She shivers and runs her hand between her breasts. “Then let’s give them something to see.”
I groan as I watch her touch her belly now. “Including me,” I rasp out. “I’d like to watch you fuck yourself sometime.”
Her eyes darken with lust as her hand slides between her legs. I tear open the condom wrapper as her eyes drift away from me, like she’s giving me a private audience into her personal fantasy. Her knees fall open as she touches herself. My chest burns, and my body heats to record temperatures. She’s the most sensual woman I’ve ever seen, ever known. I want to just stare at her, to watch her as she pleasures herself.
But I know she wants more. I want more. I roll the condom on and kneel on the sofa, tugging her down the cushions, spreading her out, opening her legs.
Then I stop. I slap a palm to my forehead. “What was I thinking? No one can see us like this.”
Quickly, I switch us around, so I’m seated on the couch, and she’s on my lap. I tip my forehead to the open window. The view’s not much, but at least it’s a perfect sightline across the courtyard and into the other flats.
“Is this better for you?” she teases, glancing toward the window.
“It’s better for everyone. But it’d be better for me if you could get on my dick right now.”
She sucks in a breath as she adjusts her position, straddling me and staring at my erection with rapt attention and glossy eyes. Grabbing the base, I rub the head of my cock against her slickness. She leans her head back and moans, a dirty, gorgeous note, like sex and music all at once.
I moan, too, then I curse when she sinks down on me, taking me all the way. With her hands on my chest, she works to find her rhythm. Rising up, grinding down, swiveling her hips.
Watching her is pure eroticism. It’s like she knows every inch of her body. Knows what she wants. Knows how to find it. And knows how to use me to get there. With a sway of her hips, a grind of her pelvis, she moves on me in a sensual dance. Up and down, and she stays there for a moment, sitting on my cock, sucking in her breath.
Raising my hips, I thrust up into her. So wet, so hot, so perfect.
She moans my name, wraps her arms around my neck. “Don’t be gentle with me.”
Her dirty mouth sends a charge down my spine. It ratchets up the lust rattling through my bones. “I won’t.”
I grab her hips, dig my fingers in, and move her on me. I adjust my left hand so my thumb glides across her clit, and she gasps. Every sound she makes sends a bolt of desire through my body. I’m burning everywhere, heat flaring over my skin as we fuck by the window. Her mouth falls open. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her hair slides down her back. And her tits bounce magnificently.
Majestically.
This is the snapshot of everything I want right now. To have her like this and to be used by her for pleasure.
This woman I’ve spent my days with. Spent my evenings with. Spent all my words on. This woman I want so much more of. White-hot pleasure blasts through me as our bodies grind and thrust. She clutches my shoulders, digging into my neck as I push up. She stares down at us, at the way she rides my cock, how she slides up and down on me. She trembles at the same time as she moans. Loud and dirty and hungry. “Harder.”
She said not to be gentle, and if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s making sure a woman gets what she wants. One hand moving to her hair, I grab a fistful of those lush red strands and I tug.
“Oh God,” she yelps. And then she moans—a long, lingering sound signaling the edge of bliss.
“Again,” she begs, her voice raspy.
I let go of her hips, bring both hands to her hair and my teeth to her neck, nipping her, biting her.
She cries out her pleasure, and I rope my fingers in her hair once more, gathering it in my fists. I tug it back, tugging her down harder on me at the same time. Like that, I control her moves, and the exquisite torment on her face tells me she loves it.
I meet her eyes. “This is better than my fantasies.”
“Do you fantasize about me a lot?”
“Every night. Every morning. All the time.”
I yank her hair again. Hard. Rough. Demanding.
The way she likes it.
She’s saying God’s name as her eyes squeeze shut, and her lips part in a gorgeous O, and then she’s silent for one long, lovely, suspended moment until she cries out.
When I hear her orgasm, there’s no doubt the neighbors will, too. The sound of her passion rattles my own climax free. Pleasure thunders down my spine, barrels into my thighs, and I come.
I say her name because it feels like that. Like erotic, filthy, fantastic, can’t-believe-I’m-finally-having-her joy.
Eventually, she gets the tour. It lasts all of thirty seconds, since this is French real estate, after all.
“It’s my mum’s sister’s flat, so I lease it from her. Aunt Sophie, who was known for giving me the most amazing treats during the holidays,” I explain as I show her the minuscule bedroom.
“Sophie sounds like my kind of relative.”
“She is.”
“And does this mean the Thomas family gets to keep this flat for generations?”
“Yes, it’s our prized possession.”
Something flickers across her eyes when I say that, like a spark of hope. I’m not sure what’s on her mind, but honestly, with her naked in my place, it’s pretty hard for me to think straight. She spots a framed photo on my bureau of Ethan and me after the race we ran. Her eyes widen and she points. “Your brother was good-looking.”
“You’re not allowed to say that,” I say in mock seriousness as I pull her onto the mattress.
“Oh, c’mon. You two must have been lady-killers.”
“Wait. So you were stark raving mad at me on the street earlier today about item number two on his list, and now you want to know if we were tomcats together?”
She swats me. “I did not get mad at you, and I definitely did not turn stark raving mad. Plus, if memory serves, you kissed me right after you told me, so I guess your plan to make me jealous worked.”
“Will it work again? I’m not above doing whatever it takes to get these lips on mine.”
She shrugs impishly. “You’ll have to try harder. First, tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I lean back into the pillows, tucking my hands behind my head. “I love lunch. Like, fucking adore it.”
She laughs. “Everyone loves lunch.”
“No, seriously. That’s not true. People love breakfast or people love dinner. Lunch is the most underrated meal in the world, and I love it madly, and deeply, and truly.”
She drags her hands through her hair, still tangled up from me. “My sister and I used to sneak out for lunch when we could.”
“Sneak out?”
“That’s what we called it at least. Mostly we just met for lunch at In-N-Out Burger.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Seriously? What’s that? You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “I presume it’s a burger joint?”
“It’s only the greatest burger joint in all the land. From coast to coast. Sea to shining sea. They also have great milkshakes. Someday, you’ll go to the States and you’ll understand the joys of In-N-Out Burger.”
“Someday I will,” I tell her, then we talk more, as moonlight filters across the sheets. She tells me about Allison, and I tell her more about Ethan. Even though only one of them is alive, somehow the conversation doesn’t hurt quite as much as it would have a few months ago.
Maybe this is what it feels like to move through grief. You never truly get over the loss of someone you love. But you get by, you get through, you get around.
That’s why I don’t say anything tonight about what comes next for me. Sometimes, you just want things to go perfectly. And they do for the rest of the evening. Because we can’t keep our hands off each other, and soon enough we’re not talking about family. We’re talking about ea
ch other.
I prop my head in my hand. “You know we’re seeing each other tomorrow, right?”
“At work?”
“And after.”
“For language lessons?”
“And for this,” I say, running a hand down her hip.
“Presumptuous much?”
“Woman, I have orgasms to give you. Don’t deny me.”
She tugs me close. “Say it in French.”
And I do, whispering dirty, filthy things in her ear, as I move her under me, and slide into her again. “Je te veux tellement.”
I want you so much.
She moans.
“Say it to me,” I command.
She repeats my words. “Je te veux tellement.”
“Now tell me to fuck you hard. I know you know this one.”
Her back bows as she murmurs, “Baise-moi fort.”
I bring her to the edge again, telling her, “Jouis avec moi.”
Come with me.
Soon, she does, as the moon shines and Paris sleeps, as we’re entwined together at last.
23
Joy
* * *
One of the things I love most about being a modern woman is we know we can have it all. The job, the family, the kids, the love affair, the great sex.
I don’t have kids, obviously. But I’d like to think I’m winning on a few of those other points right now. After finishing up in the lab, I grab my phone and tap out a message to my sister.
* * *
Joy: True/False. It’s possible to have your cake and eat it, too.
* * *
Allison: I’ve never understood that saying. Isn’t having it and eating it the same dang thing?
* * *
Joy: You know what I’m saying. Do you believe we can truly have it all?
* * *
Allison: Absolutely. But having it all isn’t free, sister. :)
* * *
Joy: What’s the cost?
* * *
Allison: Usually money. Usually you can only have it all if you’re rich. But sometimes you can if you’re really lucky.
* * *
I wonder if I could be one of those lucky women. When I leave the office on Friday evening, it feels that way. The job is going well. L’Artisan is thrilled with the work I’ve been doing, and I feel as if I’m entering a whole new level of success on the job front. Finally, I’m able to move up and use all my skills. I’m at a place where I can thrive and uncover new opportunities.
Then there’s this city.
I walk down the boulevard, threading my way past buildings that have witnessed centuries of lives and battles and loves, past shops that peddle mouthwatering treats, past people who experience the world in a different way than I did mere months ago. The most romantic city on earth is starting to feel like my home.
Plus, I’m learning a new language. My tongue forms words and sentences that I’d never have crafted before.
Then, there’s the man I’m meeting tonight.
The man I’m head over Jimmy Choos for.
I didn’t come to Paris to fall in love, but Paris had other plans for me.
After I shower, dry my hair, and slip into a sapphire-blue dress that hugs my curves, I toss a wide scarf over my shoulders. I consider the options on my mirrored tray, then go for the caramel and white musk notes in Candy by Prada, spritzing on a tiny amount.
I head to Montmartre.
Griffin waits for me outside Moulin Rouge, the windmill behind him, the bright red lights somehow making those blue eyes of his even bluer. He says nothing as I walk to him, only stares at me predatorily. How odd that I saw him hours ago when I wore a pencil skirt and white blouse at the office. Now I’m in a clingy dress that he’ll strip off later tonight. That’s how he looks at me. As if he’s already undressed me. I feel naked before his gaze, and it thrills me.
When I reach him, he wraps an arm around my waist, dips me, and kisses me.
I swoon.
There’s no other way to describe it. He has me in his arms, and he’s taking my breath away on the street outside the world’s most famous cabaret, and my head is a fantastically static haze. He kisses me like we’re in the movies, like this is one of those kisses a photographer will capture, and it’ll become a classic black-and-white photo. Women will post it online with captions like I’ll have what she’s having.
And I’m having it. The kind of kiss that makes my head spin. That makes my heart thump. That turns me on from ankles to eyebrows.
When at last our lips separate and he pulls me up, I blink at him, sighing contentedly. “You’re too much.”
He laughs. “I’ll assume ‘too much’ is a good thing.”
“You’re cake. I’m having you and eating you,” I say dopily, because I think I might be high on him.
“So much talk of eating things,” he says, running a hand through my hair as his soft lips travel to my neck. “And yet I still need to eat you again and again.”
That spark flares through me, and I’m already dangerously wet.
We head inside, taking a seat for the show, where we spend the next hour entertained by dozens upon dozens of women in sequins and feathers dancing and kicking to bright, bold, and sometimes seductive music. Their sumptuous costumes shimmer on the stage, the cherry reds, glittery golds, and shiny silvers adding to the decadence of the evening. This place is, and has always been, a portal to the hedonistic, an invitation to dance till dawn, to sleep in past noon, to drink and live and be so very merry.
Griffin’s hand is on me the whole time, moving from my leg, to my hand, over my shoulders. As I watch, I exist in a state of heightened awareness. I’m a hummingbird, wings buzzing, waiting to dip my beak into the honey water.
When we leave, we wander through the hilly streets of Montmartre, past cafés where the clink of wineglasses and bits of conversation float past my ears. I pick up phrases here and there, crystal clear in my brain for once, and I grab Griffin’s arm, my eyes widening.
“I’m starting to understand what they’re saying,” I tell him in French.
He smiles and kisses me. “Your dream is coming true.”
My heart flutters. I want to tell him I have new dreams. I want to tell him he’s part of them.
Something holds me back, though. Maybe it’s my own ancient fears. My worries over what happens when you let someone in. How you start to give up the parts of you that matter most. If I’m going to keep giving the most precious real estate in my heart to him, I want to know him more, and understand what drives him.
We stop in a small park and grab a bench in a quiet corner, away from the Friday night revelry. But before I can ask him what I most want to know, he squeezes my fingers and says, “I want you to see what’s on the list.”
I straighten my shoulders, surprised at this sudden declaration, even though it’s as if he’s read my mind. “You do?”
He nods. “You’re important to me. I want you to understand my life, and my choices.”
His words are heavy, anchored by a weight I don’t fully understand. He sighs, rubs a hand over his jaw, and I tense more. Something is on his list that I won’t like, and I don’t think it’s about other women. It’s about him. It’s about us.
I brace myself for hurt. “I want to say you don’t have to tell me, but I think I might need to know,” I say softly.
He swallows and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. “I’m leaving.”
My ears ring. My head hurts. A cold, hard echo reverberates in my body, like a crash of cymbals. I must have heard him wrong. “What?”
“I’m leaving Paris. When the assignment at your company is over.”
I blink, and if I were standing, I’d stumble. Instead, my hands curl around the wooden slat of the bench, holding on tight. “You’re leaving?”
He nods. “When I go to Indonesia. . .”
“You’re not coming back?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, heavily.
/> I nod a few times, my brain slowly processing this new input. It’s like someone dropped a molecule of bleach into a vanilla-scented perfume. “Wow.”
He rubs his palms along his slacks. “I’m sorry.”
Those words hit me hard. They make me feel like Richard did. Responsible for his fate. I paste on a smile. “Don’t be sorry. I was just surprised. That’s all.”
“I should have said something sooner.” Running a hand up my arm, his fingers tiptoe over my shoulder. My body has the audacity to form goose bumps. “But I had no idea where we were going, or if we were ever going to happen, or really what to say other than that I was going there for the race.”
I take a calming breath. “You don’t need to clear things with me. This is your life. You need to live it the way that makes sense to you.”
“Joy . . .” His voice is tinged with sadness.
“Are you planning to live in Indonesia?” I ask, drawing all my strength.
He nods. “For a little while. I’ve been saving the money to do this. But I’ll also travel all around. I’ve always wanted to.”
Like that, understanding lights up my brain, like neon signs flicking on at night.
At the museum, he said, I want to go everywhere.
At dinner when he told me about the marathon, his words were, I’ve always wanted to go there, spend some time wandering around when I’m done.
I should have seen this coming. He’s been clear enough. I thought he meant he’d take trips, but perhaps I only wanted to believe he would take trips, because they have a beginning and an end.
He’s never lied to me.
I’ve lied to myself.
I’ve chosen to believe the fairy-tale version of falling in love in Paris. Not the real one, where I meet a man who has too much wanderlust, a man who’s living a life he and his brother plotted. A life only one of them can live now.
“Do you want to see the list?”
Wanderlust Page 18
