"What are you thinking about?" he asked from beside me.
I wished I could roll over and kiss him, there in my bed. Stroke my hands over his chest, hot and moist with perspiration, and glide them down to his semi-hard penis. I'd take it in hand, bend down, and kiss the head of it. Taste it. Devour it.
Own him.
"I'm thinking about sucking you," I said, and turned to face the computer screen. "How good it would feel to have your skin under my fingers. To feel your heat. To put your cock in my mouth."
He groaned and nodded. "That seems to be a common thought between us. I think about licking your pussy. Pushing my tongue inside you and tasting you. And your nipples. I want to suck them until you come."
"I think I've reached the pinnacle of frustration. When do you get back from Berlin?"
"I've another few days here."
Just a few days. Did I really want to do it? Finally meet him?
Yes, and ah, hell no.
Fine. So I'm a waffler, switching sides like a disk of baked flour and water that gets flipped in the pan. I should demand the man return to Paris immediately, walk up to my apartment and sweep me off my feet and ravish me for days unending.
It would happen. It must happen. But thinking about it made me more nervous than that first moment when I'd finally heard his voice across the cyber waves. And—wait. I wasn't the only one. Hadn't I heard reluctance in his voice last night? I had. I know it. When I'd suggested we make things more real, he had, well, waffled.
"What will be the first thing that you do when you see me in person?" I asked.
I reached out to touch the screen and traced along his chest. He sat against the pillows on the hotel room bed. The camera captured his whole body, yet a smirk was the sexiest thing he wore.
"I would like to say I'd tear away your clothes and fuck you."
Sounded like a solid plan to me. "But?"
"But. I think I'd like to take it slow. Maybe talk like we did last night. And then we should kiss. Do you know how often I think about kissing you? And then I wonder: will you like my kiss? Will I do it right? What if it is wrong?"
I nodded. I'd had the same thoughts. Would he be boring in person? Maybe he'd smell? What if he wasn't so deft with handling a woman as he was with handling Monsieur Eiffel? And yes, the all-telling kiss. A kiss could make or break a relationship. Seriously. If the twosome didn't kiss well, then why bother?
"We're a couple of flakes," I decided.
"I don't understand that reference."
"You know, kind of stupid about some things, yet not about others. We're engaged in an intense relationship, yet we can both scare ourselves thinking about that first real connection."
He nodded. "You do tend to think too much."
"You've noticed, eh?"
"I'd rather you be a thinker than someone who jumps in no matter the consequences."
"That sounds good. In theory. But isn't jumping in blindly fun once in awhile?"
He nodded, tilted his head in thought. He wasn't completely agreeing with me, and that made me wonder what had scared him away from the blind jump. He came off as an adventurous sort. Mountain biking with his friends on the weekends, and dancing naked before windows? The man was fearless.
But perhaps less so than I imagined. Fine with me. He had his layers, and I was slowly peeling them aside, learning them, running my fingers lightly over his many intricate surfaces.
I really needed to touch his surfaces. Like all over, and most especially, inside those boxer briefs. Cripes. When had I become such a horn dog?
They say knowing how to love oneself via self-pleasuring was the kindest, most nurturing thing a woman could do for herself. But there was a point when all that self-stimulation wanted to scream for a wing man.
Monsieur Sexy looked aside. He reached for a bottle of water and tilted back a long swallow. I noticed the books splayed open on the table next to his bed.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
He held up a staying finger as he finished the water. Then, with relish, he brandished the book before the camera.
"Mapping The Woman?" I read.
"I found it in a drawer here. Do you know the woman's clitoris is actually shaped like a wishbone and extends down both sides of the vaginal opening?"
I did know that. And hallelujah for random book finds.
"I cannot wait to experiment," he continued, paging through the book. "Fascinating stuff."
"Well, if you need a volunteer...?"
"But of course! I can't believe this is so new to me, and yet it is exquisite knowledge. We men think it is just that precious little button between your legs that must be coaxed and licked and teased."
"Coaxing, licking and teasing works for me."
"Yes, but all along the sides as well! Certainly, I tend those areas, but I've never known they were so rife to receive exquisite sensation. Mon Dieu, you women are a marvel."
I could really get behind his enthusiasm. Rather, spread my legs for it. "So you'll be taking that book home with you?"
"No, I have the diagram memorized. I will leave it for the next man."
"The clitorises of the world will be so happy," I sang.
"Indeed!"
I sat up on the bed and stretched, thrusting up my breasts just because I knew he was watching. "I suppose I should get dressed. Lots of work to do today on the fantasy bible job."
"Yes, I must head out soon. But I have a favor to ask you," he said as he walked about the hotel room. "I've been gone over a week. I did not consider this before leaving. But the picture above my bed reminds me of it."
"What?"
The screen panned about the room and landed on the picture above his bed. I was a froth of green fronds, a closeup of a palm tree or somesuch. Gorgeous and lush, it reminded me to lament the passing of summer.
"They are the only living things I own," he said, turning the camera back toward his naked torso. Monsieur Eiffel was taking a much-needed rest. "I have some plants in the loft. I forgot to water them before I left."
"You want me to run over and take care of them? I could do that."
And what joy. I'd get a look inside his domain. His home. Most importantly, his bedroom. Cue the secret agent music!
"Would you do that? I'll email you the building code, and my front door has a code as well."
"Of course. It's right across the street. Although I have to warn you, I am a snoop."
"I am okay with that. Look around all you like. I'm pretty sure all the pink panties are gone."
He had to bring that one up? While engaged in our window tryst, I'd witnessed one of his female students changing from fencing gear to street clothes in his bedroom. I hadn't known she was a student at the time, and my crazy, think-too-much brain took me there. Yeah, that he was fucking her.
He hadn't been. But then, he should have never waggled those pink panties she'd strategically left behind at me, either.
"I kid you," he tried. "Sorry?"
"No need for apologies. Another example of me thinking far too much and concocting the worst out of nothing. Maybe I'll plant some of my panties for you to find."
"S'il vous plaît?"
He was so cute when he begged. I kissed my fingers and blew him the kiss. He caught the morsel and cupped the hand over the head of his lax cock.
"Someday I will kiss you there," I said.
"Promise?"
"Promise. See you tonight?" I asked.
"Sure. But you can Skype me during the day to let me know how it goes with the plants. Remember, I usually take a break around noon."
"Sounds like a plan. Have a great day at work, Monsieur Sexy. Give Monsieur Eiffel a squeeze for me, will you?"
He squeezed his cock. "Do the same for Chuck, eh? Rub her slow and soft as you think of me."
So he thought to call my pussy Chuck? It worked for me. Because it was our secret, my confession to him, and I loved that he knew that little oddity about me.
"Ciao," I s
aid.
And the strangest word lingered on my tongue. But I wasn't silly, and I hadn't known him long enough to say that particular L-word.
Right?
"À bientôt, mon abeille."
***
Nakedfencer's email arrived after I'd eaten yogurt and granola for breakfast. I printed up the entrance codes he'd sent, and stuffed it in my purse. I slipped on a loose red blouse and a pleated skirt, and then tucked my feet into the Louboutins. Dressing up merely to walk across the street and make facetime with some plants?
You'd better believe it. I was entering his domicile. His lair. His private world. I wanted to do it right. As well, if anyone in the building saw me, I wanted to make an impression. The third floor resident's sexy lover? I could work it.
I made it through the ground floor door to the building with ease. The concierge nodded, acknowledging that I had used the code. He could assume I was a client of one of the businesses or the third floor occupant's lover. Made me feel clandestine.
The lobby was accented with brass Art Nouveau touches, and housed two businesses, one on each side of the building. The elevator was a narrow number with a brass door. Me take the elevator? Nope. I took the stairs up to the first floor (which was actually the second floor to us Americans; the French count ground floor, first, then second). Another dash up to the second (third) floor.
Holding the digital code to access my cyber-lover's home felt like I'd suddenly won the lottery. Seriously. My heartbeats hadn't stopped thundering. It was as if I were going to meet him and touch him and…
I knew that was fantasy, but my heart and clammy hands were certainly in for the adventure. I'd brought along the tin watering can I used for my plants. Very well, my plant. Which was close to dead.
I'm pretty sure Monsieur Sexy had no clue he'd asked a plant killer to tend his precious greenery. It may be best if I merely glanced at them and not touch them at all. What could another few days without water do to them?
"No, you can do this," I muttered as I punched in the six-digit code. "You will impress him with your nurturing abilities."
And if I possessed any such skills, would they please step up now?
The door opened to a large, quiet room. It was late morning. Gray clouds surfed the Paris troposphere. The weathergirl warned we'd be pummeled this evening. I was sick of the rain, but it was still better than snow. I liked snow, yet the city proper rarely got anything beyond a quick shovel. But when my principal means of navigating the city was on foot, I preferred as little as possible, pretty please.
The vast room was not decorated, not even a picture on a wall. Up near the front windows a mountain bike sat parked, waiting another adventure down a muddy, steep slope. A set of weights and a pull-up bar held reign in the far left corner on a rubber mat. Beside that on the wall were hooks garnering two fencing masks and padded protective vests.
So this big room must be where he practiced and taught fencing. It was a good space for dashing about.
I wandered to the equipment hung on the wall, and tapped the fencing foil with the red button secured on the end to prevent an opponent from getting pierced. Taking the weapon by the grip I was surprised at how light it was. And not bent, as had been the sorry equipment I'd used in high school. I'd only taken fencing for a few weeks to get the physical activity credit. I hadn't enjoyed the sport. What high school girl could suffer the indignity of the sweaty vest and stinking mask? I had just been thankful it was the last class of the day so I could tug my messy hair back into a ponytail afterward.
Remembering the en garde position, I tucked my arm against my body, pointing the weapon at my invisible opponent, while my other arm I bent upward, hand relaxed. And in my imagination he stood before me: Monsieur Sexy. Make that Musketeer Sexy. He wasn't wearing the bespoke suit that screamed sex monster that promised a breathtaking roll in the sheets. No, he was wearing a black musketeer tunic trimmed with silver lace, and a beaver felt hat sporting a frilly red plume that dusted the air with each stride of his bucket-topped boots.
"En garde," I declared, walking around my invisible opponent.
He daren't raise his weapon to me, a woman. The man was honorable and chivalrous. He lived to serve the king. Instead, his sly smirk told me he considered all the ways he could defeat me with a sensual touch.
I swept my blade through the air between us, dismissing him with a bow.
Yeah, so my fantasy life was fulfilling. What was new?
Only a little sad that I didn't hang up the foil next to an actual musketeer's rapier, I left the equipment and wandered to the far end of the practice space where a leather sofa demarcated the living area. I set my purse on the floor. His flat was a big open space, but he'd set up a sofa and two chairs before a small television. He owned an old tube version.
"What the heck?" I didn't think they actually made TVs in cabinets anymore.
I looked about for the remote, but decided by proof of the apparent relic that a person probably had to walk up to the TV and turn the knob to bring it to life. I couldn't remember a time when I had ever physically touched a TV to make it work. I did recall though, my mother regaling me with tales of her childhood when her parents had used her as a human remote control by directing her to switch channels during commercials.
I dismissed the antiquity with a shake of my head, and wandered into the kitchen, which, in keeping with French standards, was small and a mere stretch of counter along the wall which boasted glass-fronted cabinets overhead. The fridge was short, the stovetop petite. A two-person table sat in the middle of the tile flooring that designated the kitchen area. The table was clear of all personal or business detritus, in vast opposition to my disaster at home.
Could I ever allow this neat freak to venture into my messy yet lovable domicile? A distinct twinge of doubt niggled at the back of my neck. So out of the man's comfort zone.
Ah there, hanging before the kitchen window, was a gorgeous froth of greenery. Vines and leaves climbed over the pot edges, spilling three feet down until it nearly touched the floor. Beautiful and full and so green. It even smelled like summer.
Pressing my palms to my stomach, I approached it with caution. The last thing I wanted to do was kill my lover's plant. A symbol of his care and attentiveness. I had never been able to nurture a green thing.
Did that make me lacking in the ability to care and be attentive to others? I swallowed. I wasn't an ogre. I could care for living things. It was just the silent green ones that gave me challenge.
"Do you really need water?" I asked timidly.
I reached into the pot and tested the soil with a finger. Yep, it was dry.
Blowing out a breath, I filled the watering can at the sink. While standing there I browsed over the fridge surface. No magnets. No kitschy towels or cute tchotchkes that would grant me a clue to his personality. The entire fencing/living/kitchen area was bland. There weren't even colors. Save for the green plant and the brown sofa, everything was gray.
So was this to be the ugly in the man I'd feared was too perfect? He had no decorating sense? What man did? And yet wasn't a man's home a reflection of his personality?
"No, he's a fun guy. I've seen him dancing naked with a cupcake."
It was then that I noticed the laptop at the end of the sofa and the thick book on top of it. Must be one of those computer manuals I'd seen him reading. Was that it for his office? Besides the sofa, coffee table, chairs, and TV, there was no other furniture. No desk or office cupboards.
"Maybe in another room."
Clasping my arms across my chest, I exhaled.
We were seemingly so completely opposite it made me wince. But then, if his place had been a disordered mess like mine, would that have endeared me to him? Doubt it. I could not tolerate a slob, or a man who couldn't, at the very least, clean up after himself.
I decided that I liked his clean control because I knew that wasn't completely him. I'd seen his fun side.
I would give him a pass on the
decorating since it had only been a few months that he had lived here.
Tilting the watering can over the plant, I set upon killing it. I spied another plant sitting in a big pot at the corner of the room, a sort of marker dividing the kitchen from the living area. I filled the can and gave it a generous sip, crossing my fingers all the while.
He'd said plants when we'd talked. This could be it, but I'd better check all the rooms. I hadn't seen any when we'd been looking at each other through our respective bedroom windows. Then again, I'd only had eyes for him.
Again filling the can, I then wandered down the hall and tried the first of two doors. It opened into the bathroom, which I knew must also have a door on the opposite wall because he could enter it from his bedroom.
I flicked on the switch. More gray walls, but the tile was gorgeous. Clear green and blue that resembled sea glass lined the wall behind the vanity mirror and in the shower. It glinted under the light. Atypical for Paris, it was a good-sized bathroom that two people could easily navigate together.
Well, you know, I had to consider options for the future. It's how women think. I know you'd do the same.
Another plant hung near the shower door, so I gave it a sip. I strolled my fingers over the white towel hung from the rack and imagined it wrapped about his hips, his erection tenting the terrycloth from beneath. When his cock grew harder and thicker it would stretch at the towel and…finally tug the tucked corner away, dropping the towel to the floor at his feet.
I would curl my fingers about that demanding rod. Tugging him close to me I would give it a squeeze. He'd suck in a gasp, his eyes shuttering in pleasure. Kneeling, I'd stroke a fingernail along the bulging vein on the underside of his thickness, following it down to cup his testicles. Heavy and snugged up against the base of his cock, I'd lick them, tasting his faint salty flavor and the clean wet droplets from the shower.
The watering can clanked against the tiles. I stood suddenly upright, realizing I'd bent forward and was gripping the towel hanging before me.
"Wow. I so need to get a real boyfriend," I said. "One that I can touch. And lick. And…
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 22
