He'd seen me in this dress, so I pulled out the red one. It wasn't silk, but it looked like it. It had been cheap. I'd probably gotten it at Nordstrom Rack back home in Iowa. But it was low cut with spaghetti straps, and the body-hugging shape of it stopped above my knees with a tickle of fringe. Seriously, it had three-inch long fringe. I loved the eclectic vibe. Hippie chick meets sex bomb.
I slipped it over my head and pulled it down. There was no zipper. No bra and no panties. (Because he liked me that way.) Just thinking that thought flushed my neck with a shivering blush.
Flouncing over to stand before the floor mirror, I inspected the look. My hair was loose and wavy thanks to the tousle it had received in the sheets the past days. I'd wash it tomorrow morning.
The Louboutins would be perfect with the dress, so I sat on the chair and strapped into the sexy. Black leather with velvet ties about the ankles. They were not slip in and slip out shoes. These were designed to make a statement and to attract the eye. The soles were the color of my dress, which made everything perfect.
"I've got to stop thinking that word. Perfect," I muttered. "No one or nothing is perfect."
If I set myself up to believe in perfection, I would only be let down. Instead, I'd settle for happiness. It definitely rocked my world.
***
Hollie was refreshing. A whispery summer breeze curling into my life. A red-hot fringe tickling at my libido. She ate heartily of the food I had prepared, and hadn't stopped complimenting me. She was too good to be true. What was wrong with her?
I finished the broiled sole and ran my finger through the lemon and capers sauce for one last taste. Then I sat back on the kitchen chair and made a dessert out of watching my lover eat.
All women were prone to some bad habits. As were we men. But as a man, I have to say that women were more of a struggle to understand than we men. And yet, Hollie read like an open book. Bright and cheery, a bookish sort with a wild inside that she didn't mind letting out for me. She was smart, but didn't flaunt that. And she was sensual without (I suspected) realizing it.
Like right now. She leaned forward on an elbow and trailed her finger through the lemon sauce, licking the finger slowly afterward and smiling to herself, unaware that I observed. Or maybe she was aware?
No, she was lost. And I wanted her to stay lost so I could accidentally stumble upon her.
My eyes played at the red fringe dusting her thigh, then glided down the sleek length of her long leg. She was shorter than I, but perhaps it was the shoes that made her legs look so long. Those sexy black shoes with the ties caressing the ankles. Women swooned for those red-soled objects of desire. And put out a pretty penny to obtain them.
"Was that the first day you'd gotten those shoes?" I asked. "That day I saw you putting them on in front of the window?" I had watched her take them out from the box and, indeed, swoon over them as she slowly tried them on.
"Yes. I'd raided my mad money for these pretties. They spoke to me."
"They did?" Her blue eyes widened as she nodded in confirmation. My cock, which never truly relaxed when she was near, hardened. Because that blue sparkle always got me. Her eyes were true. They would never lie to me. "What did the shoes say to you, exactly?"
She pushed the plate away and dabbed her lips with the napkin. It was a paper towel from a roll but I'd hadn't anything fancier. Propping an arm on the back of the chair, with a tilt of her hips, she crossed her legs, displaying both with that accidental seduction I so loved to fall prey to.
"They said, 'Mademoiselle, you must ave zee shoes. Oui?'" She laughed, and sipped wine. A nervous reaction, I sensed, to her often-sudden humor. "Sorry," she added. "I shouldn't attempt to sound like a French person. But I was impersonating the shoes. They sounded like that. I swear to it."
"Is that so?"
I slid off the chair and knelt before her legs, stroking down the soft length of her calf to the velvet ribbon that encircled her ankle. Drawing her leg out and lifting her foot to eye level, I ventured my gaze along the sleek anklebone, down the exposed heel, and studied the slender curves and lines of her foot.
"My shoes have never spoken to me," I said. I kissed the top of her foot and she cooed and wiggled on the chair. The fringe danced and fell between her thighs, distracting me from the footwear.
Holding her by the ankle, I drew my nose up her leg and to the side of her knee where I caught the scent of vanilla. It was her signature scent, and when warmed on her skin it was as if a hot treat from the oven was luring me to take a bite.
I licked the inside of her knee and felt tension tighten the muscles in her leg. She was ticklish, and wanted to pull away, but was resisting the urge because... Because Hollie loved it when I licked her. Her sweet moan was all I needed to hear to know that.
"That was an amazing supper," she said on a breathy gasp.
I nuzzled my nose along her skin, moving slowly up the inside of her thigh. Silk against my skin. Vanilla silk. I moved her leg to the side. Her palm pressed against the edge of the table.
"Where did you learn to cook like that?"
Smiling, I paused and toyed with the fringe using my nose. "I was either going to become a chef or an IT tech after my terminale year of school. I took the bac and followed the money." Instead of the passion, is what I didn't say. I did love my job. But cooking? That was something else entirely. It satisfied my creative side.
"What's the bac?"
"Baccalaureat. It is an exam we take in order to go to university."
"Like the SATs in the States."
"Similar, I'm sure."
"So what's for dessert?" she managed as I blew at the fringe, aiming toward the apex of her thighs. She wasn't wearing panties. Good girl.
"You," I said plainly.
"Mmm, I like the sound of that. Ooh..."
I followed the vanilla musk scent of her to the shaved design decorating her mons. I could smell her, moist and wanting, and I didn't have to hold her leg to the side anymore. She slid it over my shoulder and I tilted up that shoulder to widen her for me.
Kissing her thatch of soft hairs, I nuzzled into them. I loved losing myself between a woman's legs. Hollie's pussy most especially. An intriguing place to explore. I teased my tongue down the soft, hot slit between her labia, nudging her open. My tongue entered her, and teased upward where her clitoris swelled up from the top of its shaft.
I'd learned something about a woman's anatomy from an abandoned sex manual I'd found in the hotel last week while in Berlin. The clitoris wasn't simply that little bud at the top of a woman's labia that I liked to tease with my tongue, but rather extended down like a wishbone along each side of the inner folds. So I parted those folds and pressed my tongue firmly along and down one side to trace those clitoral legs I could not see, but knew—from Hollie's moan—that I had found.
Her bottom slid forward to the edge of the chair, and I pushed my face in close, my nose nuzzling her clit and my tongue lashing down the other side. Firmly, as if licking the best and last juices from a delicious dessert, I consumed her. I sucked at the tender labia, and then dashed my tongue inside her, mining her incredible heat. Indulging in her salt and sweet and sex. My goal: to make her come.
Grasping fingers slid over my scalp. She tugged at my hair, and I answered her insistence with deep penetration from my tongue. Her thighs shivered aside my cheeks. The leg over my shoulder tensed, and then it relaxed. My erection strained against my pants. But I wouldn't unzip. The denial of such pleasure as feeling her skin against my hard-on would be as exquisite as if I'd been naked.
Flicking quickly at her swollen bud, I teased it this way and that, licking around it and sucking gently and then more firmly. Careful not to use my teeth, yet so eager to draw up her panting moans to a climax that I could now feel shudder within her hips and pelvis.
"More?" I asked.
"Don't stop," she hastened out. Her thighs squeezed against my head.
"Maybe I am finished?"
"Oh... J
ean-Louis!"
I should not tease, but it was a way to extend the pleasure. "Very well. I cannot resist diving into you."
I pushed two fingers into her tight, enveloping depths. Hollie shifted on the chair, encouraging me with a guttural sound from her throat to go in deeper. I pressed my tongue to her clitoris. Curling my fingers forward, I found the ridged G-spot. One touch jerked her hips up against my face.
I controlled her. And yet she controlled me, because all I wanted was to win her release. I wouldn't be satisfied without hearing the sound of her surrender.
The toe of her foot nudged my groin. I gasped against her pussy. My breath hushing over her juicy slit must have been the catalyst. Hollie gripped my hair and cried out. The leg over my shoulder straightened and then relaxed, dangling down my back. Her breathy gasp accompanied a shimmy of shoulders to work through her bones. And her body slunk down the chair to where I had to pull her forward and onto my lap.
She collapsed against me, head falling forward, our foreheads meeting. Her panting breaths dusted my cheek. Her body clenched and then she relaxed into me, giggling.
I tucked my face into her neck where vanilla blossomed. "C'est bon," I muttered.
"You're telling me? Jean-Louis, I..." She sighed, and didn't say anything else.
She didn't need to. I still held a hand over her pussy, one finger against her clit. Her muscles contracted again.
***
After supper and dessert, I ran home to slip on some boots because Jean-Louis suggested we go for a walk. I pulled on some leggings and my long, black, wool coat, too. It was nippy out. A scarf tucked around my neck repelled the cool kiss of November as I landed on the sidewalk before my building and sought my lover.
He stood across the street from his building, next to an elder gentleman in a beret. At sight of me, he handed the man back a cigar, blew out the smoke, and gestured for me to come to him. The air around him wafted sweet tobacco. He wrapped an arm about my shoulder and leaned in to kiss my cheek as we walked.
"I didn't know you smoked," I said.
I had a thing about smokers. I could not stand the smell of smoke on their clothing, in their hair, on their breath. I had thought Jean-Louis cared for his health, as well.
"I don't. Well, I did in school. To be cool, oui? Never did like to inhale though. But I never refuse a puff on a good cigar now and then."
Pleased he hadn't hidden an addiction, I hugged him with both arms and we strolled to the Avenue Floquet that paralleled the Eiffel Tower. A jogger passed by, singing out loud to the tunes piped through his earbuds.
Jean-Louis, surprisingly, picked up the catchy tune. "We are...wild."
"We are like young volcanoes," I replied, matching him with the next line. Then I skipped happily. "I love Fallout Boy."
"So do I." He squeezed my hand and we shared that thrill of knowing your lover had the same taste in music. For the one band, at least. "They are a good band for singing the lyrics loud in the shower."
"Yep. So is Pink."
"Oui, she is another of my favorites."
It was after nine in the evening, and despite the chill air, tourists flocked about the Iron Lady. Sharing a few more band favorites, we walked along the Champs-de-Mars on the left side facing the Seine. It was one of the largest open spaces of green in Paris, and I often spent afternoons sitting here, inhaling the scent of grass while I proofread work.
"I can smell what I want," he said. Gripping my hand, Jean-Louis quickened his steps.
I crossed my fingers he had a craving for the banana and Nutella crepes they sold at the base of the tower. Even though supper had been delicious and had hit the spot, I hadn't had my dessert yet.
My core still tingled to recall Jean-Louis with his head between my legs, tendering me to a rousing orgasm with such ease. I had the thought that my dating history since arriving on French soil had been to love them and leave them after a month. We'd already stretched this beyond a month. And I didn't want it to end.
Ever.
Did that mean I was falling in love with the guy? He'd already confessed love to me.
Nah. I was still a bit skittish about that word. It felt so permanent and honest to me. And reciprocating by saying the word just because a man had said it to you was not smart thinking. I wouldn't do that to myself.
But I could admit to serious like.
Jean-Louis stopped before a food stand that sold roasted chestnuts. Not quite as ooey and gooey as the crepe I'd craved, but I could dig it. He bought a paper cone of chestnuts and nodded for me to follow him. We skipped down the stairs leading to the docks where countless bateaux mouches waited passengers. Striding past the boats, he commandeered a bench, and I snuggled up next to him and dipped my fingers into the warm chestnuts.
"These remind me of when I was a kid," he said. "My grand-mere Beatrice had a chestnut tree. She'd roast them in the evenings over a hearth fire. Makes me nostalgic, and want to buy a cottage."
"Really? You want to live out in the country and roast chestnuts?"
"Oui!" he said enthusiastically. "It is a goal of mine. But perhaps I will find a larger chateau so the children have space to run about."
"And how many children do you intend to have?" The chestnut was sweet, having been roasted with honey, and it crunched softly between my molars.
"Un ou deux?"
"A couple kids? You have plans, my man."
"I'm not getting any younger."
I turned on the bench, crossing a leg, and studied the side of his face. The barest hint of gray tufted above his ear and those crazy-sexy laugh lines that crinkled out from the corner of his eyes got me every time. His prominent brow was a European thing, I think. And that triangle of stubble beneath his lower lip? Mercy.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Trente-quartre."
I translated in my head. "Thirty-four? Hmm, I suspected you were in your early thirties."
"And how old are you, Mademoiselle?"
"Twenty-eight. But I don't have plans for marriage and children until I'm in my thirties."
"Seems reasonable. Get your career established and figure your life, then bring in others to share it with you. To enhance it."
He made it sound so simple. And yet, his first attempt at marriage had been a disaster. If it had been his first attempt. "You've only been married once, yes?"
He leaned in to kiss me. "Oui, mon abeille. I am not so terrible used goods."
"I don't think you are used goods. But so you know, I feel for you. I can't imagine any woman screwing around behind your back. But with that said," I added quickly, "I don't want to talk about her. Your marriage is your business. I'm glad it's out there, and I know about it, and..."
I sighed and reached for another chestnut to pop into my mouth before I said something stupid like 'tell me everything about her!'. I wanted to know everything. But I sure as hell didn't need to know a single tidbit if I wanted to maintain my sanity.
"I think it better we not discuss it too much," he said. "With luck, the divorce papers will be signed soon, and I can put that mistake in my past. But tell me. You have never made a mistake in the romance department before?"
"Oh, please. How much time do we have?"
I laughed then, and he joined me, and it wasn't necessary to detail any of those past mistakes. We were human. We all struggled and made mistakes, and learned from those mistakes. The key was in recognizing the lesson and moving on.
Sheesh. I was starting to think all new-agey and Dr. Phil-like. Enough of that plunge into Responsible Living 101.
Grabbing Jean-Louis by his coat collar I pulled him to me for a chestnut- and sugar-laced kiss. He pushed me down and rolled over me on the bench and deepened the connection. The taste of him was ridiculously sexy. The feel of his body over mine reassured me of his strength. The cool night heightened the brisk wind on my face and the tickle of his hair over my forehead.
"Love you," he murmured against my mouth. "And I mean that."
I knew that he did. But I couldn't return the compliment. Like was enough for me right now, and I sensed he wasn't worried that I couldn't say the L word to him yet.
"You should learn French, Hollie," he said, sitting up and offering me another chestnut. "Would you take a class?"
"I, uh..." Hadn't the desire to sit in a boring classroom learning whether or not words were masculine or feminine. I'd read enough Learn To Speak French books to fill an entire shelf. To no avail. French words didn't stick to my brain cells. "You want me to?"
He nodded. "You live in France. You have a French lover. You should learn the language."
"I suppose." I had a French lover! I would never get tired of hearing that statement. "I wonder if there are online courses?"
"I'm sure there are. But I suspect a classroom approach might be easier to comprehend."
"Maybe. I'll look it up online and see if there are classrooms in the area."
"Excellent. Let's go to your place," he suggested. "I want to make love to you in your bed. I've not yet been in your home."
"Hmm..." I made a show of considering the suggestion. Really, I was trying to decide how messy the place was, and if I'd left any heaps of dirty clothes lying on the floor in the bedroom. Heck, when weren't there heaps of clothing on the floor? "I think it'll pass inspection."
"You do not keep your place tidy?"
"I'll leave that for you to decide. But I'm hoping you'll be so eager to get under my skirt you won't notice the mess."
He pumped his erection against my hip. Yep, the guy was ready to go. "Well, if you think it is too messy we can always have sex right here?"
"You and your fantasy about public sex."
Once he'd confessed he wanted to have sex with me in the Louvre. And I'd agreed because I was pretty darn sure that was never going to happen.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 32
