by Pippa James
He sat on the sofa and pulled me onto his lap, kissing me tenderly.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” I said.
“Nobody could be that lucky.” He smiled.
I laughed, messing up his immaculate hair.
“That cost a lot of money!” he protested.
“But I like you messy!”
“Women!” he complained. “We are too dirty. We are too clean. What’s a man to do?”
I kissed him on the lips. He stroked my thighs. “What, no stockings?” he complained.
“I can fix that,” I said, breaking away to go to my room.
When I returned he said, “Music, please.”
“What sort?”
“For a foxtrot.” He danced a few steps.
“You learned to dance?”
“Oui.”
“Just for me?”
“For us.”
After our dance, he undid my dress and it fell to the floor.
“Can I offer you a French fancy?” I suggested.
“But I am your French fancy.”
