I dashed to the nightstand to grab my notebook and wrote swiftly, then turned it to him to read, No reason 4 U to B sorry. I was foolish.
He shrugged sheepishly. Writing, he then turned it to reveal: Panties.
"Well, yes," I said.
He paged back. Crazy flirt. Then he underlined the word crazy.
I nodded, and let a smile overtake me. It gushed a wave of relief through my body that loosened my tightened neck muscles and spit out a few more tears. I'd almost lost him in my worried file drawer. But his corner was still bent.
He wrote again. This time I hesitantly took a step back after reading what he'd written: Will we ever go beyond the glass?
Yes, I immediately thought.
And then I vacillated, bouncing between all the problems that face-to-face could bring. We'd have to talk to one another and maybe I wouldn't like the sound of his voice. Or worse, maybe I wouldn't like him up close. He might smell wrong. Or his voice could be grating. Or maybe he'd be boring. Hell, what if he was married?
No. Don't go there. I hadn't seen a wife. Wasn't so easy to hide a wife, either. He was not married.
Up close, I could learn so much about him. Surely he had nasty habits and quirks, and— Oh, stop it!
Obviously I was a great pessimistic imaginer, and could create problems that didn't exist. Look what had happened because I'd allowed my imagination to construct an affair?
He wanted to know if we could move to a level most normal people hit on their first date.
I rubbed a palm up and down my arm. The room was not cold, humid, in fact. I shrugged.
He nodded, and wrote. 2 soon. I'm good with slow.
He was? That felt incredible to know. And it also felt binding. Like we were sealing some kind of deal between the two of us. I know, I'd just convinced myself that I didn't need a relationship. But what we had was a new definition of relationship. And I wanted to see where it would go. Slowly, and then, eventually—perhaps even soon—I'd feel comfortable with that next step up to normal.
I picked up the notebook and wrote. I pressed the paper against the glass. So you teach?
He nodded. Made a motion of en guarde, stabbing his opponent with an invisible sword. Then he held up three fingers. I assumed to mean three days a week.
Oh, my musketeer. How I adored him.
He grabbed the book from the bed and held that to the glass. I had no idea what PHP meant, only that it was some kind of computer stuff.
He wrote on the paper: Day job. Work online. Consulting.
In but a few words and gestures I'd learned so much about him. Things I had mostly guessed at, but now they'd been confirmed. A step across the threshold. A kind of welcome into his life. A semi-commitment.
He pointed to me and said, "You?"
We were upping the stakes. Moving beyond anonymity by doling out personal information. I teetered on the edge of slamming the curtains shut, and wanting to rush outside, run across the street and up the stairs to knock on his door.
Slow, I reminded. I felt as if I could trust him. And he had offered a genuine apology for a silly misunderstanding that I had blown way out of proportion. More and more, the serious like I had for him was settling into my pores and fixing in my bones.
I nodded, and wrote on the paper: Research assistant.
Then I quickly wrote: Enough chatter.
He lifted a questioning brow.
I tossed aside the notebook and let the silk robe slink from my arms to puddle about my bare feet.
His grin was the loudest yes I'd heard in days.
***
Monsieur Sexy sat on the bed, naked, his cock in hand. If I thought about it too much—and you know I like to think—men liked to handle the main stick. Must give them comfort. And a hard-on.
He gestured that I sit in the chair, and I was happy to oblige, but once seated, I felt as if we'd done this one before. I needed to mix things up. Couldn't have this window relationship grow stale. I mean, wasn't variety the key to a healthy relationship?
I was not going to analyze whether or not I should have used the word healthy in that last sentence. It was what was working at this moment, and that was perfectly fine with me. And him.
Tapping my bottom lip, I made show of looking upward while I gave the notion of variety some thought. I wasn't much of an actress, so I wondered how he always understood my gestures and actions. Maybe I had a stage career ahead of me, after all.
A relationship built entirely on mutual masturbation had to be based on the fundamentals. How did I please myself when alone?
"Ah ha!" I put up a finger for him to be patient, while I dashed to my dresser and pulled open the top drawer.
Inside were silk panties, cotton boyfriend-short panties that sat low on my hips, bras, a garter belt that I'd tried on once and had decided I wasn't the type for, and pull-up stockings. And…
"The silver surfer," I said, drawing out the stainless steel vibrator that was waterproof as well as having three different speeds. The nickname was mine; I couldn't recall the original product name. I loved the coolness of it when it first came out of the drawer, but the slick surface always warmed quickly when in my hands.
Sashaying back to the window, I sat down and tapped the vibrator against my pursed lips.
He hissed a resounding, "Yes," and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, now completely negligent of his erection. Though I was sure he wouldn't forget about it entirely. I mean, the thing was huge, and so hard and springy between his legs. How to ignore something like that? It put my silver surfer to shame.
I wondered what it would be like to have a penis. The principle means to pleasure dangling there, outside my body, constantly rubbing against clothing, reacting as if it had a mind of its own—and perhaps it did.
I think if I had a penis I might never take my hands off the thing. I mean, how easy to get off by simply reaching down and stroking the magic genie? It had to be much less complex than operating the clitoris, the finicky little button that, when I thought I was close to coming, would suddenly recede and attempt to hide away from my efforts. So fickle, my clit.
But a penis. Now that could take some wickedly good punishment, and still, it begged for more and more.
Of course, I'd have to give it a name. What did he call his? And the decision of whether or not to dress to the left or right? How novel would that be? Today I'll go left. Or was it a choice? Did most men's penises simply choose one way over the other? I realized this was an important detail I must research. That, along with possible penis names.
I caught his wondering look and started to laugh. Always cracking myself up. So easily entertained. I sighed, and leaned back in the chair, hooking my heels on the ends of the seat so my knees were bent. I sat slightly at an angle to the window so I wasn't splayed open as if an anatomy lesson for him, but close enough to give him something to desire.
Warming the steel rod by rolling it between my palms, I winked at him. He'd found his cock again, his wrist rocking rhythmically. Good boy.
Knowing that a sexy man was watching my every move super-charged my libido. When normally it took me a while to warm up, to get into the mood of things, now I grew wet the moment I laid eyes on the man. Now that was a valuable skill. Able to make a woman's pussy drip with a single look. I wondered if a cape came with that?
Another giggle. I tapped the vibrator against my nipple. Clicking the speed to the lowest setting, which was a deep, rumbly kind of cement-rotator speed, I arched my back and tilted up my breasts, seeking the titillating motion.
Looking aside, I ensured he was transfixed.
I squeezed my other nipple with my free hand, and the shock of sensation jolted in my pussy. I needed motion down there. I slid the vibrator down and gently rolled it through my lips, not resting on my clit, but sliding the vibrations over it in a tease that made me squiggle.
I lowered the leg closest to the window. I needed him to see me. Because while I'd always valued the privacy I
took when masturbating, to share it with someone I knew doubled the pleasure. I'd never whipped out the silver surfer in front of a man before. Once again, I granted him access to something secret.
Gliding the tip of the steel rod to my opening, I slicked it with my juices, and dragged it along my clit. I clicked the speed to medium, which offered a lighter yet faster vibration. I pressed the rod hard against my mons, my pelvic bone drawing in the vibrations and distributing it throughout my core. I bit my lip and squeezed my nipple hard. Eyes closed, I focused on directing the sensations, on working each part of me to a precise harmonization. It was a delicate performance that required skill, a knowing of oneself.
I've always thought a man could never learn how to please a woman unless the woman first knew exactly how to please herself. For who would teach the man the path to that pleasure? Did women expect the man to step into our lives with a map of our pleasure spots in hand and the skill already mastered?
That's not how it worked. Believe me, I've been with men who thought they knew the directions, and who instead had gotten woefully lost. Men who then had decided to simply pump inside me, thrusting harder and harder, because most men thought we women got off on the pumping, the thrusting in and out with their erection.
That worked swell on occasion, but not the majority of times. We required finessing. And for me, I knew that involved attention to my clit, and only occasional entry.
I glided the shaft up and down, as if a penis rubbing against me, but not entering me. The strokes started high at my clitoris and slid down to my perineum. Slick, long, quick. Slick, long, quick. And then a focused pressure against my swollen clit.
I moaned. My chest expanded, warming as it opened. Orgasm approached. I could feel it in the expectant sensation that hummed within my core, that indefinable spot behind my pubis. I didn't know its exact position because the humming was intangible, but sure.
Another squeeze of my nipple heightened the intensity. "Fuck yes," I whispered.
I glanced to the side. He stood transfixed, his cock untouched yet high and mighty against his stomach. God, it was so beautiful. I wanted to slick that heavy rod against my folds, and press it hard against my clit. I needed to squeeze my thighs about it and hold it tightly, rubbing him off while the head of it poked and pushed greedily against my clitoris.
Mmm… I aimed the head of the vibrator against my apex, imagining it was him, poking me, prodding, melding his heat into mine.
"Fuck." I snapped my knees together, and bucked my hips, riding the steel column. Were I with him right now, I'd be pulling him down on top of me, forcefully, begging him to drag his cock through my folds.
The shuddery march of climax peaked at my clit and I immediately drew the vibrator away and clicked it off, hanging that hand over the side of the chair. I pressed my other hand over my swollen bud, hard, securing the delicious orgasm for as long as possible as it quivered through my bones and made me shout, "Yes!"
I dropped the vibrator and slid that hand gently over a breast, cupping it, holding it, wanting to connect with softness, the round swell of my skin. Breathing out, I rode the last waves of orgasm with a moan that fell into a silly smile.
Turning my head to him I found not a man vigorously jacking off, but instead, a man with a tender look on his face, as if adoring me.
I smirked and couldn't summon the energy to smile or raise a hand. Lax and exhausted from the delicious muscle-stretching bone-shaking orgasm, I was content to sprawl there on the chair, letting him experience my bliss.
He kissed his fingers and pressed them to the window. I pressed two fingers to my window.
"I want to touch you," I said, knowing he wouldn't understand.
He shrugged, confirming my guess.
I coiled my fingers and made a jack-off motion.
He shook his head, dismissing the need to pleasure himself. He'd had enough just watching me? Sweet.
Chapter Eleven
I’d spent the entire day researching Versailles for an author in the States. Field trip! I’d been there only once before, and much as I’d dreaded going when the tourist mob would be unbearable, I’d taken an early train out, and only had to stand in line half an hour for entrance. The author had needed the most research on the Petite Trianon so I’d rented a golf cart and scooted out to explore.
Such luck that an Angelina was actually tucked back near my destination! The chocolate high had fortified me enough to forge through the afternoon taking notes and pictures. I’d organize it all, and hand it in to the author within the next few days.
After a shower to rinse off the dust from the day, I strolled into the bedroom naked and slipped into my Louboutins. I seriously had to go out in these pretties one of these days. A fancy restaurant or maybe an art showing. But I wasn’t much for solo date-night. I wondered if Monsieur Sexy liked to go out and do the fancy? To walk into an art gallery on that man’s arm, wearing my shoes? A fantasy come true.
Strolling to the window to check on the neighborhood sex god, I found him walking into the bedroom, cupcake in hand. He peeled the paper away from one side, and noticed me.
I waved, then posed, hands on hips, one hip tilted out. Those cupcakes had nothing on my breasts. And he knew it. The cupcake fell to his side, and he forgot all about sweet treats as his eyes took me in from head to toe, then to my pussy, where he lingered. Finally he managed a leap to my breasts, where I could feel the heat of his want, and that tingled my nipples to tight ruches.
"Wow," he mouthed.
He'd seen enough of me lately that my naked body shouldn't surprise him, so I was gleefully thrilled that he reacted in such a manner. Though I had to admit, that cupcake looked damn good.
I pointed to it.
He'd forgotten about it, and lifted it to display. When tilted frosting side toward the window, I recognized the playful fondant flower design and the tiny Bon Anniversaire on it. It was from the patisserie down the street. It was the cupcake you could get free on your birthday. Just had to flash your driver’s license or identity card.
"Your birthday?" I asked. Duh.
He nodded. He started to put up fingers, three on one hand then—he shook his head and decided against that. But I assumed he must be at least thirty. Three or four years older than me? Nice. I was so over younger men and their hurry to come so I can show you how awesome I am when I spurt all over act. Ugg.
Peeling back the paper, he made a slow show of it, a sort of cupcake strip tease to entice me. Bad man. Didn't he know that besides shoes, I would commit grave crimes for chocolate? And I had it on good authority the chocolate cupcakes from that particular bakery were dense and moist. The buttercream frosting was so fresh it probably mooed. To. Die. For.
It would have been amazing to celebrate his birthday with him. To sit across the table from him in a quiet restaurant (wearing the shoes!) and share a celebratory round of “Happy Birthday”, then light a candle on his cupcake. And for a gift…
I wanted to give him something. He must be celebrating by himself. No friends to gather together? No date? Was he such a solitary man?
I grabbed the notebook and wrote, then turned the paper toward the window. No celebration with friends?
He nodded. "On my way," I read his lips perfectly. He pointed to me. "Wish you could be there."
I shrugged. Then I remembered something that could be construed as a gift. I put up a finger for him to wait for me, then dashed into the bathroom. Hell, after last night's exhibition session with the vibrator I'm pretty sure I couldn't find my inhibitions if I tried. Oh, you vixen!
I'd saved the silly door prize I'd won last year at a bridal shower. Didn't think I'd actually ever use it, but it had been pretty and… In the linen closet, I reached behind a stack of towels, sorting blindly past the cotton balls and stack of lemon thyme soap that I picked up at Le Bon Marché.
Plastic crinkled, and I drew out the garish pink box.
"Stripper pasties." I shook the box and the mylar tassels gleamed
. "Why not?"
I peeled the cardboard backing from the plastic front and handled the pretty bits of pink vinyl and tassel. I had no clue how to operate these puppies, or how to attach them. No instructions on the back of the box.
I didn't want to keep the birthday boy waiting, but these were the only gift I had. And I wanted him to have something to think about while he was out celebrating with friends later. He'd invited me along, but had he expected me to accept? I sensed he was more eager to rush this relationship to the next level than I was.
Because what was the next level? Meeting? Shaking hands? Kissing? Finally hearing one another's voices? Going out on that date while wearing the shoes? It's what normal couples did. But we weren't normal. We were…beyond the ordinary.
And besides, who got to define normal? Maybe this was normal for us.
Upon further study, I discovered the backs of the pasties were sticky. I peeled off the thin plastic sheet protecting the sticky tape and then stuck it over my hard nipple. It took some molding, and I suspected this probably worked better with a soft nipple, but what could I do? These pointy things of mine were always ready for action.
I put on the other and jiggled my breasts, testing the movement of the tassels. I'd need lessons to make them spin. Glancing in the mirror and thrusting back a shoulder I gave myself a seven for success because one of the pasties was only slightly higher than the other. I tilted down a shoulder, which lifted a breast. Now they were even.
And I was the Hunchback Stripper.
Laughing, I sauntered back to the window and displayed my twirly attire to the birthday boy.
He paused mid-bite, a few cupcake crumbs falling down his bare chest. I jiggled my breasts, attempting to operate the tassels, and then decided a shimmy worked best. Didn't rotate the tassels but it did flip them into a sparkly dance. And then I realized I was trying too hard, my arms out yet hands tensed into fists, and my back arched. Surely, I looked like the hunchback stripper trying to do the limbo.
Bursting into giggles, I shook my head and gestured that I'd given it my best shot. He laughed, too. I could but stand there, admiring the utter joy that filled his face and squinted his sky-gray eyes. So sexy. God, I wanted him in my arms. I wanted his kiss. I wanted to trace those faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes that always showed when he laughed.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 10
