s when it hit me—if you want to be with her, you’re going to have bend to things that appeal to her. “Can I interest you in a tour of some of my favorite chapels tomorrow?”
My heart melted when she looked up at me with a silvery twinkle in her exquisite lavender eyes. “Sure, that sounds great!” I had her.
“Perfect. I’ll meet you around nine tomorrow morning at La Maison Rose.” I would see her again.
“I’ll be there,” she said looking at her watch, informing me she had to run.
I quickly placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. I really wanted to grab her, pull her into my arms, and ravage her mouth. Instead, I said, “See you,” then turned and walked in the opposite direction, shaking my head, thinking about her strolling away with a cart filled with religious books. I had to question my own sanity.
Chapter Four
Avril
Turning around, I made my way to the Porte de Vanves metro station. I hated walking away from Émile or should I say, I hated that he walked away from me. Damn! He smelled so good, he looked so good, and his casual touch here and there sent waves of moisture to my panties. Oh, and he sounded so good—his sexy French accent caused my nipples to pebble. They were actually getting more and more painfully hard as I listened to him. Staring at his lips while he spoke, I wished they were moving along my breasts, giving me some relief. I tried to focus on my task at hand, but I couldn’t think clearly, and that was obvious as I started to maneuver my cart down the steps to the underground. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, and I nearly lost all of my books.
Though I was having fabulous luck finding such rare books, I was definitely having a difficult time keeping them in my hands and my cart. As I was about to make contact with the hard, cement stairs, I felt a pair of strong hands steady me. I hoped the hands belonged to a certain Frenchman. No, they were not the ones I yearned for, the ones I craved to feel roaming all over my body; they belonged to another handsome Frenchman. But the unwanted hero, however, was very kind, suggesting a taxi and helping me and my book collection into the roomy backseat of one.
Sitting in the taxi, I thought back over my day’s events. I had been to the book mart on one other weekend, and I hoped to hit it at least one more time, but I had not anticipated running into Émile. That was truly a bonus. Seeing him at a distance, I was thrilled when he approached me, but there was something amiss between us, again. Why did he walk off so abruptly when I said I had to go? He could’ve rode the metro with me… Hmmm. Did he use the metro? Did he drive? He knew I had several books, he could see my cart was full. Why didn’t he offer to help me? Why was he always running away, leaving me? He seemed so interested, then not. He was hot one minute and cold the next. I loved his stories; his adventures with his grandfather were wonderful. I could hear how much he missed him in his voice. I knew firsthand how important grandparents could be. After all, I was raised by mine.
My mother got pregnant with me at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-six while she was working for an exclusive auction house in Boston. She came home one weekend, complaining about her asshole boss, and not feeling well, assuming she must have the flu. My very wise grandmother knew the cause almost immediately when her daughter made a mad dash for the bathroom, and she promptly suggested that she purchase a couple pregnancy kits.
Unfortunately for my mother, Claudette Coco Paulson, her mother was correct. Upon viewing the positive results, my mother exclaimed it could not be. She had no desire to be saddled with a child. My grandmother told her she must keep her baby and my mother said, “Fine, you want me to have it—you raise it.”
That was exactly what happened. Claudette returned to Boston to pack up her possessions and to inform her asshole employer, whom my grandmother believed was my father, of her immediate resignation. My grandmother wasn’t certain he was my biological father, but she was pretty sure whoever was, that he was a married man; Claudette’s favorite kind of men to date or—at least—to bed. Returning to her childhood neighborhood, she stayed with my grandparents for the duration of her pregnancy, and as soon as I wa
s born, she handed me over to them.
On my birth certificate, she named my grandmother and grandfather as my parents, leaving the space for my name blank. And then she left. My grandmother quickly named me Avril, used my mother’s first name for my middle name, bundled me up in a pink blanket, and took me home. My grandmother loves French names. My mother and I, along with several pets in the household, were given similar names over the years. My grandmother was a big Francophile since her year abroad studying in France, mainly in Paris. We all benefited. She even called my grandfather by a French name, he didn’t mind, after all, if not for Paris, they never would’ve married.
My grandparents met in a French café. He was on a summer tour throughout Europe. While staying in Paris for three days, he met the love of his life. He said it was love at first sight; he was delighted that he met her on his first day in the magical city. He never left her more than a couple feet away when in each other’s presence. On his last day, they exchanged hugs, kisses, and promises to stay in contact. Six months later, she returned to the states after completing her studies, and they were wed within the year. They remained at each other’s side until ten years ago, when my grandfather passed away a happy man. Thanks to a little blue pill, he left the world after one last time of pleasuring his wife. My grandmother said he looked so peaceful with the biggest smile on his face. Not exactly what you want to hear from your grandmother, but I was used to her bluntness. A couple of years ago, she met and married a nice gentleman, then put our family home on the market, and headed to the West coast to experience beach living. Between the sale of the house and what my grandfather left us, my grandmother was well taken care of, and I received a little financial boost to my online book business… a business I adored.
Back in my apartment, I placed my book cart in the lift, and met it at the top of the stairs. Lugging my latest finds inside, I needed to get them ready to be shipped back to my clients. Once I had them placed in their proper boxes, sealed and labeled, I got ready for a night out with the risqué book blogger group. That night we were discussing an erotic romance novel in a café close enough that I could walk. Still recovering from my cobblestone spill and anticipating a wobbly return after filling up on good food and many glasses of wine, I opted for a pair of flat espadrilles.
Arriving at the restaurant, I was directed to a semi-private area toward the back of the dining area. There was no need to be directed, as I could hear women laughing wildly as I stepped through the front door. Introducing myself as the group came into view, I was greeted with several cheek kisses. Making my way to a seat at the table, a glass of wine was thrust into my hand. The meet up was going to be a fun gathering! As food was served in a multitude of courses, the group leader started with her reasons for selecting the book. The questions and comments commenced straight after. I participated; answered a few questions, stated my opinions, posed some questions, and then I lost touch as a part of the book discussion took my mind off in a different direction.
I was thinking about my handsome Frenchman. Ha! He was not mine, but I wished he was. I loved the way he dressed; his clothing looked to be custom made for him—they hugged his body perfectly. His tweed trousers, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a waistcoat looked almost like a period costume, like he was from a different era. Strange. How many times had I heard the same thing said about my look? Another thing we had in common along with an apparent love of books. Mmm… The body under those garments looked inviting too; strong muscular forearms, a broad chest, slim waist, great ass. And the package looked like it might be nice as well! Hearing my name, I whipped my head in the direction of the woman closest to me, coming back to reality.
“Avril, do you care to share? The moan that just escaped your throat tells me you have something—perhaps wicked—on your mind.”
Another woman joined in, prodding me for information. “Yeah, you have a look of pure ecstasy on your face, mademoiselle… Do tell!”
I laughed, stumbling on my own words, embarrassment mixed with a little tipsiness. “I was thinking about a man.”
“Tell us about him.”
“Give us details.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“How big is he?”
“Did he have you begging for more?”
“Panting?”
“Dish!”
I heard a variety of questions and requests from around the table.
“Well…” I started, looking at my captive audience, perched on the edge of their chairs, leaning in my direction, “there’s not much to tell.” I wished I had a good story for them; I didn’t. They had to settle for a description of my anticipation and agony. “I met him a few days ago when he picked me up off of the ground.” I stopped to laugh, thinking of what his view must’ve been.
Shaking my head, I explained how he had found me, and then walked me home. They were most interested in what happened in the privacy of my apartment. “He cleaned my knees while my boobs were spilling out in his face.” By the time I had reached that point in my story, they were laughing wildly along with asking me a bevy of naughty questions that actually reddened my face. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a tasty turn in my story to follow up with, but I did mention that he was rather hot!
My details delighted the crowd, causing their voices to get even louder, if that was remotely possible. I was certain we were going to be thrown out as different waiters took turns visiting our, overly excited, table, attempting to quiet the group. I thought one of the older servers was going to have a heart attack hearing these women with their rather graphic suggestions.
“You should’ve spread your legs.”
“Grabbed him by that great thick hair you mentioned.”
“Shove his head in between your thighs.”
“Made him take you to heaven!”
Oh my God! They went on and on, bringing tears to my eyes. My cheeks actually hurt from the pure giddiness the conversation elicited within me. When I was finally able to catch my breath, sadly, I let them down. “I think my book collection scared him off. Sitting on the table next to us, I had several religious books. A couple that were actually about becoming a nun, and taking your vows seriously. I watched him flip through a few, not realizing… not thinking about the books at the time. But, when I offered him tea, he was fast to leave. It was then that the titles struck me.”
“Ahh… a gentleman,” Sweet Roxy said in a swoony fashion.
“Or a scared man!” Jacqueline exclaimed, shaking her head, pushing her stylish eyeglasses up her nose, before taking a healthy taste of her wine.
“Fuck that!” Sonja with the stacked bob and red hot lips shouted.
“You need a naughty Frenchman,” Carolina—the older lady of the group, also the one with the dirtiest mind—insisted, batting her false eyelashes. What a character!
“Oui,” I agreed. “Why couldn’t he be more like the other European men I had met, thinking of me as an easy American slut?” That question had them roaring with laughter.
“You need to find him tonight!”
“You’re drunk! Perfect!”
“Rip off your clothes!”
“Force yourself on him!”
More laughter abound along with another warning from a managerial figure. The girls lowered their voices a bit, but they weren’t finished with my fascinating man. They nudged me for more.
“I actually ran into him again today. I only know his first name and that he likes books or he’s a book collector, not sure. He asked me out for coffee or hot chocolate, but I told him no, that I was meeting up with all of you.”
“Damn girl, you could’ve blown us off for a hot man.”
“We would’ve understood.”
“Hot man in my pants versus an evening with horny women… hmmm?”
“Cock wins out!”
“No.” I laughed. “No, it’s okay, I’m going on an outing with him tomorrow.”
“Oohs” and “do tells” circled the t
able. I had to giggle at what I was about to tell them.
“Don’t get too excited, girls. He’s taking me to tour chapels throughout Paris.”
“Oh shit!” Jacqueline, to my left exclaimed, loudly.
Then Marguerite, one of our French members, stated her view of the situation, announcing that he either thought I was definitely studying to be a nun, or that maybe I misread him altogether. Perhaps, he is a religious man. I hoped she was wrong on the latter comment. Of course, there was nothing wrong with a religious man, but that type of man was not for me.
Chapter Five
Émile
I hated walking away from Avril. I wanted her to cancel her book club plans for me. As I turned around, I watched her walk down the block; her swaying hips had me mesmerized. I stood and stared until she turned the corner, then hurried in her direction. I decided to follow her when I realized she must be heading for the metro with her load of religious books. She probably needed help and I had abandoned her, yet again. Those damn books of hers were messing with my head, making me forget my manners.
Picking up my pace, I rushed after her, then stopped as a tall, attractive man went to her rescue. I watched with rage as he pulled her cart up and escorted her to a taxi. His hands were on her; I wanted to break his arms. How dare he touch my woman! But she wasn’t mine. I wanted her to be mine. She smiled at him. I didn’t want her to smile at another man. She might not be my usual woman of preference, but there was something about her. I wanted her. Even if I had to go the old-fashioned route, I was willing to do it for her. Would she make me wait to bed her until our wedding night? Wedding night? Where was that thought coming from? She had only been in my life a short… brief time, and I was truly losing my mind.
