He lifted a bare foot and pointed to it as he shook his head sadly.
"Poor guy. No shoe that you own could compete with these pretties."
I leaned back and lifted a foot to admire what was more distracting than the man in the underwear. Almost. Red-soled shoes or the hard body across the street?
Absolutely no question.
Turning on the chair and leaning my elbow onto the arm I tugged out the waistband of my underwear, let it snap back into place, and pointed to him.
He thumbed the waistband of his boxer briefs and toyed at tugging them down, which revealed a peek of hair as dark as that on his head.
I nodded and put on my best pout. I added hands pressed together in prayer for good measure. Please can I have some more, sir?
I don't think I'd ever seen a sweeter, yet devilish grin. A shadow of a mustache darkened his upper lip, emphasizing his slightly crooked grin. His eyebrow arched on the same side as his smile lifted.
Running a palm down his abs—yes, slowly, so I could imagine the hard, hot plane of strapped muscle as if it were beneath my own palm, breathing, tensing, growing hotter—he stroked the hand over his boxers, and even though the fabric was black, I could see the thickness beneath reacting to his touch.
He gripped the package. I was reminded of that Transporter movie—Rule number three: never open the package.
Bedamned rule number three. I wanted to tear open the package and look, touch, and lick, and enjoy.
He sucked in a corner of his lower lip. The man was turned on by his own touch. Or was it me watching him touch himself that did it for him?
A combination of both, I decided. Because hell, my nipples were hard as diamonds, poking against the black lace bra. I recognized pain, and realized that I was biting my lip. I released it without a flinch. I didn't want him to see my profound reaction. But then…I decided my reactions were the only part about this that mattered. We couldn't touch one another. We were denied sound, smell, and taste. This slightly dangerous liaison was all about sight and imagination.
I waggled my finger and tapped the air down, down, down.
And his boxers slid slowly down to reveal the thick thatch of dark hairs and the head of his cock. Then the enticing bulge disappeared. He'd tugged the boxers back up and waggled a chiding finger at me.
God, I loved that easy smile.
Forgetting that I wasn't normally so sexually forward, I pressed my palms together in another please gesture.
He shrugged, and then dropped trou in a swift slide from thigh to ankle.
"Fuck."
I mean, seriously, there was nothing else I could say.
He stood there boldly, eyes glued to mine, noting every reaction, every minute movement as I leaned forward and pressed the cool glass with my fingertips. A poor replacement for what I wanted to get my hands on.
He was hard and ready to go. So rigid and firm that his cock stood at attention, pointing toward his abs. The head of him was a deep magenta and thick like a summer-sweet plum. His testicles hung heavy behind and below the gorgeous rod, and I almost made a squeezing motion with my hands. Almost.
Thumbs up for him. Oh why not, two thumbs up.
He smiled and shook his head, bowing it as he might have blushed. But he didn't reach to protectively cup his equipment. I adored his confidence. How often did a woman get to watch such a sight? And to direct it?
Louboutins and a hard cock? I was one spoiled girl.
“Mercy.”
The owner of the upright cock pointed to me. My turn.
But just the underwear? I stood and fingered the strap of my bra, then my waistband.
Both, he mouthed. I understood that request perfectly. It seemed fair enough, since he was naked. And he'd already seen my breasts last night so no problem going there again.
I toed out a foot and tilted my head in question.
He shook his head adamantly. Keep the shoes on, was the message.
I hadn't a stripper bone in my body, but the idea of getting naked for a nameless man whom I may never speak to rubbed all the erogenous zones in my body. Hard. At least, I hoped to never speak to him if we were going through with this. How embarrassing would it be to meet over the fresh fruit in the supermarket? Hey, nice cock—er, bananas you've got there.
Commit, I told myself. And have fun with it, my inner vixen chimed. I'd deal with the fruity situation if and when it ever occurred.
Right.
Turning around to give him my back, I glanced over a shoulder and winked at him. I slipped down a bra strap. Just because I didn't have stripper moves didn't mean I hadn't seen them in movies. A shimmy of my arm dropped the strap lower and I glided it down and off my hand.
Sight of his cock standing at attention made me smile, and I almost giggled. Oh hell, why not? I burst into giggles, catching a palm over my mouth. A dip of my head to look around and through the window received a wink from him.
Silly girl, giggles made me feel even sexier. And he was enabling me. Scandalous. Absolutely brazen.
Good boy.
Shrugging off the other strap, I let the lacy black slip of almost-nothing fall to the floor where I caught it on a toe of my shoe and lifted it to display for him. With a flip of my foot I sent it off to land near the end of the bed.
I cupped my almost-Cs, which were high and perky. I was proud of them, and loved to have a man touch and lick them. I actually couldn't get off without a lot of breast stimulation. It was as if my nipples had a direct get-off line to my pussy. No sucking, no coming.
I lamented the missed sensation of touch from Monsieur Sexy, but as I turned to face him, I caught him with an open mouth, gliding his tongue along his teeth. The look in his eyes, part pained want and another part soft desire, served me well enough.
Nipples hard against my palms, I bent forward, teasing him with a peek—but not yet.
I turned away again, and now I slipped my fingers down each side of my panties. He nodded encouragingly, and as the black lace slid down my ass and thighs, I bent, drawing them to my ankles and then carefully stepping out of them, giving him a view of my backside. While down, I glanced around my hair and there was that appreciative open-mouthed gape again.
Too cute.
I stood and turned, displaying my high breasts and neatly shaved crotch (no particular design; I just liked trimming the shrubbery). His regard swept over my skin and I felt that intangible look tingle at my breasts and lower. Mmm, my stomach was soft and my mons warm. Yes, I was already wet.
This vixen was getting her naughty on.
He gripped his cock. I cupped my breasts, thumbing the nipples. And as he nodded, I watched him stroke his rod.
We were doing this. Mutually pleasuring ourselves before a window, while all around us in the neighborhood below, life went on. People strolled the sidewalks on a late-night walk or in search of Fluffy gone rogue. Lost tourists prayed they'd find the nearest Métro stop. Cars rolled quietly over the cobbled streets.
Could anyone see us? Not from the street. There were no other apartments on the third floor on our sides of the buildings. Someone on the roof might get a good view, but no one ever went up there. At least not that I'd ever noticed.
He pointed to me and then moved his hand down from his chest to his crotch and made a rubbing motion. I understood what he wanted me to do, and glided my fingers down my stomach, panting in daring anticipation.
Daring to do this. Daring to meet his challenge. Daring to take what I desired without concern for whether or not it was right or wrong. I wanted to do this…
I could do this.
I…
Bon courage? I shook my head, indicating that tiny niggle that wouldn't allow me to make the leap.
I kissed my palm and blew him the reluctant send-off. He reciprocated, but not without a disappointed shrug of his shoulders.
I know, I know! So close and yet unable to grasp the prize.
With a wave goodnight, I pulled the sheers closed and scampe
red into the bathroom. My heels clicked on the tiles, echoing my daring foray into exhibitionism.
Chapter Four
Staring at my reflection I winked at the brunette. I had begun something exciting and daring with a stranger. I wanted it to continue. But it had rushed into extreme territory tonight.
"Not that extreme," I muttered, retrieving the toothbrush from inside the medicine cabinet and adding a dollop of Elgydium toothpaste to it (clove flavored). I started to brush.
Right, because extreme would be getting together with a stranger too quickly and having sex. Like on the first date.
All right, all right, I had to confess to one—no, two—one night stands. I wasn't proud of them. And yet, I wasn't ashamed of them either. I'd been safe, using condoms, and sometimes I needed it when I needed it, and that didn't imply that I had to start dating, go to the guy's family reunion with him, start dreaming about matching bedroom sets, or ponder the many uses for rhubarb in baked goods.
Guys had no-strings sex all the time. Why should women be stigmatized for wanting the same thing? I certainly wasn't going to wear the guilt crown about it.
I wasn’t about to feel guilty about my window affair, either. But I had the right to refuse when things didn't feel right, as did he. No matter how much I'd wanted to keep going tonight, I had to listen to that inner voice that reminded me that I am the quiet introvert who would be appalled to witness such a scene from the streets below.
Appalled at first, but then, I'd probably grin and walk on.
There was something about sex, the act of undressing together, of learning each other's bodies—well that was it, wasn't it? We hadn't gone the route of undressing one another and trailing our fingers over skin to read subtle curves and muscles. What we'd shared was pseudo-foreplay. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. In fact, it might be an interesting get-to-know you process, instead of the standard fingers over skin scenario.
I spit and rinsed and stared hard at myself in the mirror. Really?
Fine. I missed the skin contact.
Oh, man, I wanted to wrap my fingers about his cock. Feel its hardness, the heat of it, the utter strength of it. Cup my palm over the head and—I wondered if he was circumcised? He'd been hard so it was difficult to tell. I'd never seen an uncircumcised penis up close and friendly-like. My love for knowledge, and the desire to learn and explore things I was unfamiliar with, wanted him to be uncut.
But did it matter? I'd chickened out tonight.
I clicked off the bathroom light and wandered out to the bed in my pretty high heels. No, I hadn't been a chicken. I was being smart. I'd already stepped out of my box and had toed the comfort zone line.
Perhaps tomorrow tonight, I'd stick a red-soled toe across that line. I wanted to do that. It wasn't the safe distance we had between us, or the daring eroticism of the imaginary boundary that excited me about this liaison so much. It was simply new and fun and not ordinary.
Spreading my arms wide, I did a back-first full-body plant onto the fluffy comforter on top of my bed. I lifted my legs to stare at the Louboutins, pretty black enticements caressing my feet.
Intangible kisses moved along my legs, traveling toward my ankles until his fingers touched the black ribbons and tugged, gently, yet insistently.
Mmm, my sleep would be laced with delicious dreams tonight.
***
“I’m ticklish,” I whispered in my dreams.
A kiss pressed to my anklebone, Monsieur Sexy paused and looked up at me. Eyes of an indiscernible color dove into mine. I exhaled to counteract the sudden increase in my adrenaline. He knelt before me, my foot in his hand, the black ribbons spilling over his wrist. He wore nothing. I wore a black lace bra and panties.
And the shoes.
“Relax,” he said in a deep voice that worked like a shot of whiskey to my nerves. Of course it was in French, too. And my dream-self understood every single word of it. “I want to worship you.”
I settled back on the tufted gray velvet chaise, hands dropping to my sides. The perfect spot for reading, the chaise was curved so my body melted into it. I became the chaise when I laid on it.
His tongue dashed out to lick my ankle near the ribbon. The soft schush of velvet across my skin was punctuated by my breaths that had grown more shallow and quicker.
The ribbon struggled for hold as the tug at the knot beckoned. He’d snatched an end with his teeth and as he sat back on his heels, he pulled the ribbon free to its full length. The straps slithered from my skin as if a silk robe slipping away.
His cock jutted upright, a proud column. I could reach for it, but, no, I wanted to linger in this seduction. Receive what he wanted to give. I sighed, closed my eyes. I needed his touch, this foray into the forbidden with the man behind the glass.
Ribbon still in his teeth, he growled and playfully tugged at it. I popped open an eyelid and chided him with a waggling finger. “Bad puppy.”
He dropped the ribbon and pouted. Then he lunged to my foot and kissed me where the ribbons had left a slight impression around my ankle. Slowly, tenderly, he kissed and licked, then drew his tongue down the side of my foot along the shoe’s shank. And there, he touched my exposed arch. The zing of sensation made me spasm in my gut and my foot jerked—but his hand slapped over the top of it, holding me firmly.
His eyes admonished while his tongue lashed out in a teasing lick along his lip.
I breathed rapidly. He looked hungry. I couldn’t wait for the devouring.
His tongue slid along my arch and my back curved in tandem. The exquisite torture curled my fingers at my sides and into the velvet chaise's decadent nap. I moaned. His other hand loosened the back of the shoe from my heel, and his fingers glided firmly over the base of it.
I reached for his head, but he was too far away. I wanted to run my fingers through his glossy hair, grip it hard, and tug.
It was when he kissed the side of my heel, then bit gently into the meat of it that I sucked in a gasp and moaned as the sensation fluttered up my leg and to my groin. Every nip, every lash of his tongue, the firm pressure of his kisses, effectively imitated the flutter in my rapidly moistening pussy.
I slid a hand down my stomach and pressed against my clit.
“Good girl,” he whispered. A tongue lash to the underside of my arch lifted my hips and I dove my fingers between my folds. “So pretty.” He slipped the shoe from my foot and admired it a moment, then tossed it over his shoulder.
I couldn’t manage a protest to his careless regard for my prized possession, because his tongue now traced the inner side of my foot and ventured toward my toes. I paralleled his motions with strokes across my clit.
A lash of hot wetness strode between my largest toe and the next where the thin silver ring coiled. He made a point of his tongue and speared the delicate curve at the base between the two toes.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” I moaned. And I’m not even French! “Oui.” The word drawled out in a plead for him to never stop, never stop, never…
He tickled and traced between all my toes, and then he shifted his body around to the end of the chaise. One hand held my ankle firmly, while the other danced his thumb along the underside of my foot where it was softest, pale from lack of sunlight, and ultra-sensitive.
I writhed on the chaise. My fingers dove into my heat and I wet them to draw out and slick against the swollen labia. No window between us, yet still, I pleasured myself.
Correction: he was pleasuring me in the most exquisite way. I was merely enhancing that touch.
His mouth enveloped my toe. He suckled the tip of it, pressing his tongue against the soft underside and gently impressing his teeth there, and then there, but never for more than a second. It was as if he were at my breast, sucking deep and hard, and…
“Oh, yes, like that,” I purred as my nipples tightened with a zing.
As he moved to the next toe, I realized his hands strolled along my skin. One gently stroked the inside of my arch, tracing the curve back a
nd forth softly, while the other glanced over the top of my foot and up my ankle and calf.
And at his mouth my toes were worshipped, teased, and devoured. The littlest toe inspired his comment, “So cute.”
Kneeling and straightening, he added a new touch treat to the mix. Rubbing the head of his cock under my foot, he teased the bold, hot head against my sensitive skin. I curled my toes about the molten shaft. Mm, it was soft and suedelike on the outside, yet so incredibly hard overall. He tapped my toes with his rod. The man’s moan vibrated across my skin, raising the hairs and coaxing the imminent orgasm up, up, up…
He swore softly as he eased his cock between my foot and his hand.
“Yes,” I hissed.
He again slid around the side of the chaise. Moving his tongue down to explore my arch, his hand glided up the inside of my thigh. The moment his fingers plunged into my wet pussy and brushed, perhaps accidentally, across my swollen clit, my body surrendered and my shoulders thrust back.
I cried out.
Bliss won. Laughter spilled from my lips.
And Monsieur Sexy tilted his head aside my knee and winked at me.
***
Early evenings usually provided a slump in the parade of curious tourists who wandered into the map shop facing the Seine. Fine by me. My mind was free to wander as I absently dusted the map drawers. I’d tucked the Louboutins in my bag and wore them today. Every step I took reminded me of his tongue lazing over my arch. Of his hard cock rubbing against my soles, his hips rocking, his jaw tightening as he pleasured not only me, but himself as well.
My boss called me into the back room. His voice startled me so abruptly from the fantasy I dropped the feather duster behind a wooden file cabinet. I’d figure out a retrieval method later.
As soon as I saw Richard standing there in his button up Mr. Rogers sweater with a twinkle to his blue eyes, I knew he had found something that excited him.
I had too, but window voyeurism, plus a side order of foot fetish, was not something I would bring up in conversation with my boss.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 4
