Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  Her tits look spectacular clothed, but bare, they’re like something out of Frankenstein’s nightmares. Why do women fill themselves with rubber and silicone? For fuck’s sake, I design appendages for people who’ve lost them; limbs that help people like Galen live normal lives. I’ll never in my life comprehend adding foreign materials to a body that doesn’t need them.

  Adriana’s breasts, on the other hand, were spectacular. Round, pert, perfect, succulent pink nipples. I could tell just by sucking them that her nerves are a tangle of sensation that leads right down to her clit. She’s a sex goddess, that one.

  As I stare out the window at the passing landscape I slam my eyes shut and picture her face, my cock threatening to harden again. Those luscious lips, those eyes of hers, full of curiosity and intellect. She’s a natural beauty in the best sense. Her loveliness comes from somewhere inside her and shines through every pore.

  I hurt her, and I feel like utter shit for having done so. She thinks I’m with someone, that I cheated on Monique like a fucking scoundrel. That’s the horrid bit. She thinks I’m sleeping with some overly-perfumed French airhead. Adriana hates me. She must.

  And there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I don’t know where she’s staying. All I know is that she’ll be in Paris for a few weeks. I wonder how long it would take me to pound on every door in the city, asking for the gorgeous American woman. My fists clench at my sides as I think about it. How close I was to asking her to spend more time with me. How much I was feeling for her, in spite of our limited time together. I was willing to walk out onto a precarious limb for her, to see what might happen to my heart if I actually opened it up a little.

  But now I’m in a car with fucking Monique. And unfortunately, I suppose I should get back to real life.

  “Any word on the new contract?” I ask, turning to the woman who destroyed my chance to enjoy Adriana’s company over the next few weeks.

  “I don’t know,” she snarls. Still pissy, I see. “What do I know about contracts?”

  “Right, I shouldn’t expect you to know anything. It’s just your fucking job to sell our product.”

  “I didn’t come all the way to the airport to talk about work,” she moans, levelling me with a look of death. “I came for you, monsieur Davies.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. In fact, you did me a disservice by coming, Monique. I’m not impressed with your presumption that I would want to see you.”

  “Oh, what? I hurt your chances with little blondie?”

  “Yes, in fact you did.”

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?” she hisses. I see the driver raising an eyebrow in the rear view mirror. Can’t blame the chap; this is intriguing stuff.

  “Fucked is an ugly word,” I reply, setting myself up for a cruel retort. “I made love with her.” My lips curl up with the words, and I have to confess to deriving a little sadistic pleasure from our exchange.

  Monique is the kind of woman a man fucks. Adriana is a woman to savour.

  She makes a sound like an alley cat in heat and looks out the window again, drawing her knees so far away that they’re almost pushing through the door. Arrogant woman thought she owned me.

  “It doesn’t matter anyhow,” I say quietly. “She thinks I’m a bastard now, because of you.”

  “You are a bastard. You’re selfish.”

  “Oh, really?” I lean towards her and speak slowly and softly. “If I were a selfish bastard, I would take you home with me, bend you over my kitchen counter and fuck your brains out, just like you’re hoping I’ll do,” I say. She turns my way, a look of hope raising her brows. “But I’m not selfish, you see,” I continue, “and I won’t fuck you ever again. So next time you’re feeling horny, go pick up some other man at the airport. This manipulative shite isn’t what I pay you for.”

  Her jaw drops like a ton of bricks, and she looks as though she’s about to hurl a bevy of French insults my way. But instead, thank God, she clams up again and turns away like a dog who’s been reprimanded after peeing on the carpet.

  When we reach my flat I extract my bag from the taxi’s trunk and send her back to my office downtown. All I want is to be alone with my thoughts, a hot shower…

  and Adriana.

  Thirteen

  Adriana

  The beauty of the apartment is almost enough to make up for the roller coaster of emotions I’ve endured over the last several hours.

  Tall windows stretch almost all the way from floor to ceiling, opening up like swinging shutters to reveal wrought iron railings. When I pull them open my place becomes a sort of giant indoor balcony, the sounds and scents of Paris wafting in all around me. Car horns, cinnamon, croissants, and something I can’t quite place. The air is different here, and I like it.

  I lean forward to press against the railing, looking to my right and left. In one direction I see a steady stream of buildings like mine, greyish stone wonders curving into the distance along the narrow street. In the other, I spy a hint of the gothic towers of Notre Dame poking over the rooftops a few hundred feet away. They’re so beautiful that I want to weep.

  Across the street is a large, open set of windows among a sea of closed shutters. A dining table sits just inside, a small bowl of fruit at its centre. The table itself is painted a worn sort of shade of blue-green, the chairs around it are red.

  As I stare at the idyllic little room, a woman of about sixty seats herself while a man—also about sixty—lays a dish of something in front of her. He leans down and kisses her cheek, and she smiles. The man looks up, sees me, and I consider running backwards to hide the fact that I’ve been spying. But instead of looking annoyed, he winks at me and slips around the table to seat himself opposite his wife.

  I’ve watched them for all of five seconds before I realize that they have the relationship that I want. They have love, affection, care. He looks after her, and no doubt she looks after him. It’s beautiful.

  A sweet moment of euphoria floods me, a valuable reminder that Conlon Davies isn’t the be all and end all of my universe. My trip has only just begun, and that bastard was nothing more than an unfortunate, sexy speed bump along the way.

  With a lightened heart, I turn back to look at the incredible space that the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency has provided. It’s big and open, clearly renovated since this building was constructed, probably in the fifteenth century or something. Dark wooden beams cross the ceiling, mirroring dark stained floors. The occasional ornamental rug adds a splash of rich colour.

  The best part might be the big, comfy-looking cream couch against the far wall. A perfect place to perch and write on warm evenings with the windows open. There’s no TV in sight, and I’m grateful. Paris isn’t for watching shows, it’s for watching people.

  I frolic through the apartment searching out the nearest doorway, which leads to an adorable little bathroom, complete with a bidet in case I decide that my butt just isn’t feeling all that fresh. Bidets are so civilized, yet terrifying. Using one must feel like being violated by someone in pristine white gloves. I can’t say I’ve ever tried one, and I probably won’t start now. Unless I get stupidly drunk. Which brings me to another point: Must find the nearest liquor store.

  The bedroom is next door to the washroom. Also large, white-walled and chic. A set of tall double windows is covered by venetian blinds and gauzy white curtains. I flit over and open the blinds, and a stream of warm light settles on the floor. Gorgeous. I feel like I’ve just checked into a five-star hotel, and I have absolutely no idea how I managed to get so lucky.

  The bed is big and inviting, and part of me wants to throw myself down so I can catch up on all the sleep I missed while I was playing hide-the-cheating-bastard’s-schlong on the plane. But I notice a pretty, hand-written note sitting propped against the pillow. When I pick it up the faint scent of some lovely perfume greets my nose.

  “Hello and welcome to Paris, Adriana! I hope everything’s going swimmingly so far. Send me a text and
I’ll take you for a glass of French wine this afternoon.

  —Katherine, SLTA”

  Katherine, of course, is the owner of the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency. I let out a sigh. I want to go out, I want to meet her, I want to do something fun. But I’m still in mourning for my ego, which had its near-death experience just a few hours ago, and I’m not sure that hanging out with some uber-cool woman on Paris’s streets is a great idea. On the other hand, staying here and wallowing in a pool of self-pity isn’t the best plan, either. I’m in Paris to explore, not to become a shut-in.

  I shoot out to the living room and grab my phone from my purse. Wrestling with the universal adapter I bought in New York, I plug it in to charge, ready to shoot Katherine a response.

  “Hey, I’d love to meet up. Where and when?” I write back.

  A moment later a message flashes across the screen:

  “La bouteille verte, Rue St. Germain, 2 p.m. It’s right near your place.”

  It’s 11:55. I can get a nap and a shower in before I venture out, and that’s all that matters, really. As I’m setting the phone down, another message pops up.

  This one’s from Jen. It’s super early in the morning in New York; she must have woken up with the sun.

  Her message simply reads,

  “WHAAAAAAT?”

  Oh, shitty shit. I’d all but forgotten that I stupidly told her about getting boinked. I’m going to have to explain or she’ll kill me. But for now, I need to sleep or my body will never forgive me.

  Neither will my poor brain.

  Fourteen

  Adriana

  I wake up at 12:55, mostly because my confused body, convinced that an hour is sufficient rest, won’t let me sleep anymore.

  The shower is nice; it’s one of those waterfall sorts that cascades heat over your head. It’s soothing and does the trick, washing away hours of emotional self-abuse for my mistake on the plane. I still haven’t replied to Jen, mostly because I figure she’ll hate me as much as I hate myself for my stupidity. But when I’m out of the shower, I throw on the fluffy white robe that’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door, grab my phone and force myself into a state of bravery.

  “Mistake. Stupid, impulsive move. Turns out the guy is a prick with a side order of asshole. I blame you though—you told me to be impulsive.”

  Her reply comes moments later.

  “You slept with an asshole? I didn’t tell you to do that.”

  “You wanted me to sleep with the sexy guy from the bar.”

  “YOU SLEPT WITH MR. SEXY?”

  “Well, to be fair, there was no sleep. Only fucking.”

  “Holy shit. I don’t know how you managed that, but my hat’s off to you, my friend.”

  “Anyhow, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. I won’t pressure you.”

  “At least he was good looking.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “He smelled like chocolate. And he tasted even better.”

  “You’re torturing yourself.”

  “He had a really, really big dick. Like impossibly huge.”

  “I hate you. Tell me more.”

  “Maybe later. Going for a drink with the woman who set me up with this pad.”

  I snap a photo of my perfect living room and send it.

  “Hoping she doesn’t hook me up with any more men,” I add.

  “Tell her I hate her too, for not inviting me.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know when I’m back, though if you’re smart you’ll have gone back to sleep by then. xox.”

  When I’ve thrown on one of my most stylish outfits, a yellow and white polka dot halter neck dress and some cute sandals, I check my face in the mirror. A little mascara and a dab of red lipstick, and I’m good to go. Except I have no idea where the hell I’m going.

  I look up the restaurant on the GPS. It seems that Katherine has kindly picked somewhere only a few blocks from the apartment, no doubt with the full knowledge that I’ll be wiped out by the time I get to her. Of course she has no idea how emotionally exhausted I am; I’m sure that most of the clients who rent apartments from her aren’t so foolhardy as I.

  Well, at least something about the knowledge that I’ll be taking my first walk through Paris streets soothes my soul. The sun is shining, and everything—almost everything—seems perfect. After I’ve grabbed the keys I boot down the marble stairs to the front door and make my escape, staring at the map on my phone to memorize it. I refuse to look at the phone while I’m surrounded by the outdoors. I’m in Paris, damn it. I’m going to study every inch of it.

  Stepping back into the street after a revitalizing nap, it turns out, is breathtaking. For a moment I’d all but forgotten where I was, but the incredible allure of the city hits me like a beautiful, cleansing wind as I look about. This place is beyond beautiful; it’s like walking through a portal into another century where every building is assembled with breathtaking care. Each façade has its own sort of character, each door is crafted to be its own independent entity. Some are wood; others are coated in iron grating that was probably hand crafted by some master metalsmith.

  No two buildings are quite the same, but there’s a uniformity to the large grey slabs of stone that make up their foundations. To distinguish one residence from another, a series of beautiful classical details, from gargoyles to carvings of leaves to wrought iron accents, make for a picturesque view in every direction. A couple of hours ago I wanted to run away. But now I want nothing more than to stay here forever, basking in inspiration and potential.

  I start walking, my pace quickening as I advance down the street along my memorized path. Left. Right. One block, then left and across the road, down a narrow cobbled lane lined with clothing shops, creperies and every other place you can imagine. Jewelry, watches, shoes all stare at me from immaculately arranged displays. I want them all. I’d give up New York to work in one of these tiny shops, to greet smiling people all day long, then to retreat to my pied à terre in the evenings. Perhaps I could take a lover…

  Oh, wait. I already did that. It didn’t work out so great.

  Before long, I come to another busy street. This one’s lined with souvenir shops that sell tote bags and fridge magnets adorned with pictures of the Eiffel Tower. Across the way, in the direction I’m headed, I spy the most beautiful church. It’s not a massive behemoth like Notre Dame, but it looks even older, somehow. Tucked between modern shops, its backside faces me. Gorgeous stone buttresses hold up its walls with care, and dark stained-glass windows tell me that I might one day need to go inside for a closer look. Centuries of weather have beaten down its stone to a sort of dark, uneven stain, and I’m already in love. Is every church in Paris this breathtaking?

  I proceed across the street, staring up at the church’s walls in awe as I walk down the cobbled pathway to its right. A few seconds later, a voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

  “Adriana!”

  It’s a female voice, drawing my gaze ahead and to the right.

  An elegant red-haired woman in a white linen blouse is sitting at a small, round table on a little patio just opposite the church, waving her hand gracefully at me. Of course that’s what Katherine looks like. Only a woman so well put together would run a single ladies’ travel agency.

  She’s chosen the most idyllic setting imaginable for our little meeting, too. This is what I dreamed of; little Parisian patios, people-watching, ancient buildings. This is the life I want to live. Before I’ve even spoken to her, I know that I want to spend afternoons sitting around getting tipsy with Katherine, exchanging war stories about men and unfulfilled dreams.

  I issue her a huge grin and make my way over to the table. She stands and grabs me in a warm hug, then kisses both my cheeks, à la parisienne, apparently. When she sees that the kisses have taken me by surprise, she lets out a shimmering laugh. Well, the verdict’s already in: Katherine is perfect.

  “I recognized you
from your profile pic on Facebook,” she tells me. Her accent is a mix of a bunch of things: English, French, and possibly even some kind of American influence thrown in for good measure. “Come, sit!” She gestures to the little twisted iron chair opposite her own. Its seat is woven, shiny wicker and I love it. There’s already a condensation-covered carafe of water on the table, as well as two glasses. “I thought we’d start light,” Katherine says, “in case you’re wiped out.”

  “I am,” I reply, plopping myself down inelegantly, “but I’ll never turn down a glass of wine, if it’s an option.”

  Immediately she throws up a hand and signals the waiter to come by. “Une bouteille de Saint Michel, s’il te plait,” she says in impeccable French. The man goes traipsing off immediately to accommodate her request. And what man wouldn’t? She’s gorgeous. Big blue eyes, full lips, a great body. She has it all going on. The sort of woman that other women hate, only I can’t imagine disliking her. She gives off the impression that she wouldn’t care a whit if I did, anyhow.

  “How was the flight?” she asks.

  “The flight?” I say, my mind grasping for an answer that doesn’t involve the word intercourse.

  “Yes, how was your trip?”

  “It was…interesting,” I say.

  “Oh?” She raises her left eyebrow in mischief. “Interesting is…interesting.”

  “I ended up in First Class, so that was nice.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replies, narrowing her eyes knowingly. “Something tells me there’s more to this story.”

  Maybe it’s because I’m dead-tired, but for some reason I spill the beans immediately. “I met someone. A man.”