The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (18 page)

I hadn't made it as far as the chaise today.  The daydream bombarded.

I shifted, palms still against the wall, but shoulders moving me closer, bending me forward so my silk shirt fell open to reveal cleavage, which was pushed up nicely by the demi-cup La Perla hug of black lace.

"Tell me what you want," he said in a deep, masculine purr that skittered through my system, aimed directly for my core. "You want to fuck?"

I grew wet
like that
.

"I want you to touch me," I said.  "I want to feel you.  Finally.  I want you to push me against the wall and—"

He seized my shoulders and pushed.  My back hit the wall.  Not painful, but rather, exciting.  I bit my lip and flashed want at his stern but softening gaze.  That curl of a knowing smile remained.  I desired to lick the dash of stubble under his lower lip.  Feel its roughness against my soft mouth.

"You want a lot," he said.

Strolling my fingers down the front of his crisp gray dress shirt, I made quick work of the pearl buttons to reveal the hard pecs and abs beneath. So hot, his skin seemed to melt beneath my touch. 

"Mmm...  I want this." 

I licked an exploratory trail from the base of his neck to his chest.  His encouraging moan hummed against my mouth as I dashed over to tongue a tiny erect nipple.  Wide yet graceful hands moved to my hips, attempting to pull me against him, but I was too intent on tasting his skin to comply. 

Hot, hard, and oozing a warm spicy scent, he smelled like a wicked treasure I wanted to hide away.  A secret I could pull out of its hiding place to press against my nose and remember delicious liaisons past.  And while I wanted to stash him away only for myself, he felt too dangerous, too combustible for any container to properly hold. 

I glided a palm over the rugged landscape of his chest and squeezed a solid pectoral muscle, cooing in appreciation.  "Fencing keeps you hard."

"You keep me hard," he murmured. 

Then he whispered something in French, so softly, that I could only fall into the melody of the unknown because I didn't speak the language.  But I fell willingly, seduced by the erotic foreignness of all that he was.

Willingly, but not quite compliantly.

I grabbed him by the wrists and thrust his hands away from my hips and down to his sides.  When I slipped the dress shirt over his shoulders, it hung at his wrists; he wore cufflinks and I didn't want to take the time to release him.  A chuff of protest huffed against my forehead, but I ignored his drama.

He wore no belt, and I quickly unzipped, unclasped, and pushed the dress trousers down his thighs.  Gray boxer briefs greedily hugged his erection.  I grasped the thick shaft, squeezing it with a possessiveness that one usually reserves for long-desired surprises discovered beneath bright wrapping.

"I know what I want more than anything right now," I said.  "Keep your hands down.  Let me have a treat."

Fingernails gliding against the tight curve of his ass, I peeled the briefs down to reveal the heavy prize within.  His cock thrust up boldly, the smooth head of it capping a length that slapped up against his torso. 

Placing my hands on his hips, I squatted down, bending so that my knees were to either side of his legs.  The pleated black skirt rode up my thighs, revealing that I wore no panties beneath.  The air brushed my juicy pussy, stirring me to a wanting moan.  I admired his hefty rod, cooing in appreciation.  With each encouraging utterance his cock jumped and his testicles tightened.  The girth was impressive, a tight fit that I desperately wanted to try out.  The foreskin was snugged down below the corona, and the entire package was a gorgeous sculpture of flesh, muscle, and steel.

I shifted onto my knees.  Good girls wore scuffs on the toes of their Louboutins.

Rubbing my cheek alongside his cock provoked a moan from him.  I noticed his fingers tightened into a fist near his thigh, and smelled salted musk sweetened with spice—that was his scent.  I wrapped my fingers about the base of him, a good handful.  So hard and heavy with promise.  How he managed to pack all this into his pants and walk with a normal stride...well.  I suppose he wasn't hard all the time. 

Only for me.

Hey, this
was
a daydream.  I could orchestrate it any way I wanted to.

Sweeping the maroon head of him across my cheek, I purred.  While his cock was hard as steel, the skin wrapping it was suede soft to the touch.

I looked up.  His jaw muscles were tense but his mouth was parted.  When he opened his eyes to meet mine, I smiled and asked, "Do you know what you want?"

His heavy cock bobbed in my lose grasp.  "Suck me," he gasped.  "
S'il vous plaît
."

"I do please."

Tonguing him from the base where dark hairs curled, I followed the pulsing vein on the underside upward to the corona.  An intensive suck to the meaty ridge summoned a throaty, drawn-out moan from him.  His fingers brushed through my hair, but just as quickly, dropped back to his sides. 

I had directed him to keep his hands down.  Good boy.

Taking him into my mouth, I glided my tongue about the crown.  Lush and firm as a plum, I sucked softly, then more firmly.  The man tasted exquisite.  I took my time dashing the tip of my tongue about him, seeking the sensitive area just at the end of the vein that made him gasp and his fists squeezed even tighter.  His hips bucked forward, insisting on my attendance. 

One hand clasping his length, I pulled him closer and lashed the head quickly, as if a sweet treat, before sucking him in deeply.  I could feel the vein thicken against my tongue; his shaft could not get any harder.  His thighs brushing my breasts were tense, the muscles straining.  He would come soon.  I could sense it in his panting breaths, the minute tremor of his hips, the aching groans.  His body raced toward release. 

But not this way.  I was in this for the bang.

Squeezing him firmly—
mine, all mine
—I stood, bent to suck him in for a last, long, squeezing kiss, and then dusted my hair over his cock.

I straightened, meeting him eye to eye.  (Five-inch heels, don't you know.)  "Get me up against the wall.  Now."

Though he was a Frenchman, he understood English perfectly.  My back hit the wall.  His hands gripped my thighs and he lifted me as I spread my legs about his hips.  His hot cock seared along my inner thigh.  I sucked in air as if he had burned me.  It was the sweetest pain.

Panting lightly, I was thankful that he had enough range of motion with the sleeves still wrapped about his wrists to manage this position.  His mouth dove to my neck where he kissed me hard against the vein.  Chills scurried up my throat and down my spine.  We'd never kissed on the mouth, not even in my daydreams.  The ultimate intimacy.  The kiss was a prize I was reserving for real life.

I squeezed hard with my thighs and wiggled my hips until I felt the head of him nudge my labia.  He shoved, seeking entrance.  His hands were occupied holding me up, so he was stabbing without guidance. 

He snickered against my ear.  "Soon,
oui
?"

Such a tease!  By the third poke the head of his penis coaxed my slick folds open, but instead of gliding in slowly, he hilted himself.

"Oh, yes!" I cried loudly. 

I was pretty sure my neighbors were out of town.  If not?  Welcome to my daydream.

The kiss at my neck trailed to my collarbone and nipped the bone and skin none-too-gently as he pumped inside me with a determined insistence.  The thickness of him gliding in and out pulled at my clitoris, teasing it with an intangible touch.  The non-touch was more intense than direct contact.  The combination of his spicy scent, his hot skin, the slam of my ass against the wall—it all focused the pleasure at my core. 

"So hot," he uttered as he thrust into me.  "Tight. 
Mon Dieu
.  You are fire."

Such admiration was received with an open-mouthed moan.  I gripped his shoulders, my fingernails marking his skin with red divots that we would laugh at later.

And when he paused, fully hilted so that I could feel him in my belly, he nuzzled his face against my jaw.  His body tensed against mine.  His chest crushed my breasts.  A shift of his arm pulsed his solid pectoral against my nipple.  Still fully clothed, my nipples ached for the bare heat of him, but the lace bra delivered an erotic rub that hardened them to diamonds.  His abs were slick with perspiration, and my silk shirt stuck against the ridges.  His breaths panted against my throat.  Counting.  Waiting so he would not come too quickly. 

Or perhaps a pause before the triumph? 

Yes, I wanted him to explode within me now.  (Who needs condoms in a dream?)  I squeezed my inner muscles about him.  He groaned and pumped again.  Pushing his hand up under my jaw, he held me gently, yet firmly.  Gray sky eyes fixed to mine.  We were connected at hips, irises, and through anticipatory heartbeats. 

His jaw tight, he gasped, and then with one final pump, he slammed into me.  His cry of ecstasy was short, yet loud.  A burst of pure adrenaline laced with the ultimate pleasure.  And with that last rough kiss of body against body, he tweaked my clit and I had a contained yet deliciously molten orgasm.

I slipped down the wall, sighing.  My legs bent, my hand slid between my thighs and found the swollen apex of my pleasure.

Opening my eyes, I blinked at the fading daylight beaming through the window.  The man in the suit sporting the sexy grin was gone.  A mere figment.  Yet capable of inducing in me real emotion and physical reactions. 

My finger rested on my slippery clit.  The orgasm had been real. 

"Monsieur Sexy," I whispered.  "I miss you."

***

I sat there a long time, fluttering down from the dream.  And then I remembered that though Monsieur Sexy was, in reality, far away, I had the power to bring him closer, as if reaching through the glass in a daydream.

I stood, shimmied down my skirt, and wandered into the kitchen.  My thighs were hot and slick.  Parts of me still hummed softly from the orgasm.  My face and breasts felt flushed.  I love a good orgasm.

A red envelope sat on the table, tilted against a stack of research books.  The books were about Henri VIII.  The envelope was from my window lover.  (Yes, you read that right.  There really was a man in the window.)  He'd left the note with the building concierge for me early this morning before getting in a cab and heading to the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a flight to Berlin.

I didn't know his name.  I'd never heard his voice (save in my dreams).  I couldn't begin to describe how he smelled or even know if he had a favorite color or sports team.  I wasn't sure how old he was (my guess placed him at early thirties).  I couldn't know if he was a steak and potatoes kind of guy or a vegetarian.

I'd never felt his touch upon my skin.

And yet we had shared an amazing two weeks of window sex. 

You may wonder, what the heck is window sex?  It's two people standing in their adjacent bedrooms before floor-to-ceiling windows, self-pleasuring as they watch the other do the same.  Sounds weird, but oh, it has been a ride I have not wanted to end.

Separated by two sheets of glass and fifteen feet of alley space, we'd occasionally communicated with a few words hastily scrawled with black sharpies on spiral notebook paper.  But mostly we'd spoken with our eyes, our hands, and the flex and shift of our naked bodies. 

I knew he was ripped, that he had a sense of humor, and that he liked chocolate cake.  He taught fencing from his home, wore expensive suits and boxer briefs.  I knew he wasn't circumcised.  When erect, his penis was thick and a nice handful.  He liked to jack-off.  Hard. 

And I knew that I could trust him.

We'd made rules.  No names.  If we should meet one another on the street, we'd turn and walk away.  We'd followed those rules.  And they had been tested. 

And now a new test.  He taught some kind of computer mumbo-jumbo online, and had, just this morning, flown to Berlin for two weeks.  Business trip.  I wasn't sure of his exact job title.  And he knew only that I was a research assistant. 

Knowing more wasn't important at this stage in the relationship.

Now I must endure two weeks without seeing my window lover, whom I had christened "Monsieur Sexy".  (I do live in Paris, and I did hope that he was French, though he always wrote me notes in English).  Two weeks of wandering before my bedroom window and not seeing the light in his bedroom across the street.  A light that had illuminated delicious scenes of skin, carnal lust, and pleasure.

While at work at the map shop today, I had muddled over what I would do with myself these next few weeks.  Alone!  Tragically abandoned by my lover.  Our steamy relationship shoved to an abrupt halt.

Guess what?  I have a tendency to think too much.

Around noon I'd gotten lost in a mental replay of our daring window antics.  (Two customers all day; trust me, I'd had lots of time for mental wandering.)  The first time I had bared my breasts to him.  The first sight of his cock.  Me using the vibrator while he jacked off.