I simply wanted to hear his laughter.
He set the half-eaten cupcake on the end of the bed and clapped. I think he even shouted, "Bravo!"
Holding out my imaginary skirt I performed a curtsey, then flicked the tassels teasingly. "Happy birthday! Or should I say, Bon Anniversaire!"
He placed a palm over his heart, accepting the gift. And then he pointed to me.
"Yes, me," I interpreted.
He spread his arms wide then brought them together before him in a big hug.
And I felt those strong, muscled arms banded about my back and his chest nuzzled up against mine. I sensed the heat of his breath tickle my cheek as he pressed his face aside mine. The scent of chocolate and frosting wavered around my nose.
Catching a palm against the window, I curled my fingers, as if to grab that hug, that immense gesture, and make it real.
"Happy birthday," I whispered again. "Hope it's a good one."
I signed off by saluting him, performing one last twirl of the pasties, and stepping away from the window. I could see him turn to retrieve his birthday cake. And as I moved against the wall, out of his sight, I tugged off the pasties and tossed them onto the bed.
Bending my knees I sank to the floor, hugged my arms across my chest and around my sides. I bowed my head against my forearms and squeezed my eyes shut.
I'm not sure why I sniffled through tears. What I had with the man in the window was enough.
Maybe.
Chapter Twelve
What was I doing?
I couldn't even celebrate with the guy for his birthday. That was not a healthy relationship. Women took their men out for a birthday dinner or drink, or both. They didn't stand in the window teasing him with something he could never touch or taste, or hear.
Would he ever touch me? Would I allow it?
At times, I desperately wanted him standing before me, stroking his fingers across my skin, as if the glass had conformed to my body and he was silently speaking to me with his touch. To feel his hot breath whisper against my lips as he kissed me would send shivers up and down my body.
Other times it felt too safe what we had. And it shouldn't. I mean, he lived across the street. At any time, he could walk over and into my building, march up to the third floor and rap on my front door.
But he didn't.
Was something wrong with me?
Maybe something was wrong with him?
Last night had been the longest night of my life. I don't think I slept more than a few hours. I lay in bed with my eyes open, knowing that I'd see his bedroom light blink on when he returned home from celebrating with friends. That had not happened until well after three in the morning. The fact that I hadn't been out with the group implied that I was not a friend.
"Because I’m his lover. Right?"
Lovers tended to touch one another. To speak to one another.
I shouldn't feel so much angst over a man whose name was Monsieur Sexy.
"I'm tired. I'm over thinking this," I reasoned. "Stop thinking!"
Tossing my work blouse to the dirty clothes hamper, I unzipped my rayon pants and slipped them off into a puddle. They should be hung so they didn't wrinkle, but after a long day hunched over the laptop compiling the Versailles information and Photoshopping the pictures, I was wiped out.
Wandering over to the window, I peered out. It was still too light outside for him to turn on his lamp across the street.
In bra and panties, I sat against the iron support beam where the window fit into the frame and the wall ended, stretching my legs out before me and wiggling my slippers. I may dress for work, even at home—never knew when I might need to rush out for research—but I always wore my slippers, and these pink fluffed ones had seen better days.
Like me? Had I seen better days with real, tangible men who picked me up at the door for dates, took me out to entertain, then actually touched my body when they fucked me?
Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead to my knees. My hamstrings tweaked in revolt. I hadn't practiced yoga for weeks. Maybe that was it. I needed centering. A good yoga session to work out the physical and mental kinks.
I inhaled through my nose and let my shoulders relax, taking this moment to steal some personal tuneup time. When doing yoga one was supposed to clear their mind, think of nothing but the muscles moving within the body, and their breath. In and out. Allowing outside thoughts to interfere wasn't Zen.
I wondered if he ever practiced yoga? It would be a great accompaniment to his fencing.
There I go again. Letting my mind wander.
I chuffed out a laugh, and rose to my elbows, tilting my head aside to look out the window. A few raindrops spattered the glass. I loved the rain. Making love while it rained was the ultimate turn-on. A cool breeze whispering through the screen, a man's body above mine, his cock buried deep within me, and my eyes closed to take in the electric ozone scent wafting in from outside.
That was the only thing I did not like about this apartment. The only openable window was in the kitchen. No cool rain breezes in the bedroom. I guess a girl who could actually afford an apartment in Paris shouldn’t complain too much.
I touched the cool glass, following a raindrop’s downward meandering trail. It wasn't a downpour, just a few drops. The sun still shone on the horizon. I didn't think it would turn into umbrella weather. Unfortunate. I wanted to smell the rain tonight as I lay in bed.
And imagine him lying beside me, our hands entwined.
"What am I doing?"
Did I want to take it to the next level? To actually invite him into my bed? Yes!
I needed the man's touch.
Movement across the alley caught my eye. His bedroom light blinked on. I turned to catch his hello wave. He sat before the window, cross-legged, putting himself on my level. He shrugged and made a sad face.
"Yes, I'm…sad." I tilted my head, not wanting him to lip read that last word. Then I turned a forced smile back at him. He couldn't know the thoughts pinging back and forth inside my skull.
Or did he? Did he struggle with this weird connection as much as I did? Any sane man with half a heart would.
"Good party?" I asked, and made an elaborate finger walking show of going out, dancing, partying, hoping he'd get it.
He frowned, but then leaned over to grab the empty cupcake liner still sitting on the night stand. He held it up and nodded. "Very good." He pointed to me. Then placed a hand over his heart. "Missed you," is what I think he said.
I shrugged, and again, leaned forward, stretching my arms along my legs and turning my head to watch him through the rain spatters.
He retrieved the notebook and thumbed through some of the pages on which he'd already written. When he placed it before the glass, I re-read the words that had made my heart skip many a beat the first time I'd read them: Exquisite. Bold. Gorgeous.
It skipped another beat. He had a way of putting things, without even opening his mouth. He had more than half a heart, that was for sure.
It occurred to me, that I'd never replied to the compliment, so, stretching back an arm, I managed to slap the tips of my fingers on the corner of the notebook on my bedside table. It landed on the floor, and I had to stretch to reach it. I was kind of happy where I was, and yeah, a little lazy tonight.
Call it melancholy.
I wrote the first words that came to mind, and turned the notebook toward the glass in a spot where only a few raindrops dotted the window.
Fascinating. Kind. Sofuckingsexy.
He laughed, then shrugged, and splayed his palms upward, as if to say, eh, I try. Humble. And that laughter. If I ever did hear it, I was pretty sure it would undo me. Reduce me to a melty puddle on the floor before him. It might even be better than an orgasm.
It was probably a good thing we hadn't gotten together beyond the glass. I'd make a fool of myself for sure.
I wrote another line and showed him. Tired.
He pointed to his chest and nodded. Him too.
Which meant, we were signing off for the night. And in proof, he blew me a kiss. I caught it, and smashed it against my chest, as he had done many times. I almost felt the second heartbeat, him thudding inside me. Such a sensory reward could only be mine if he lay above me, our bodies connected and not separated by glass.
Rising, he tugged off his shirt, and dropped it on the end of the bed as he walked away. He was headed into the shower. I could sit here and wait for the after-shower show, but the rain had picked up, despite my guesses it would not. Water blurred my view.
Perhaps that was for the best. I wasn't right with the world. Why was that?
I climbed into bed. It was only seven p.m. But I wasn't interested in anything on TV, or the half-finished book tossed on the easy chair. I tried not to think of his naked body under the shower, muscles pulsing with movement and his hard cock rising to dance in the pseudo-rain.
So to distract my thoughts, I repeated a mantra: exquisite, bold, gorgeous. And by the time I dozed off, I think I actually believed it.
***
Richard had reached the waffling stage. Before leaving the shop for the evening, I peeked into the back room one last time and asked him again. "Will you send the map off for authentication?"
"You do test me at times, you know that?" But he smiled, and shrugged. "I'm at sixty percent now, teetering toward sending it off. You go home. Quit bothering me, eh?"
I told him I'd see him next week, hoping that the weekend would haunt him with a driving need to have definitive proof about the map. If it was an original Leonardo da Vinci—wow.
I hopped on the Métro and got off one stop early. I wanted to window shop. And I never missed a chance to catch some sun rays. I could have headed to the park at Les Invalides, but I wasn't in the mood for pushy tourists this evening.
I lingered over a window display of mod fashions in Tim Bargeot's shop. I wasn't keen on white vinyl knee boots, but I did like the slim-fitted mini dresses with the retro color blocking. A men's purple velvet suitcoat also caught my eye. I imagined Monsieur Sexy wearing it, me on his arm clad in the funky mini dress belted smartly with a string of wide gold hoops.
Ah—no. I didn't foresee him ever doing the velvet. Sleek tailored suits and Italian leather shoes all the way for him. He appreciated bespoke and would pay for it. Besides, I teased the idea that he had to have extra room sown in the front of his trousers to comfortably fit his penis.
Walking the sidewalk toward my building, I realized I hadn't worked on my personal list of penis names. Roger was so overused. Jean-Jacques, I suspected, was the common French nickname. The French slang for penis was bite, if I recalled some recent research. Wasn’t sure how that was pronounced, though.
If I was a chick, who also had a penis, would I give it a female name or a male name? Oh, such wonders. I've always liked the name Chuck for reasons that baffled me. Me and my penis Chuck.
I giggled out loud, and was suddenly aware that I had to pass his building and cross the street to get to mine. Why hadn't I considered this earlier and swung wide, as usual, to detour around a few blocks? And now here I stood, at the corner of the block before his building, in the open for any man to see…
Waiting for the light to turn green, I grew aware that the man walking not thirty feet down the sidewalk had paused. I turned—and abruptly looked away.
"Fuck," I swore under my breath. "Really?"
The universe was going for its over-achievement badge working to get the two of us together. And since I didn't believe in coincidences...
He wasn't moving. I noted that much from the corner of my eye. This had to be the longest red light ever!
What should I do? Turn and wave, then dash across the street? I didn’t know. All rational thought fled. I was stranded there, waiting rescue from a man I had never spoken to, but with whom I had shared some of my most intimate secrets.
I flashed him another look. This was the first time we'd seen one another without a sheet of glass between us. A glassless meeting. And it felt so intimate, much more intimate than the day I'd pressed my hand to his at the leather shop.
Heartbeats thudded against my ribs, pounding like an anxious child who wanted to be let out so she could run free. Fingers curled into my palms and they grew clammy. Never had I felt more exposed to him than right now. My skin folded back to reveal my crazy thinking innards. Alone on the corner, only a dash away from him. Desperately wanting to rush into his arms, but unsure how to turn and make that first step.
He stood boldly, arms at his sides, one slightly back, shoulders proud and broad like a warrior. The bespoke suit screamed sex and control. So fine.
My God, what kept my feet firmly planted?
Finally, with a nod, he put up a hand and backed away, offering that sexy smile honed with the ability to undo me.
I felt liquid, unsteady. How wrong was it to resist running up to him and jumping into his arms? To wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him deeply?
He gestured that he was going the other way. I nodded, offered a weak smile.
The light changed to the little green man. I stepped off the curb, then paused. I couldn't not look at him. It's what we did. Stare at one another from a distance. Speaking so much. His eyes expressed regret. I understood. He was some kind of gentleman to have not approached me, and that impressed the hell out of me.
A car horn honked, jarring me out of my staring session. Monsieur Sexy backed further away, and when he reached the end of the building, he turned down the narrow alley between buildings that hugged the wall of his bedroom. Perhaps there was a back entrance.
And I, seeing the car that had honked was waiting for me to cross on the now-red light, dashed across the street without looking back. When I reached the opposite curb I felt as though I'd done something wrong. Passed up an opportunity that might never be offered to me again. Hell, I'd made a mistake.
I peered down the sidewalk opposite from me, and wondered if I should run after him.
I shook my head. No. Play by the rules. They were my rules. And I'd made them for a reason.
"And what reason was that?" I muttered as I walked onward.
The doorman held open the door. I thanked him and stepped inside. Avoiding the elevator, as usual, I trekked the three flights upward.
"Really, what is the reason?" I pressed as I hit the second flight of stairs. "Things have changed. The relationship has progressed."
Yes, it had. I could call it a relationship with confidence, and knew that he felt much the same. Sure, he may date other women. Though, after the pink panty incident, I had reason to believe he was not dating others. He'd been adamant in convincing me he was not.
I shouldn't expect him to see only me. Because that was the crux, wasn't it? He only saw me. It wasn't as though he'd ever heard my voice. He'd never felt my skin or my hair, the slide of my panties as he'd slip them down my thighs to my black leather Louboutins. He'd never tasted my mouth or smelled my perfume oil or even my subtle musk after a day spent slaving away over the keyboard.
As I had not heard, smelled, tasted, or touched him. I wanted to drag my fingers through his hair after he'd peeled off the fencing mask and tuck the wavy curls back over his ear. I wanted to touch my tongue to his skin, draw a trail downward to his stomach and then to his cock where I would lick it until he groaned and begged me to go faster, take him in deeper.
Gripping the doorknob, I inserted the key, and pushed open the door. Inside, I deposited my bag on the floor by the chaise, and marched immediately to the kitchen to pour some wine. I kicked off my shoes, and flicked on the music. A soft tune; Michael Bublé. The subtle melody gentled my thoughts from going over the edge, as they tended to do.
I wanted to touch him. I wanted to listen to him say whatever it is he thought I should hear. I wanted to know if he smelled like spices and musk, or maybe leather, or even fresh outdoors. I needed to know the taste of him on my tongue.
I wanted us palm to palm. With no glass in between.
&nbs
p; I wanted him to not be so respectful of the 'rules', and to walk up to me, sweep me into his arms and kiss me deeply.
I tapped the goblet rim against my lower teeth. Did I want all that?
Sometimes I lied to myself. We all did it. It's how we made excuses for those extra pounds (I have heavy bones) or once again forgetting to take out the trash (I was too busy with work). I couldn't be expected to actually know how to navigate this crazy odd no-touch relationship without some floundering.
Wandering into the bedroom, I saw him there, dressed in the suit and looking ever-so-stylish…waiting. Waiting for me to make the first move?
I knew what it had to be.
Setting the goblet down, I wrote Thank you on the notepaper and held it before the window.
He nodded, seeming to understand exactly. He wrote something and then gestured with a finger between him and me. He turned the paper toward me.
"Trust," I read.
My God, I think I stumbled over serious like and into deeper, unsure territory. Another four-letter word that started with L teased my hard-crushing heart. He'd walked away from me on the street because we'd made a rule, and he'd wanted to respect that rule. The man was trustworthy. It was an immense gift.
I'd do my best to return the respect.
He scribbled another message and turned the notebook toward me.
Business trip to Berlin. Leave tomorrow morning. 2 weeks.
Wait.
"What?" I blurted out. The world tilted. I spilled wine down the side of the goblet and my fingers.
That was…unacceptable. He couldn't leave me for two weeks. Didn't he realize I looked forward to our nightly window love? Didn't he understand that after promising me trust, this was some kind of slap in the face?
He wrote more. I realized I held the goblet so tightly I wouldn't be surprised if it broke. I set it on the night stand, licked my fingers clean, and waited with arms crossed over my chest as he wrote for some time.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 11
