The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (27 page)

Oh, my God, I think too much.

Peering through the peephole I spied a man dressed in a white chef's uniform and holding an armload of bags and boxes.  I opened the door and he introduced himself in French. 

"
Parlez vous anglais
?" I asked.

"
Non
, Mademoiselle." 

He barged past me and looked about, his arms loaded with goods, and headed into the kitchen.  From what I could guess he was saying, and the delicious scents that emerged as he began pulling things from the bags and boxes, he'd brought dinner.

Yay!  Now I didn't have to brave the weather in my pretty things.  And how cool, Monsieur Sexy and I would have a private meal together.

The chef sneered at the kitchen table scattered with books, files, and other assorted ephemera that basically lived there because I had too much stuff and not enough storage.  I sensed his disapproval.

"I'll get that."  I rushed to clear the table, grabbing heaps of stuff and…swinging around, I eyed the floor before the living room window.  I got that far before books starting falling out of my arms.

An annoyed 'tut' echoed out from the kitchen.  The fridge opened and closed.  Plates and goblets were retrieved from my cupboards.  A strange Frenchman shuffled about in my kitchen setting up a meal for me, and I was thrilled.  Who cared if he was the cooking serial killer?  At least I'd leave this world with a full stomach.

After a plate had been set on the table with a silver dome over the top, and silverware placed in the proper setting, he poured wine and then gestured I sit.  "Mademoiselle." 

I sat and he pulled up the chair. 

He checked his wristwatch and nodded.  Satisfied.  "Eh…er…Skype?"

"Oh, yes!"  My dinner date began soon.  "
Merci
, Monsieur."

He bowed and then pointed to the fridge.  "
Le dessert.  Au revoir
, Mademoiselle. 
Bon appétit
!" he called as the front door closed.

And I sat in wonder before the table, my fingertips playing with the silverware.  They'd never gleamed so brightly.  Must have something to do with being positioned in the proper place settings. 

I sipped the wine.  "
Mon Dieu
.  This is…"  I grabbed the bottle and scanned the French label.  "I don't know what this is, but it tastes expensive.  Amazing." 

Note to self: look up this wine online later.

I could get used to being spoiled.  Yet no lover waited for me to wrap my arms around and kiss in thanks.  At the very least I needed to blow him an appreciative kiss.  Which I wouldn't be able to do if I didn't get my act together.

  Dashing into the bedroom, I retrieved the laptop and turned it on as I returned to the table.  Setting the laptop at the top of the table setting, I seated myself.

Skype pinged and Monsieur Sexy's face flashed onto the screen.  "
Bonsoir
," he greeted me with goblet of wine held high.

"
Bonsoir
."  I tapped the screen with the goblet rim, and he did the same.  Cyber-toasting at its best.  "This is amazing.  I can't believe you planned all this."

"The dinner has arrived?  Excellent.  I was worried it would not happen for the timeline.  Ah, I see you have your food before you.  And I have mine."

I could see him from head to tabletop.  Before him sat an elegant dining service and a bottle of wine.  He was suited up.  A thin violet tie filed down a gray shirt and a darker gray suit.  He looked like a GQ model.  Seriously.  I'd seen him walking down the street in a suit, and if the man didn't belong on a runway, then neither did Naomi Campbell.

"Are you pleased with the selection?" he asked.

"I haven't looked yet.  The chef just left."  I took the silver cover off my food and it released a gush of savory scents.  Tiny ravioli and white sauce accented with carrots and something deep red, probably peppers.  "I love shrimp."

"And the chef, did he leave dessert in the fridge?"

"Yes.  Do you want me to—"

"No, leave it for later.  Let's enjoy our meal and chat.  Ah, you are wearing the dress.  The neckline frames your breasts perfectly.  I wish I were there to kiss around the lace.  Stand up and let me admire you."

I did so and turned, propping a hand at my hip.  Then I leaned forward to give him a better view of the lace-surrounded bosom he so wanted to kiss.

"No underthings?"

"Just the lace and my skin," I said.  Then the vixen in me inched up the lace hem, slowly gliding up my thigh until—just as the dip of my labia were revealed I tugged the dress back down.  "Does that please you?"

"I have just received a sneak taste of dessert.  I told you I would think about you today and I did.  But I tore the lace in my fantasy."

"Really?  Where?"

"Where was I fantasizing about you?"

"No, where did it tear?"

"Ah."  A smile glinted in his eyes.  "At the hem of your skirt.  I tugged too quickly and hard.  Needed to get my hand between your legs to feel you wet and hot on my fingers."

I clamped down on my lip with my teeth.  The man was too much.  But just enough for me. 

"Let's eat before we start ripping any lace," I suggested.  "This will be fun.  Sort of like a dinner out.  You sitting across from me, me from you."

"Except I can't smell your perfume or stroke the back of your hand, or even move closer to slide my hand up your thigh under the table."

I paused with a fork full of tiny shrimp and white sauce suspended above the plate.  He had such a way with words.  And here I'd been worried about eating quickly before the food got cold.  He was thinking only about me.  And how he would touch me.

"You do that very well, you know?" I said.

"What is that?"

"The interested lover part."

"I am interested in everything about you.  Will you allow me to tease out more details tonight?"

"Go for it."

"Excellent."  Propping his elbows on the table, hands steepled before him, revealed the diamonds in his cufflinks.  Small and set in brushed silver.  Classy.

"I do want to know about the bees," he said.  "If you will indulge me."

"Yes, the bees."  I set down the fork and toggled the stem of the wine goblet between my fingers.  "My grandfather's farm was sold at auction last year.  He grew red clover on a small farm in Iowa.  Honeybees have become so scarce they no longer pollinated his plants and his crops had become worthless.  The bees are dying out, and when they are gone, our food sources will suffer."

"France has the same problem.  I watched a documentary on it not long ago."

"You watch documentaries?"  I wiggled on the chair, thrilled to learn we had a common link.  "You like learning new things?"

"Always."  Sexy Frenchman's smile directly ahead.  Crinkle at the eyes.  Glint in the irises.  And…  Direct hit to my heart. 

I sipped more wine so my goofy smile wouldn't break out.  I loved chatting with him via Skype, but I seriously needed to turn off my window on the screen.  I could see myself, and I was always checking to make sure I didn't have food in my teeth or was sitting slumped.  I had a tendency to slump. 

Pushing my shoulders back, I reminded myself about the newly absent muffintop.  I looked great this evening, and I intended to work this dress for all it was worth.  (Which was quite a lot.)

"Did you know the Jardin des Plants has a bee exhibit?"

"They do?  I haven't yet stumbled onto it when I visit.  I love that garden.  That one, and the Luxembourg in the 6th.  I love espaliered trees and carved shrubbery."

"I like a nicely trimmed bush myself."  Frenchman's wink.

Mercy.  I was undone. 

A waggle of his brow pushed me closer to the edge and I wanted to abandon the meal and just fuck.  But...no.  I took a deep breath and relaxed.  Though I must say I was pleasantly moist between my legs right now.

I traced a fingertip around the goblet rim.  "So tell me what you are passionate about.  Beyond the work you do."

"I like to stay fit.  That is why I teach fencing.  I used to fence competitively, but I injured a muscle in my leg and now I'm useless for the intense competition.  I like to cycle."

"Really?  Around the city?"

"No, too many tourists.  I have a mountain bike that I take out often with friends.  We bike hundreds of miles, crash down mountains, and get horribly banged up.  It's a riot."

I suddenly felt so out of his league.  The man was sexy, a computer brainiac, and he participated in sports that pushed him to the limits and chewed him up and spit him out.  How cool was that?

What did I do for exercise beyond rushing to the Métro in kitten heels and struggling with women in the line before Louboutin?  (Well, and masturbating.  Orgasm counted as exercise, right?)

"The mountain biking explains your tan," I said.

"It is fading.  I haven't been out since before the move.  Been too busy with work.  I'm training new employees here in Berlin.  It's intensive stuff, but the guys seem to pick it up easily.  They're a smart bunch.  I will be pleased if one or two learn enough to promote."

"Promote?  Are you like the head honcho?"

"Yes, I own the company.  We're small, but within a few years I plan to take on the world."

"More power to you, boss man."

"
Merci
."  Another tilt of his goblet toward the screen.  "I am the most competitive with myself, I admit."

"I can relate.  I have a type A side that comes out when working.  But I counter that with my type C side."

"Type C?"

"Comfort whore."

"I'm not sure I understand, but I suspect it is a good thing for you."

"Oh, it is."

I finished the shrimp pasta and set down my fork.  "So, I know what sports you like, that you're smart, and that you like to dance around in a towel when you think no one is looking."

"Eh.  I am a terrible dancer."

"I wouldn't say terrible.  I've seen your hip action.  So what else?  Tell me what TV shows you like?"

"I don't actually watch more than an hour a week."

That made me sit up.  I noticed my dropped jaw on the tiny screen and closed my mouth quickly.  Wow.  That said so much about him.  But it figured.  If he were owner of an up and coming business when would he have the time?  Competitive and determined.  Love it.

"I like to read," he offered.  "When I'm not cramming new information into my brain from the latest software and systems updates, I have my nose stuck in historical fiction."

"What's your favorite book?" I asked.

"The Three Musketeers, of course."

"What?!"

He sat up abruptly and glanced around, tugging at the knot of his tie.  "Did I say something wrong?" 

Poor French dude.  I'd freaked him out.

"Nothing wrong," I hastened out.  "You just said your favorite book, and it's one of mine, too."

"Is that so?  Dumas created classic heroes.  I reread the story every few years.  It is the reason I took up fencing.  When I was a kid I wanted to be a musketeer."

"Oh, you are," I said before I realized I was speaking about my fantasies and not real life.

"You think so?"

"I know so.  If I can make a confession?"

"Please do.  I love it when you reveal your secrets to me,
mon abeille
."

His sexy accent stirred beneath my skin and warmed me everywhere.  If he knew I was wet for him right now…  Well, I'd let him know about that soon enough.

"When I first saw you moving in…"  I pushed aside the plate and pulled the laptop closer.  "You were carrying a box with your fencing foil sticking out of it."

His eyes softened, admiring me.  I soaked it in like a sponge.

"First, you need to know my mind wanders.  A lot.  I can go from reality to fantasy like that."  I snapped my fingers in example.  "Anyway, that day I saw you moving in, I started thinking about swords and musketeers.  And then I imagined you as a musketeer.  On your knees.  Licking my pussy."

"Is that so?"

I nodded.  I couldn't be embarrassed with him.  This was a step deeper into confidence.

"Did I push my way under your skirts?"

"I think I was on a bed, lying back.  You pushed up my skirts and I spread my legs for you."  I hadn't gotten much farther with the fantasy at the time, but I sure could imagine things progressing now.  "You want to know how it felt?"

"Of course, you must tell me.  How do you like me to tongue you?"

The lace dress was suddenly far too stuffy for this warm room.  I tugged at the neckline then cautioned against ripping the lace.  Only he could do that.

"All over at first," I decided.  "Tasting me, slipping up and down along my folds to learn my structure."

He closed his eyes and his lips parted slightly.  "I can imagine that.  Tucking the tip of my tongue between your folds and tasting your sweetness and heat."  He flashed open his eyes.  "Are you hot right now?"