One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  “Why not?” I ask. “We’re in Paris,” I point out. “The city of love. We should be making love.”

  A loud sigh escapes him. “It’s not the city of love, it’s the city of lights. Get your facts straight.”

  Oh, man. He’s really upset.

  I’ll just need to try harder.

  “You’re right,” I say. “We shouldn’t be making love. We should be fucking. It’s what we do.” I know he loves it when I talk dirty. I reach for his fly. I rub the palm of my hand over the bulge of his pants — he’s hard.

  He presses a hand over mine, but he doesn’t stop me this time. He closes his eyes and groans, as if he’s in pain. “You want me to get you off while you think about him,” he scoffs. “Finish what he started.”

  I inch closer and straddle his hips. “No, I want you to get me off while I think about you.”

  He shoves me off him, and I almost land on the floor. My heart pounds from the shock. I’m devastated, until he closes the door and turns the lock. He swivels around. “Get up.”

  I stand slowly, and press down the folds of my silky dress.

  He settles himself slowly into the velvet arm chair in the corner. “You know what you do to me, Kayla. You know I’m gonna fuck you.”

  I stand still, not daring to move closer. I’ve seen him angry before, but never quite this livid. Jealous Oscar… this is a first.

  “This little set-up works out great for you, doesn’t it,” he says. “You get to have your fun, and you don’t have to worry about settling down, about giving any part of yourself to anyone. You can do what you want with anyone.”

  I’m speechless for a second. “Well… that’s the deal, isn’t it? It’s the same for you.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want that, Kayla,” he snaps. “Maybe I don’t want to share you. Maybe I don’t want anyone else.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because it’s the only way you’ll have me.”

  It’s true. If he asked me to be exclusive, I’d probably run.

  “Take off your dress,” he deadpans.

  His eyes are dark, and the anger in them only turns me on more. I reach for the zipper along the side of my dress, and slowly work it down, not taking my eyes off him.

  He’s leaning back comfortably, his long legs stretched out, his fly still open, a long finger slides along his neatly trimmed beard. “And your panties too.”

  The dress falls and pools to the floor. I reach for the band of my white lace panties.

  He bites his bottom lip. “I’m not going to be your toy anymore, Kayla. When we get back home, I’m seeing other women.”

  I don’t really like the sound of that. “You’re allowed…” I slowly slide the flimsy fabric over my hips, down my thighs.

  His gaze doesn’t leave me. “I know… I am. And why wait… I’m sure I could snag a French hottie.”

  He’s pissing me off — I’m sure he could. I don’t like the idea of that either. My panties are on the floor. “Well, tonight, you’re mine.”

  “I am. And you’re mine. I’m going to make you forget all about that jerk.”

  I inch slowly toward him.

  “Stop,” he says. “I want to take you in. Take off the bra.”

  I reach behind my back and toy with the clasp. My breasts are revealed and I feel vulnerable under his stare.

  He leans back in his chair. “The things I want to do to you…”

  I close my eyes. I want him so badly. I can’t remember the last time I was so worked up.

  “Spread your hands on the bed,” he commands, “and show me your ass.”

  I like it when he’s bossy. I see angry sex in my near future. I do as I’m told.

  He slowly makes his way to me, and presses a hand softly on the fleshy part of my rear. “Beautiful…” he whispers. He slides a finger down and around and explores me. When he reaches my sex, I close my eyes and enjoy his touch. “You’re going to miss this,” he says. “When I find someone else and I have to break it off with you.”

  A moan escapes me. “I know…”

  He presses closer against me and I revel in the weight of him against me. “I’m not like you, Kayla. I’m not afraid of relationships, of getting close to someone.” He pulls at my hair. “But for now, you have me. And I have you.”

  He drags his mouth along the length of my collarbone, the sensation of his hot breath against my skin is delicious. He nibbles at the lobe of my ear. “It won’t be easy… letting you go. I’m going to miss your sweet pussy.”

  I’m wet under his touch as he trails circles around my clit, teasing. I want to pause time, and get lost in this moment forever. There’s nothing in the world that beats being teased by Oscar.

  A low cry escapes me. He’s going to make me come as soon as he stops teasing and finally touches my sweet spot.

  He splays a hand on my back and pushes me to the mattress. “Don’t you dare move an inch.”

  The sound of him pulling out a condom from his pocket thrills me. He always carries one, always ready for me — he likes to be spontaneous.

  In no time, he’s sinking into me and the sensation of him fills me with heat. He feels so damn good. Emotion makes everything so much more intense, and when Oscar gets emotional, I feel every bit of it. He’s right. I am going to miss him. I don’t want him to be with anyone else. I don’t want to share. I want him all to myself.

  I’m a spoiled little brat.

  16

  Deception

  The essence of lying is in deception, not in words. - John Ruskin

  WHEN WE THINK ABOUT deception, we often think of it in terms of relationships. Deception is infidelity. Deception is lying. Telling your husband that you’ve been out clubbing with your friends, when you were really making love to another man — that’s deception in its simplest form.

  But deception is so much more than that. We are all guilty of it… each and every one of us. We commit small acts of deception every day. When a colleague asks how we are, and we tell them we’re well, despite the fact that we’re depressed. Of course, none of us want others to know our lives are not always fabulous. When we post photos of ourselves on Instagram or Facebook, flattering angles, cropped just the right ways, filtered. Those photos are deceitful, giving the illusion that we are more attractive, younger, and slimmer than we really are. We are all illusionists, magicians.

  Deception is also giving someone the belief that they mean more to us than they really do, that they will get something from us that they won’t. Deception is giving people expectations and not living up to them. Deception is pretending to be someone you’re not.

  Little white lies, half-truths, exaggerations and omissions — they’re all part of deception. They all serve to get what we set out to achieve, be it the affections of someone, a job promotion, money or material possessions.

  Was I deceitful to Oscar? Have I been stringing him along? I know I have. But it’s been with the best of intentions. He just means so much to me, and I don’t want to lose him. I’ve always made it clear that we are just friends-with-benefits, nothing more. But I’ve also given too much of myself to him, I’ve loved him too much. My actions betray my words. No wonder the man is confused.

  How can I make it up to him? The last thing I want is for Oscar to hate me.

  Oscar and I are still both sleeping when Corrie barges into our room. “Réveillons, les amis, c’est une nouvelle journée à Paris!” she cheers in very horrible French.

  I moan into my pillow. “Wow, those high school French classes really paid off,” I grumble. “What time is it?”

  She settles her tiny rear on the bed — she doesn’t seem to mind that we’re both naked. “It’s seven, sleepyhead.”

  I turn to her, my face hidden under wild strands of unruly morning bed hair. “How did you even get in here?”

  “The door was ajar.”

  “Oh, and that was an invitation, was it?”

  She’s chomping on a green apple. “So, li
sten. Don’t be mad at me, but I did something…”

  I jerk up. “What? What did you do now?”

  “It’s nothing much… I know how you and your mom are not speaking at the moment, and that she also hates me, so of course, I thought that we should all do something together and get it over with. I was just talking to her, and I had to use every ounce of charm I have, but I finally convinced her to come with us.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, suspecting shopping in my future — both Corrie and my mom love shopping. Me, not so much. I shop at thrift stores, and I’m outraged by the prices anywhere else. Especially Paris. I don’t even want to see the price tags in Paris, no matter how pretty they are.

  “A walking tour,” she says, excited. “We need to be at Luxembourg Gardens at nine, so you better get up and eat breakfast.”

  I look over at Oscar, who’s still sound asleep. “Can Oscar come?”

  Corrie shoots me a little scowl. “Sure, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I heard you guys last night, by the way. I guess Matt didn’t do it for you. You had to run to Oscar again.”

  Oh, Matt did it for me, all right. I just don’t want to go there. “Get out of my room,” I scoff. “We’ll be out soon.”

  “After a little morning nookie?” she teases on her way out.

  I throw a pillow at her head.

  When my mom arrives at our place, she’s still not speaking to me. She’s super friendly with Oscar though, full of hugs.

  We walk to the fifth arrondissement and take in the views; the local merchants and artists, the Seine, the architecture. Corrie entertains my mother with stories of Paris — she’s been here quite a few times and knows all the best places to shop. They agree to go shopping.

  Oh goodie, they’re friends again now, I think, wishing it were that easy for me. Oscar snaps photos like the tourist he is. When I make fun of him, he says it’s for his mom and sister. And it probably is — he’s such a sweetie.

  “Do you miss your cat yet?” I tease.

  “You have no idea.”

  When we finally get to our meeting spot; gate Saint Michel at the lovely Jardin du Luxembourg, the small crowd is readying to go — just four people and the most stunning silver-haired man I’ve ever seen.

  He eyes us carefully. “Corrie?” he asks, in a very seductive accent, rolling the Rs. Damn, who knew Corrie’s name could sound so sexy.

  She smiles and she even blushes a little. “Yes, that’s me,” she says and quickly makes the introductions. He introduces himself as Antoine. His gaze doesn’t waste too much time on Oscar or myself, but when it hits my mother, it lingers. He stares at her for a little longer than necessary. “Florence,” he says again, pronouncing it the French way. “Beautiful name.”

  I can’t help but stare at Antoine as he goes over the tour’s schedule: the Sorbonne, a café, Notre Dame, blah blah blah. He’s dark skinned and has the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve seen since Oscar’s. And of course, being Parisien, he’s flashy, fashionably dressed… probably gay.

  We stroll through the Luxembourg gardens. My mother, who loves flowers, is thrilled. Downright giddy is what she is. I wonder if it’s the flowers or her companion — he seems to have taken a shining to her. He must not see the huge engagement ring on her finger. Or maybe he does — he is a Frenchman, after all. A friend once told me the French don’t regard the vows of marriage the way we Americans do.

  Corrie is busy tapping away on her phone, probably Instagramming. #iloveParis #luxembourgardens #blessed

  Oscar snaps a few pictures, and then he takes my hand in his.

  I smile up at him. “We’re friends again?”

  “I guess.”

  I snuggle close against him. “I quite enjoyed the make-up sex,” I say in hushed tones.

  He smiles. “Yeah, I think that’s why you like to piss me off.”

  “You know me too well.”

  He nods again with a playful grin. “I think silver fox has a thing for your mom.”

  I laugh.

  “Well, she is a knockout,” he points out.

  “Ewww, did you just call my mother a knockout? So over the line, Oscar,” I tease. “Yeah, she could definitely do worse. He’s so much hotter than Mark.”

  He laughs. “Seriously, we should get those two together. That’s a good way to break off the wedding.”

  I still haven’t told Oscar and Corrie about Matt’s devious plan — it’s time to do just that. I press a hand on his arm and still him. “Hey, Corrie,” I call out.

  My mom and Antoine are way up ahead, in their own little world.

  She glances up from her phone. “What’s up?”

  “So I didn’t have a chance to tell you guys this,” I start. “But Matt has a plan to stop the wedding.”

  They’re both slack-jawed, speechless and impatiently waiting for me to elaborate.

  “He knows a girl, here in Paris, a temptress type, who he plans to arrange a ‘chance’ meeting with… with his dad.” I glance over at my mom to make sure she’s still occupied with Mr. Beautiful. “She’ll seduce Mark, and we’ll make sure my mother witnesses the whole thing.”

  “That’s crazy,” Oscar points out, a fact I’m well aware of.

  “That’s devious,” Corrie adds. “That’s the kind of thing I would do. I like the way this Matt thinks. Why does he want to break them up? Why does he care?”

  “He’s just getting tired of his dad fucking with women, I guess. And he says he likes my mom.”

  “It seems mean,” Oscar chimes in. “Your mom will get hurt.”

  “Well, what’s better, Oscar? Her finding out now that he’s a total slime ball, before she gets in too deep, or her finding out later when she’s already married to him, and having to go through the whole divorce thing?” Corrie asks, playing the devil’s advocate. “She’s going to get hurt either way.”

  Antoine and my mom are way up ahead now, and we all scurry to catch up with them, but we’re careful to still keep a safe distance.

  “We should try to fix her up with that guy,” Corrie says, looking up ahead. “He seems to like her.”

  “That’s what we were just saying,” I say, a little too loudly. I’m getting way too excited about this. “I wonder if he’s married.”

  “I’ll check,” Corrie says. “I’m on it. I’ll find out everything there is to know about him.”

  “Okay, just don’t do it now,” I tell her. “They’re having a moment.”

  “It’s so romantic,” Corrie waxes on. “Finding love in Paris… could anything be more perfect?”

  “Excuse me while I go vomit in the flowers,” Oscar says.

  “This is going to work,” Corrie says with conviction.

  I want to believe her. I really want to believe her.

  Next up, we’re visiting the Sorbonne, which honestly, I find a little boring. Luckily, Oscar entertains us with his made-up stories. When he spots a young tattooed girl, he starts off without hesitation. “My name is Sylvie, and I’m heading to my 20th century literature class. I love my professor, Gustave. He’s my favorite professor, and also my very sexy lover. He might be balding, married, and sixty years old but he’s so good in bed. I love it when he goes down on…”

  Corrie and I burst out laughing as the story gets lewder and lewder. Antoine and my mom turn to see what’s so funny. They haven’t got a clue, and I don’t think they care much.

  I’m parched by the time we hit a local café; a quaint little spot. There are thousands of them in Paris. They all have menus I don’t quite understand, written in French on cute chalkboards, pretty wicker bistro chairs, art on the walls, beautifully dressed patrons, and servers with heavy French accents.

  This particular spot is book-themed, which I love. Hundreds of books line the wall, and the art on the walls is literature themed; scrolls, and typed pages of fiction. It’s tasteful and sophisticated. I enjoy a chai tea and ginger cookies while the owner, Michel, tells us all about the place, and gives us book recomme
ndations. I jot them down on my iPhone. He and Antoine seem to be great friends, and Michel even invites us to his place, later that night, for wine and food.

  I buy a French book I will never read. Oscar laughs at me, but I can’t resist the captivating cover. I’m such a book nerd.

  Notre Dame is so majestic. There are a lot of tourists around, but that doesn’t deter from its beauty. When we venture inside, I signal Oscar to take off his baseball cap — he’s such a tourist. I’m quiet as a church mouse, not daring to say a single word in this sacred space, for fear I might slip and curse. The place is even more stunning inside; impossibly high arches, amazing architecture and striking stainless windows — a beautiful work of art.

  “I think this is where Céline Dion got married,” Corrie whispers.

  “No, she got married in Montréal, in Canada. There’s also a cathedral named Notre-Dame there. It’s a bit similar looking.”

  “How do you know this shit?” she asks, a little too loudly.

  I shoot her a wide-eyed look.

  She slaps a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”

  Mom and Mr. Beautiful are still inseparable. He seems to have forgotten that there are seven other people in this tour. I wonder if the others mind that my mother has monopolized the attention of our tour guide.

  Oscar is mesmerized and for once, he doesn’t have a snarky comment to offer. He reaches for his phone, and I tell him that pictures are not allowed.

  He points in the direction of a tourist who is obliviously snapping pics.

  “It’s frowned upon,” I explain.

  He shrugs and tucks his phone away. I take his hand. He smiles at me, and for a fraction of a second, I have a vision of us in a church exactly like this, getting married. He’s wearing a beautiful black suit, like the one he wore at my mom’s engagement party, and I’m wearing a pretty white gown. I shake my head, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

  It must be Paris. It’s doing things to me.

  17

  WE STROLL BY THE SEINE and take in the views.