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

by Michele Renae

  We were an us. Well, we had become an us. I wasn't sure if we still were. We stood at a crossroads, held up by a flashing red light while a high-speed train whooshed between the two of us. When the crossbars finally lifted, would we reach across and grasp hands?

  I paused before his building entrance. The concierge inside nodded to me, and then indicated he was locking the door. I signaled him to stop and handed him the Angelina folder.

  "For Monsieur," I said. "On the third-er, second floor. Would you mind?"

  "I will run it up now."

  "Uh, no. Er..." I wouldn't have time to explain I wanted to give him the same choice to open the envelope as he had given me. "Can you leave it in his mailbox, s'il vous plaît?"

  The concierge nodded and bid me bonne nuit.

  Before entering my building, I glanced up and across the street. The light was on in his kitchen and bedroom. As I climbed the three levels of stairs to my apartment I wondered if, after crossing his threshold, he had walked immediately to the window to look for me.

  I hoped he had. Because the only other option was to not look for me, and that would be so sad. Yet I'd not been there to offer a welcome home wave.

  Or a kiss at the curb.

  I was being irrational about this. So he had a wife. He didn't love her, and he was in the process of divorcing her. That made him virtually single. And if she were off having affairs with other men then what did she care if I pulled him into my arms and gave him the love he deserved?

  Is that how the other woman always thought? Was I the other woman? Mercy.

  "No, I'm not," I muttered, stepping across the threshold and setting my purse aside. "I am his cyber girlfriend."

  Just speaking it made me smile. And something inside me shifted. I decided at that moment how I would proceed. I was willing to continue our relationship because I wanted to. Because I was emotionally involved, and didn't want to let this detail of the soon-to-be ex-wife destroy something that wanted to grow and flourish, and perhaps even be great.

  We had to reach across the tracks and join hands. It was inevitable.

  He was mine. And I was willing to fight for him.

  Shoulders settling back and spine straightening, I strode into the bedroom and pulled my hair free from the ponytail binder. Toeing off my riding boots, and tugging the scarf free to fall down my chest, I paused and glanced out the window. The sheers were pulled back, but I hadn't turned on the light, so he couldn't see me in the dark. His bedroom was revealed like a diorama, sans sexy fencer standing in his skivvies.

  Fine. I had told him I'd need some time to think about this. And I entirely expected him to understand, should I not sign in online or go to the window.

  But I had just decided to fight for him.

  And I would.

  I tapped the laptop, vacillating my next move. I'd asked for radio silence. And yet an email was necessary. I typed up a note. Left a note scribbled on Angelina folder for you in your mailbox. My name is inside. Open if you wish. I need to know your name. It is important. I hope you feel the same.

  I didn't sign off with sincerely or even goodbye. Just left it like that. Business-like. It felt right.

  Slipping off my clothes and leaving them in my wake on the bedroom floor, I wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While I waited for the water to grow hot, I brushed my teeth, and winked at the chick in the mirror. She'd grown bold over the past month. Doing things the introvert in me would never have dreamt doing.

  I'd let the tiny vixen run free. I loved her now. I embraced her willingness to try things that might scare other women. I was the sexy vixen who strode before the window in five-inch heels wearing nothing but a teasing smile. I could jill myself off to exquisite orgasm while posed before a camera in order to allow my lover to watch.

  I had accepted a man's confession to loving me. And I was graciously accepting him into my life, warts and all (and man, those were some big warts).

  And Monsieur Sexy had been the one to tease out that vixen.

  "I'm going to do this," I said and my reflection nodded in agreement.

  Hopping in the shower, I soaped up and lingered under the stream. The hot water beat against my stomach and mons. Gliding my hands down my slick skin, I closed my eyes and imagined him standing before me, his fingers mapping out my curves and glides and even my nooks.

  He dropped his hand and slicked it over my skin. He kissed all along my labia, down one side and up the other, until he reached the pinnacle and there, he dashed his tongue against my clit.

  The fantasy was too good. I reached back and above and detached the showerhead from the wall hook, bringing it down to focus exactly where I wanted to feel his tongue. Pulsing, swishing, tasting me. Lapping at me as if starved for sustenance, and then softer, a reverent sort of touch that stirred my insides to a writhing, wanting hum.

  I wanted to spread my fingers through his hair. The showerhead was not Monsieur Sexy's head. So I made due with the fantasy of feeling his wet hair against my thigh as he supped upon me. And as I came, I cried out loudly and gripped for the shower curtain to steady myself as I wobbled forward, catching the clenching waves that tensed my pussy in delicious climax.

  "Oh, yes." I laughed and dropped the showerhead to the floor of the tub. Then, kneeling, I caught the upstream against my pulsing pussy.

  Round two? "Why the hell not."

  ***

  Ten minutes later I wandered into the bedroom, the robe open, my hair toweled off yet hanging wet and heavy across my shoulders. Two orgasms had worked nicely to relieve my cramps. I peered out the window. He sat in bed, the sheets over his lap, reading one of those thick computer manuals that would probably render me into a catatonic state before I reached the bottom of page one. I preferred romances, thank you very much.

  I loved when he wore those stoic, black-rimmed glasses. Sexy geek fencer guys did it for me. And to think on it… He was going through a tough time right now, struggling to get a divorce from a wife who had cuckolded him, over and over. (Yes, I'd just thought the word cuckolded. I'd been doing too much historical research lately.)

  Poor guy. He needed tender loving care.

  I leaned over and clicked on the lamp sitting on my nightstand. He instantly looked over, dropping the book onto his lap.

  I waved. Yes, I was being a tease, standing there exposed. I was pretty darn sure he could deal with it.

  He held up the brown Angelina folder and winked. Picking up his notebook he wrote, then turned it to me. You will always be mon abeille.

  Sigh.

  So he now knew my name. We were in it to win it. Or something like that.

  He wrote on two more pages: Mon nom est

  "My name is," I interpreted, thinking it funny he'd just written in French. I flexed my fingers in anticipation.

  Jean-Louis

  Another sigh. A breathless fall into romance and wonder and all that good stuff a girl should feel when in a relationship.

  "Jean-Louis," I whispered. It fit him perfectly. "My Frenchman."

  I gave him a thumbs up.

  Emboldened by our confessions, I grabbed the spiral-bound notebook from the nightstand and the sharpie marker. I wrote something while he waited, hands to hips. How much did I love the gray boxer briefs that conformed over that thick erection?

  I wonder if he'd found my panties?

  "Jean-Louis," I whispered again. My Jean-Louis.

  Having written the three most daring words I'd probably thought about our relationship lately, I hesitated turning the notebook around. I could chicken out, tear off the page and toss it over my shoulder. I'd wave him off, click off the light and crawl between the sheets. 'Nuff said. The relationship was on wobbly legs at best.

  But…

  No. I'd decided to fight for him. And this chick wasn't about to go down easy. (Unless he wanted me to go down on him, then...)

  Okay, right, stop thinking. Focus!

  I pointed from me and then to him. He nodded. I coul
d feel his anticipation permeate the glass and burst in my heart. And that is what endeared him to me. He was honest and open and trustworthy, and he'd given me his all. As much as a man is capable of giving in the sort of hookup we had.

  I turned the notebook around. Let's do this.

  Head bowing for a moment, I imagined he must be relieved, his heartbeats thumping and his anxiety settling down on the scale. He gave me two thumbs up, then blew me a kiss. Then he grabbed something off his dresser. It was the laptop.

  I shook my head. "Not tonight."

  I wrote more, then turned the notebook around.

  Party in two days. Still need time. Just the window until then?

  He nodded eagerly.

  I wrote again: I can't wait to touch you.

  He pressed his palms together before his mouth and bowed, perhaps overwhelmed by my confession. It was the truth. I wanted—no needed—to touch him.

  Finally.

  The End

  Curious to learn what she wrote in the gold leather notebook? Stop by http://thenotebookconfessions.com

  Skin: Book #3

  Chapter One

  Have you ever so desperately wanted something to happen that anticipation jittered in your veins? While at the same time, if it really did happen you felt sure you'd pass out?

  Been there, doing that right now.

  Tonight promised to be an auspicious night. I would finally meet my lover face to face. No windows separating us; not even a computer screen. We would finally stand before one another. And for the first time, we would touch.

  That is if he chose to show. The party had been going strong for hours. I was beginning to worry that my coach might transform to a pumpkin in a sparkling of faery dust.

  Very well, I highly doubted my ride home, the Paris Métro, would suddenly morph into mice and gourds, but that was the way my brain tended to work. If not properly engaged, my imagination got carried away.

  It was November 1st, and my best friend Melanie hosted her annual bash celebrating All Saint's Day, or La Toussaint. The French were more into this day than Halloween. Even though it was officially a religious holiday, Melanie encouraged the costumes and fun. (And gallons of champagne.) Costumes ranged from the standard spooky Halloween fare: vampires, ghosts, witches, and blood-dripping zombies, to some historical figures, and the classic Day of the Dead painted faces or even entire skeletons, as well.

  For my costume, I'd gone with my favorite time period, the seventeenth century. And while I'd vacillated over the skull paint for my face, I'd decided to go glamorous and as historically accurate as a costume rental would allow. Clad in a poufy skirt and tight corset, this was the closest I'd ever get to time travel.

  All I needed to fulfill one of my recurrent fantasies was a handsome fop in a damask frockcoat.

  The party was in full swing. Dance music bounced off the walls fueling the exuberant crowd. Around eleven, I pulled myself away from the black-and-white harlequin dance floor to seek refreshment. Humungous crystal chandeliers floated over the ballroom and smaller versions queued down the sides of the room. Underwhich, I found Melanie and gave her a giddy girlfriend hug.

  "Is he here?" Melanie's question bubbled up gaily. I suspected it was due more to the Krug than a party high.

  Melanie wore a sexy Alice in Wonderland costume that revealed her bosom almost to the nipples, and she clutched a stuffed white rabbit. A curly blonde wig hid her bright red hair. An ace of hearts temporary tattoo dotted her right cheek below her green eye. Lush lashes fluttered expectantly. I bet Alice had never shown the Mad Hatter so much cleavage, or had flashed Wonderland with frilly, red, ruffled panties when she bent over.

  "Haven't seen him," I provided, but coached my tone to remain chipper. "He may not have found a costume and decided to stay home. I did only give him a few days notice."

  I'd met the man I waited for a little over a month ago, via our bedroom windows. We'd teased one another with flashes of skin through the windows. Then we had taken it to full-on mutual masturbation while communicating via notes on paper smashed up against the glass. Because we'd agreed not to share our names, I'd christened him Monsieur Sexy. When he'd left for a two-week business trip to Berlin our sexy liaison had graduated to cyber sex. As well, we'd shared details about our lives. And I'd heard his voice for the first time. Sigh...

  Jean-Louis was his name. I'd only learned it a few days ago (via Skype) after also learning a devastating detail about his personal life—that he was married.

  But I wasn't wearing the Other Woman crown. Not officially, anyway. Jean-Louis was in the process of getting a divorce, and had been separated from his wife for a year. All that was required was his wife's signature on the divorce papers. So we were cool to continue with the relationship. Maybe. Mostly.

  Hell, I didn't want to think about such things as other women and wives tonight. Everything was daisies and sunshine and baskets full of puppies. And one extremely sexy Alice in Wonderland.

  I'd dared Jean-Louis to meet me tonight (before I'd known he was married). It was high time I felt the man's skin against mine. And I wanted this first meeting to be perfect.

  If it even happened. I wasn't sure what I'd do if he didn't show.

  "You need more champagne, mon amie," Melanie offered.

  She wasn't French, but she could speak the language smoothly. I could still barely understand it, even after living in Paris for over two years. It was absolutely bliss-inducing when Jean-Louis spoke to me in his French, husky, sensual voice, and my being completely oblivious to the meaning, allowed for me to simply savor how the tones glided across my skin and stimulated my desires.

  "I'm good for now," I said to Melanie. "I'll swing by the bar in a bit. I'm headed toward the balcony for some fresh air. My stays are tight."

  "Yes, but they push up your boobs nicely."

  "You think?" I caressed the boobs in question and wiggled. "So that's why all the men have been bumping into walls and marble columns when I walk by."

  Melanie and I shared winks. When in Paris, flirt like you mean it, but never let them take you home.

  "There are so many people!"

  "Hundreds," Melanie said over the sudden racket as a popular song thundered from the speakers. The elite crowd cheered and pumped their fists to the beat. "I have to find Rene," she said. "He wants to show me his Tweedledee." With a wink, the sexy Alice slipped into the crowd, assuming the beat with her body and dancing out of sight.

  "She's so good at that," I muttered.

  Mingling was not my thing. Crowds made the introvert in me shudder. If it weren't for anticipation, I would have ducked out of the party an hour earlier. But I remained hopeful.

  My breaths stopped as I turned and spied a musketeer in a blue tunic trimmed in silver lace standing before the neon-lit bar. My heart performed a kickstart, stutter, and then stalled. I clasped a hand to my chest. My breasts were exposed by the low-cut bodice but not so much I worried my nipples would perform a peep show. They used to wear their dresses much lower to expose nipple back in the seventeenth century. So I was actually a prude tonight.

  Prudishness aside, I wove through the crowd toward the musketeer. I wasn't sure what I'd say when finally I stood before Jean-Louis without a window or a computer screen to separate us. Hi, seemed inadequate. Grabbing him and making out with him was long overdue, but inappropriate for this crowd.

  Maybe not. Tonight I'd seen more risqué embraces and tongues lashing one another than an actual sex club might feature. I was surprised I hadn't seen full-out sex yet. Maybe I wasn't looking in the right places. There were some shadowy corners. And I'd wondered about the coatroom when I'd arrived. If the attendant were on break....

  Oh, the thoughts my brain entertained. It was a riot up there in my cranium.

  I neared the blue tunic and spied the black beaver hat that sported a swish of red plume. He'd actually dressed as a musketeer! The man knew the way into my fantasies because he had stood inside them, dallied about, and mas
tered a few of his own.

  When a bunny hopped out of my way to reveal the musketeer completely, I stopped where I was. The musketeer turned to me and nodded. I smiled, and swallowed my rising heart.

  Not my musketeer.

  For starters, he was too short. I'd once seen Jean-Louis standing out on the sidewalk, but thirty paces away from me. He was tall, fit, and had a way of standing that held his shoulders back, his arms hanging freely at his sides. Like a fashion model showing off his wares.

  The next point that clued me in that this particular musketeer wasn't here for me was his rich, caramel skin color. I turned away quickly and closed my eyes. Idiot. I had almost flung myself at a complete stranger.

  Okay, so not exactly flung. I didn't do the fling. I could stand naked before a window and jill-off in front of a man with whom I'd never exchanged a spoken word, but I most certainly would not humiliate myself with the submissive fling.

  Smiling now, because my thoughts were too silly at times, I glided through the vast ballroom toward the balcony. A jester in green and red bowed grandly to me, and I nodded a courtly acknowledgement. This was fun, but I felt painfully alone. Most were coupled up or standing in groups laughing and dancing. I'm sure there were also many standing on their own, but of course I didn't notice the wallflowers. That would be too reassuring.

  Many sets of two-story double doors stretched along the curved end of the ballroom. Elegant, red damask curtains plunged to the floor, framing the balcony doors. Outside was sure to be chilly. The thermometer had dropped to fifty degrees this evening. Still, as a native Iowan, this weather felt balmy for November. I craved a few moments away from the couples and laughter, and wanted to see if the view provided a glimpse of some of the Parisian landmarks.

  And if I happened to stroll past the dessert table along the way, I wouldn't allow anyone to talk me out of chocolate. Chocolate consumed while partying had no calories. Because, you know, dancing and the energy of the evening jittered it all off. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.