The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (11 page)

“Sense memories.”  I nodded, liking the term.  “I’ll forever associate this particular map with mint tea.”

“Not a terrible association by any means.  Ah, there are customers peering through the glass.  Go invite them in, will you?"

I turned absently, and wandered out to the front of the tiny shop to twist the bolt lock on the door.  Two tourists entered, calling out the requisite bonjour and I offered to help them with anything they were looking for.  They were just browsing.  As usual.  I left them to meander through the stacks of maps laid on cardboard and sealed in plastic, as well as the various assorted prints from old books on history, anatomy, and even flora and fauna.

Closing the front door, I pressed my hand to the glass above the vinyl stick-on letters detailing the shop's hours of operation.  The surface was cold and flat.  Not at all like a man's body; warm, curved, taut and muscled, and…

How could I know everything I wanted to know about him when I'd only been using the one sense?

***

I didn't step out of the shower until after eleven that night.  I'd stayed late at the store to help Richard go over the month's accounts, which he still organized on a paper ledger despite my frequent suggestions that he invest in a program like Quicken.  I wasn't sure the man had even touched a computer.  He didn't own a cell phone, or
mobile
, as the Europeans called it.  He did all of his calculations longhand on paper; without a calculator.  It was as if the man had stepped from a classic BBC television series.

Padding into the kitchen in a bra, panties, and robe—I was oddly chilled for some reason—I poured a glass of moscato.  I'd had a glass with supper, which had been a prosciutto and mozzarella panini I'd picked up from a deli on the way home.  Savoring the sweet, peachy bubbles of the sparkling wine, I wondered if I had any dark chocolate left in my stash.

The drawer beside the fridge did not offer up any hidden chocolate bounty.  Not even behind the scatter of batteries that I never needed.  Until I did need one, and then they were all expired.  Time to restock.  (The chocolate.  Screw the batteries.)

I wondered where Monsieur Sexy bought his chocolate?  Did he stop in for groceries after work?  Where did he work?  That suit he'd worn the other day had been an
I have to impress someone
suit.  He seemed to always be at home, so I'd just assumed that he worked from home.  He'd had the online meeting with Tokyo.  I suppose he could have had a meeting in person the day we’d pressed hands to the glass.  Hmm…

Wandering into the bedroom, I flicked on the light.  The curtains were drawn.  I'd open them, but first things first.  I sat on the bed, and slid my feet into the Louboutins and tied the ribbons.  Luxury, you are mine.  Another sip of moscato, and I felt decadent in the lacy bra and panties.

I wasn't planning on sleeping for a while.

Goblet in hand, I drew aside one sheer to find him lying on the bed, a thick computer textbook in hand.  Glasses were perched on his nose, and he was wearing the gray boxer briefs.  Those were my favorites because the light fabric emphasized the outline of his penis.  It appeared that the briefs were his 'lounging around the house' wear.  I hoped the winter wouldn't bring on the sweatpants.

Would we still be playing the singular sensory game then?  It would qualify as a long-term relationship if we were.  It would also be plain weird if we were still just window fucking in winter.

He noticed me then and waved, setting the book aside and placing his folded glasses on top of the cover.

Tapping my lower lip with a finger, I wondered how tonight should go down.  The mutual masturbation session was a sure bet, but how could I mix things up? 

I eyed the chair.  I'd left the book splayed open.  Romance heroes always knew exactly how to please their women, which tended to bother me.  I mean, really?  Women are all so different.  There's not a standard.  No 'one method pleases all' that men can utilize.  Each woman is unique, and must be discovered and learned. 

I suppose that was the hero's draw.  That he was capable of knowing exactly what the heroine needed from the get-go. 

But how did the heroine continue to keep his interest?  Because I was pretty sure long flowing locks and a relentless giggle would get tiring after a while.  Even if the sex was great.

My eyes fell upon the iPod docked in the speakerbase on the nightstand.  Striding to the bed, my walk sashaying me slowly before the window, I bent forward to play with the MP3 player.  I knew he couldn't see the nightstand from his position, but he could see my ass and legs, so I gave it a wiggle as I selected a playlist.

Stretching back my arm to display the iPod to him, I peeked around the curtain and pointed to the tiny red music box.

He crossed his arms and nodded.  It was my turn to dance for him.

I love heavy metal bands, classic 80s hair bands, and even Taylor Swift mixed in every so often.  I can lose an afternoon listening to Paganini's playful concertos.  I usually listened to French soundtracks while baking.  Didn't understand a single word, but still—the French accents!  Country music?  Not so much.

I scrolled up to KD Lang's rendition of “Hallelujah” and pushed play.  I found the song sensual and disturbingly sexy.  Setting the iPod into the speakerbase, the music murmured out into the room.  I trailed my fingers over the curtain as I walked by it and before the exposed window.  Slipping the robe from my shoulders, I let it glide down my arms, and with a graceful flick, sent it wavering to the chair.

Closing my eyes, I swept my hands over my temples and through my hair, taking the music into my body and moving my hips side to side to the beat.  Slow, resonant, abiding.  This evening I was incorporating sound into our sensory-deprived liaison.  The only way I knew how. 

The singer’s voice enticed me away from the mundane of my bedroom and onto a stage that glowed softly with the flicker of a thousand candle flames.  The fire warmed my skin and I smiled because the fantasy felt so real.

And then I felt the crescendo of the music rise in my body, and I abruptly turned to press my palms to the window, smiling wickedly at the man across the way.

Attention captured, he'd assumed his usual position, elbow bent and palm to his head, leaning against the window.  He watched my every move.

I bent forward, jutting back my hips, hands still to the glass.  Licking my lips seemed an appropriately seductive move, even though it felt kind of silly.  The French called window shopping
faire du lèche-vitrines
, which literally meant, to lick the window.

Realizing that he didn't have a good view of my wiggling derriere, I turned to the side and bent forward, gliding my hands down one leg to the black ties caressing my ankle.  Thank you, yoga.  I could stretch and bend with ease.  I think it enhanced my libido as well.  That's my story, and I did like to make up stories.

Ass in the air, I glanced to the side to ensure my audience was rapt.  He was.  And the bulge in his briefs had stood up to take notice as well.  Good boy.

Gliding my hands back up my leg, I noted how smooth my skin felt against my fingers.  Ah, yet another sense: touch.  His skin would feel like warm suede, like a long afternoon spent toasting under the bold sun.  His penis?  Like soft hand-warmed leather wrapped about a solid sword hilt.

While my hips matched the beat of the music, I tucked my forefingers inside my panties and shimmied them to mid-thigh.  I was mooning the man in the window and it felt…liberating.  A bit anxious.  But more so?  Surprisingly sexy.  Dragging my fingers up my thigh, I dipped them into my pussy.  Hot and wet.  Juicy for him.

Peeking around my legs, I blew him an air kiss, then dropped trou, kicking off the panties.  This time, as I glided upward, I trailed my fingers along the inside of my thighs, and when I reached my warm apex, I waggled my fingers so he could see them, before bolding sticking two deep into my tingling, moist depths.  A gasp huffed from my mouth. 

I'd stopped dancing and stood there, slightly bent forward, my fingers exploring my moistness and a delicious hum trilling in my throat.  Glancing the fingers of my other hand out to hold on to—something, anything—they streaked across the window.

Oh yeah.  I could get off like this.  Just fingering myself, my side facing the window, knowing that he watched, but not needing to see that eager attention. 

The song segued to another ballad, a sensual tune I didn’t recognize because my focus veered inward.  The velvet chair beckoned before me, and I put a foot up on it.  That opened my pussy.  I stroked my fingers over my clit, slicking it until it felt like a wet pebble beneath shallow waters.  Balancing with one hand to the window, I worked at the pleasure point, tilting back my head and—

I'd forgotten I was performing. 

Fingers unwilling to stop their quest to bring on the bliss, I deftly cast a glance over my shoulder.  His body was pressed to the glass, all but his face.  Palms formed blurred skin-colored impressions on the window.  His chest made another impression, except it was ridged in a darker skin shade where the muscles banded about his frame.  Gray briefs over that thick rod, he rubbed against the window.  I couldn't be sure he was even aware of the slight, hip-rocking motion. 

I winked at him and turned my focus inward again.  Eye contact wasn't important right now.  I was giving him myself.  Allowing him access to my private world.  Could he hear and feel me as I did?

To stand there and pleasure myself so blatantly felt more intimate than a kiss could be.  Because the curtain had been pulled aside, literally, to reveal me.  All of me began to shiver in anticipation of the orgasm that swirled in my belly and sparkled in my pussy.

I couldn't stand on one leg anymore, so I turned and settled onto the edge of the chair.  Legs spread and fingers moving of their own volition, I tilted back my head and thrust up my breasts, still caged within the lacy bra.  I imagined how I looked from the side, hard nipples poking up the lace, shoulder and arm working vigorously.  Legs shuddering, knees wanting to move close together to capture the orgasm, but instinctively staying apart because to draw out the big bang would only make it bigger, better, raging.

My free hand clutched at the chair arm.  I whispered, "Yes," and then louder, "Yes!"

Tectonic plates shifted as I came.  All the stage candles blinked out.  I stopped rubbing and buried my fingers between my swollen labia, pressing firmly against my clit to direct all sensation there, as if a magnet drawing in filings ignited with pleasure. 

Crying out loudly, I ended the long moan with a lingering, wilting sigh and then another yes, and another, and once more.

I laughed.  Softly.  My chest bounced up and down to the rhythm of the gleeful sound.  In the background, Bon Jovi crooned about ‘being there for me’. 

Squeezing my thighs together, I felt my fingers there and imagined them a cock, relaxing against my mons after the big event.  Hot and slick, and belonging to him.

Across the alley, his hand was tucked down the front of his boxers but not moving.  Just holding, then.  Reassuring?  I didn't know, and didn't care.  I was blissed out.  He could jack off if he wanted to.

Instead, he stared at me, his gaze soft, his mouth slightly parted.  It felt like an admiring look.  I stretched out a leg, stabbing the carpet with a spike heel, and basked in that admiration. 

Kissing my palm, I blew him that morsel.  He caught it, then tucked it down the front of his briefs.  Sneaky man. 

Oh, yes, some serious
like
vibes lasered back and forth between the two of us.  They were what occurred before that other L-word, of which, it was far too soon to even think about.

"Sweet dreams," I said, and pulled my legs to my chest, curling up in the chair facing him.

He stood there for the longest time, just looking at me.  I returned the admiration.  I don't think I'd ever before looked into a man's eyes for so long.  Sky-gray.  Soft and gentle, yet lusty and wanting.  I'd given him a part of myself tonight, and he'd accepted it.

Chapter Nine

The stack of research books toppled from the end of my bed where I lay sprawled on my stomach.  I tended to move from my desk to my bedroom for a change of scenery during the day.  I lunged to catch the timeworn hardcovers, but gave up halfway, and instead sprawled carelessly across the end of my bed, arms and boobs dangling over the side.  I laughed, but the position made it tough. 

With my top half angling toward the floor I decided to do an ungraceful slide off the bed, palms walking the floor—

Movement out of the corner of my eye paused me in a plank position.  Across the street he moved about in his bedroom.  It was early evening, but I didn't have the light on, so he couldn't see my bed gymnastics.  Thank God.  The setting sun always beamed on my window, which must grant him a glare from his view, but I could usually see into his room during that golden hour of natural light.

And what I saw, instead of Monsieur Sexy, landed me on my face, my legs tumbling off the bed behind me.  Ouch.  I didn't take time to mourn the rug burn.  Instead, I curled to a sit, grasping a book and holding it before the lower half of my face.  (Because, you know, disguise.)