The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (16 page)

I flashed him another look.  This was the first time we'd seen one another without a sheet of glass between us.  A glassless meeting.  And it felt so intimate, much more intimate than the day I'd pressed my hand to his at the leather shop.

Heartbeats thudded against my ribs, pounding like an anxious child who wanted to be let out so she could run free.  Fingers curled into my palms and they grew clammy.  Never had I felt more exposed to him than right now.  My skin folded back to reveal my crazy thinking innards.  Alone on the corner, only a dash away from him.  Desperately wanting to rush into his arms, but unsure how to turn and make that first step.

He stood boldly, arms at his sides, one slightly back, shoulders proud and broad like a warrior.  The bespoke suit screamed sex and control.  So fine. 

My God, what kept my feet firmly planted?

Finally, with a nod, he put up a hand and backed away, offering that sexy smile honed with the ability to undo me. 

I felt liquid, unsteady.  How wrong was it to resist running up to him and jumping into his arms?  To wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him deeply?

He gestured that he was going the other way.  I nodded, offered a weak smile. 

The light changed to the little green man.  I stepped off the curb, then paused.  I couldn't
not
look at him.  It's what we did.  Stare at one another from a distance.  Speaking so much.  His eyes expressed regret.  I understood.  He was some kind of gentleman to have not approached me, and that impressed the hell out of me.

A car horn honked, jarring me out of my staring session.  Monsieur Sexy backed further away, and when he reached the end of the building, he turned down the narrow alley between buildings that hugged the wall of his bedroom.  Perhaps there was a back entrance.

And I, seeing the car that had honked was waiting for me to cross on the now-red light, dashed across the street without looking back.  When I reached the opposite curb I felt as though I'd done something wrong.  Passed up an opportunity that might never be offered to me again.  Hell, I'd made a mistake. 

I peered down the sidewalk opposite from me, and wondered if I should run after him.

I shook my head.  No.  Play by the rules.  They were my rules.  And I'd made them for a reason.

"And what reason was that?" I muttered as I walked onward. 

The doorman held open the door.  I thanked him and stepped inside.  Avoiding the elevator, as usual, I trekked the three flights upward.

"Really, what
is
the reason?" I pressed as I hit the second flight of stairs.  "Things have changed.  The relationship has progressed."

Yes, it had.  I could call it a relationship with confidence, and knew that he felt much the same.  Sure, he may date other women.  Though, after the pink panty incident, I had reason to believe he was not dating others.  He'd been adamant in convincing me he was not. 

I shouldn't expect him to see only me.  Because that was the crux, wasn't it?  He only
saw
me.  It wasn't as though he'd ever heard my voice.  He'd never felt my skin or my hair, the slide of my panties as he'd slip them down my thighs to my black leather Louboutins.  He'd never tasted my mouth or smelled my perfume oil or even my subtle musk after a day spent slaving away over the keyboard.

As I had not heard, smelled, tasted, or touched him.  I wanted to drag my fingers through his hair after he'd peeled off the fencing mask and tuck the wavy curls back over his ear.  I wanted to touch my tongue to his skin, draw a trail downward to his stomach and then to his cock where I would lick it until he groaned and begged me to go faster, take him in deeper.

Gripping the doorknob, I inserted the key, and pushed open the door.  Inside, I deposited my bag on the floor by the chaise, and marched immediately to the kitchen to pour some wine.  I kicked off my shoes, and flicked on the music.  A soft tune; Michael Bublé.  The subtle melody gentled my thoughts from going over the edge, as they tended to do.

I wanted to touch him.  I wanted to listen to him say whatever it is he thought I should hear.  I wanted to know if he smelled like spices and musk, or maybe leather, or even fresh outdoors.  I needed to know the taste of him on my tongue.

I wanted us palm to palm.  With no glass in between.

I wanted him to not be so respectful of the 'rules', and to walk up to me, sweep me into his arms and kiss me deeply.

I tapped the goblet rim against my lower teeth. 
Did
I want all that?

Sometimes I lied to myself.  We all did it.  It's how we made excuses for those extra pounds (I have heavy bones) or once again forgetting to take out the trash (I was too busy with work).  I couldn't be expected to actually know how to navigate this crazy odd no-touch relationship without some floundering.

Wandering into the bedroom, I saw him there, dressed in the suit and looking ever-so-stylish…waiting.  Waiting for me to make the first move? 

I knew what it had to be.

Setting the goblet down, I wrote
Thank you
on the notepaper and held it before the window.

He nodded, seeming to understand exactly.  He wrote something and then gestured with a finger between him and me.  He turned the paper toward me.

"Trust," I read.

My God, I think I stumbled over serious like and into deeper, unsure territory.  Another four-letter word that started with L teased my hard-crushing heart.  He'd walked away from me on the street because we'd made a rule, and he'd wanted to respect that rule.  The man was trustworthy.  It was an immense gift.

I'd do my best to return the respect.

He scribbled another message and turned the notebook toward me.

Business trip to Berlin. Leave tomorrow morning. 2 weeks
.

Wait.

"What?" I blurted out.  The world tilted.  I spilled wine down the side of the goblet and my fingers. 

That was…unacceptable.  He couldn't leave me for two weeks.  Didn't he realize I looked forward to our nightly window love?  Didn't he understand that after promising me trust, this was some kind of slap in the face?

He wrote more.  I realized I held the goblet so tightly I wouldn't be surprised if it broke.  I set it on the night stand, licked my fingers clean, and waited with arms crossed over my chest as he wrote for some time.

Here it comes, I thought.  The big kiss-off.  I don’t know why I expected that.  I'd thought it coming after the Pink Panty Incident.  It hadn't.  A trip to Berlin did not require a man to break it off with his window lover.  Unless he had another fling waiting in Germany.

The notebook read:
I will miss you
.

Oh, mercy.  Was he for real?  And would he ever know how insane my brain could get, zooming from zero to explosion in a matter of a few thoughts?

I pressed my palm to the window and said, "Me too."

More writing. 
Big question to ask
.

I nodded.  If he invited me along I'd say no.  Naturally.  That would rocket the no-touch status to full-out touch too quickly.  I was only prepared for another street corner meeting right now.  Not…everything.  But I certainly did expect him to ask.  It was the polite thing to do.  The lover's thing to do.

I want to Skype you
.

I read it twice, because the first time I read it, it sounded in my head like some kind of nasty sexual act that I certainly wouldn't mind exploring with him. Skype meant video and sound.  The video didn't bother me.  We'd built a relationship based on sight alone.

But the voice? 

I sighed out a huge breath.  Caught my hand against my chest.

He wrote more. 
Big decision, I know.  I leave it up to you
.

Oh, great.  No pressure there.

The next page took a while to write, and it was actually three pages by the time he finished. 

Will leave my email address (no name) with UR doorman.  Sealed envelope.  UR choice to open.  UR choice to Skype me.  Please confirm that is all right to do?

I nodded, without thinking.  Yes, it was okay. 

Because he was leaving it to me.  I didn't need to make the decision right now.  I was merely giving him permission to open the doors a little wider.  The glass would remain. 

He blew me a kiss and tossed the notebook over his shoulder.  The glint in his eye told me he was ready for a bon voyage jack n' jill session.  Much as I wanted to sit and ruminate over this huge development, I knew this might be the last time we communicated for two weeks.  Indeed, we both needed a send-off.

Chapter Thirteen

I couldn't take my eyes off him.  Because I reminded myself I may not see him for two weeks.  Fourteen days.  Half a month.  One twenty-fourth of a year.

Or, I could take the dare, and open the envelope.

I didn't want to think about that imminent decision.  He would be gone by morning.  Tonight was for us.

On the bed, he lay on his side, naked, stroking his cock, his eyelids shuttering up and down as he increased the speed of his hand movements.  Then he would slow for a while and allow his thumb to work around the base of the helmet-like corona.  Most sensitive there.  And steeped with spice and rich male musk.  It was a place where I wanted to lash my tongue along the swollen vein, then press it under the fleshy ridge, feeling his pulse beats.  Gauging his shallow breaths as they neared the edge.

I imagined him sinking into the tendrils of exquisite pleasure that accompanied his forthcoming orgasm.  Fingers digging into the sheets.  Thighs tightening.  Jaws clenching as he anticipated the rush of oblivion.  I hoped it felt as good for him as it did for me.

I still wore my panties and bra, the silk robe wrapped loosely around my shower-steamed skin.  I leaned forward on the chair arm, attentive, a bold voyeur. 

The strange thought that I could make a habit of this, walking by lighted windows in the night, observing the antics going on behind the curtains, made me smile.  No.  I was no Peeping Jane.  I only had eyes for one particular man and his iron cock that could take a beating.  He jackhammered that thing now.  His neck muscles were tight, his jaw tense. 

He was so close to coming.  I noticed the subtle shudder in his shoulders.  His leg jerked.  Abdomen muscles ridged like washboards gleamed with perspiration.  His cock head was maroon, swollen with sensation.

I clenched the chair arm and leaned closer to the window.  "Now," I whispered.

Hips bucking, he spurt a trail of pearls onto his abs.  His hand gripped the main shaft hard, as if pulling the brake and squealing the wheels. 

He cried out, "Yes!" and rolled onto his back, arms splaying out wide.  His chest panted.  His mouth fell slack.

His cock was still hard, but as I watched, it slowly softened and finally wilted upon his thigh, exhausted, spent. And guess what?  Uncircumcised.

He turned to me and winked.  Rubbing the heel of his palm over his face, he shoved away loose curls.  Working hard, and rewarded for his efforts.

I clapped.  "Encore!"

Plucking the boxer briefs that lay nearby on the bed, he wiped off the cum from his belly.  I wanted to do that for him, slowly, sliding over each slick ridge of muscle until I’d mapped the territory in my memory.

He pointed toward me then made a gimmie gesture with his fingers.

“Oh yeah?  You want this?”  I peeled away my panties, and tossed them over a shoulder.  Heels digging into the floor, I slid my fingers into my wet pussy.  “I’m so wet for you, Monsieur Sexy.  I wish you could feel me.”

But since he couldn’t, and there was no point in dreaming, I would give him something to think about while he was on vacation.

My juices slicked around my forefinger as I pushed it as deeply as I could manage.  Curling my fingers backward toward the top of my vagina, I felt the rough texture of my G-spot.  I’d never been able to operate that spot properly.  Someday, I’d find the guy with the skill.  Drawing out, I slicked around my labia, dancing over the thousands of nerve endings that tingled with each wicked stroke. 

Already breathing deeply, my breaths panting, I glanced out the window.  He’d moved to the edge of the bed, sitting upright, focused hungrily on my moves. 

“Yes.”  I slammed a palm to the window, while the fingers on my other hand drew expertly the path to an orgasm I already felt humming in my core.  Sucking in the corner of my lip, I lowered my head and snagged his gaze through a flutter of lashes.  He started to match my insistent rhythms, his hand stroking his cock, which hadn’t stayed soft for long. 

My thoughts were reduced to singular ideas and feelings.  No ability to wax poetic now.  Hot, wet, tingly, burning, aching, wanting, desperate…

Desperate to keep him right there.  In my eyes.  On my skin.  At my fingertips.  Because there at the tip of my fingers lived another realm.  A world that I wanted to keep him in, even if it meant preserving him behind the glass like this forever.

I held his steady gaze, needing to imprint this moment of raw connection between two people while the exquisite hum of imminent orgasm drilled into my being, igniting every nerve ending, and painting a sheen of shuddering anticipation over my skin.