Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

by Fifi Flowers

  Left without a kiss, I refused to be sad. Instead, I looked down briefly at my new sparkling treasures and began to play with them. The sensation of my tight nipples stuck to the material caused me to shudder with the stimulation I was creating. Toying with each one, they seemed to be directly linked to the pulsing between my legs, and I felt like I was about to come at any second. Glimpsing movement before me, I lifted my head and watched the hot man before me as he unbuttoned the front of his shirt and pulled it off. I focused my eyes on him as I slipped my hand down between my legs. I had never seen him naked. I was so excited, I slid my fingers inside my panties. Watching him unhook his pants, I licked my lips and he dropped his pants. Commando!

  Nude, he pulled the chair and walked behind me. “Stop,” he said before he ripped my thong from my body. He bent my body over the back of the chair, exposing me. Sheathed, he lined up the head of his thick cock at my opening and paused. I wanted to scream and beg him to take me or, more desperately, to fuck me. Suddenly, without warning, and as if he heard my thoughts, he plunged deep inside of me.

  “They’re watching you take my cock deep in your tight, little pussy. They’re wondering just how good your slickness feels. Ohh! It feels incredible.” All the while he thrusted into me, with his hand caressing between my thighs, he talked about my body: what he was doing to me, how the whole time he was fucking me, people were watching me—not him, not us—just me and my tits, ass, and cunt.

  He had me contemplating what their views were from each angle. I couldn’t stop myself from looking up to see if eyes could be seen through the glass that surrounded us. Was someone’s eyes looking into mine as had happened when we were the viewers, I questioned when I first gazed about. But then my eyes were dazzled by the reflection of Émile as he slid in and out of me. Watching every muscle flexing in his body as he thrust into me while feeling the impact on my body as my jeweled breasts swayed in rhythm—I was lost in the sensations, lost in us.

  It was only his voice that reminded me that we weren’t alone, but still it was all about us, our voyeuristic audience only heightened the thrill. Oui, he continued to use many more colorful and graphic words that, in a typical conversation, would offend. But in a sensual tone, his use of French words I didn’t understand, excited me as no man ever had. There was something in the way he spoke that heightened my pleasure. The sensations had me screaming out as I climaxed for all to see.

  Following me in his own release, he broke our connection slowly. Still giving me time to come down from my high, he held me from behind, and ran his hand along my skin. Once my breathing had returned to a steadier, slower rhythm, he moved away to retrieve our clothing from the floor. Dressed, he asked if I was ready to return to the main room or if I wanted to visit a few more entertainment rooms on the next floor up. I didn’t think I could handle any more stimulation and declined, knowing that he would probably excuse himself the minute he walked me to my apartment door.

  The rest of the night we watched more acts on stage. Although he sat close to me on the sofa, he never touched me. I wanted him to touch me so badly that when he asked me to dance, I nearly shouted my answer. After twirling me around to a few songs, we exited the dance floor, and he suggested we call it a night. Part of me felt disappointed, but the other was relieved.

  As usual, Émile refused to come into my apartment. I had come to terms with that—after all, how could I complain about tonight? He had taken me to a place I had only ever dreamt of going. Lying in my bed later, I relived every moment while pleasuring myself with one of my new vibrating toys. I also realized that I would have to be satisfied with whatever erotic releases he would give me, and I knew I would miss him when I left. I wanted more! I hoped that there could be more when I returned on my next visit. Did I mean anything to him? Since I had met him, I questioned myself daily.

  Then, just as I was beginning to nod off, I received a text from him telling me he was leaving for the country in the morning. He told me I needed to pack a bag and that I would be accompanying him for the weekend at his father’s vineyard. He did not ask me, he just informed me. Taking me to see his family? Maybe I do mean more to him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Émile

  When Avril opened her door the night before, I nearly lost all control. The sight of her in that lavender dress was spectacular, hugging her body—nothing like it looked on her in the store. She took my breath away, again. I actually gasped. How I managed to attach the necklace around her soft, slender neck, was beyond me. I had to hand the matching earrings to her because I was certain I would puncture her in an attempt to hook them in her suckable lobes. And what she did to me in the club—dancing for me, on my lap, I wanted to capture her lips. Bending her over the chair was the safest way for me to please her without showing my emotions. Dropping her off, I truly had no desire to leave her at her door. I wanted more of her; I wasn’t satisfied. I ached for her later in my bed. It was what prompted me to invite her for a weekend away at my father’s vineyard.

  Up before the sun peeked over the horizon, I began to have second thoughts. Driving to her apartment, I questioned my sanity and gave myself a pep talk while planning out my strategy. Being in the same location, I needed to make sure there was some sort of separation between us. Separate rooms were a must; number one on my list.

  In front of her building, I texted her that I was downstairs. That move had to strip me of my gentleman card, for sure. But I didn’t trust myself or her; she was always trying to entice me. She thought I was oblivious to her actions, but I noticed. She always had to finish dressing or she flashed me a bit of skin. Innocent or not, it killed me every time. Hopefully I redeemed myself a smidgen, taking her luggage when she appeared, then opening and closing the car door for her. I smiled to myself as I slipped into the driver’s seat and she leaned over and kissed my cheek before I zoomed away from the curb. She must’ve felt some of the same apprehension as I had; she was speaking in an excited manner, mentioning how she had never traveled at such an early hour through the streets of Paris. She said it was strange to see the streets so empty, so quiet. I agreed with her.

  I don’t know why she had such an effect on me. I was so nervous, I started to rattle off Paris facts, then segued into my family history. I had never taken anyone to meet my father. I was a talkative buffoon.

  My father never liked the book business since he was a child. Never interested in books, period: not being read to, not looking at picture books, and hated to read once he learned. He was missing the Capet literary gene. His father was baffled. He walked around questioning, “How can this be my son, the son of a bookshop owner does not like books, literary treasures?” He still commented, even after I was born. My father told him in return, “Life should be experienced out in the world not sitting and reading a book.” Those two never agreed where books and reading were concerned.

  Eager to escape the bookstore, my father applied to colleges far away from Paris. My grandfather wanted to forbid it, but his son had received acceptance to some prestigious schools around the globe. How could he deny him his chance to explore the world he longed to see? Besides, he thought once he saw that you had to fight to be successful in life and realized he had a business waiting for him at home, he would change his opinion of taking over the bookshop one day. That was not the case.

  Once he graduated from college, he did reluctantly return to working at the shop, but he took off as often as his father would let him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do for his life’s work, but it was not going to involve the bookshop. He continued to explore his options when he could get away.

  On one of his évasions, escapes as he called them, he met my mother. They were smitten with each other immediately. He refused to leave her. So, he brought her back, married her, and they eventually had me. She, like him, hated the book business. They both complained openly in front of my grandfather that they wanted to travel. He reminded them that they had a family to provide for, their wandering days we
re over. Stuck, my mother said she wanted to have more children to amuse her days. More specifically—she wanted girls. And, with each baby she lost, my parents grew apart. She hated being trapped. My father blamed the bookshop. Later, he blamed a curse against our family that he had heard of as a child. They fought a lot and my grandfather often took me off on adventures around the city, when I was old enough to pay attention to their bickering. My mother finally had enough and packed her bags when my father said he couldn’t leave. I was just under nine years old at the time.

  “Intermission,” I announced as we pulled off the main highway into a little village that had some of the best French offerings. I always made a point to stop there when time permitted. We were in no hurry and I had to see her face as she savored one of their delicious plates. She provided no disappointment, whatsoever.

  Seated at our table as she started to ask me more questions about my mother and father and their unbelievable aversion to books, I stopped her with my finger to her lips—ones I had yet to sample.

  “I will continue with my father’s woes and answer your questions once we’re back on the road, for now, we enjoy a lovely meal, agreed?”

  With a nod of her head and the flick of her tongue, visions of her mouth around my cock had my pants fitting more snuggly between my thighs. Shifting, I focused on the menu, ordering a bottle of chardonnay to go with my cassoulet au canard and her trout meunière amandine, both classic French dishes.

  After we shared an apple tart with spiced brown butter for dessert, that she said was to die for, we were back in the car with the top down, headed for the vineyard. “Okay, I’ve waited long enough. No more talking about French cuisine, which was yummy, and trivial things… And thank you for lunch, but please, please tell me how your father ended up making wine.”

  I laughed, entwined my fingers with hers and kissed the back her hand, briefly, then released it. I don’t know what made me do that. A bit shaken by my own display of affection, I was happy to continue the story.

  I was only fourteen, but I saw the sorrow in my father’s face. I knew he loved and missed my mother, I did too. But about the business, I didn’t understand it; I loved books. I told my grandfather I couldn’t wait for the bookstore to me mine one day. My father overheard me and said, “Good. It’s all yours. As soon as you graduate college, I’m heading south. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I might open a winery.” He said that in jest, but that’s what he did. He had been visiting a particular vineyard for years and became friends with the owner. When the owner told him he planned to retire with no family to take over the business, he hinted that my father should become a grape farmer. So, apparently, my father struck a deal with the old vintner and bought it. He owned it for five years before he told my grandfather.

  My father stayed working in the store and ran off to the South of France when he could. With me working in the shop, it gave him more time to be away. When he was in town, he talked nonstop about opening a vineyard. So much so, that one day my grandfather agreed to let him out of working for the family business. I can still picture him yelling at him with his arms waving, “Go! Go ahead and open a vineyard. Work the fields like a peasant. But remember, in our family, failure is not an option. The vineyard must be a success or you must return.”

  My father nodded and shook my grandfather’s hand, “Deal.” He knew he would never return, he had taken over the vineyard, changed its name to Pinard Vineyard, and been doing research for years. The vineyard had already been quite successful on a small scale, but he had planned to expand production. Relocated to the countryside permanently, he began enhancing the property as well. There was a large farmhouse with two separate wings, perfect for housing guests. On the grounds, there was a pool in perfect working order, and several covered patio areas in need of work. With a little bit of sprucing, he not only had wonderful wines fermenting, but he had a place where people could come and stay for a visit.

  One very special visit to his winery proved to be a very profitable trip, for both my father and his guests. The guest’s friend was a celebrity chef in the United States. He fell in love with the wine selection, and purchased several cases of each one produced. With word of mouth, from that well-known visitor, about the outstanding boutique wine, other prominent foodies and wine connoisseurs arrived. As Pinard wines began to be served in more outstanding restaurants in New York City, it was virtually impossible to get a reservation at the vineyard, with its limited accommodations. Fortunate for us, we were able to stay in the family side of the house. Even my grandfather took trips to see my father and his vineyard. Bernard Capet was proud of his son, Pinard Capet, not only for his successful business, but for finding his own true happiness.

  “What about his love life? You said he was remarried. You have stepbrothers?”

  “I’m going to leave that story for them to tell. You will meet both of them at dinner. Her boys are off at school now, so they will not be there. But my father and his lovely wife, Caron, are hosting a dinner party tonight for a couple of wine groupies who have helped make Pinard Vineyards a highly sought after wine in the States.” Pulling down a long dirt road lined with tall trees, I pointed to the large stone and cornflower-blue shuttered farmhouse coming into view. “We’ve arrived.”

  Out of the car, stretching our legs we were greeted by three cats and a couple of big old dogs before my father ventured out of the house. I hadn’t been to the house in a while. I had forgotten how spectacular and inviting it was until I heard Avril fawning all over it and my father. “This is nothing like what I imagined when you said farmhouse. It’s more like what I would call a villa. A farmhouse at home is usually a white painted wood-slatted house with a large front porch and a swing bench for two, along with a slamming screened front door. A metal triangle to call everyone to supper, a barn, a silo, cows off in the field, and chickens running around. But, this is beautiful—stunning.”

  “Bonjour! You are a breath of fresh air. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Avril. And, by the way, we do have chickens pecking about often. However, the chef is serving them up tonight.” Her face looked horrified. “Too fresh for a City girl?” My father laughed, kissing her on each of her reddened cheeks.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Caron joined us on the gravel path up to their door, “Welcome.” More kisses were exchanged.

  With our overnight bags in hand, we followed our hosts into the house and were shown to our accommodations. I was relieved that my father guided us to different rooms when he told me we would be staying on the guest wing—that was a first for me. I thought he was trying to pull a fast one putting us together. I hoped I wasn’t too loud when I let out a sigh of relief. I needed, at least, a wall to separate us. Instead, a bathroom divided us, but it did link to both of our rooms. I checked for a lock. Was I afraid of her sneaking into my room? Or was I afraid of my own willpower?

  Caron’s voice alerted me that we were about to be left alone, “Here are your keys? Go ahead and rest. Freshen up. We will meet at the wine cave later for dinner. See you then.”

  “Sounds great; I’m a bit tired from the trip. We left Paris before they shut off all the lights. See you later,” I rambled off and then being the coward that I was, excused myself, walked inside of my room, and shut the door. Coward or asshole? I’m sure I shocked everyone. Safely hidden in my room, I did take a nap—I really was exhausted. I had barely slept a wink before picking Avril up; thoughts of her nakedness invaded my brain. When my head hit the guest room pillow, I was out.

  Roused by what sounded like items being slammed on a counter in the direction of the bathroom, I noticed the sun had gone down. Looking at my phone, I saw that it was time to get ready. I couldn’t believe how long I slept, but glad I had. I felt revitalized. A quick shower and I would be even better. Ready for this evening’s festivities. I hoped that Avril was still speaking to me. I knew by the thumps coming from the other side of the door that she had not left. Not that it would’ve been easy from out in the coun
tryside. But, never say never. If there is a will, there is a way. I had better make things up to her tonight.

  Knocking on the bathroom door, I asked if she was almost done. “Yes, just a minute and it is all yours—you wouldn’t want to see me naked.” The tone of her voice told me she was not exactly happy with me. Damn! Did she have to mention being nude? I was instantly hard. “All clear,” she called out right before I heard the click of a door. Entering the room, the smell of Avril lingered in the air. Lavender with a hint of something I couldn’t put my finger on, so fragrant… so heavenly.

  Dressed, I walked out of my room, and rapped on her door with my knuckles. I nearly lost it when she opened the door wearing a black tank dress that skimmed her body closely and went fuller at the bottom. “You look so beautiful,” I told her, hoping it earned me some bonus points, but also because it was the truth. No other woman had ever affected me the way she did.

  Presenting my arm to her, “Ready?” I asked.

  She curled her arm around mine. Down the stairs, we exited through a set of French doors, then walked silently across the property to the wine cave.

  Inside, my father introduced us to his two visiting American wine fans, Dash and Willow, who I believe was his girlfriend—the way he never let her out of his sight, or touch. Then, I introduced Avril to my cousins; one, a local restaurant owner and two others who were chefs in Paris. All three of them served Pinard Vineyard wines in their bistros.

  Seated under two rustic chandeliers at a long table fully dressed with linens, silver, and crystal stemware, surrounded by shelves of wine, we savored three different wines along with a three-course meal. We were first served a pan-seared artichoke with balsamic glaze with a glass of Pinot Blanc. Followed by a rich cabernet, accompanying a braised pork tenderloin with pearl onions and grapes—delicious. For dessert, I was thinking of having Avril, but instead, we were treated to a chocolate infused wine my cousin Frederick brought along to go with his famous pastry.