Love Me Tonight - Four Erotic Romance Stories for Valentine's Day - Boxed Set

by Kayne, Kandi

  The author thanks you for your support of artistic expression and anti-piracy efforts.

  The Red Shoe Affair

  by Kandi Kayne

  It’s so cliché. Paris for Valentine’s Day. Love at first sight. All my friends are either laughing at me or feeling sorry for me, but I don’t care. I have one week of vacation left until August, and I’m going to use it to chase some dreams. I’ll probably trip and fall flat on my face, but at least I’ll be in Paris. The city of love.

  I’m on the plane to France, too hyped up to sleep. I was tempted to buy a one-way ticket, but I knew that would be going a little too far. I did go ahead and take an extra day more than I had coming to me, though, hoping my boss wouldn’t be too upset about me calling in sick. I never do that, normally. I’m nothing if not predictably dependable.

  My sister’s words echo through my brain. Why don’t you just settle down with a nice, regular guy? What about that guy you work with. Brian? He seems nice.

  I snort, just thinking about it. Brian’s about as sexy as a toad and half as handsome. I’m not a snob or anything; a man doesn’t have to be Adam Levine to rock my world. But he has to have something going for him besides a steady job and a dick. I want passion… chemistry… a man who knows how to use his dick. For the first time in my life, I want to have an orgasm that isn’t coming from something running on batteries. Is it too much to ask? My past would suggest that yes, this is in fact too much to ask. But that was the past and this is my present. I’m changing the rules of the game, taking a risk. And if none of that works out, well, at least I’ll have seen the Eiffel Tower.

  The plane lands thirteen hours later, the last two of which I finally slept through, and I find myself out on the sidewalk haling a taxi. Charles de Gaulle airport is surprisingly easy to navigate. I smile at the French conversations I hear around me.

  My heart goes pitter patter when I hear the beautiful language coming from a man in a business suit, an overcoat draped over his arm and a briefcase in his empty hand. He’s on his cell, and he sounds very… passionate, the way he’s doing those fancy French Rs and sliding his consonants all over the place.

  I think maybe he’s going to look over, so I quickly smooth down my sometimes frizzy hair, ready to make the best impression possible. Maybe I’ll meet my lover in the airport and get down to having a great vacation right from the get-go.

  He glances up and sees me looking at him. A secret smile passes across his lips, and then he acts as if he recognizes me and brightens.

  Oh my god! It’s happening! Love at first sight! I knew it was real! I take a step forward, my smile lighting up my face.

  And then a woman shoves into me a little in her haste to reach her man. “Pardon!” she says with a perfect French accent, glancing back at me before continuing on her way. She’s running to my man. My almost man. The man who was never my man.

  The sexy Frenchman with the overcoat shuts his phone off and opens his arms to embrace the sexy French woman wearing red stiletto heels. He buries his face in her neck when they connect, drawing her into a very private cocoon.

  I turn away from their passionate kisses and sag like the tired, rumpled, sack of potatoes I feel like after that long flight. Maybe I’ll meet my Galahad at the hotel. I turn away from the lovers so I don’t have to feel jealous anymore. I’m not going to let this get me down. I have seven days to meet the man of my dreams and have hot sex in an inappropriate place. And I have hope that it could really happen. I’m seventy percent there already.

  My taxi pulls up and a man who looks like he comes from a country far away from here grabs my bag, throws it into the trunk, and waits for me to get in.

  “Vous allez où?” he asks me. I have no idea what that means, but I figure it has something to do with him needing directions.

  “Can you take me to the Georges Cinq? The hotel?”

  He whistles and makes a shaking motion with his hand that I’m pretty sure means he’s impressed. “Ooo, la, laaaa, le Georges Cinq… super.” That last word sounded like he said, “Soup-air,” so it makes me giggle. He pouts his lips out and continues to nod for a long time, as if he can’t get over my destination.

  I don’t know anything about this hotel other than it was featured in one of my favorite movies, French Kiss, and it costs an arm and a leg to stay there. I’ve been saving for a trip to France since high school, which means I started paying for this more years ago than I care to remember. My one night at the Georges is going to cost me an entire year of babysitting money, plus the interest it earned. It had better be worth it. I’ve allowed myself one night in a room fit for a princess. For the rest of my trip I’ll find something more budget-conscious. I need to save my money for the pastries and museum tours. And possibly the condoms. I’m hoping I’ll need lots of those on this trip. A girl can dream.

  My mouth stays open in awe pretty much the entire way to the hotel. I answer the driver’s stilted, accented questions spoken to me in English, but mostly I’m just focusing on freaking out about what I’m seeing. I’m passing buildings, monuments, and statues that I know have been here for hundreds of years, traveling over cobblestones that horses and carts once used. Maybe I’m even on the same route that Marie Antoinette took to go somewhere, I don’t know. I fervently hope I meet a better end than she did.

  A few of the statues have gold leaf on them, there are soaring trees alongside the busy roads, and every building is covered in gorgeous carvings and ironwork. Everywhere I look, there are cars, scooters, and people on bikes or walking on foot… it’s utter chaos. It’s better than the movies. I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

  “Voilà, Madame. Le Georges Cinq.” The taxi driver pulls up outside a big hotel and gets out, retrieving my bags from the back. I pay him fifty euros, and he’s on his way in seconds, leaving me there at the front door. For the few seconds it takes a cute bellhop to arrive and take my bag, I admire the Bentley, Aston Martin, and Ferrari parked nearby. They make my Mercedes taxi look like I’m slumming it. He leads me to the front desk, saying several things in French that I smile and nod my head at.

  I stumble through the lobby, unable to keep my head from swiveling around in every direction. The word ‘opulence’ doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m seeing in here. There are fresh flowers of every color all over the place, murals on the wall, and yards and yards of the finest materials covering the comfortable yet expensive-looking seats and couches. I feel like I should tiptoe and not call any attention to myself. What if I scuff the floor? It’s shining like a hundred ladies buff it by hand three times a day. I wonder if anyone in the world could walk in here and not feel self-conscious. It’s fancy even by celebrity or presidential standards, I’d bet.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” says the man at the reception desk. He says something else in French, and my heart melts a little. He’s about sixty, but it doesn’t stop me from falling just a bit in love with his accent. I grin like a fool. “I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded amazing.”

  “Ah. You are English.” He smiles back at me. Apparently the rumors that all Frenchmen are rude are incorrect.

  “American, actually. I have a reservation. Lilly… Lilly Rose?”

  He taps a few keys on a computer, repeating my name but with his accent. “Lee-Lee Rrrose. Ah, oui, bien sûr. Voilà. Here it is.” We complete the checkin formalities, and he hands me a key and says, “Enjoy your stay at the Four Seasons, madame. Please do not hesitate to call if you have any needs.” I take my key and my heart full of joy, and I go to my room.

  It’s pretty clear that even with the cheaper rooms, the Georges Cinq doesn’t skimp. It doesn’t matter what the room looks like though, because after I’ve had a little nap and a shower, I’m going to explore. I didn’t come to Paris to stay in a room, unless there’s a hot man in it with me. I’ll spoil myself with a bath later, if nothing else. The bathrobes sure look comfy.

  I fall asleep in the luxurious bed and get up a couple hours later. Anxious
to get started exploring, I take a quick shower and put on some makeup. I notice the girls here don’t wear much, so I stick with just eyeliner and mascara. I don’t have a scarf, but that’s tops on my list of something to buy for myself. Everyone seems to wear those here. The woman who hugged my man at the airport was wearing one and with those red stilettos, she looked beyond fabulous. I want to look beyond fabulous while I’m in Paris.

  I put on my comfiest walking shoes, grab my purse with my money and passport inside, and walk out the door. It’s only after it closes behind me that I realize my mistake.

  “Dammit,” I say, frowning at the door. I jiggle the handle a few times to confirm I’m screwed.

  “Est-ce que vous avez un problème, Madame? Puis-je vous aider, peut-être?”

  I turn around to face the man behind me, and my voice freezes in my throat. My mouth opens and closes as if there are words coming out, but there just aren’t. He’s completely gorgeous, and he’s speaking French to me. And all I want to do is see him without his clothes on. My brain is short-circuiting, taking on the libido of a fifteen year old teen boy seeing Taylor Swift for the first time. My face flushes with the direction my thoughts are going.

  He smiles at me, appearing a little bemused. “Do you speak English, by any chance?” he asks, in a perfect American accent.

  “Uhhhh… normally, yes.” But not when guys like you are standing in front of me. Then I just stand there like a fish out of water and drool a little. Me Lilly. You hot man. Get in my bed. I almost giggle at my sexy caveman talk, but worry he’ll think I’m certifiable, so I just smile really big.

  He laughs gently. “Normally? And if you’re not speaking English, do you speak French?”

  “No. I wish I did, but English is my only language. Are you American?”

  “Yes and no.” He gestures to my room. “Were you having a problem with your door there? Maybe I can help.”

  I get the impression he works here now. For a minute there I thought he was a guest. Of course they hire model-gorgeous men to work in the hotel. Amen to that, Georges V! “Oh. No, there’s no problem. Except… yes, there is kind of. I mean, the door’s fine, but the problem is that my key is on the other side of it and I’m out here.” Good job! Try to scare him away a little harder!

  He nods slowly. “Mmm-hmmm. I can see how that might be a problem if you’re trying to get in.”

  “Actually, I was leaving, but I have no idea when I’ll be back, so it might be a pain to have to ask for a key really late.”

  “Big plans?” He shifts his weight to his other leg and my eyes are drawn down to his crotch area.

  Of course he’s hung. There’s a bulge there, and I swear I can see it going down his leg a little. Just getting a hint of what he has in his pants makes me realize I really, really want to see more of him. Like everything he has to offer. My blood pressure rises.

  He clears his throat and the sound jerks me back to reality.

  Now my face is flaming red. “Oh, sorry, uhhhh… got distracted.” I wave my hand up by my head. “Long flight.” I grin pitifully at him, hoping he’s going to pretend right along with me that I wasn’t just staring at his package.

  “So do you have plans or not?” He’s giving me a knowing smile that tells me we both know what’s up with my libido being in overdrive. Maybe it’s normal after transatlantic flights. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he winked with the express purpose of sending me over the edge; he seems a little dangerous like that, aware of his own power over women. But he just waits for me to answer him, his eyes practically sparkling. Or maybe I’m just imagining it all because I really, really want to see this French man naked in my big comfortable bed. And in my bath. And in the middle of the room…

  “No, no plans yet. But I’m hopeful. I just need to get my key thing figured out.” I don’t want to walk away, but I’m also not a big fan of awkward moments. I step as if to go down the hall. I’m looking for my dream man, but I think maybe this guy is too dreamy. I need to set my sights just a tad lower. Someone a little less hung might be more attainable and less intimidating.

  He holds out a hand, stopping me with the motion even though he doesn’t touch me. “Hold on a second. I’ll get you some help.” He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and speaks rapidly in French. I only catch “bonjour” at the beginning and “merci” at the end just before he ends the call. “I’m having a key sent up for you. It should be here shortly.”

  “Oh,” I’m a little taken aback by that. He’s not wearing a uniform, but he’s obviously on friendly terms with the front desk. And the way he just took charge like that and asked me all those questions… he had to be an employee. “I didn’t realize you work here. Wow, that’s great customer service. Do you just roam the halls here and help damsels in distress as they pop up on your radar?” Now he seems less intimidating for some reason. The French are so friendly. I love it here. I feel my face stretching into a big smile again.

  One side of his mouth lifts in a grin, and I nearly pass out from it, my smile faltering because I just remembered that dick hanging down his leg. My eyes stray lower and I almost strangle myself on my own drool. Holy mother of all angels, if he wasn’t working I’d ask him out on a date myself. I cough to get my equilibrium back, and he turns his back to give me a moment to collect myself.

  He pulls a key out of his pocket and uses it on the door across from mine. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “Would you like to wait in here until the key arrives?”

  I look around him and see a room that’s much bigger than mine, but there’s no bed in it. It looks like a giant waiting room or a living room of some sort. Maybe even a party room. “What is this place?” I move closer to the entrance so I can see more of it.

  “A suite. You’re welcome to use it while you wait. I can have them bring the key here instead of making you wait out in the hallway.”

  I walk in slowly, taking all the details and filing them away in my brain. In my haste to leave I not only left the key in there, I also forgot my camera. This is a place I don’t want to forget. I feel like I’m in a castle.

  He comes in behind me, and I realize it’s probably not the smartest thing in the world to do, walking into a room with a man I’ve only just met. But he leaves the door partially open and puts the key down on the table nearby. He takes a seat in one of the chairs that is set up as part of a little conversation area. There are several in the room.

  I sit across from him on a couch, and we stare at each other for a few seconds. Watching him watch me is causing an interesting reaction in my system. I’d heard of fight-or-flight before, but what I was feeling was a little more like flight-or-get-it-on. I put my purse down at my side to break the tension a little. There’s no way I was taking that flight option.

  “So you are from the United States,” he says.

  It’s not really a question, but I answer it anyway. “Yes. California. East Bay. How about you? I hear an American accent. Your English is perfect.”

  “It should be. I’ve spent most of my life there. California too, as a matter of fact. Napa.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s one of my favorite places,” I say, a dreamy quality to my voice. “I do the whole touristy wine tasting thing every few months. I never get tired of it.”

  He’s staring at me intently now, looking me over hungrily. Or I wish that’s what that expression on his face means, but it could just as well mean he has to get back to work and I’m keeping him here. I squirm a little under his attention.

  “How do you know French so well?” I ask, trying to break the tension. If he wants to go, he can just go. I’ll keep up the banal conversation until then.

  “My mother is French. I have spent every summer and now many other months out of the year here.”

  “Wow, you’re lucky. The hotel lets you work here part time?”

  He smiles. “I have a very special position here at the hotel.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. He�
��s not wearing the bellhop uniform, and he’s not in a suit like the man at the front desk. Come to think of it, with that dress shirt and fancy jeans, he looks more like a guest than an employee. But he has a key to this meeting room or whatever this is, so he must work here. He didn’t correct me earlier when I mentioned it.

  A discreet knock comes at the door. We both stand.

  “Please, sit. I’ll see if it’s your key.”

  He goes to the door and speaks in whispers with someone I can’t see. It gives me ample time to study his backside which is as good as the front. I am picturing him hovering over me horizontally, between my legs, in perfect position for me to reach around, grab those buns and pull him into me …

  He turns around and comes back to the sitting area. “It wasn’t your key. But I spoke to the man there, and he’ll make sure it arrives soon.”

  “I can just go,” I offer, not sure now whether I want to go or stay. Paris is waiting out there for me, but this stranger, this man who has some kind of serious magnetism thing going on… I’m curious to know more about him.

  “No, please stay,” he says, sounding like he really means it. “I’ve been bored out of my mind for days, and I’d love to talk to someone who reminds me of home for just a little while.”

  I sit, not sure I believe that story. “How can you possibly be bored in Paris?”

  “I’m not here as a tourist. It makes a difference.”

  I nod, even though I don’t know if I could ever feel that blasé about this amazing place.

  “I’m sorry… I haven’t asked you your name,” he says, tilting his head in curiosity.

  “It’s Lilly. Lilly Rose.”

  “Beautiful. Like you.”

  I blush. It’s a cheesy line, but he could pretty much lay any line on me and I’d accept it happily. “Thank you. What’s yours?”

  “François. But you can call me Frank if you want. Everyone back in the U.S. Does.”

  “I prefer François,” I say, practicing saying the R the French way.