Lounging on the tufted velvet chaise in the living room, I kicked up my bare feet and glided the underside of one foot along my shin. Something so sensual about bare feet. Monsieur Sexy, on his knees, his cock bobbling expectantly, appeared before me.
“Soon,” I whispered through a nibble of bread.
He nodded, and wisped away as easily as he had appeared.
I watched the news with the volume on low. I didn't care what was going on in the world around me, because right now the world moved within me, swirling in my core, tingling across my skin. Pleading with me to saunter into the bedroom and pull aside the curtains.
I could wait. (Not really, but it was still light out. I didn't want to seem too eager.)
Smooshing the bread into the last few crumbles of cheese, I savored the bites with a moan. Setting the plate on the floor beside the chaise, I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and ignored whatever the weathergirl du jour had decided tomorrow should be like. I'd be inside working anyway.
I pulled my hair from its chignon and eased my fingers around my temples. A tight knot had formed and strained all day as I'd poured over a book on fly-fishing techniques. (My clients' fictional interests were vast.) The sensation of the muscles relaxing beneath my skin as my fingers moved around the hairline tightened my nipples.
I glided a hand over my breast. It's fascinating how our bodies change and alter with only a thought. The brain is the biggest sex organ in the body.
I'm pretty sure I think too much.
I know I think too much.
I laughed out loud at my overactive thoughts, then collected the plate and goblet. I was in the mood for a hot bath.
***
Fresh from the tub and smelling like vanilla sugar scrub, I slipped on my silk bee robe, even though I didn't intend to keep it on long. My body hummed in anticipation of what could be revealed with the sweep of a curtain. I'd been thinking about him all day in between thoughts on casting a line and tying flies. My brain was already there, in an embrace, receiving what he wanted to give. Giving back what he wanted to take. My body was ready. And willing.
I saw light across the street. My nipples tightened as I stepped to the shaded window. I pulled aside the curtain. Then I remembered.
I dodged to the bedside and flicked on the lamp. It was dark outside and the glow from the nearest streetlight didn't reach this far, so without the light, he wouldn't be able to see me.
I wandered back before the window, focusing on the slip and slide of silk over my thighs, my stomach and hips, my breasts. My nipples could not get any harder. I likened them to a man's erection—hot, hard, and eager for touch. The steamy bathroom had moistened my scalp and temples, and I perspired sweet vanilla even after I'd dried off. I felt moistness between my breasts. And between my legs.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and turned to find Monsieur Sexy standing in his boxer briefs—deep blue tonight—holding something before his chest. It was a notebook, turned on its side in landscape format. He'd written in bold black letters: Hi.
I waved to him and couldn't prevent a beaming smile. Our first venture into a new form of communication. Yay, for us! Or at least for him.
He pointed to the notebook and grabbed the thick marker that was lying on the end of the bed. He wrote: English, yes? Then pointed to me.
"Yes, English."
I put up a finger for him to wait, then scampered into the kitchen. On the table, a stack of books balanced precariously close to a dead succulent I'd bought at a flower shop near Nôtre Dame. I'd attempted to nurture it, but overwatering had done that baby in but good. The research notebook for my last project sat waiting to be filed in a non-existent file cabinet. I'd only used the first few sheets inside the wire-bound spiral notebook. Perfect.
I sorted through the junk drawer and found a marker consigned to the back. Pulling off the cap, I sniffed it, and the strong solvent coiled into my nostrils.
"Oh, yeah." Call me a dork, but the sniff high was a doosy. My recreational drug of choice. Heh. Not.
I quickly wrote Hi, back on the page, and dashed back into the bedroom.
He read my pithy reply and bowed, accepting the introduction.
Then it occurred to me that I could write an entire book about all the things I'd been thinking of doing with him, but I didn't want to scare him off. Did he even like feet? Better take it slower. Simple and short should be the standard. Especially because I didn't want to stand before the window all night dictating my desires.
I wrote out two short lines, and turned it for him to read.
2 rules. 1: No names.
He nodded, agreeing easily, then put up two fingers and shrugged.
I flipped over the page, and wrote what I felt was the most important rule if these window sexcapades were to work: If we see each other, walk away. No contact beyond windows.
I turned it around and waited as he mouthed the words he read. He scrubbed a hand over his hair, imparting some tension with his pulsing jaw as he made a show of considering my rule.
"No contact," I muttered, and shook my head. "Not yet. I'm not ready for that."
He nodded and gave me a thumbs up. Whew.
I tossed the notebook aside. I didn't want to write. I wanted to show him how I was feeling. But he was writing now, so I stepped to the window and pressed a palm to it. I gazed across the street that could be a thousand mile distance, yet felt as if he were standing only but a breath away.
I wanted to smell him. To feel his body heat so close to mine that we created sparks.
He turned the notebook over and I read: Exquisite. Bold. Gorgeous. He pointed at me.
My heart fluttered and I pressed my palm over it. I hadn't realized I needed that until—just, wow.
I kissed my fingertips and blew the morsel to him. He made a show of catching it and pressing his fingertips to his lips, as if to taste my kiss. Soon, I thought. Or maybe never? I didn't know where these window sessions would lead, and I decided not to worry about the future.
Monsieur Sexy drew his fingers down his chest and abs and hooked them at the waistband of his briefs.
Teasing a fingertip at the corner of my mouth, I walked to the chair and turned it to face the window, then settled into it, relaxing and crossing my legs. The silk robe innocently slid open, revealing legs to my bare crotch, the fabric catching on my hard nipples. A tilt of my shoulders would set it free, exposing me completely to him.
I settled deeper into the chair, my shoulders sliding back. The robe slid open more. I lowered my head, smiling wickedly at him.
"Let the games begin."
He tossed the notebook on his bed and stepped up to the window, pressing both palms to the glass as he studied me sitting in repose. A wanton queen upon her throne. The entire day had coiled me into a lustful, covetous web of agonizing need. I closed my eyes and brushed my hands against my cheeks, over my temples, and through my hair, luxuriating in the feel of the soft strands. The smell of vanilla lingered on my skin and in the steamy air.
When I opened my eyes, he was rubbing a hand over his erection. It looked so thick beneath the clingy briefs that emphasized the ridge on the underside and the plum-like head of it.
I turned in the chair, twisting at the waist, but kept my legs crossed. Catching my chin in a palm, I twirled my free hand, indicating that he should drop trou.
His gaze swept streetward. As nervous about being seen as I had initially been? Silly man. Don't think like that. We were alone, even in a city of millions; highlighted by the glow from our bedside lights, exquisitely framed by our third floor windows, yet safely sheltered from prying eyes by the positioning of the buildings.
His briefs got caught on the head of his cock, and he had to use both hands to pull them down. As he did, he swept one hand over his erection, and used the other to tug them off and toss them aside. He looked to me, tilting his hips forward to display his mighty sword. It bobbed heavily. I imagined it bobbing against my mouth; the salty, musky
scent of him becoming embedded in my skin, my eyelashes, my hair.
I licked my lips and nodded. I bet he smelled like spice cologne. I wanted him to. I wanted to nuzzle my face against his cock and smell the rich tones of mingled spice and man. I squeezed my thighs together, mining a twinge of orgasmic promise. I was noticeably wetter than when I'd gotten out of the tub.
Taking his cock in hand, he slid his curled fingers up and down, not establishing a rhythm or going too quickly. He was displaying the goods, letting me take him in. The tension in his ab muscles visibly increased, and he winced and closed his eyes briefly. Already feeling it.
I wondered if a man's orgasm felt like a woman's did? How to ever know? The best of my orgasms were brain bursting, mind shattering, scream-from-my-gut amazing. Men came strong and hard, but so quickly. They collapsed after, and...end of party.
Inhaling through my nose, I leaned forward, my breasts falling upon the padded chair arm. Absently, I swept a hand across my breast and thumbed the nipple. He nodded. Yes, do that more.
Sitting boldly upright, I uncrossed my legs and pressed them knee to knee, cupping both breasts as I did. The intensity of his gaze felt more intimate than quiet sex with a lover in the dark. In the dark, I was safe from roaming, judgmental eyes. Here, he saw everything, yet I was emboldened to permit his gaze to take in all that it wished to see.
So inspirited, in fact, that I spread my legs brazenly. The air cooled the insides of my thighs, but only for a moment. Wet and hot, my pussy hummed with anticipation. Each finger tweak of my nipples activated the want in my core and ignited that signal between my legs.
Mmm, I should have been wearing the shoes. Hell, why wasn't I wearing the shoes?
Wait. Don't think like that. I was moving out of the moment. The shoes bedamned. (Sorry, shoes.) I'd wear them some other time.
Back lengthened, and legs propped wide, I pinched both nipples. The pleasure shock sensation stirred up a moan. I wanted him to hear me, and then I was glad he could not. Voice felt too intimate just now.
He stroked his cock faster, and without missing a beat he scooted along the side of the bed to the nightstand. He pulled a small blue bottle from the drawer and drizzled clear lube onto the head of his cock. It looked like sweet liquid sugar spilling onto a rich dessert, and again I licked my lips to show him my appreciation and want.
"I'd lick it for you," I whispered. I wished he could understand me, but I wasn’t in the mood for dictation right now.
He slicked his hand over and off the bold column that jut up hard against his belly. It stood up straight, not an angle or kink to it. Proud as its master. And in reward, it was squeezed, slicked, and vigorously rubbed.
Men tended to get brutal when they jacked off. I suppose the main stick had been designed for some rough handling? I began to question my delicate touch whenever I got cock in hand. Perhaps something more firm next time? I'd make a note of it.
His free hand slapped the window and he bent forward, completely focused on the fast drill, skin against lubed skin. Slick, slick, slick. Faster, harder…
I wanted to catch up. I hadn't even begun to explore the folds and dark sweet spots in my pussy. He wouldn't get himself off before me, would he? And if he exploded, then the party was over. At least, that's how it worked with the guys who had been in my bed. Thanks for the thrills, sweetie, now let me go to sleep.
Tonight, this one would not roll over.
I had no control over that.
And yet, perhaps I did.
I waggled an admonishing finger at him, then glided my other hand down from my breast and over my stomach. That got his attention. He didn't stop jacking off, but he did slow his pace measurably. He reached down to squeeze his balls. Closing his eyes, his tight jaw pulsed.
The hairs on my body prickled at the sensation of the light strokes across my belly. Self-love was something I practiced often enough that I knew how my body responded to specific touches. Such intimate knowledge then allowed me to direct my lovers toward the best touch needed to get me off. Therefore, I knew the gentle effleurage was better at increasing my heartbeats and the zinging, swirling want in my core, than, say, a firmer, more intense touch. At least to begin with.
It was all about the anticipation.
Gliding my fingers downward, they skimmed through the trimmed thatch. I closed my eyes, guiding a forefinger between my slick folds. So freaking wet. I spread my legs wider, and eased the finger firmly against my apex. My clit responded. Oh, that touch was nice. 'Bout time you decided to play with me. So I slicked across it again, delicately, not too firm.
Nodding, because the touch was just right, not too hard and not too soft, I remembered that I had an audience. I flashed my eyes open to find him staring at me. His hand did not move on his cock. He looked…mesmerized. And he wasn't focused on my crotch, but rather my face.
I dipped my head into a shy smile because he surprised me with that intense regard.
Then I shook my head, surrendering to a little laugh. My finger had not stopped the soft, teasing strokes. I squeezed a nipple, intensifying the stirrings of release. Tilting my hips forward, I spread my legs wider. I don't think I'd ever sat quite like this when I'd jilled off before. I had to scoot forward to the edge of the chair so my fingers wouldn't jam into the seat with each downstroke.
Monsieur Sexy had switched up his moves. His cock sprang free against his stomach while he pinched his nipple. Pointing to me, he then pinched his fingers before him and dashed his tongue between them.
I arched back my shoulders, feeling his tongue on my nipples, hot and wet. I bent a leg and pressed the heel of my foot on the chair, which moved me forward a bit. Catching my hand against the glass, I quickened my strokes, slicking into my folds to juice up, and then swiped back across my swollen clit. My core swirled. My loins hummed. My hips wanted to rock quickly, but I couldn't in this position. It was a different feeling though, and I liked it.
He flicked his tongue over the top of his little finger, and the sight of it released a moan from deep in my throat. I imagined his tongue at my breast. Taking my hand from the window, I glided the fingers over my tongue, then slicked them over my nipple. Yes!
Feeling the wobbly, loosening stir of orgasm focus between my legs, I increased pace of my strokes and made them firmer. Yes, so close. And he jacked off quickly now, his eyes no longer on me, but unfocused immediately before him. Concentrating, probably as close to orgasm as I was.
His shoulders shuddered. Ab muscles tightened, unreal in their sweaty, glistening appeal. He was so strong, so powerful. His jaw clenched, and suddenly, he opened his mouth and—I switched my gaze lower. He spilled over his hand and a splash of creamy ejaculation spotted the window. Still gripping his cock, he pressed his forehead to the glass.
The sight of his orgasm pushed me over the edge. I pressed my legs together, and my rapid strokes lured up the explosion that shimmered through my thighs, hips, and torso. My hips bucked forward and I cried out a short, blissful sound. "Yes."
Bowing my head and falling back into the chair, I panted through the delicious reward of my efforts. And then I laughed softly. My limbs were loose. I brushed a hand across my face to cover it as the laughter subsided. I dropped my arm along the side of the chair and lay there, spent and blissed out.
Tilting my head, I saw Monsieur Sexy grab the notebook off the bed. He slammed it against the window and I reread the words: Exquisite. Bold. Gorgeous.
I blew him a kiss and wished him a good night.
He saluted me, and then wandered off into the recesses of his bedroom where it connected to the bathroom. I didn't need to see him. I would close my eyes and dream about him all night.
Chapter Seven
I caught him dancing about his bedroom, a towel hugging his sculpted hips and water droplets sprinkling the muscles that flexed his back. Fencing equipment lay scattered across the end of the bed. I'd seen flashes of the blade in his living room earlier as I'd noshed on creamy risotto in front
of the TV.
There must be music playing in his room because he shifted his hips side to side. Now I saw his lips moving. He was singing. And he wasn't aware that I was watching from my nest on the chair with book in hand.
He sorted through some books and files stacked on the night table next to the bed. He read before going to sleep; just like me. Tucking a file under his arm, he then scooted around the bed, performing a twirl that I'd be impressed to see on any dance floor. His abs flexed beautifully.
I sighed. Fencing had honed that man's physique. I wondered if he practiced any other sports? I wasn't in to sports, but I may have to search the channels for a fencing match one of these days.
I performed a little wave, but he didn't notice. He dance-stepped all the way to the door, gripped the doorknob—then paused. Twisting a look over his shoulder as if remembering to look across the street, he saw me, and smiled.
Whew.
Stepping up to the window he beamed at me and waved. Then he tapped his ears and pointed to the dresser, where I assumed he must have a stereo.
I snapped my fingers and grooved my shoulders in my best Beyonce impersonation—she had nothing to fear from me—then pointed to him.
He offered a sheepish shrug.
"Very sexy," I mouthed, knowing he wouldn't understand, but it didn't matter. I twirled my fingers in a circle.
He did another spin, ending in what was probably his best effort at a Michael Jackson sort of bent head, hand to the back of his skull pose. Stick with the fencing, I thought. I was thrilled to have seen that unguarded moment from him, though. Monsieur Sexy had some groove in those hips. And he didn't take himself too seriously.
Nice.
Reaching for the notebook he now kept on or near his bed—it was nestled under the discarded fencing jacket—he quickly wrote something, then pressed it flat to the window.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 6
