"Online business meeting with Tokyo,” I read. “Ten minutes. Sorry."
Offering a consoling shrug, he dropped the notebook onto the bed. Turning back to the door, he again paused with the doorknob in hand. Setting the files on the bed, he then tugged off the towel, splayed his arms, and allowed me a look at the high and mighty erection.
If that was all I'd get from him tonight, I could live with it. Every seven or eight inches of it. Springy and hard, even doing a few dance moves of its own as he turned to the side to give me that view.
I gave him a thumbs up and blew him a kiss. He caught the kiss, smashed it against his heart, then grabbed the towel and the files. Two seconds later the bedroom light blinked out.
Online business meeting? I wondered if the people on the Tokyo end would be aware they were communicating with a man in a towel? And an exquisite erection beneath it.
Sighing, I picked up my book and plopped onto the bed. With hope, I'd get to the steamy parts tonight.
***
It started to sprinkle outside while I was in the supermarket, loading my basket with fruits and whole grains. I was making a concerted effort at eating healthy. I'd already reduced my sugar consumption considerably, but grains didn't cut it all the time. Which is precisely why I'd nestled the package of dark chocolate beneath the box of barley.
I perused the wine selection, which was quite good, considering that it was sold in a grocery store. On the other hand, I was in France, and wine in a grocery store was akin to milk in the American grocery stores—de rigueur. I was in the mood for a sweet, peachy moscato. I'd broil another goat cheese tonight, and hide the barley at the back of the cupboard. I figured I scored points in the health column merely for the purchase.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
The male cashier was cute in a geeky sort of way, with green-rimmed glasses and a flip of blonde hair over one eye. He sat behind the register with bored disinterest, running my dozen items over the beeping scanner. He probably didn't notice how I stood taller, or that I'd combed my hair into a chignon this morning because it had emphasized my cheekbones. Or maybe he did and didn't care. Or he was gay.
That had to be it, because I was looking damn good today—if I did say so myself. Attribute it all to great fantasies about my sexy neighbor.
I slashed my credit card and stuffed the items into the bag I always carried with me.
Swerving to avoid the grasping, chocolate-coated hands of a toddler sitting in a cart, I approached the automatic double doors, but paused before I could activate the motion sensor embedded in the rubber pad.
Outside, standing before the store, speaking with another man gesturing as if giving directions, was...him. My window lover. The man with the steel cock, and the charming smile that started in his eyes before his mouth caught on and joined in on the fun.
My heart rocketed to my throat, then dive-bombed. I actually felt it land in my stomach and splash; the feeling was that visceral.
What to do? I didn't want to see him. Well I did. But—no. We'd agreed to the rules. No names, and walk away if we ever see one another in public.
I turned my back to the door, my eyes running over the store window littered with painted sales lingo. I stood before the only door. It served as both entrance and exit. Those who entered were corralled to the right to queue down the aisles of frozen foods. Those leaving filed out from the left.
If I walked out now, I'd have to pass by him, and I didn't think I could slip past without him noticing me.
I managed a sneaky look over my shoulder as I stood there, hoping others would assume that I was waiting for someone still in the store. He was fully dressed (I had yet to see him completely clothed, unless you count fencing gear) in slouchy gray jeans and a loose tee-shirt. Black tennis shoes graced his feet. Hmm… Didn't seem like his style. He gestured down the street, and the man he spoke to nodded. The glint of a gold watch on his wrist caught my eye.
He turned suddenly, heading toward the door.
Ack! I rushed away from the door, and past the cashier who'd checked me out earlier. He gave me a quirk of a brow, even as he slashed the next customer's lettuce across the scanner. Spying a stack of flyers, I bent and drew a finger over a picture of fluorescent oranges, while managing to sneak a look under my arm.
Black tennis shoes stepped on to the rubber matting. He stood there…
Just stood there. What was he doing? Looking at me? No, he couldn't recognize me from this angle—well, he had seen me bent over, my bare ass toward the window—but I wore a knee-length skirt now.
"Please," I murmured, picking up the flyer and turning my back to the door.
"Ah!" I heard him exclaim. The doors slid open and he strode back outside.
I made it to the glass doors before they even slid open. Impatiently, I waited for the sensors to react to my presence, and slipped through as soon as I could when they did. I turned the corner without thinking. Oh hell, this was the same direction he had walked. And he stood right there. Closing a car door that was parked at the curb, he turned and began walking straight for me, swinging a recyclable bag in one hand as he inspected his watch. He'd forgotten his bag.
And—wait.
"That's not him," I said on a gasp.
The stranger nodded to me. I must have looked like a fool just standing there checking him out. He was tall, with brown curly hair, but—nope, not my window lover.
Feeling a flush climb my neck and checks, I turned and jog-walked the other way. It was opposite the direction of my apartment, but I'd be damned if I was going to walk toward that complete stranger.
Releasing a huge breath, I paused before the window of a sweet shop three storefronts down. Eyeing the lush, matte-black boxes of pastel gumdrops in the window display, I ever so cautiously cast a look out of the corner of my eye. The sidewalk before the supermarket was void of people. Tennis Shoe Man had gone inside.
Pressing my forehead to the glass, I closed my eyes. "I let my imagination get the better of me again."
What would I have done if it actually had been him? I couldn't run away from him forever. I liked what we had started. It was new and adventurous and fun. And it was safe.
Safety felt right to me for now, though I'm not sure why. It wasn't as if I'd had a bad experience with a man. Breakups happened all the time. So did awkward marriage proposals. I didn't despise dating either. Not short term, anyway.
There was just something about Monsieur Sexy and his willingness to accept what we were doing as it was. He was a mystery to me, and the mystery was what attracted me to him. He was forbidden fruit, yet different. No one had told me not to touch; I simply could not touch. Therefore, I had to find new, more inventive ways to show him my pleasure, and hopefully, give him pleasure in return.
Noticing the snooty gaze of a bespectacled sales clerk from inside the sweet shop, I stepped back from the window. I decided to cross the street and walk another block over before turning in the direction of my apartment. Crisis averted. I had some window shopping to do. It would help me walk off my nerves.
***
A line queued outside Louboutin like usual. I wandered by, smiling smugly. I'd already claimed my extravagant prize. I overheard whispers from those in line that they were running low on a certain model of shoe. Oh, the harrowing travails of the Parisian woman and her quest for pleasure!
A fine leathers shop was located about six blocks away from my neighborhood. I always slowed when nearing its turquoise door and understated window display. The items inside were handmade; tooled lovingly, I assumed, by the elderly owner who always flashed a warm smile for those passing by the store window.
I stopped to take in the window display that featured some gorgeous, leather-covered notebooks. They were similar to the simple, moleskin notebooks I often saw in bookstores, yet were more elegant and lush. Smelling like rich leather, I imagined, and substantial to hold in hand. A simple bee, with wings spread, was tooled on the lower right corner of
a creamy golden journal. A crushed-violets cover bore the iconic fleur-de-lis.
I wasn't much of a note taker or record keeper in my personal life, though it was probably because my job consisted of compiling notes for others. Something about that gold notebook called to me though. The bee was impressed within the leather, an imprint of something having once been there. Like a man's thumbprint upon a woman's thigh, or the slightest curve of a tooth left against the skin. I had a thing for bees. Once they left the planet, we humans would be hopeless regarding maintaining sustainable food supplies.
Save the bees!
I looked up, expecting to see the old proprietor standing there with his warm smile. Instead, I followed a dark gray business suit sleeve up, and saw a tall man talking with another. My heart gave a whoop. The tall man was him.
And then my heart shivered. The anxiety that I'd suffered at the grocery store returned, but much subtler this time because I'd been through this once already. It could be another case of mistaken identity.
What was it about manifesting that which you most desired in everything you saw?
"Seriously? Is it really him?"
Yes. I knew him well through glass. Even dressed in a suit.
I marveled at the suit, and thought through all the possible reasons that he, a man whom I had guessed worked from home, would be out in the city wearing said suit. And here we stood, closer than close. The risk of him walking out the shop door and right into me was great.
I felt confidant that should he turn toward the door, I could sneak around to the narrow alleyway not ten steps away.
It was a weird coincidence, us both being here at this particular time on this particular day. But then I reminded myself that there are no coincidences in life. Everything happens for a reason.
I believed in fate and destiny. That's why I didn't dash off. The universe had put us in close proximity for a reason. I had to stick around and see what developed. But I kept the alley in peripheral view.
He held up a leather-wrapped pen and was explaining something to the old store owner. Were they discussing the quality craftsmanship? Monsieur Sexy seemed like a man who would appreciate fine tailored goods. Black tennis shoes. No way. Bespoke suits? Yes, please.
I could let those fantasies wander for days. I'd once read a meme online—likely at Pinterest—that went something like: as lingerie is to a man, a well-tailored suit is to a woman.
Meowr. Nummy.
Distracted by my thoughts, I wasn't even sure when he had turned to look out the window. Directly at me. His eyes widened in surprise, and then softened. His familiar smile lessened my skyrocketing anxiety, but not my thudding heart. I managed that silly little wave I did when I greeted him naked from my bedroom window. I was fully clothed now. So why did I feel more exposed than I ever had before?
Probably because he'd caught me staring at him unawares. Would he dash outside and speak to me? Demand to know why I was spying on him? I hadn't been, but he couldn't know that. He might think that I had followed him here.
What he did next set my heart to a crazy flutter.
He pressed his palm against the window, above the pretty hand-tooled notebooks. Right there, but a foot from my face. I'd never stood in such close proximity to him before. It freaked me out. My skin grew clammy, and then in the next second, flushed warm. Being this close to him unsettled me, and made me want to dash for cover. Yet my feet remained planted.
I lifted my hand and placed it against the pane, matching my fingers to his. The glass was cold, but I swear it heated so quickly it was as if we stood palm to palm. An intimate moment stolen amidst the mundane, while the ordinary world moved around us as voyeurs to our touch.
It was a touch. Our first.
I parted my lips to speak, feeling as if I should say something. Then words felt wrong, too intrusive. Just he and I, our eyes locked in a comfortable stare. A close gaze that read me like a book. His eyes were gray, but a bluish, end-of-day-sky gray. I owned a tee shirt that color. Faded and so comfy. I wanted to climb into those eyes, snuggle up and never leave. He'd welcome me in; I knew that he would.
The old man reappeared, and without removing his hand from the glass, my guy turned and said something to him. My guy. He must be making a purchase. He turned back to me, lifted a brow, and waited.
I felt as if he might stand there all day, his hand pressed against the window. I could, too. The world could fall away and we would remain, holding up the glass that wasn't so much a barrier to us, as it was an entry into our souls. But surely someone on the street would question sooner or later and ruin our moment.
Reluctantly, I took my hand away, then kissed it and blew him the regretful farewell. He caught it against his heart. The twinkle in his sky-gray eyes was there before his lips registered the smile.
I was undone. I wasn't sure my feet could move me away from such a sight, but I knew for certain that they would not walk me across the store's threshold. Nor would he come out. We had our rules.
The touch had been enough.
Smiling to myself, I turned and almost stumbled as I took that first step off the curb. Somehow I landed my other foot quickly enough, but I could still feel the mis-step in my heart. I knew some part of me wanted to turn back, to look over my shoulder.
I shook my head and walked onward.
I wanted to keep memories of our touch fresh and alive. I pressed the hand I'd held to the glass over my mouth. My lips were soft against my warm fingers, and a smile pushed up my cheeks.
My heart sang.
Chapter Eight
Sitting up in bed, I stretched my arms over my head, and winced at the bright sunlight. It was too early. Seven a.m. according to the alarm clock, but I couldn't sleep. I'd forgotten to close the curtains after spending the evening reading, while waiting for Monsieur Sexy to show in the window.
He had not. He must have had an entire evening of errands, or perhaps a visit to a friend's house that had kept him out late? Or maybe he had a business meeting given the way he'd been dressed? I didn't want to over think where he'd been. That way lie Crazytown.
I was due in at the map shop by nine-thirty, so I dragged myself upright and slid off the bed, expertly landing my feet in pink fuzzy slippers. I'd slipped on the soft blue-gray tee shirt after arriving home last night. The color of his eyes. Mm… I tugged it up and buried my face in the softness. A smile was irrepressible.
Leaning forward, I stretched out my arms, which tugged at my back muscles. The bed was comfy, but sometimes I slept on my stomach and that screwed up my body's natural alignment.
Glancing out the window, I noticed that his curtains were open. The way the sun avoided his window for mine allowed me to see well into his room, even without lights. He lay on the bed, his arms splayed, eyes closed. White sheets were strewn haphazardly across his legs. And…
"Wow." I pressed my nose to the window to get a better look at the upright action across the way. "Now that's some impressive morning wood."
Feeling not even a little guilty for observing his secret hard-on while he slept, I observed the natural phenomenon, teeth sucking in the corner of my lip. Men were supposed to have erections all through the night, but mornings were their peak 'wood' time. Or so I'd probably read in some woman's magazine. Who ordered a study like that? And could I volunteer to be a watcher throughout the night?
I wondered if he always slept naked? He usually walked around in his boxer briefs. I guess I hadn't paid attention to see if he put them back on after our window jack n' jill session.
Did it matter? Not in the least.
His penis jutted up proudly, tilted toward his stomach as the weight of it pulled it down. Oh, mercy, the weight of it. I could imagine taking it in hand, wrapping my fingers around it. The girth looked…substantial. I might not be able to touch fingertip to fingertip. I preferred a nice thick cock. Girth was far more important than length. I loved to feel the tug and pull of it sliding in and out of me, to sense that it was almost too thick t
o enter. Not that he was slacking in the length department at all. Far from it.
Curling my fingers against my chest, I sighed. "I’d like to grab hold of that and not let go. What you would feel like inside me, Monsieur Sexy."
I sighed again, because that's all I could do.
Well, I could jill off. My nipples were hard, and my pussy probably wouldn't need more than a few strokes to get wet. But it felt squicky to take advantage of him that way; to exploit his lacking awareness while he slept.
I blew his cock a kiss, then tiptoed to the shower. Now, far from the eyes of a man who may wake and grip his hard-on, I directed the shower stream upward and landed it between my legs. The massage mode thumped water against my folds and awakened all the important nerve endings. I hummed deep in my throat and tilted my head forward, catching my free hand against the slick tile.
Putting one foot on the edge of the tub, I focused the water on my clit. Pulse. Shudder. Pulse. Fingers curled against the tiles. It didn't take long to come. And when I did, I gripped the showerhead with my free hand and cried out.
Someday I would grip his cock instead of a bathroom appliance.
***
Richard beckoned me into the back room before I could flip the Ouvert sign on the front door to announce that we were open. I'd forgotten about the map. I'd printed the pictures from my phone, but then hadn't given them a second glance.
The old map still lay proudly displayed on the drafting table. Mint tea brewed nearby.
"Any ideas yet?" he asked eagerly.
"Nothing's come to mind, though I intend to search the internet for the symbol tonight."
I'd simply been too busy to think about dusty old maps. Especially with a sexy, naked man—with no compunctions whatsoever about flashing me—right across the street. Directing me to do naughty things. And joining in. And oh, that pretty morning wood.
My chest heated and I fanned myself. Summoning an excuse felt necessary. "A little warm in here this morning. You should call the air conditioning company, Richard. Customers will linger longer if it's cool in the store."
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 7
