The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (19 page)

By the time I'd punched out at five, I'd been horny enough to engage in a flirtatious exchange of glances with a blonde man in a business suit on the Métro.  He'd clutched a leather valise and had paused from texting on his iPhone to wink at me. Thank goodness he'd gotten off at the first stop.  I could flirt, but to actually follow through?  Eek!  I was more daring behind glass.

Anyway, the new test.

Before leaving, Monsieur Sexy had asked me (via a note scribbled with Sharpie) to Skype him.  Innocent enough, right?  He'd left his email address in the red envelope that now sat on the kitchen table.  If I wanted to take our relationship to the next level all I had to do was open the envelope.

I was curious.  Anxious.  Eager.  Frightened.  Anticipatory.  A jumble of nerves had me pacing before the window now.  I glanced to the red envelope.  Could I do it?  We'd never spoken.  And Skype would allow us to see one another much more closely than we had up until now. 

I could handle that.  I'd seen all of Monsieur Sexy, as he had of me.  He'd watched me masturbate, and bring myself to orgasm with a vibrator, and I'd even done a silly strip tease for him while wearing mylar stripper pasties.  The man—whose name I did not know—knew things about me that no one else did.

How's that for never having spoken a single word to one another?

The red envelope screamed with a loud, teasing silence.  I turned away from its shout and hugged my arms across my chest.

I craved his touch.  His arms around me.  His cock inside me.  I wanted to learn more about him.  And yes, I did want to hear his voice.  But I was a nervous wreck right now.  It was a big step.  I know, most people spoke to one another on their first date.  It was sort of a requirement.

So I had done things a bit differently.  Call me unconventional.

I picked up the envelope, weighing the thick stationery upon my palm.  The paper had a rough grain and felt handcrafted.  It was crimson.  The color of a deep, velvety rose petal.  It also reminded me of lushly painted lips pursed in expectation of a kiss.

Oh, a kiss.  More than anything, I desired his kiss. 

A kiss would claim me.  Secure our weird relationship in a new and startling hold.  A kiss would breathe his world into me.  A kiss from him would melt my insides and make me cream down my thighs. 

A kiss would be the most raw and intimate means of communication we could share.

But because I'd gone about this relationship in such a backward manner, I had yet to feel the heat of his mouth against mine.  I didn't know if his mouth would be firm and commanding, or if he preferred a lighter touch before thrusting his tongue against mine.

I wondered if he thought this much about me?  Did he crave the feel of my skin beneath his fingers?  Did he wonder how my lips would taste on his?  Did he ever daydream about licking my pussy and listening to my moans as I begged him to never stop?  When he grasped his cock and slid his fingers firmly and furiously up and down did he imagine thrusting inside me?

Holding the envelope against my mouth, I closed my eyes.  I stood before the living room window.  It was around six p.m. and the apartment smelled of vanilla from the sugar scrub I had used in last night's bath.  A precariously balanced mountain of research books sat on the coffee table behind me.  An empty wine goblet held post on top of the books.

"Should I?" I whispered, and tapped the envelope against my lips.

I set the envelope back on the kitchen table and picked up the gold leather notebook lying there.  It had been wrapped in red paper to match the envelope and had been delivered along with it.  I'd broken down and opened it this morning because curiosity had won out.  I still couldn't believe he'd gifted me the very notebook I had been looking at in the leather shop window a few days earlier.

I smoothed my fingers over the journal.  The leather was silken and pliable.  A bee with spread wings had been hand-tooled onto the lower right corner.  Had he known I have a thing for bees?  Or had it merely been a whim to pick up one of the notebooks from the window display before which he had seen me standing?

Heartbeats fluttered.  I pressed the notebook to my chest as if it were him and I had finally been allowed to hug him.  Days ago, I'd accidentally run into him while window-shopping outside the leather shop.  He had stood inside chatting with the owner.  When he'd turned to spy me, we'd held each other's stare.  Never had we stood so close to one another.  Yet still separated by glass.

It was the first time I'd seen the true color of his eyes.  I owned a tee shirt that color and slept in it often.  He'd pressed his palm to the window and I had placed mine over his.  Our first touch.  He hadn't rushed out to talk to me, to finally make real contact with the woman he had seduced through glass.

We had our rules.

Lifting the notebook to smell the rich oil that had been worked into the leather I blinked away a teardrop.  I didn't know what to say.  This gift was tremendous.  It was everything.

It was a sign.

I exhaled, feeling my breaths flow out and my chest empty.  A slow intake of air.  A little yoga breathing always calmed my nerves.

"I'm going to do this.  I have to.  I'd be a fool otherwise."

Clutching the notebook, I grabbed the red envelope and sailed into the bedroom where my unmade, king-size bed welcomed my stomach-first plop onto its cushy, down comforter.  The lamp by the bed glowed.  If I wanted him to see me at night it had to be on.  I'd performed as if on stage before the window, my audience rapt.  And he had returned the performance.

Now…the next act.

I pried a fingernail along the sealed edge of the envelope.  I wasn't going to open it without some damage to the fine paper.  That upset me.  I liked to keep things neat.  The pile of clothes on the easy chair by the window didn't count.  I didn't have a bedroom closet, so it was either the standing garment rack or...the toss.  Neatness was more a mental control issue for me. 

Rolling to my back, I unfastened the buttons on my blouse.  The room was warm despite the cool weather beyond the window.

To tear or not to tear?  I appreciated his exact attention to detail.  If I wanted to venture to the next level with him, I was going to have to work for it.  To pry things open and dive in.

I peeled at the corner, and since I'd already done the damage, tore it until I could stick my finger in and slide it along the uppermost fold.  From inside, a piece of crimson paper half the size of the envelope dropped out and landed on my chest. 

Anticipation tingled at the base of my throat.  I sucked in the corner of my lower lip.  Would his email address provide a clue to his name?  That would go against our rules.  I wanted to know his name.  And I did not.  The not knowing fueled this wicked fantasy that I currently cruised through reality.

Enough stalling.  I flipped the card over and read the email address written with a black sharpie in neat, squared letters:
[email protected]
.

I laughed.  I'd never seen him fencing naked.  But I had seen him moving about his living room wielding a rapier and clad in mask and padded vest.  The way our buildings were angled, our living rooms were too far apart to see well.  Our bedrooms, though, jutted up at a diagonal to one another, only fifteen feet from window to window.

The email address was the only thing written on the paper.  No name.  Whew.  He'd stuck to our rule.  The guy really was trustworthy.  I sniffed the paper.  No scent.  No clue to his aftershave.  I wanted him to smell like spices spilling from a terracotta jar. 

Allow me my extravagant fantasies.

I held all the power now.  I could Skype him.  And we could continue our touchless liaison.  But instead of being absent touch, smell, taste and sound, we would only be absent touch, smell and taste.

Sound. 

I wondered what his voice sounded like.  Was he the Frenchman I fantasized him to be?  Or maybe he was some other nationality?  He apparently understood English because we'd communicated in our notes that way.

Hooking up with a sexy Frenchman was tops on my fantasy list.  It was one of the very reasons I'd moved across the ocean from good ole Iowa.  I'd wanted to have a glorious affair with a musketeer—er, um, Frenchman.  (But if he'd been a musketeer in his past life?  All the better.)

Pinching the crimson card between my fingers, I tilted my head back to spy the gorgeous Christian Louboutin shoes sitting on the floor—black leather tied with black velvet ribbons about the ankles.  The card was the same color as the shoe soles.

Coincidence? 

I didn't believe in coincidences.  Everything happened for a reason.  And for some reason, Monsieur Sexy had tapped into my innate desires and touched me even while he was in another country.

"Naked fencer, eh?"  A shiver of anticipation scurried up my neck and tickled my ears.

I eyed the laptop that sat on the vanity beneath a scatter of freshly-washed bras and panties I'd yet to put away.  Contact with my window lover was but a few keystrokes away.

I grew wet thinking about how deep and sensual his voice might sound.  Reaching down, I lightly danced my fingertips over my mons, the pubic hair shaved to a short and neat kinda-oval.  I was still creamy from the daydream.  I wanted to hear him whisper at my ear all the things he fantasized about doing to me. 

Sitting up, I reached for the laptop and signed onto Skype.  I typed in his email address, then back-spaced, deleting it completely. 

"I can't use my regular email.  It has my name in it."

Not cool.  Names were everything.  Names were power.  Names…could be looked up online and a person's entire world could be discovered in less than five minutes. 

I wanted to retain some mystery.  It felt right.  Besides, it was our rule.

It occurred to me that I didn't have a different email.  A secret for-online-lovers-only email.  So I browsed over to Google Mail.  

What handle should I use? 
Windowstripper
seemed too obvious, and not classy enough.  Besides, it was taken. 
Sexthroughglass
was just weird.  Also taken. 
WishingforaFrenchman
?  Not taken, but again, reeked of desperation.

The notebook lay on the comforter next to my leg.  I would never admit to him that I had a thing about writing in notebooks.  I couldn't do it.  Couldn't make a mark on that first pristine page.  And I owned half a dozen blank notebooks to prove my strange affliction.  I traced a fingernail along the bee's wing and got an idea.

I typed in
beesweetforyou
and, remarkably, that name was not taken.  It was corny, but I liked it, so I registered, and headed back to Skype.

After I'd entered all the new info and added
nakedfencer
to my contacts list, my fingers hovered over the trackpad.  It was nearing seven at night.  Still early, yet if he'd worked since arriving in Berlin, he might like to get some sleep.

And you are making excuses.  Do it!

I toggled from
call
to
chat
.  A call would bring him up on the screen, and me as well.  A chat would merely be like online texting.  I knew he'd intended for us to video chat, but…

I clicked on chat.  If he didn't have Skype open I could leave him a message, close the laptop, and bury myself under the sheets in embarrassment at having actually made the leap from window to keyboard.

But really?  I had lost my inhibitions while doing the stripper pasty dance for his birthday before the window.  The vixen I'd once kept secreted deep inside had skipped up to the fore and was eager for this next step.

So I typed:

Finally opened the envelope.  Hi!  Bonsoir, I mean.  Uh, I'm a little nervous.  Couldn't bring myself to video chat for this first contact
.

I hit send.

The green light next to his name clued me in that he was online.  A few seconds later, I got a reply.  My heart dropped to my gut.  "Holy shit."  He was there.  We were about to communicate in real time.

So pleased you took a chance opening the envelope.  Chat is fine for tonight.  I'm tired.  Flight was turbulent and gave me a headache.  Entertained clients all afternoon.  Just arrived at hotel
.

God, he typed fast, and I loved his typing voice. 

Beesweetforyou, eh?  I like it
.

I typed quickly. 
Thank you for the pretty notebook.  How did you know I like bees?

I've seen your robe.  It was a guess.  Pleased you like it
.

I pulled the notebook onto my lap. 
I love it.  But I don't know if I want to write in it.  Wouldn't know what to write
.

His green light flashed while he typed.  
Write in it all the things you don't dare type or say to me.

Oh, that sounded deliciously naughty.  Notebook confessions?  Salacious tidbits that I'd keep only for myself?  I might be able to manage that.

I wrote:
So how do we start?  This is...different.  I feel like I know you and yet not.  I sound like a fool.  LOL