THE PARIS SECRETS TRILOGY
Copyright © 2014 by Michele Renae
WINDOW was originally digitally published in 2013.
SCREEN was originally digitally published in 2014.
SKIN was originally digitally published in 2014.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments or events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This digital edition is published by Swell Cat Press, LLC.
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Table of Contents
Window
Screen
Skin
WINDOW: Book #1
Chapter One
When life gives you windows, you peer through them.
But do you ever really see what's on the other side of the glass? What mysteries go unsolved because of a dismissive glance? What adventures await? What secrets lie beyond the glass?
Do you think I think too much?
I do.
But today I looked through the window. Really looked.
A new neighbor was moving in across the street from my building. He presented a delicious mystery. And if he had any secrets, I wanted to learn them.
It was about time this neighborhood, generously peopled with geriatrics, received an infusion of young and sexy. And from what I could see below as I stood before my third-floor living room window, the new blood was both.
My building sat at an angle to the opposite building with the backs of both jutting up close to one another. The street that arrowed between the two buildings started as a narrow dead end at the back only accessible with bicycles, and from there it widened out and parted into two streets at the corner where stoplights ushered the elder residents to and fro on their daily lives. Similar to a Haussmann wedge.
The first two floors on the opposite building were businesses and offices. The third floor was residential. I'd watched the previous across-the-street resident move out last week and had waved to the elderly woman from my bedroom when I'd seen her directing the moving men to carry out boxes labeled Dishes, Sewing, and Pantry.
The reason my heart had begun to pitter and patter now, was the tall, lean man with the swishy brown hair who hefted a box from the back of the moving van. Currently on a break from work, I watched him haul in a couple of loads. A sword stuck out from the top of the box he carried, one of those long, thin blades with the little red button on the end of it. A rapier, or épée.
Fencing equipment? He looked like the type who worked out, because even from the distance I stood, the flex of his biceps revealed by the gray tee shirt he wore was formative. En guarde! All for one and—oh, look at that sexy smile. Mm… I’d swoon for that musketeer.
I confess I have a thing for musketeers. I’m pretty sure I was born into the wrong century. Musketeers wore the cool tunics emblazoned with the silver cross and fleur de lis, plumed beaver hat, and suede bucket-top boots that folded down at the knee. Add in the sword, the adventure of fighting for a king, perhaps a dashing duel against the cardinal’s men, and don’t forget a night spent surrounded by candlelight servicing his lady’s every need... Sigh.
Beneath the uniform must be hard muscle and an equal iron will to serve. In all ways in which service was possible. I wanted my musketeer kneeling before me, his head between my legs, his tongue dashing slow and lingering traces along my achy, wet clit. Dip in the tip of that hot tongue and tickle my insides, then lash it along my folds, teasing at the sensitive nerves that hugged either side of my opening.
I’d tug up my long skirts. Shallow breaths would heave up my bosom against the tight corset in anticipation of him hitting that perfect spot. The swollen, tender, slick spot that, when touched just so and with the right amount of pressure, would release my voice…
A deliciously erotic tingle at the juncture of my thighs drew me up from the daydream with a gasp and a sigh. As if I’d had a little orgasm. Close, but not quite.
Clove and cinnamon cloyed about my nose, luring me back to reality. I sipped the tea I'd been holding while captured by reverie. Tepid. How long had I been standing before the window?
Long enough to daydream my way into a lusty liaison with an imaginary hero.
My mind had a tendency to wander, and to fantasize. Sometimes to my detriment. Yes, I was the girl who missed her train because her thoughts were somewhere else, like lying across a bed, skirts pulled up to my tits, while a gorgeous musketeer dined on my moist, quivering pussy.
As I tilted a hip against the living room window, I wondered if the new guy was a local settling into different digs, or if he'd traveled from another town or even country to make his home here in Paris.
I'd arrived in Paris two years earlier, a transplant from the Midwest. Good ole Iowa. Go, Cyclones! Okay, so I wasn’t into sports, but in Iowa it had either been cheering for the local teams or farming. Corn didn’t do it for me. Nor had the marriage proposal that had come the day after I’d caught my boyfriend in bed with my ex-best friend.
I mean, had he seriously thought an offer to marry him would erase the sight of his head buried between my friend’s legs? The guy hadn’t been thinking straight. Or perhaps he’d been thinking with that other head, the smaller one that had never completely satisfied me.
I was determined to never put myself in such a sorry relationship again. The days following that breakup had served up some amazing luck, for which I would be forever grateful.
My girlfriend Melanie, longtime penpal and Skype buddy since the eighth grade, had heard about a research position at her local library—local for her being Paris. Knowing my love for words and pouring over books, she'd given my name to the HR department. Melanie knew everyone. Everyone who mattered, that is. I didn't get the job, but that had directed me to a lead from a Parisian author who had needed an American to vet her fiction set in the Midwest. Score!
So, thanks to a small trust fund my mother had left for me, I’d packed up my few belongings, flipped off the ex-best friend, and moved to the city of love.
I’d moved to get away from my recent past. I’d moved because I’d wanted a new beginning.
I moved for adventure. I crossed the ocean for discovery. I moved for the pastries and the baguettes. I arrived on foreign soil for the sexy Frenchmen and the Eiffel Tower.
I moved to Paris for the thrill of it, to utterly defy that inner part of me that whispered ‘You can’t do this on your own. You don’t even speak French!’.
I’d come to Paris because I’d secured a job, which had paid well enough to survive, and had garnered more leads with authors all across the country, and other countries, including the good ole US.
My client list consisted of mostly novelists who required detailed information on anything from how to poison a person without leaving a trace, to baking crepes at mountain level, or scuba diving procedures in the Venetian canal. I even did vampires—could a person survive on blood alone?—and werewolves—what were the effects of shapeshifting on a tattoo?
The beauty of being a research assistant was that it could be done online and th
rough email. I didn’t need to live in Paris, but I could.
But if I’m to be completely honest—and fess up to that introverted voice who likes to hide when the doorbell rings, or walk away from groups gathered at parties, and yes, who even ignores phone calls because making small talk is so difficult—I had moved to Paris to have sex.
No, not to find love or even romance. Been there, done that. Plan to be more cautious from here on out. The idea of finding myself a Frenchman to take as a lover appealed in no small way. (Yes, I get the irony. Introvert seeks hot love affair with gorgeous man who speaks a language she doesn't even understand. Sure, that'll happen.)
It’s my fantasy. Allow me the indulgence.
I'd stepped onto French soil with a list of qualifications required for my French lover. He must be ruggedly attractive, but not necessarily handsome. I admired the Gascon profile, all awkward angles, thick brows, and bold nose. If he could be a musketeer all the better; of course I understood the job of wielding a musket and protecting the king was not a popular one nowadays. And I preferred he not speak English too well. French should be his principal language. (That added to his mysterious appeal.)
I, of course, spoke little French, save a few words such as merci and tres bien. Je voudrais meant I would like, which came in handy when shopping for macarons. (A weekly must, trust me.) If I managed to combine one or more French words in a makeshift sentence I was quite proud of myself. I'd learned enough to get by over the years.
This imaginary, and slightly rough yet handsome Frenchman (who may have been a musketeer in a past life) will simply want to fuck me. Again and again. We will while away the days between the sheets, speaking with our bodies, bonding with our touches, learning one another's secrets, and performing every sexual position we can imagine. We’ll probably make up a few new positions, too.
There you have it. My quest for a Frenchman.
I've been here for two years and haven't snagged a Gascon yet. I've dated a handful of guys. One was British, two were American, and the others were Italian. Not that I'm complaining. My sex life was good. Not turnstile busy, but I didn't want that.
I didn't hook up with any of them for more than a few weeks. The word boyfriend always got caught at the back of throat. It was so teenager. I preferred lovers. Men who moved in and out of my bed, at my discretion, and who never clung or demanded more than I wanted. I saw the Brit once a month. We were both clear that it was a hookup, and that worked for us.
I didn't have time for a relationship. Or maybe it was that I didn't have the personal constitution for it any more. I had never been able to care for a pet. I had a pet hamster when I was ten who got out of his plastic cage and crawled into the bathtub, ate the soap, then died a long and tragic death under my bed.
What made me believe I could take care of a man?
So while I waited for my fantasy man to come knocking, I was thankful for reality. I had an apartment I could afford, thanks to a job that satisfied.
In addition to the research work, which occupied around thirty hours a week, give or take depending on my client list, I also held a part-time job at a little map shop in the fifth. One or two days a week as sales clerk, and sometimes a few hours on the weekend helping the shop owner (another Brit) organize his stock.
Yep, I had a pretty sweet gig. And did I mention I live in Paris?
Letting the white sheer fall back into place before the window, I tilted back the rest of the cold cinnamon tea, then settled behind my desk and considered sorting a research list.
I leaned back in the chair and pulled aside the curtain once again. The moving van was no longer parked before the curb.
"Wonder if he’s French?"
The musketeer who had been supping between my thighs, stretched up his hand and grazed my nipple. The bud hardened between his fingers, swelling under his pinching touch. “Vous appartenez à moi,” he said in French that I understood perfectly to mean you belong to me.
“Mm… I wouldn’t mind being yours.”
I shook my head and laughed at my straying thoughts. A list of European holidays awaited completion on the computer screen. This work was not going to get done while I daydreamed about the sexy new neighbor.
I’d reserve that for later tonight as I soaked in a hot tub.
***
I'd closed the map shop around seven-thirty, early for Paris. Most shops stayed open until eight. The tourist traps in the fifth—where the shop was located—often stayed open well past ten p.m. Thankfully, Parisian shops didn't open until ten a.m., which was awesome for my need to sleep in. This city had been invented for layabeds such as myself.
On the way home from work, I stopped by a small, four-aisle food market a few blocks away from my building. Most days I took the Métro to and from work, but the walk along the Seine was a pleasant forty-five minute stroll, and I didn't have many groceries to carry.
Taking advantage of the beautiful autumn evening, I lingered along the river. I watched the bateaux mouches—cattlecar riverboats stuffed to the gills with tourists gawking and pointing at the ancient monuments—cruise by. The air smelled both as sweet as the nearby crepe stands and as sour as the dank river. I loved it all.
Once home, I set the mesh grocery bag on the kitchen counter, and filled a glass of water from the sink. In the kitchen, a table and two chairs sat beneath the only window in the place that actually opened.
The entire apartment was painted white, with minimal furnishings. I found the idea of picking out colors and figuring out my decorating style intimidating. Gray furniture. White walls. A vase or pillow here and there added a splash of blue. It didn't get easier than that. Besides, I wasn't sure what went with stacks of books, and notes and file folders scattered everywhere.
I did have a desk in the living room for my office, but that designated space tended to bleed into the living area, on the floor before the floor-to-ceiling windows, onto the kitchen table, and even around the corner and into the bedroom where more stacks of books lined the walls.
I could use a secretary.
What I needed were book shelves. I'd write that on my shopping list (if I could find it).
An open archway led into the bedroom that tempted strongly with a comfy, king-size bed. The white iron frame had been a welcome prize the former owner had left behind. I'd ordered one of those cozy air beds that came in a box, put it together myself, and voila! Mounded with a fluffy white comforter and crisp white sheets, it was my favorite place to land. But it was only nine. Too early to hit the sack.
I could crack open the book on string theory that I didn't want to tackle—research job—but then reminded myself that it was Friday. I never worked on weekends, and the weekend officially began at six p.m. Friday evening (or noon if that's the way I wanted to play it). Working freelance, a girl had to set rules and boundaries. Otherwise, I could so wear the queen of procrastination crown.
Tonight I looked forward to sinking my brain into a novel instead of the usual non-fiction. But first, I hadn't peed all day.
Sitting on the toilet, I let my eyes wander along the line of clear subway tiles that cut a center dash around the room, otherwise completely tiled in white. I mused on the utter clean whiteness of the apartment. I, who surrounded myself with vibrant clothing and insensible shoes, had to admit I liked the starkness. It felt new and clean. Vast. Promising. Not much a girl could hide from here.
I smirked. What was I thinking? I had nothing to hide from. I was an open book. Granted, a sequestered book that didn't like to have her pages bent at the corners, and who would most certainly protest should someone crack my spine, but still.
Okay, so I wasn't as open as I liked to believe. Yet somewhere within my squishy depths lived a tiny vixen who would step out and have a good time if invited.
The apartment reminded me of one of those chic love nests the smart, business-savvy heroine in a romance novel would own. She collected numerous lovers, none who ever came to her home. They always ended up making l
ove in the back seats of cars, or in the alleyway outside the Louvre, or in the dew-tipped grass of a garden courtyard enclosed within ancient buildings.
I could be such a heroine. I was that heroine. On the inside.
I sighed. Okay, so mostly I was that heroine.
I stripped off my clothes for a shower. French showers are not a treat. I like to soap up and linger under the stream, but the French apparently haven't discovered that attaching the showerhead to the wall frees up both hands. I'd spotted the perfect showerhead in a nearby hardware store months earlier, but wasn't so skilled that I thought I could install it without creating a permanent leak. So, once again, I struggled with the ungainly steel hose as I shampooed one-handed. Despite the awkwardness it felt refreshing after a long day standing on my feet.
Still didn’t stop me from yawning.
After drying off, I strolled out of the bathroom, bold in my nudity. Curtains hung before the windows; sheers in see-through white, with heavy white draperies hanging to each side. I kept the left side drape pulled because the window stretched halfway behind the bed. The right drape I pulled aside during the day to let in light but kept the sheer pulled.
My bedroom was positioned at the back of the building, so our bedroom windows were separated by fifteen feet of air space across the narrow dead end. The across-the-street neighbor had usually kept her heavy-backed bedroom curtains closed. I didn't blame her. With the lights on, I could see all the way into that apartments' connecting bathroom.
I’d once stood on the street below and looked up, wondering if passing cyclists might get a glimpse of me standing en deshabille in my bedroom with the lights on. Thankfully, no deal; it was just too high up, and the angle from the street didn’t work. Whew! I tended to walk around naked after a shower, and hopped into bed sans jammies.
Like I said, the former resident across the street had kept her curtains closed all the time, so I had never feared flashing anyone.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 1
