"I like them on you," he offered.
"I prefer them on you." I smoothed a palm over the front of the boxer briefs, poking a finger in along the flap. "You fill them out much better than I do. But it has been an enlightening experience putting on men's underwear for the first time."
"How so?"
"This flap is just decorative, isn't it? I mean, you usually just tug them down to go pee, I'm sure."
"Unless a guy is standing in a public bathroom before a urinal and doesn't want to flash his ass to everyone."
"Ah. That makes sense." I slid my hand inside the opening, tickling across my mons. "Here I thought it was easy access to the main stick. You guys do like to touch it. A lot."
"A reassuring grasp every so often is warranted," he agreed. "What can I say? Monsieur Eiffel has been with me all my life. We are close."
I giggled. "I'll return these, I promise."
"Only if I get to take them off you."
"Deal." I slid down the underwear and kicked them aside. "Better?"
"Let me look at you bent over," he said.
"What?" I approached the camera and made comical show at peering into the lens and tapping it. Is this thing on? "Have you been following me in my dreams?"
"What do you mean?"
"I uh…" Finger to the corner of my lower lip, I teased at confessing my maneuvers in his home. Hell, why not? Stolen underwear and daydreams, here I come. "When I was in your place today I told you I snooped."
"Right. What does that have to do with me wanting to stare at your gorgeous derriere?"
I wiggled the body part mentioned because his compliments always gave me a giddy thrill.
"Confession number two coming right up. After putting on your underwear and snooping in your closet and sorting through your books—I love that you read, by the way."
"All the time. It keeps me vital. And I learn how to operate your clitoris."
"Yay, for reading! So, I laid down on your bed and smushed my face into your pillow."
His cock faded into the background as his face appeared on the screen. One dark brow arched curiously.
"I wanted to smell you. And you smell…" I sighed, clasping my hands to my breasts. "Wonderful. Like leather and whiskey, I think. I've never tasted whiskey, so it's a guess."
"Rum," he said. "And something else, but I don't recall. It's a scent that was…given to me a few years ago. I like it."
"So do I. Anyway, as I was lying there, soaking in your scent, I closed my eyes and started to daydream about the things you would do to me if you were home."
"Yes?"
"And…" I sat on the bed so he could see all of me. "I fell asleep for a bit. And you were in my dreams, looking so handsome in your suit. I love you in a suit. Anyway, you told me to bend over the back of your sofa for a good long look."
"Ah, I understand. Did I like what I saw?"
I nodded. "Then you fucked me hard."
"I fuck you hard all the time in my dreams. Do you still have that silver vibrator?"
I sat up, my nipples tightening expectantly. "Of course."
"Retrieve it, and let me fuck you."
Five minutes later I was bent over the bed, my ass facing the camera, and the vibrator wedged between the mattress and my pussy. I came hard and cried out, clutching the sheets as my insides quivered and my thighs shook.
Behind me—I couldn't see him from this exposed angle—Monsieur Sexy was jacking off. He said, "Fuck yeah," and came as well.
My cheeks were burnished rosy and my breasts sheened with perspiration. I rolled to my back, the vibrator clattering to the floor. I laughed at the silliness of this American twenty-something chick living in Paris, alone, getting off before the camera for a man she had never touched or kissed.
I trusted him enough to do things like jill off, ass toward the camera. I stole his private underthings. And I may have killed his plants.
I was so not myself anymore. Who had I become?
"Tu me manques," he said.
I turned to face the camera. His profile faced me. Eyes closed he smiled widely.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I feel you are missing from me."
Wow. That would carry me for days. Seriously. Such a statement landed right in the pleasure center of my brain, and felt as good as an orgasm.
"Damn, that was good," he whispered. "But it will be better than good when finally it is you on my bed instead of the laptop, oui?"
"Oui. Soon yes?"
"Er, soon?"
"For us to get together?" I reiterated.
"You are not pleased with what we have now?"
Again with the weird reluctance. I leaned up on my elbows and stared at the screen. He'd been saying all along that he couldn't wait to meet me. To fuck me. Was I imagining a change of heart from him?
"Of course I'm pleased," I said. "But I want to touch you. You...don't want to touch me?"
"I do, mon abeille." He studied my face, his eyes intent. "I think you are getting upset?"
"I..." I sighed. Maybe I had taken it wrong. He was still eager. Perhaps just exhausted from our jack n' jill session. "No, not upset. We'll meet in good time. I'll give you a call tomorrow at lunch? That reminds me I have to plug in my phone, which…is in my purse."
I sat up on the bed. I didn't recall coming home from his place with purse in hand. I'd left my apartment door unlocked so hadn't needed to sort around in the depths of it for a key.
"I think I left my purse at your place. Is it okay if I run over there tomorrow morning to get it?"
"Of course it is. You locked the door behind you when you left?"
"Yes. I still have the codes written down, stuffed in my skirt pocket. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."
"Don't worry about it, mon abeille. If I could have you in my place all the time I would do so. Perhaps it was for the best so you can do a plant check while you are there? Make sure your administrations didn't serve them a fatal dose."
"If they did, I'll have to do a quick replacement on all of them before you return. But I'll never tell if I do."
"If the plants seem a little smaller, perhaps even different than the ones I have now, I won't ask. Promise."
"You're too good to me." I pulled up the pillow to prop under my head. "Why are you so good? What is wrong with you?"
"Must something be wrong with me? I adore you. Isn't that what a person does when they like a person? Treat them well? As well as I can when we are separated by this distance and a glass barrier."
"When do you return?"
"Four days."
I considered asking to meet him the moment he returned, but stuffed the urge away. Instead I nodded. I'd wait for him to broach the subject of a meeting. I felt a little off about his reluctance. Was it something I had imagined? Didn't think so.
Though, there was something I could do to urge him along. I remembered the invitation Melanie had sent me. The party was days away on All Saints Day. I would never miss one of her shindigs. And this year, it was going to be the best, because I'd already ordered my costume and couldn't wait to slip into that fantasy.
"I'm going to send you an email," I said. "Forward you something, actually. It's…something we might use to get together."
"Yes? You want to meet when I return to Paris?"
I touched the screen. It was warm, and yet, not at all like living, breathing flesh. It couldn't react to my touch, nor could it move closer, hush a soft breath across my cheek, or wrap an arm about my waist and pull me closer.
"Hell yes, I want to meet. But I'm sensing you're reluctant."
He shrugged, smoothed his hand along his jaw. Avoided looking directly at the screen. "You going to be waiting at the curb as soon as I arrive?"
Tension in that question. He was trying not to say something. And whatever it was, I didn't want to hear it. "No. I'll wait for you to say when it feels right. Would you prefer that?"
"Yes. Uh, don't think about it too much, though, okay? I
know how you like to think."
"Promise." But that was a lie. Really? He couldn't commit and say 'Yes, be there waiting for me'? "I'll send the email."
"You make me curious."
"Good. I like to know a man is wondering about what I'll do next. Until tomorrow?"
"Bonne nuit, mon abeille." He kissed his fingers and blew me the kiss.
Tonight I grasped the kiss and sheltered it in my cupped palms for the longest time, holding it below my face as if I'd trapped a firefly and the glow could actually warm my face, the wings fluttering the sensation of his kiss across my lips. "Until tomorrow."
I signed out of Skype, then found the email Melanie had sent me. Attached to the email, a gif featuring a sugar skull blinked its eyes at me. The French were not big on Halloween, but they did do treats and costumes for the kids. The adults were more into All Saints Day, or the more popular name for it, Day of the Dead.
If I clicked the 'send' button then there was no going back. I was committing to a meeting. Would the invite please him or push him farther from me? I couldn't shake the odd feeling that he had just taken a step back from me, farther from that curb.
Hmm...
No waffling! the tiny vixen screamed inside me.
My finger hovered over the return key, but not for long. I clicked send, and quickly close the laptop.
"Four days and he's back," I muttered.
And then?
"And then," I said with a smile, and crawled between the sheets.
And I was instantly transported outside to the curb, clad in a body-hugging dress and my ribbon-tied shoes, waiting expectantly with hands clasped. The wind burnished my cheeks rosy. My heartbeats fluttered.
A cab arrived and the back door opened. Out stepped an Italian leather shoe. He rose before me, so tall I had to look up to capture that sexy sly wink.
"Mon abeille—"
Pause. He should know my name for that first auspicious meeting. Yes?
Yes, I needed to do something about that.
Okay, in my dreams (for now) he called me by name. Then he whisked me into his arms. One strong arm banded across my back. I tilted forward on my tiptoes. Our eyes closed.
The kiss was inevitable...
Chapter Ten
I found my purse sitting on the hardwood floor before the leather sofa where I'd left it. Noticing the hanging plant in the window still looked as vibrant and alive as it had before I'd gotten to it yesterday, I decided I had done no harm. A quick trip down the hallway to peek in the bathroom… Lush greenery.
"Whew."
Turning on my heels, I sashayed back to the living room. A glance to the sofa stirred up a thigh-squeezing twinge of desire. I ran my hand along the aged brown leather as I walked by.
"Soon. Three more days."
And then what? His odd reluctance during our cyber-chat last night bothered me. I had initially been the one a little freaked about bringing our relationship to the next level with the video and voice. I mean, after all, I'm the chick who starts looking for the door after dating a man for a month.
But now? I was glad I had succumbed. And I was ready to rush toward the next level: touch. I needed it. I wanted to feel his skin, to know his breath against my cheek, to shiver under the lash of his tongue as it explored my body.
I wanted to stand at the curb, waiting for his kiss.
But was he having second thoughts? Pulling back from something he'd initially encouraged?
Or was I over-analyzing life once again?
"I am," I admonished as I opened the front door. "And he avoided the rich question too." I remembered that as I stepped out from the massive flat.
That must have been what switched him over to cautious mode. I'd asked about money.
"Stupid," I muttered.
And yet, the man had freely bought me a dress that had boasted a four-figure price tag. And he'd ordered an exquisite meal, hand-delivered by the chef that must have also set him back a fortune. Weird. Well, he probably didn't like to define himself with a dollar figure. I could dig it. But my curiosity wouldn't rest. I knew that.
Locking the door behind me, I strolled leisurely down the stairs to the first floor, and down again toward the ground level. (The rez-de-chaussée if you're following if French.) I could so handle living in this building. The space was much bigger than my tiny closet. I'd have to share the space with Monsieur Sexy, but that would be cool. I'd watch him fence with his students and cook him simple meals served with wine and love. I'd launder his sheets and underwear, then slip on a dryer-warm pair and tease him with my semi-sexy stripper moves. We'd be such a happy pair.
I laughed because this time I didn't mind following my wandering thoughts into a future I could definitely entertain. I just hoped he wasn't seriously rethinking what he'd gotten himself into.
At the bottom of the stairwell I met an elderly gentleman whose bright green eyes were sheltered beneath a froth of bushy gray brows. The scent of cherry tobacco filled his airspace as if an invisible cloud.
"Ah, Madame!" he declared. "English, yes? It is so nice to finally meet you."
"Madame?"
"You descended from the upper flat? You are Monsieur's wife, oui?"
My heart dropped to my toes. The fantasy shattered like black glass, cutting through my skin as each piece fell around me. I gripped the wood handrail to my right, leaning hard onto it.
Monsieur's wife?
The man must be mistaken. Yet there was only one resident living in the upper flat. In the entire building, because the rest was all designated to business space.
"I am Francois DeCardes. The builder owner." He bowed with a nod of his head. "When Monsieur signed the lease he mentioned his wife traveled too often. Makes him very sad. But we were pleased to have a married couple occupy the flat. You are enjoying the space?"
"Uh, the space?" Dizzy, I clenched the handrail. Cotton crowded my mouth. Heartbeats thundered at the back of my throat. I nodded. I didn't know how to launch into an explanation that I was not who he thought I was. I wanted to race out of there and scream at the top of my lungs. "Yes, the space. It's nice."
Nice? It was occupied by a freaking married couple! Oh hell, what was happening?
"Is Monsieur home?" the old man asked. "I've an insurance form I need him to sign. Subtle changes to the building policy. Nothing terribly unpleasant."
"He's away," I provided rotely. Not really in my body at the moment, I took a step away from the stairs, yet turned back to look up at the old man. "In Berlin."
"Ah, your paths do not cross then?"
I shook my head. Looked away. How to breathe?
Crossed paths? Only last night I'd wanted to reach through the computer screen, grab the man by his face, and plead with him to touch me. And now? I could no longer sense my heartbeats, though something pounded like tribal drums in my ears.
Married? The man with whom I had thought to be firmly ensconced in a relationship with, was married? Fuck me.
No, fuck him!
"He'll be home…" I couldn't speak without revealing the shake in my voice. I managed a fleeting glance upward. "Have you his email?"
"Oui. I can forward the documents that way. Just thought to stop in while I was in the neighborhood. Are you well, Madame?"
I nodded but it came out as a sort of head shake rotating Exorcist pea-soup-spewing movement.
Fuck. Me.
"I was headed out for some air." I patted my purse, hugged tight to my gut as if I were trying to fend off an oncoming battle spear with the flimsy armor. The armor had failed. I'd received a direct hit to the heart. "Is that all you need?"
"Oui. Bonjour, Madame. I will walk you out?"
"No, merci. I'm in a bit of a rush. I'll tell Monsieur you stopped by."
Really? I was out of my head. I couldn't think. I could barely stand. I needed to move.
I rushed past the concierge and out into the October air where I gasped in the afternoon chill edged with the crisp, lingering remnants of
rain. It should have felt refreshing, but instead I choked and clutched my throat. I pounded my chest. Where were my heartbeats? I…I…
Fuck.
Not looking for cars, I raced across the street on a red light.
"Married," I muttered, over and over.
I passed by the concierge, his usual friendly greeting a garble of nonsensical syllables vying against the pounding in my ears. It was the rushing blood. I couldn't hear over my own need to keep breathing, to stay alive.
Yes, I was being dramatic. But hell. Really?
Once inside my apartment with the door closed, I didn't scream, as I had wanted to. Instead, I tossed my purse aside to the floor, slammed my back to the door, and squatted, sliding down until I sat with my legs sprawled before me.
I gasped in a chuffing breath, holding back tears.
The bastard was married.
And I had been a fool.
Chapter Eleven
I couldn't work. It felt ridiculous to sit before the computer and attempt to ignore the fact that a month of my life had been sacrificed to a man whom I had thought to trust. A man to whom I had exposed my deepest secrets. A man—a nameless man—who had forgotten to mention that he was married.
But had he really forgotten such an important detail regarding his life? Doubtful.
How had he hidden a wife from me?
The building owner had mentioned to me that Madame traveled a lot. Had she been away so much that she hadn't even been to his new place across the street from me? He'd lived there almost two months.
Yet, I realized I hadn't paid close attention to the comings and goings across the street. Out of respect. We'd kept our voyeurism to the bedroom windows. Occasionally I'd caught a glimpse of him fencing with an opponent across the street in the area I'd decided was his practice space.
Had I completely missed a wife going in and out, suitcases in hand, a kiss to her husband's cheek as she waited at the curb for the cab?
Or was I blowing this out of proportion? I was, by nature, a great imaginer. An accidental fantasist. I thought entirely too much. And my thinking often veered me away from reality and into fictional territory. I know it's a problem. But it's the way I was. Everybody daydreamed.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 24
