The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin

by Michele Renae

  I'd explained to him that I had fresh, warm sheets from the dryer, and wanted to get them on the bed. He'd said to go ahead and do a little housekeeping—so long as I did it naked. And wearing the shoes.

  Bless the man, he adored the shoes.

  So while I wasn't paying particular attention to him, he shot out a few questions. Did I enjoy my job at the map shop? Yes, but I never wanted a full-time job away from home. My research work kept me satisfied and independent. I didn't mention the weird pass from Richard. Sexual harassment? I didn't want to think about it. Besides, I'd probably overthink it so I had decided to give my boss a pass. This time.

  Monsieur Sexy asked: Did I drive? Yes, but I didn't own a car. Paris was a walkable city; impractical for driving the short distances a resident usually had to traverse. What was my favorite color? It varied from purple to pink to yellow. Had I ever had a pet? I declined telling him about the hamster that had died a slow death due to my neglect when I was a teenager.

  "My favorite position?" I stood from smoothing my palms over the bottom sheet that stretched tightly across the king-size bed and eyed the gorgeous Frenchman watching me from the computer screen. The thick black glasses increased his sexy geek appeal exponentially.

  Sitting on the bed and spreading my legs boldly, heels to the floor and back arched to thrust my breasts forward, I teased a finger along my mouth to illustrate deep thought. Or maybe just sexy wondering.

  "I like so many," I decided. "Is a man's head between my legs considered a position?"

  "Oui, mon abeille. You like a man who can lick you to orgasm?"

  "Mmm…" Just thinking about it made me wet. I slid my fingers down and put gentle pressure over my clitoris. "Yes, please."

  "I will put you in that position," he suggested.

  "I certainly hope you will. I also think I like it bent over and wiggling my ass for you to come inside."

  He had a delicious purring sort of wanting growl that seemed to birth deep in his throat. The tone of it always hit me directly in the pussy and I loosened considerably, leaning back to prop an elbow on the bed. But I wanted to see him, so I slid my legs up to lie on my side and talk directly to the camera, which I'd positioned beside the laptop on the night stand.

  "What about your favorite position?" I asked, drawing my fingers lightly along my thigh.

  "You wiggling your derriere for me is perfect," he said. "Bent over the back of my sofa, your long legs parted, and those shoes. I'd like to stand back and look at your peach bottom and that soft place in the middle that is like the center of a fruit."

  I bit the side of my lip. The words were seductive and alluring. But when spoken with a French accent everything about his words increased my desires tenfold.

  "I'd like to slip my fingers into your fruit, and slick them across your clit until you drip down to my wrist. You want that?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Then I must slide my cock into you. Slow and deep. That is why I like this position. I can go so deep and hold your hips, controlling you."

  I pressed my cheek against the clean white sheet and rolled onto my chest, my ass high as I knelt forward. I imagined leaning over the back of his sofa, my ass exposed, waiting for him to touch me. But instead, he stood there, looking at my most private places. Studying me. Deciding how he would touch and lick me. And whether or not he should shove his cock in slowly, or perhaps slam it in hard and deep to make me cry out in stunned, yet delicious surprise.

  He groaned. "You are très jolie like that. Your breasts against the sheet and your ass in the air. Are your nipples hard?"

  "Yes," I gasped.

  The subtle wiggles of my hips moved my nipples across the sheets. I lifted slightly to make the connection a little softer, brushing my skin, ruching my nipples tightly.

  I gripped the sheets near my head and spread my knees out wider. The position was vulnerable and unsure. It upped my desire. I wanted to feel him enter me. The molten heat of him gliding into my tight opening, slick with my juices, and his thighs slamming hard against mine.

  "What's your favorite secret place to make love?" he asked.

  I tilted my face toward him and rolled to my side, sliding my fingers between my legs. "Like in a car or in a public restaurant?"

  "If that is your fantasy?"

  "I don't know that I've considered it before. The window was pretty daring," I decided. "But I think I'd like to do it in the winter, in the snow."

  "Really?" He mocked a shiver.

  "I love snow. I am from Iowa. We do good snow there."

  "Can't say I can understand the thrill in that. It would be very cold."

  "Not if I had a warm body hugging close to mine."

  "True. But I'm not sure a man could maintain his hard-on in the cold."

  "Are you saying you're not up for the challenge?"

  His dark brow quirked beneath a spill of tousled hair. I loved his curls and the way his hair always looked as if he'd just stepped out of bed, yet not.

  "Anything for you."

  "Really?" I leaned forward on my elbows, studying the man on the screen. Sometimes he said things that sounded so devoted. Like we were in a serious, committed relationship. That thrilled me. And it surprised me that a man could think in such terms about a woman he hadn't yet touched or kissed.

  "Anything," he repeated.

  "All right then. I'll put snow on our list. What about you? What's your fantasy place to have sex?"

  "Ah, I know this one. The Louvre."

  "In the museum?" Astonished, I could but gasp. "Or you must mean outside, maybe behind and in a corner somewhere?"

  "Non. Inside the room with the Mona Lisa. Perhaps back in the corner somewhere, away from the crowd, but right there, close to everyone."

  "You want to have sex during the day, in a crowded museum, where everyone can watch?"

  He nodded.

  The voyeuristic little pervert. I creamed between my thighs just thinking about taking the man over my knee and spanking him for such thoughts.

  "With you," he said. "Promise me we'll do it some day?"

  My jaw dropped open. I certainly dreamed of having real, full-contact sex with this man some day. But in the Louvre?

  "Are you afraid?" he taunted. "We could be discreet. You would wear a skirt and I would stand behind you. Slip up the skirt and jam myself up inside you."

  I bit down on my lip when he said jam with the appropriate emphasis, so that I could literally feel him jamming his cock into me. Breathing heavily, I nodded in agreement. I couldn't imagine doing such a thing in a public place, but I didn't want to disappoint him. And we were strictly talking fantasy, right? Fantasy implied things that weren't real. Things that would never happen. Because if they did happen, then they couldn't be called a fantasy. Like studying a model's cock in detail while drawing it was never going to happen.

  Right?

  I nodded. "I'm in."

  "Yes!" He raised his hands in triumph. "Soon, mon abeille. Soon."

  What had I just agreed to?

  Ah heck, why not?

  Sitting up and eyeing the top sheet that was no longer warm from the dryer, but still needed to be placed on the bed, I tugged it to me and leaned forward, one knee pulled up to my chest. I recalled a silly thought I entertained when thinking about Monsieur Sexy and his hard and always-eager cock.

  "Do you have a name for your penis? I mean, I think a lot of men do name it."

  He bowed his head. Was that a blush? Oh, that gleeful smile crinkling at the corner of his eyes. It mastered me. It wrapped me in wide arms and pulled me in for a hug. And I lived inside it, a willing prisoner.

  "I do," he said. "You will not laugh?"

  "Hmm, well, I think I should be allowed to laugh if it's something like Crazy Larry or Big Boy."

  He chuckled. "Close. I call it Monsieur Eiffel."

  "Is that so?" I pressed the sheet to my mouth and nose, hiding a giggle that wanted release. Well, it wasn't like any man was going to name the th
ing Spot or Little Guy. "Appropriate," I finally managed to say with as straight a face as possible. "It is imposing and steely hard."

  "Like iron," he said. Then he stood and displayed Monsieur Eiffel, whom I hadn't realized had been bared all this time. Indeed, like the iron statue, he thrust up erect and proud. A monument for sure. But I wouldn't allow anyone to buy a ticket to this exhibition. He was all mine.

  Had he been stroking himself as he'd been watching me gyrate on the bed? I certainly hoped so.

  "I have a name for mine," I said.

  "Your pussy?"

  "Now don't think I'm crazy, but I have a tendency to think about odd things a lot."

  "So you've explained. You are the woman who thinks too much."

  "Exactly. And one day I was wondering what it would be like to have a penis. And if I did have one, I'd have to name it."

  "That is odd, but not crazy. Er, maybe. What would you name your penis?"

  "Chuck," I announced.

  His laughter was better than I had ever imagined it could be when I'd only been able to witness it through glass. To never hear it. And now that I could, it intoxicated.

  "Monsieur Eiffel and Chuck," he said, finally coming down from the explosion of laughter. "Quite the pair. You, mon abeille, are exquis, gras, magnifique."

  I knew the one word, but... "What does that mean?"

  He held up a finger to wait, and he walked over and picked up a notebook. I watched him write something on the page, then he turned it to face the camera.

  I read the words he'd first written about me when our window affair had been new and burgeoning. "Exquisite, bold, gorgeous."

  The man had a way of saying things without even speaking.

  I rolled to my back on the bed, closing my eyes as I thought those words over and over. Had I ever been in a relationship that had made me feel so good about myself? I don't think so. I'd been in some great relationships, and some not-so-great ones. I had even taken a monthly lover since moving to Paris.

  Which reminded me... I had to break my standing date with the Brit. It was due this weekend. He'd understand. We hooked up when possible. He'd gotten serious about a woman for half a year and we'd been cool with not seeing one another. But we were always there for the other when the relationships grew stale.

  I turned and gazed into Monsieur Sexy's eyes. I didn't want this one to stale.

  "Look out the window," he suddenly said.

  I twisted my head, but my view out the window wasn't great because I had the bedroom light on. I reached up to switch it off, and propped up on my elbows. I gazed out the window at the full moon sitting high in the sky above his building across the street.

  "That looks like a werewolf moon," I said. "I wonder if they'll howl tonight."

  "You are into the werewolves and vampires, then?"

  I rolled to my back again, content to lay bathed in the moonlight, legs bent and hands on my stomach. "No. Not like the stuff on TV and in the movies. I researched werewolves for an author a few months ago, and I never could understand how a woman could be attracted to the big hairy lugs. All that back hair. And can you imagine the hairs left behind in the shower?"

  "Ah, give the guy a break. Someone has to love him."

  We both laughed, and he prompted whether or not I was a dog or cat person. "I love dogs," he offered. "Someday I'll own land and will have a mastiff."

  I knew mastiffs were huge and hairy, but very lovable. "I'll go with a cat," I said. "They don't jump on you or slobber all over you."

  "I see." His voice took on a serious edge. "Then we are at a crossroads, mon abeille."

  "What?" I turned onto an elbow and flicked on the light switch so he could see my confused look. His expression had grown so serious I suddenly felt as if I was standing with a rapier before my opponent.

  "I am not sure I can be in a relationship with a woman who does not like my pet." He held the serious moue for about five seconds before cracking and offering a smile. "I kid you. I don't have a pet, but I'm sure I could like a little kitty cat."

  "We don't have anything to worry about. It's not like we're living together."

  "Exactly. But maybe I should find out what religion you are."

  "Is that important?"

  "It's not a deal breaker, but I don't know if I could accept an atheist into my heart. I said that wrong. I could accept the person, I just wouldn't feel comfortable with them."

  "Don't worry, sweetie, I'm Catholic to the bone. Got the guilt card to prove it."

  "Catholic girls masturbate before windows while strangers watch?"

  "Only the ones who are going to hell. I intend to bypass purgatory and hell and make a break for heaven."

  "Sounds like a daring plan. I was raised Catholic as well."

  "I stop in for a service at Nôtre Dame every month or so," I offered. "I can understand most of the Latin because I've been listening to it all my life on Sundays. So reverent. Even with the tourists banging about in the aisles. I can stare at the rose windows endlessly. I marvel over any cathedral that was built so long ago and without the technology that builders have nowadays."

  "It is awe-inspiring. This is nice, mon abeille."

  "Us chatting?"

  "Oui. I want to talk to you as you fall asleep."

  "Mmm, well it's going to happen soon. I washed my sheets with lavender. The scent always makes me sleepy. And it's nice and cool in here tonight."

  I shook out the top sheet that I'd yet to tuck in and pulled it over my naked body, while shuffling out of the shoes and dropping them to the floor. Lying back and closing my eyes, the next question he asked surprised me.

  "Tell me something deeply personal about you."

  Okay, I could play with that. I wanted to grow this relationship. So I'd haul out the big one. Because talking to him felt safe.

  "After my mother died I was inconsolable for months. I didn't think I'd ever rise above the pain of her loss. She was too young." A looseness of emotion heated the corners of my eyes and dampened my throat. "She had been taking college courses and was working toward her Masters degree in historical literature. She never got a chance to leave her mark on the world."

  I clutched the bed sheets. My mother had died six years ago. There wasn't a day I didn't think about her bright smile. Would she have smiled to learn of my liaison with Monsieur Sexy? Yeah, I think she would have loved to hear all the details.

  After what felt like a forever of silence, Monsieur Sexy looked up and straight into the camera. "She left her mark on you."

  I huffed out a gasp. Teardrops spilled down my cheek. He was right. My mother was indelibly embedded within my soul. And that acknowledgement felt immense.

  "Thank you," I said. "No one has ever said anything so simple yet so meaningful to me. It means a lot." I sniffed away the tears and laughed to disguise my sudden descent into memory. "I don't usually cry when I think about her. But the confession felt intense. So what about you? Let's divert to you. Are both your parents still alive?"

  "Yes. My father—eh. We are not close."

  "You mentioned he lives in Marseilles?"

  "Yes, I have not seen him in years. We never talk. He is not interested in me, but rather his young paramours who like to party and spend his money."

  I sensed his distinct dislike for his father's apparent playboy lifestyle. So I wouldn't press. "Your mother?"

  "She is, hmm..." He tapped his temple. "In India right now. The last picture she sent was over a month ago. We try to see each other once a year, but her travels keep her away. She wants to see the entire world, and she's having a great time doing it with her latest lover du jour."

  "She must be proud of her son? You owning a business and all?"

  "She is. We may not see each other often, but when we do it is as if it has only been days. Though she would be startled if I told her I have an American lover."

  I pulled up my hands to my chest, cuddling myself at mention of the title lover. It felt so cozy and exclusive. So
what I asked next really surprised me. "Do you think this is real between us?"

  "Yes." Again, that clear and intense stare. "More real than other relationships I've had."

  "I want it to become more real when you get back to Paris." I just said it. I don't know where the words had come from.

  Yes, I did. They'd pushed up from my very soul (via the tiny vixen). And really? It was time.

  "More real?"

  "In person," I said. "Touch. Eye to eye. Skin against skin."

  His tone softened. "Yes. Sure." His gaze flickered to somewhere off screen. I sensed, hmm...reluctance.

  No, I was tired. And he was as well.

  "Good night, lover," I said. "To getting real."

  He nodded, but again did not meet my gaze. "Bonne nuit."

  Chapter Seven

  Panting, I fell back into the pillows and stretched my arms out to my sides. That orgasm had been phenomenal.

  To my side, I heard Monsieur Sexy moan as he rode out the climax in Berlin. So far away from me, yet right there, able to connect to me with only a few spoken words and a lot of hands-on.

  Too bad the hands-on had been from our respective hands; mine on me, his on himself. As I lay there, conscious of his presence, yet in my own world—because I was alone—I began to reconsider my need to keep this relationship so far from me. Distant. Safe.

  Safe wasn't so fun when all I could do was wish and wonder how it would feel to have the man's hands on my skin. Sure I could get myself off. And that felt great. And with him watching? All the better. But I was ready for touch. Seriously.

  For more than three weeks we'd shared looks, gestures and moans. And we were at it again. I'd fallen asleep talking with him last night, spilling some dreams and learning a few of his. Morning sunlight had woken me twenty minutes ago. I'd noticed the laptop was still on, the camera light flashing green. And there he was, watching me.

  He'd woken five minutes earlier, and before heading to the shower, had sat down to watch me a while. When I'd woken, he'd suggested a jack n' jill session. And due to a particularly delicious dream about sketching Monsieur Eiffel, I hadn't refused.