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

by Michele Renae

  And just everything.

  I wandered into the bedroom, my heels clicking the hardwood floor. No plants in here.

  I strolled along the end of his king-size, which sat low because there was apparently no box spring. I hadn't noticed that when looking through the window. Interesting. On the table beside his bed sat a digital clock and a stack of books.

  Leaning over, I pressed my palms onto the mattress. My fingers sank deeply into the foam surface. Nice. I'd like to snug into this temperpedic and roll up against his strong, muscled back, pressing my bare breasts to the heat of him. Slide up a leg and hook it over his thigh while I rubbed my clit against his ass...

  Oh yeah, this chick was frustrated.

  Standing abruptly, I twisted around, fanning my face. Standing in his bedroom did things to me that I liked. A lot. My heart raced. My skin flushed. Arousal came so easily when considering Monsieur Sexy.

  A dresser sat against the wall. On top sat an iPod dock similar to the one I kept beside my bed. No iPod in it, though, so I couldn't snoop through his playlists. Bummer. He must take it along when traveling.

  I tugged open the top dresser drawer and glanced over my shoulder toward the closed bedroom door as I did.

  Silly, girl. No one was looking.

  Inside the drawer lay his boxer briefs, each spread out flat and neatly stacked and—they were in order from lightest color to darkest. A control freak's wet dream.

  I ran a palm over a gray pair. Soft. I loved how the briefs snugged his erection so possessively. Almost as if a tease to me. Ha, ha, look at this. I am right here, against his skin, hugging this nice thick cock you desperately want to touch.

  Wishing there was a hard cock beneath my hand right now sent a shiver of desire through my system. I squeezed my legs together and the bows on my shoes tickled my bare ankles. Mmm...

  The lower drawers contained some folded tee-shirts, jogging pants, and socks. No pink panties, thank God.

  "But wait."

  I shimmied down the panties from under my skirt—completely planned—and pulled off the black lace bit of nothing. Tucking it between the stacks of his underwear toward the back, I closed the drawer.

  Then I tugged the drawer open again and snatched the gray pair. I'd left my purse in the living room on the floor beside the sofa. I scrunched them up in my hand, but then…

  I held them before my hips to check the size. "Why not?"

  Bending, I stepped into the boxer briefs and pulled them up my legs and under my pleated skirt. They fit loosely, and the seam of the flap in front was a different feel against my shaved pussy. I wiggled my hips, moving subtly within the male undergarment. Did guys actually use the flap to whip it out and take a pee? Seemed like it would be just as easy, if not easier, to pull the things down.

  I was wearing his underwear. It felt sneaky and naughty. I giggled and pulled my skirt down, smoothing over the pleats. I'd tell him about it later.

  Maybe.

  I wandered to the closet and pulled open one of the French doors. Inside a half a dozen suits hung neatly on wooden hangers that smelled of cedar. I strolled my fingers down the fabric and inhaled.

  "OhmyGod." For the first time I smelled him. And it wasn't spicy, as I'd hoped, but instead a sort of sable, bay rum scent tainted with the overwhelming cedar. Sweet and, mmm...

  I pressed my nose to the suit, aiming for the collar, where I knew the fabric had lain closest to his bare skin. There the scent was stronger. I inhaled deeply. Drowning in the imagined feel of his nose against my neck, his scent caressing me, I hummed with pleasure. "Mmm, yes."

  The white and gray shirts also smelled faintly of him, as did the purple silk tie I drew out to rub against my cheek. Turning, the tie still pressed to my face, I climbed onto the bed and stretched out on my back. Thinking to turn my head into the pillow I was rewarded with more of his delicious, sensual fragrance.

  "Nummy."

  I curled up my legs and tugged the pillow against my face, burying myself in his essence. A wiggle of my hips rubbed my pussy against the soft reminder of his closeness.

  Chapter Eight

  I slipped into a reverie. In my dream, I walked out into Monsieur Sexy's living area, strolling my hand along the back of the leather sofa. It was brown and worn, like a seasoned cowboy's chaps. It smelled as if it belonged in the corner of a bookstore, comfy and welcoming to anyone who cared to settle in for a long read.

  Someone cleared their throat. I turned in a spin, hand going to my mouth that had opened in a surprised O. Before the window, he sat on a chair, one ankle propped across his knee. Bespoke Italian leather shoes gleamed in the sunlight beaming in from over his straight, broad shoulders. An arm was draped across the back of chair. A curl of brown hair tickled his ear. He sat in arrogant expectation, those sky-gray eyes taking me in as he had done so often through his bedroom window.

  No glass this time. Not even a computer screen. Just a dream.

  Here's to not waking too quickly.

  "Did you leave your panties in my bedroom?" he asked in that French-laced deep voice that had the capability of making me wet like that.

  "I uh…" Feeling almost guilty, I gave a sheepish shrug. "Yes." A little defiance in that reply. And why not? I couldn't wait to see what he would do next.

  "Then you've no lace on under that flirty little skirt of yours?"

  My hand slid across the pleated skirt hem that stopped high on my thighs. A curl of wanton need shivered in my core. The room was not hot, but I was suddenly warm and moist between my legs.

  I shook my head no.

  "Then what are you wearing?"

  "Your briefs."

  His eyebrow lifted. A tilt of his head. He caught his fingers against a temple. "Good girl."

  The approval should have felt juvenile and silly, but instead it caused my shoulders to shift back, lifting my breasts with a confident inhalation.

  "Slide the skirt off and let me look at what you've done."

  Tongue teasing at the backs of my teeth, I nodded and unzipped. I'd undressed before him; this was nothing new. The skirt dropped at my beribboned heels and I flicked it away with a foot. Standing there in his boxers, my blouse spilling over the waistband, I felt ashamed only briefly.

  Then the tiny vixen within me pushed up and giggled. I tilted forward a hip, boldly displaying what naughtiness I'd gotten up to.

  "You like the feel of my clothing on your skin?" he asked.

  "Oh yes. Makes me feel as if you are right here. Standing before me. Will you—"

  "Not yet. I want to look at you," he said. "Turn around."

  Telling me what to do? Yes, please.

  I turned away from him. The boxer briefs hung loosely at my hips yet they did caress my derriere. I teased a finger at the corner of my mouth, wanting to peek over a shoulder. Feeling a bit like the student forced to stand before the front of the classroom with all eyes on her, I was suddenly nervous.

  "Slip them off," he said.

  Expose myself before the whole classroom? Eek!

  Wait. This was not a nightmare, but a daydream. And the only one watching was someone I trusted completely. I wiggled down the briefs and with another flick of foot, relegated his underwear on top of the puddle of my skirt.

  "Now bend over the sofa."

  Oh, mercy. Heat traced my neck and up under my jaw, quickly overcoming my cheeks. He'd told me the other night during a Skype session that his favorite position was with the woman bent over before him. Giddy glee echoed out a shiver within my core and to my extremities. My nipples hardened, and it was all I could do not to brush my fingers over them as I bent over the back of the sofa.

  I ran my hands down the aged leather and caught my elbows against the back. (You won't see this in any bookstore.) I tilted a look under my arm at him. He'd leaned forward, hands hanging slack between his knees. His gaze was intense. And it was focused on my bared derriere.

  "Spread your legs," he directed, "a little."

  Want swirled a
t my pussy. I'd grown so wet I wouldn't be surprised if I creamed down my thighs. The lace bra teased at my erect nipples. Every molecule in my body hummed, alert and wanting.

  Wiggling my hips as I spread my legs, I guessed he could see my asshole and the swell of my labia. His silent perusal only increased my breaths and my heartbeats pounded to match the quiet strains of some pop song that I now noticed playing in the background. Not loud; barely there. Dream music. The bass had been turned up. Each beat permeated my skin and glided through my veins.

  Anticipation made me squirmy. I wiggled my hips again and stretched my arms along the back of the sofa to tilt up my ass. For as flushed and hot as I felt, the air cooled my skin as if a lover's breath seeking the heated core of me.

  He growled an approving noise. Chair legs scraped on the wood floor. Italian leather shoes strode toward me.

  It was all I could do to not turn and look at him, or to plunge into his embrace. I wanted this surrender to his control. It felt intimately exquisite. And dirty.

  The lightest touch trailed up the back of one of my thighs. Slowly. Lingering. It felt like a breeze that had a focus. He drew his fingertips over my ass, tracing the curve of it from one side to the other, then down the opposite thigh. And when he ventured upward again, and his fingers paused at the crease where the curve of my ass met my leg, I sucked in a breath, and clutched at the leather with my fingers.

  His crisp cotton sleeve cuff brushed my bottom, and dusted in the direction of my pussy. I closed my eyes. Heartbeats raced. I hadn't realized how tightly I held my jaws, and when I did, I dipped my head and gasped to release that tension.

  "You want me to touch you?" he asked. "Where you are wet?"

  I nodded. "Please."

  "Spread wider," he insisted calmly, firmly.

  My feet stepped outward, the heels of my shoes clicking on the wood floor. I arched my back and thrust my ass as high as possible, seeking the promised touch. I needed him against my skin. I wanted him to feel my wetness, to push his fingers inside me.

  To own me.

  Exploratory fingers paused just below my derriere. Two heartbeats. A shallow breath. I bit my lower lip. And then…

  His fingers ventured between my legs and over my pussy lips. Burying my face against the leather, I sighed at that first deliciously intimate contact. So light and barely there, I couldn't be sure he would commit to the touch. It was frustrating, until it was not. And the tease urged me into a wanting moan.

  When his fingers parted my labia and slicked my wetness, I felt his other hand grip my hip and hold me firmly. One finger slid inside me.

  "Oh, fuck," I groaned.

  "You're so wet," he said on a controlled tone. "And tight."

  I rocked my hips, pumping on his finger, seeking the rhythm that would get me off. A greedy little underwear stealer, am I.

  "You want more?" he asked. "You want it deeper?"

  "Yes," I demanded, and slammed my hips back to his hand. "Give me more. Two fingers."

  The entrance this time was slow, yet insistent. He stroked me inside. Deeply. It felt exquisite. Naughty. Bold. Yet the skim of his sleeve over my skin was the most erotic sensation, and every time it happened I gasped, surprised at how my entire system clenched up in anticipation.

  "More," I said. "Fill me."

  "Yes." He groaned as he slipped three fingers inside me.

  Filled with him, so exquisitely pierced, I thrust my hips backward, seeking the stretch, the wanting moans that came from him. The smell of his cologne, wild and fresh. The hand at my hip gripped hard, almost painfully. He wanted to go so deep. I wanted to take him all in. This was deliciously merciless. I felt controlled, yet in control. Mastered, yet able to break my reins should I wish.

  "Show me how you like it," he whispered. "Faster? Slowly?"

  I rocked my hips, pumping on his fingers slowly, deeply. I wanted to feel all of him and know he felt me. Too fast, and the spell would be broken.

  "You like to be filled," he commented. "Je suis annulée."

  Oh, delicious Frenchman, fuck me with your words.

  His fingers slipped from me and I heard him unzip. His pants dropped to the floor. A hot, swollen cock slapped against my ass. Hard and steely, it slipped up and down, teasing me, but not yet venturing near my aching wetness that desired only to be filled by him.

  Both hands to my hips now, he directed me forward so I felt his cock glide between my thighs. The head of him nudged at my clit. Let me in. And then it slipped away. No wait, I'm just teasing.

  I sucked in a breath. Wanting to reach down, to grab hold of him and press him against my clitoris, I instead clung to the leather. One of my heels scraped the wood floor. I was his to control. And the agony of not getting what I wanted was too perfect.

  "You want me inside you? You think you deserve that after you've been snooping about my place?"

  Oops. But I had told him I would snoop. Of course, that didn't mean he would approve, or that he wouldn't want to punish me by withholding his cock when I needed it ramming inside me. Right now. Come. On. Give it to me!

  One hand slid up and clutched my breast through the blouse. He pinched my nipple hard. I cried out. Nudging my ass against him, I hoped the pressure on his cock would get to him and he wouldn't hold out much longer…

  The sudden entrance of his hard shaft felt as if I'd been pierced by molten lava. In the best way.

  "Yes!" I slammed my hips backward, pumping against him. The friction tugged at my clit and hummed around the entrance of my vagina. "Harder. Deeper," I insisted.

  He complied, his hands at my hips not so much commanding, as directing my movements. And when he did finally slam into me—and stay there—I felt his shudders in my bones. He reached under my stomach and pulled me upright against his chest. A hand clasped my breast, but didn't squeeze, only held me, claiming me. He thrust once again and cried out, his orgasm spilling into me in a hot gush.

  "Fuck yes," he murmured near my ear. "Très bon, mon abeille."

  I woke on his bed, heartbeats racing and stomach panting. My hand shot instantly to my crotch, pressing the soft gray boxer material against my clit. Fuck, it was there, the climax that I'd had in my dream, waiting, so close to fruition…

  I pulled down the boxers and jilled off there on his bed, my head pressing back into his pillow, my legs stretched across the white coverlet. The scent of him drowned me, and the feel of how he had touched me captured my imagination and made it real.

  I came hard and shouting out in triumph. Body shaking and arms splaying out to my sides, I chuckled softly as I panted through the delicious reward of my naughty dream.

  On my cyber lover's bed. Alone. With no one to touch but myself.

  Chapter Nine

  "Merci," Monsieur Sexy said as he pulled off his dress shirt to reveal abs that demanded some serious licking.

  "Hold off on the thanks until you see if the plants survive," I offered.

  I, too, was stripping down. It was late, and we'd both had long days at work, but there was no way either of us could come down from the adrenaline of nine to five—or one to eight as it had been for me—without a tension relieving jack n' jill session.

  "Your apartment is huge. The rent must be ridiculous," I said. "And you must be rich."

  "A man with money means so much to you?"

  I cast a glance at the computer screen. He'd asked with such concern. Had I sounded materialistic? "Uh...no. I'm not a gold digger. I know it's not cheap to live in Paris."

  "You live in Paris. In the 7th, which is notoriously snooty and old money."

  "In an apartment a tenth the size of yours. I have a trust fund that will see me through a few more years, if I decide to stay."

  "If you decide to stay?"

  "Been here almost two and a half years. Once my three year Visa is up, I'll have to decide whether or not to stay."

  "Any thoughts on that?"

  "Not really." Seriously, I hadn't thought that far in advance. I liked to l
ive day to day. But that he seemed so concerned for my future tickled me. Did he want me to stay?

  I paused before slipping down my skirt. This naughty girl had almost forgotten her daring steal.

  "Did you find the plant in the bathroom, as well?" he asked.

  "I did. Your plants are all very healthy. You must have a green thumb. Ohh… That's not green."

  He stood before the camera, in close range, slowly easing his fingers about his cock, polishing the cylinder for some piston action. When he was completely erect the deep maroon head of it gleamed. And the vein that ran along the underside of it got engorged when he was close to coming.

  Yeah, I noticed things like that. Hard not to when it was all on the screen, right there, for a girl to study. Talk about in your face. I wasn't beyond licking the screen. If I recorded him I could sit back, at my leisure, pause the video, and zoom in on Monsieur Eiffel. But we'd made a rule. Neither of us would record these conversations, not the video or the audio.

  Did I trust that he wasn't secretly recording our antics and posting at some skeevy online sites?

  I had to. Wasn't like I had a choice. Actually, I did have a choice. I could not be doing this. But that was as ridiculous to consider as not breathing.

  "You are not going to undress completely?"

  I teased a fingernail at the corner of my mouth, approaching the camera cautiously. "I have a confession to make."

  "Good, bad, or naughty?"

  "Naughty." I blushed because the tiny vixen within me wished to be chastised for her wicked deed. "I uh…left you a present in your underwear drawer."

  "Is that so? Was it pink?"

  "Never." Because pink panties reminded me of Boobs, the fencing student I'd witnessed undressing in his bedroom. That image of her huge boobs and self-satisfied smirk would never leave me. "I prefer black lace," I said.

  "Mm, I can't wait to get home."

  "And…"

  "And?"

  "I may have borrowed something of yours." I unzipped the skirt at the back and let it fall down to the floor to reveal what I wore beneath.

  "Are those…?"

  I nodded. Managed a sheepish smile. Then I jut out a hip and wiggled my derriere to model the stylish yet masculine wardrobe choice.