The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (29 page)

I peered at the receipt, and saw that it was for an authentication firm in London.  "You sent off the map?"

It was possible the man just may own a work by a renaissance master, but he had to send it away for authentication to be sure.

"The courier picked it up before you got here," he said.  "Did I do the right thing?  I'm not sure."

"Yes, you did, Richard."  His reluctance was because the authenticator may keep it up to a year.  The process involved was long and arduous.  "Having definitive proof is important."

"Yes, but I know it was drawn by da Vinci.  That should be all that matters."

"Not if you intend to sell it for the big bucks."  I strolled into the back room and stuffed my purse into a cubby.  "Are you going to sell it?" I called out, as I bent to exchange my walking flats for the Louboutins I knew I could endure for the four-hour shift.

Richard's eyes fell to my shoes as I strode into the shop.  "I'm not sure what I'll do with the map, authentic or not.  Those are some seriously sexy shoes."  His gaze wandered up my legs, and the black pencil skirt, topped by a snug—but not blatantly tight—pink sweater with three-quarter length sleeves and a deep vee neckline.

I'd been dressing a bit sexier lately.  And why not?  I felt great about myself, and the confidence I'd gained from my window and on-screen affair with Monsieur Sexy was manifesting in my attire.

My boss's mouth dropped open, his tongue teasing at his upper lip.  His gaze was riveted to my chest.  And that lascivious stare lasted much longer than was comfortable.

"Is something wrong?" I had the audacity to ask, jarring Richard's attention away from my breasts.  "Were you going to head out now that I'm here?"

"Uh, yes."  He snapped his eyes onto mine, but he couldn't hide the barest blush that rosed his cheeks.  "Pretty shoes," he offered. 

"Thanks."  Though I was pretty darn sure he couldn't tell me their color.  As for my cup size?  He'd probably made a healthy guess.  Weird.  I'd never received such a blatant once-over from him in the two years I'd been working at the shop.

"Would you mind hanging a new map for me today?  The one on the wall there."  He pointed to the map of Turkey.  "It's been up for years and is starting to fade.  Find another map that'll fit the frame, will you?"

"Of course." 

Thrilled to actually have something to do beyond dusting and strolling the eighteen by twelve square foot shop over and over in wait of a few curious customers, I waved him off as he exited out the front door.

Richard waved through the window as he passed.  I suppressed a frown.  Normally, I'd be a little freaked that the boss had given me the eye.  And I was.

Yet I also wanted to bask (just a little) in the knowledge that I had captured another man's interest.  Not like it was difficult to do.  Just, well, when a woman was seeing someone and another man looked at her?  That was some kind of sneaky sexy thrill, if you ask me.  And I was willing to take the shoe compliment from my forty-year-old boss.  It was the breast leer that made me uncomfortable.

Shaking off the weird shiver of squickiness, I clicked back into the office to go through the stack of stock prints and maps.

Amongst the maps were floral prints, some botanical diagrams revealing the inner workings of various plants, and—a nude.  Wow.  I had no idea Richard's tastes ran toward male nudes.  He'd never sold anything like this in the shop before.  It had to be an item included in a larger lot he hadn't noticed.

Then again, I was newly aware of Richard's lusty interests.  Hmm...

I stroked a finger along the sketch of the man's thigh.  He lay in repose, arms behind his head, while his legs were crossed at the ankle.  His penis had been drawn slack, the head of it snugged inside the foreskin.

I wondered about the artist who had drawn this.  Male or female?  Sketching to learn anatomy or simply a study of a beloved man?  I wondered if it was recent or centuries old.  Difficult to determine by the paper, which did sport a tea-stain on the corner and frayed edges.

My thoughts strayed to the model's mindset at the time of posing.  He'd either been relaxed, near falling asleep after a long sitting session, or so bored that his penis had taken a nap. 

Had I been the artist, I'd want to draw that particular piece of anatomy at full mast.  Could a person sketch fast enough to capture a man's woody?  I mean, even if aroused, eventually it would take a break once it realized it wasn't going to get any action behind intent observation.  Of course, that could prove a mighty turn-on.  Just lying there, unmoving, while someone else observed every portion of your being. 

Yeah, that would get me wet if I had to lay naked before a man and allow him to study me.  I'd have to close my eyes and think of something else.  The man's eyes in the picture were looking beyond, it seemed. 

If I were the artist I would sit close to the subject, eyes on that steely prize.  The model would have to remain still while I studied his penis.  Subtle inhale, and...a gentle increase in musk as his heartbeats pounded.  Anticipating my touch, the heat of my breath.  A hot, wet kiss...

My pencil would make soft sounds, imbuing lead upon the paper.  I'd probably have my tongue stuck out the corner of my mouth.  The model would clench his fingers as he eyed my tongue, wishing it could be utilized for more than a thought crutch. 

I'd look up and catch his hungry look.  "Please," he'd moan.  "Come closer so your drawing has the detail you desire."

Oh, yes, I desired the details.

Gliding my chair forward, I'd lean over the paper, pencil turned to catch the heavy weight of the model's erection on the thin wooden utensil.  I'd lift it slightly and stretch my eyes up and down the underside of it.  His balls would be tight and high, hugging the base of his penis.  His inhale as I slid the pencil along his shaft toward the base would please me.  But my goal wouldn't be pleasure.  My objective was to learn every intricacy of this body part that I could never own, and only play with when given opportunity. 

I fell deeper into my fantasy, becoming one with the stage I had set.  I noticed I had drawn the object of my scrutiny too narrow, so made some quick strokes on the page to widen it.  More than a handful, should I grasp it, my fingers would not touch to my thumb. 

Allowing myself to get lost, I engaged my senses.  My fantasy man smelled like he'd been walking naked through a pine forest after a rain storm.  I liked it.  Drawing the pencil downward, I tenderly traced the golden stick along one tightened testicle, inducing yet another gasping breath from him.  He needed me to touch him with my hands, to learn his shape and size as if a blind woman.

I wasn't going to give him that pleasure.  His restraint and utter need were thrilling.  My heartbeats had grown so loud the sudden call of "
Bonjour
" went unnoticed.

And then a woman stood directly behind me, her head tilted in question. "Paris?" she repeated.

"Penis," I whispered and spun around to face her.

The customer's gaping red mouth ripped me out of the fantasy and back to real life.  I stood with chin caught in palm, one hand stroking the air before me. 

"Uh, oh, sorry."  I dropped my hands and tucked them behind my back.  "Paris, you said?"

Nodding cautiously, the woman stepped back as I strolled out onto the sales floor.  She'd heard me say penis.

I wasn't going to apologize.

***

"What's your favorite sexual position?" Monsieur Sexy asked from the computer screen as I made the bed in full view of the wide-range camera I'd set up after I'd gotten home from work.

I'd explained to him that I had fresh, warm sheets from the dryer, and wanted to get them on the bed.  He'd said to go ahead and do a little housekeeping—so long as I did it naked.  And wearing the shoes.

Bless the man, he adored the shoes.

So while I wasn't paying particular attention to him, he shot out a few questions.  Did I enjoy my job at the map shop?  Yes, but I never wanted a full-time job away from home.  My research work kept me satisfied and independent.  I didn't mention the weird pass from Richard.  Sexual harassment?  I didn't want to think about it.  Besides, I'd probably overthink it so I had decided to give my boss a pass.  This time.

Monsieur Sexy asked: Did I drive?  Yes, but I didn't own a car.  Paris was a walkable city; impractical for driving the short distances a resident usually had to traverse.  What was my favorite color?  It varied from purple to pink to yellow.  Had I ever had a pet?  I declined telling him about the hamster that had died a slow death due to my neglect when I was a teenager.

"My favorite position?"  I stood from smoothing my palms over the bottom sheet that stretched tightly across the king-size bed and eyed the gorgeous Frenchman watching me from the computer screen.  The thick black glasses increased his sexy geek appeal exponentially.

Sitting on the bed and spreading my legs boldly, heels to the floor and back arched to thrust my breasts forward, I teased a finger along my mouth to illustrate deep thought.  Or maybe just sexy wondering.

"I like so many," I decided.  "Is a man's head between my legs considered a position?"

"
Oui, mon abeille
.  You like a man who can lick you to orgasm?"

"Mmm…"  Just thinking about it made me wet.  I slid my fingers down and put gentle pressure over my clitoris.  "Yes, please."

"I will put you in that position," he suggested. 

"I certainly hope you will.  I also think I like it bent over and wiggling my ass for you to come inside."

He had a delicious purring sort of wanting growl that seemed to birth deep in his throat.  The tone of it always hit me directly in the pussy and I loosened considerably, leaning back to prop an elbow on the bed.  But I wanted to see him, so I slid my legs up to lie on my side and talk directly to the camera, which I'd positioned beside the laptop on the night stand.

"What about your favorite position?" I asked, drawing my fingers lightly along my thigh.

"You wiggling your derriere for me is perfect," he said.  "Bent over the back of my sofa, your long legs parted, and those shoes.  I'd like to stand back and look at your peach bottom and that soft place in the middle that is like the center of a fruit."

I bit the side of my lip.  The words were seductive and alluring.  But when spoken with a French accent everything about his words increased my desires tenfold. 

"I'd like to slip my fingers into your fruit, and slick them across your clit until you drip down to my wrist.  You want that?"

"Yes, please."

"Then I must slide my cock into you.  Slow and deep.  That is why I like this position.  I can go so deep and hold your hips, controlling you."

I pressed my cheek against the clean white sheet and rolled onto my chest, my ass high as I knelt forward.  I imagined leaning over the back of his sofa, my ass exposed, waiting for him to touch me.  But instead, he stood there, looking at my most private places.  Studying me.  Deciding how he would touch and lick me.  And whether or not he should shove his cock in slowly, or perhaps slam it in hard and deep to make me cry out in stunned, yet delicious surprise.

He groaned.  "You are
très jolie
like that.  Your breasts against the sheet and your ass in the air.  Are your nipples hard?"

"Yes," I gasped. 

The subtle wiggles of my hips moved my nipples across the sheets.  I lifted slightly to make the connection a little softer, brushing my skin, ruching my nipples tightly. 

I gripped the sheets near my head and spread my knees out wider. The position was vulnerable and unsure.  It upped my desire.  I wanted to feel him enter me.  The molten heat of him gliding into my tight opening, slick with my juices, and his thighs slamming hard against mine.

"What's your favorite secret place to make love?" he asked.

I tilted my face toward him and rolled to my side, sliding my fingers between my legs.  "Like in a car or in a public restaurant?"

"If that is your fantasy?"

"I don't know that I've considered it before.  The window was pretty daring," I decided.  "But I think I'd like to do it in the winter, in the snow."

"Really?"  He mocked a shiver. 

"I love snow.  I am from Iowa.  We do good snow there."

"Can't say I can understand the thrill in that.  It would be very cold."

"Not if I had a warm body hugging close to mine."

"True.  But I'm not sure a man could maintain his hard-on in the cold."

"Are you saying you're not up for the challenge?"

His dark brow quirked beneath a spill of tousled hair.  I loved his curls and the way his hair always looked as if he'd just stepped out of bed, yet not. 

"Anything for you."

"Really?"  I leaned forward on my elbows, studying the man on the screen.  Sometimes he said things that sounded so devoted.  Like we were in a serious, committed relationship.  That thrilled me.  And it surprised me that a man could think in such terms about a woman he hadn't yet touched or kissed.

"Anything," he repeated.