The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (24 page)

My nipples were hard, diamonds awaiting the gemologist's approving eye.  As his forefinger glanced over his mouth, behind it grew a smile.  I watched his lips curve, the sexy crinkles at the corners of his eyes forming.  He always smiled in his eyes first.  Those gray sky eyes that seemed to reflect his moods brightly.  I could stare into them all day.  And now with the computer screen before me, he was close enough that peering into those eyes was possible.

And yet, with him sitting back on the bed, the distance felt familiar, as if we were once again separated by our bedroom windows and fifteen feet of air space.  Interesting.  What was old was new to us in ways that surprised.

I grazed my fingernails over my nipples and closed my eyes, moaning at the erotic pleasure of the touch.  It would feel a thousand times more stimulating if he were actually touching me, yet the fantasy of imagining my touch as his worked.  The skin on my breasts goosebumped and tightened.  I arched my back, brushing my erect nipples against my palms.

"They are so pretty," he murmured.  "Hard and tight.  Can you imagine my mouth on them?"

I nodded.  I had an excellent imagination.  It got me in trouble at the worst times, like when I should get off the Métro at my stop, but forget to because the dashing musketeer was whisking me away from the villain on the back of his powerful destrier.

"Tell me how it feels," Monsieur Sexy purred.  "Squeeze them and tease them as you describe the feeling."

I inhaled through my nose and opened my eyes.  Confession time.  I felt…a little anxiety.  When once I'd stood behind the window and directed my own foreplay for him to watch, now he was orchestrating my moves.  I shouldn't mind it.  I didn't mind it.

But it was different.  Describe things?  A new challenge in this odd coupling of two who had never touched.

"I'm not sure I can do the dirty talk."

"Why does it have to be dirty?  Just be honest.  Tell me what you like."

Well, when he put it that way. 

"I'm not sure how to describe it," I said, wishing suddenly we could go back to no sound.  Sex shouldn't be a challenge, should it?  I'd never talked dirty before.  So sue me.  "It's…so good."  Really?  Was that the best I could do?  "But not as good as I imagine it would feel with your tongue licking my nipple." 

I moaned then because I could feel the heat of his wet tongue lash over my breast.  "You'd start slow, dancing your tongue over my skin.  Around the tightened, ruched aureole.  One side, then the other.  Then you'd circle one so agonizingly slow—" 

I squeezed a nipple and the sensation electrified a path down my belly and to my core.  "I like it when you suck it into your mouth, taking it deeply, firmly.  Like you need me desperately.  You're hungry for me."

He murmured a satisfied noise that sounded like a purr from a wild animal.

"You suck hard on my nipple, sculpting it to a rigid peak.  Your fingers work softly around the top and bottom of my breast.  It's a combination of gentle and desperately wicked.  Oh…"

Leaning forward, I caught my breast in a palm and squeezed.  If only his mouth were right there, his tongue dashing between my fingers to claim the prize.  His slickness would wet my fingers.  I'd pinch them about my nipple and feed it to him, giving him myself, and demanding that he take greedily, roughly.

"I suckle the other one, too," he added.  "Licking it until it is slippery between my thumb and finger.  I pinch it hard, and you moan.  Your back arches, seeking more."

I pinched my other nipple and—yep, the moan came unbidden.  Now I pressed my thighs together.  My pussy was hot and moist.  This was all his doing.  The tenor of his voice moved through my veins, the intensity of his gaze glided like touch over my skin.  Mmm, I concentrated on the tingle at the apex of my labia that pulsed with want.

"Let me suck it in deeply," he whispered.  His eyes were closed now.  He was beautiful.  A man following his desires, his fingers held before him instead of at his mouth.  They pinched and caressed, and I could feel the tweaking touch at my breast.  "Harder?"

"Yes," I said on a gasp.  "Suck me."

His tongue dashed out and he pressed it between his fingers.  The image ramped up my heartbeats.  Wetness glistened on his fingers, his lips.  My nipples ached, tingled, tightened impossibly.

I shoved my left hand between my thighs and pressed a finger against my clit.  Not moving.  The pressure was enough to stir the humming tendrils there.

"A little nip," he said.  He made a biting motion, and then winked at me.

That wink.  Mercy.

"Not too hard.  But I want you to feel me," he said.  "Be marked by me."

"Oh yes, mark me."

"I suck in the side of your breast," he said.  "Hard.  Tasting you.  Feeding on you.  Drawing a dark color to the surface.  There, I've marked you."

I could barely speak.  The finger at my clit had begun to wobble the swollen bud back and forth.  Pacing slowly, intensely focused on luring forth the bliss.

"I'm going to come," I said on a breathy gasp.

"Yes."  Sky gray eyes found mine.  "Are you fingering yourself?"

I nodded.

"Good, mon abeille.  Do it the way you like it.  Fast then slow, then faster.  I've watched you.  I know how you like it."

"Are you jacking off?"

"
Oui
.  All it takes is watching you to get off,
mon abeille
.  And your face.  When you feel a streak of pleasure your lips soften and turn into an O.  I want to feel that O on my cock."

He growled then, head bowing and his focus turning inward, likely, toward the task, literally, at hand.

And I forgot about my own pleasure and leaned forward.  The intensity of his expression, eyes closed and jaw muscles pulsing...  That was a turn-on that required no touch at all. 

"I like to watch you come," I said, giving him the honesty he'd requested. 

I squeezed one nipple hard as my finger slicked faster over my clit.  "Oh, so close."

He'd grown silent.  And that silent observation put me over the edge.  Climax emerged at my fingertips.  I crushed a palm over my breast and cried out.  A brief outburst as the orgasm shivered through my core and tingled at my breasts.  It was a quickie, bursting in the space behind my clit and shaking my thighs and hips, but satisfying.

"Fuck," he said.

Lifting my head, I eyed the elegant Frenchman who held a loose clasp over his cock.  I'd not heard him swear in English.  I liked it.  His accent gave it a nasty yet sensual tone that I'd never thought possible.

His cheeks flushed.  He smiled and shook his head.  A wag of his hand, the one that had been doing all the work, revealed cream slicked all over it. 

"
Trés bien
," he muttered, and sat back so I could once again, only see his face.

Something about a man's face when he is depleted, relaxed, and satisfied was so appealing.  It softened him.  Made him more human.  Not that he'd ever come off as hard and inhuman to me.  Just...   All I could do was sigh, because that's what he now did too.

I laughed softly and pulled the laptop back onto my thighs.  My chest panting, my breasts tingled and ached from my rough treatment.  I cupped one and eased my fingers about it. 

"I wish I could have had your tit in my mouth," he said.

"Me too, but this was nothing to complain about."

"One day I will mark you."

"You mean put a hickey on me?"

"That is what you call it?  A love bite?  Yes, a hickey.  Right there on the side where it plumps so nicely.  It will fill my palm."  He cupped a palm to demonstrate caressing my breast. 

I couldn't wait. 

"You are so sexy right now,
mon abeille
.  Your skin is flushed and your cheeks bright."

I touched my cheeks.  I hadn't realized that happened after I came.  Well, I'd never looked in the mirror after an orgasm before. 

"
Trés jolie
.  Tomorrow night,
oui
?"

"
Oui
," I agreed.

"Can we make it a dinner date?"

"Dinner?"

"I will arrange everything.  Let's say eight p.m.?"

"Uh, sure."  I wasn't sure what he intended, but was willing to jump in for the adventure.  "I'll be out and about tomorrow.  I've errands to run, but will plan to be home before then."

"You have a mobile with Skype on it?"

"I do."

"I take a lunch at noon.  If you want to say hello to me then…"

"I will."

He kissed his palm and blew me the kiss.  "Sweet dreams,
mon abeille
."

I caught the kiss, and using my pinched fingers placed it on the side of my breast, right where he said he'd like to mark me.

"Bravo," he said.  "Until tomorrow. 
Bonne nuit
."

"
Bonne nuit
."  I clicked off Skype, suspecting that if I hadn't, we might have stared at each other until one made the first move.

I was still on a high from the orgasm, and now I fell back against the pillow and breathed through it, smiling. 

I pulled up the laptop and clicked it off.  Setting it on the floor, I picked up the notebook I'd left there and opened it up.

Time for another confession.

Chapter
Four

Strolling down the mile-long-plus Champs Elysees amidst the pruned horse chestnut trees was always an exercise in credit card stamina.  The shops lining both sides of the broad avenue boasted to-die-for high-end clothing, jewelry, gadgets, and foods.  The tourists were swarming, even this late in the year.  But the sun was high, and the air was warm, so I couldn't resist slowing my pace and taking in everything.  I tugged the houndstooth scarf free from around my neck and stuffed it in my purse.  I veered right to avoid a gaggle of teenagers cooing over their latest purchases stuffed into glossy pink bags.

I couldn't afford anything in the stores along this street.  It was the history that often lured me here.  Champs Elysees translated to Elysian Fields, the place of the blessed dead.  The avenue stretched from the Obelisk of Luxor, which was way down by the Louvre, and up to the Place Charles de Gaulle, where the Arc de Triomphe held court. 

Andre le Nôtre, the famous 17th century gardener who had designed the Versailles gardens, had had a hand in gussying up this once former stretch of dusty medieval markets.  As well, many kings had contributed to its improvement over the centuries.  By the late 18th century it had become the fashionable place to 'see and be seen'.  If a 19th century girl were going to show off her new gown and diamonds, she'd hop in Daddy's open-sided fiacre with a handsome dandy, and tour down the wide street.  Nowadays, the rich cruised by in Maseratis and limos.

Hey, if Romain Duris pulled up in a sportscar and gave me the eye I'd instantly forget my cyber affair and hop in.  (It could happen.)

I'd once walked over to watch the parade on Bastille day, but the crowd was so thick I'd given up on seeing anything, and had instead spent the afternoon sitting down by the river daydreaming about musketeers and damsels in distress.

Maybe some day I'd write the great American novel.  In Paris. 

Or back in the States.  Who knew?

There was something keeping me here now, but that may not last forever.  And while I adored the city, becoming an expatriate did not appeal to me.  I liked being an American, and well, the money my mother had left me after she'd died wasn't going to last forever.  It paid rent and food and utilities.  I could probably survive another six or seven years on it, but the idea of investing some of it also appealed.

I knew nothing about finance and investments, though.  And I sure as heck was not going to hire a French accountant to handle my finances.  The accent was strictly for my pleasure, not the pain of business.

My favorite place to window drool was Louis Vuitton, which sat a ways up the street.  Slowing as I walked before a dress shop that screamed
you must have a black credit card to walk through our gilded doors
, I felt the phone vibrate inside my purse and tugged it out.  Monsieur Sexy had Skyped me.  Ah, it was noon.  I'd lost track of time.

Walking up to the window to steal a little private time amidst the bustle of shoppers, I said hi, and he asked where I was.

"Ah, the shop on the Champs Elysees," he said.  "I know that shop.  You going in to buy a pretty dress?"

"Not on my budget."  He knew this shop?  Interesting.  "But I do see a McDonalds up the street.  It's been a while since I've stopped in for their macarons.  They're no Pierre Hermes, but they'll serve in a pinch."

"Will you do me a favor?" he asked.

"Anything."

"Go into the shop.  I want to buy you a dress."

"Uh…"  I glanced through the store window.  There were only a couple dozen dresses hung here and there because to actually display racks of them might crash the bank.  And the clothes were black and white, no colors allowed.  Too
bourgeoisie
, apparently.  "They're pretty, but—"