The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (38 page)

I bet those women could tell the stories.  Love lost and gained, travel, adventure, grief, and heartache, surely.  I longed to listen to them, but I didn't want to appear as if I was trying to listen in on their conversation, so I lifted the fork to my mouth for one final bite of decadent chocolate mousse.

Too bad Melanie couldn't have been here.  This had been an emergency trip to Angelina for hot chocolate and more chocolate layered on top of that.  My soul had required the infusion of decadence.  And I'd gotten my period this morning.  Four days early.  Funny how startling life events tended to queue that sneaky cycle to the fore.  Hence, the chocolate was necessity.

A family with two little girls dressed in costumes that vaguely resembled something from the eighteenth century were seated near the elderly women.  The costume party, I thought with a sigh.  Would I see Monsieur Sexy there?  I'd sent the invite with the address, and had not reneged when he'd given me opportunity.  It was his choice to make the connection that night.  If we happened upon one another, it was meant to be.

I think I could overlook the wife for that auspicious meeting.  At least to experience the initial thrill of finally standing before him, smelling him, touching him, feeling his presence call out to me and draw me toward him.

But I shouldn't overthink the meeting.  It could never be as good as I could dream it to be, so no sense in going down that path.

Heh.  I was proud of myself for stalling what could have resulted in another trip to crazytown. 

Another sigh was unstoppable.  Okay, so I was obviously swaying toward forgiveness and understanding.  I had to.  I really liked the guy.

And I was suddenly struck by a desperate unknowing.  "What is his name?"

If we were to be open and truthful with one another, names were a necessity.  But was now the time to ask for his name?

"More than important," I murmured.  Because seriously?  It was time for this chick to do some cyber-research on the man in the window.

I toyed with the dark brown folder in which the bill had been delivered. 
Angelina
scrolled in copper letters across the front.  Getting an idea, I opened the folder to reveal the copper-colored insides.  With a dark pen, I scribbled my most urgent thoughts on it, then tucked it in my purse to take home with me.  I counted out some euros for the bill, then checked the time on my cell phone.  9:30.  Excellent timing. 

I headed out, intending to walk home.  The night was chilly, so I pulled my thigh-length sweater coat tight about my body and fluffed up the red scarf I'd tied around my neck.  Mittens and knee-high riding boots had been necessary, as well.

It was late, and the tourists were sparse.  I could enjoy the walk down the sidewalks without having to dodge a group posing for a picture or someone walking backward with camera in hand.  And yet I felt disappointed with myself.  Really?  Trying to avoid the man like some kind of schoolgirl hiding behind the big oak tree to dodge the bully? 

A wrench had been jammed into our relationship.  Now I had the choice to grab that big ole clunky thing and run, or try to figure how to make it function within the mechanism that surrounded the two of us. 

We were an us.  Well, we had become an us.  I wasn't sure if we still were.  We stood at a crossroads, held up by a flashing red light while a high-speed train whooshed between the two of us.  When the crossbars finally lifted, would we reach across and grasp hands?

I paused before his building entrance.  The concierge inside nodded to me, and then indicated he was locking the door.  I signaled him to stop and handed him the Angelina folder.

"For Monsieur," I said.  "On the third-er, second floor.  Would you mind?"

"I will run it up now."

"Uh, no.  Er..."  I wouldn't have time to explain I wanted to give him the same choice to open the envelope as he had given me.  "Can you leave it in his mailbox,
s'il vous plaît
?"

The concierge nodded and bid me bonne nuit.

Before entering my building, I glanced up and across the street.  The light was on in his kitchen and bedroom.  As I climbed the three levels of stairs to my apartment I wondered if, after crossing his threshold, he had walked immediately to the window to look for me.

I hoped he had.  Because the only other option was to not look for me, and that would be so sad.  Yet I'd not been there to offer a welcome home wave. 

Or a kiss at the curb.

I was being irrational about this.  So he had a wife.  He didn't love her, and he was in the process of divorcing her.  That made him virtually single.  And if she were off having affairs with other men then what did she care if I pulled him into my arms and gave him the love he deserved?

Is that how the other woman always thought?  Was I the other woman?  Mercy.

"No, I'm not," I muttered, stepping across the threshold and setting my purse aside.  "I am his cyber girlfriend."

Just speaking it made me smile.  And something inside me shifted.  I decided at that moment how I would proceed.  I was willing to continue our relationship because I wanted to.  Because I was emotionally involved, and didn't want to let this detail of the soon-to-be ex-wife destroy something that wanted to grow and flourish, and perhaps even be great.

We had to reach across the tracks and join hands.  It was inevitable.

He was mine.  And I was willing to fight for him.

Shoulders settling back and spine straightening, I strode into the bedroom and pulled my hair free from the ponytail binder.  Toeing off my riding boots, and tugging the scarf free to fall down my chest, I paused and glanced out the window.  The sheers were pulled back, but I hadn't turned on the light, so he couldn't see me in the dark.  His bedroom was revealed like a diorama, sans sexy fencer standing in his skivvies.

Fine.  I had told him I'd need some time to think about this.  And I entirely expected him to understand, should I not sign in online or go to the window. 

But I had just decided to fight for him.

And I would.

I tapped the laptop, vacillating my next move.  I'd asked for radio silence.  And yet an email was necessary.  I typed up a note. 
Left a note scribbled on Angelina folder for you in your mailbox.  My name is inside.  Open if you wish.  I need to know your name.  It is important.  I hope you feel the same
.

I didn't sign off with sincerely or even goodbye.  Just left it like that.  Business-like.  It felt right.

Slipping off my clothes and leaving them in my wake on the bedroom floor, I wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  While I waited for the water to grow hot, I brushed my teeth, and winked at the chick in the mirror.  She'd grown bold over the past month.  Doing things the introvert in me would never have dreamt doing.

I'd let the tiny vixen run free.  I loved her now.  I embraced her willingness to try things that might scare other women.  I was the sexy vixen who strode before the window in five-inch heels wearing nothing but a teasing smile.  I could jill myself off to exquisite orgasm while posed before a camera in order to allow my lover to watch.

I had accepted a man's confession to loving me.  And I was graciously accepting him into my life, warts and all (and man, those were some big warts).

And Monsieur Sexy had been the one to tease out that vixen.

"I'm going to do this," I said and my reflection nodded in agreement.

Hopping in the shower, I soaped up and lingered under the stream. The hot water beat against my stomach and mons. Gliding my hands down my slick skin, I closed my eyes and imagined him standing before me, his fingers mapping out my curves and glides and even my nooks.

He dropped his hand and slicked it over my skin.  He kissed all along my labia, down one side and up the other, until he reached the pinnacle and there, he dashed his tongue against my clit.

The fantasy was too good.  I reached back and above and detached the showerhead from the wall hook, bringing it down to focus exactly where I wanted to feel his tongue.  Pulsing, swishing, tasting me.  Lapping at me as if starved for sustenance, and then softer, a reverent sort of touch that stirred my insides to a writhing, wanting hum.

I wanted to spread my fingers through his hair.  The showerhead was not Monsieur Sexy's head.  So I made due with the fantasy of feeling his wet hair against my thigh as he supped upon me.  And as I came, I cried out loudly and gripped for the shower curtain to steady myself as I wobbled forward, catching the clenching waves that tensed my pussy in delicious climax.

"Oh, yes."  I laughed and dropped the showerhead to the floor of the tub.  Then, kneeling, I caught the upstream against my pulsing pussy. 

Round two?  "Why the hell not."

***

Ten minutes later I wandered into the bedroom, the robe open, my hair toweled off yet hanging wet and heavy across my shoulders.  Two orgasms had worked nicely to relieve my cramps.  I peered out the window.  He sat in bed, the sheets over his lap, reading one of those thick computer manuals that would probably render me into a catatonic state before I reached the bottom of page one.  I preferred romances, thank you very much. 

I loved when he wore those stoic, black-rimmed glasses.  Sexy geek fencer guys did it for me.  And to think on it…  He was going through a tough time right now, struggling to get a divorce from a wife who had cuckolded him, over and over.  (Yes, I'd just thought the word cuckolded. I'd been doing too much historical research lately.)

Poor guy.  He needed tender loving care.

I leaned over and clicked on the lamp sitting on my nightstand.  He instantly looked over, dropping the book onto his lap.

I waved.  Yes, I was being a tease, standing there exposed.  I was pretty darn sure he could deal with it.

He held up the brown Angelina folder and winked.  Picking up his notebook he wrote, then turned it to me. 
You will always be
mon abeille
.

Sigh. 

So he now knew my name.  We were in it to win it.  Or something like that.

He wrote on two more pages:
Mon nom est

"My name is," I interpreted, thinking it funny he'd just written in French.  I flexed my fingers in anticipation.

Jean-Louis

Another sigh.  A breathless fall into romance and wonder and all that good stuff a girl should feel when in a relationship.

"Jean-Louis," I whispered.  It fit him perfectly.  "My Frenchman."

I gave him a thumbs up.

Emboldened by our confessions, I grabbed the spiral-bound notebook from the nightstand and the sharpie marker.  I wrote something while he waited, hands to hips.  How much did I love the gray boxer briefs that conformed over that thick erection?

I wonder if he'd found my panties?

"Jean-Louis," I whispered again.  My Jean-Louis.

Having written the three most daring words I'd probably thought about our relationship lately, I hesitated turning the notebook around.  I could chicken out, tear off the page and toss it over my shoulder.  I'd wave him off, click off the light and crawl between the sheets.  'Nuff said.  The relationship was on wobbly legs at best.

But…

No.  I'd decided to fight for him.  And this chick wasn't about to go down easy.  (Unless he wanted me to go down on him, then...)

Okay, right, stop thinking.  Focus!

I pointed from me and then to him.  He nodded.  I could feel his anticipation permeate the glass and burst in my heart.  And that is what endeared him to me.  He was honest and open and trustworthy, and he'd given me his all.  As much as a man is capable of giving in the sort of hookup we had.

I turned the notebook around. 
Let's do this
.

Head bowing for a moment, I imagined he must be relieved, his heartbeats thumping and his anxiety settling down on the scale.  He gave me two thumbs up, then blew me a kiss.  Then he grabbed something off his dresser.  It was the laptop.

I shook my head.  "Not tonight."

I wrote more, then turned the notebook around.

Party in two days.  Still need time.  Just the window until then?

He nodded eagerly. 

I wrote again: 
I can't wait to touch you.

He pressed his palms together before his mouth and bowed, perhaps overwhelmed by my confession.  It was the truth.  I wanted—no needed—to touch him. 

Finally. 

The End

Curious to learn what she wrote in the gold leather notebook?  Stop by
http://thenotebookconfessions.com

Skin: Book #3

Chapter
One

Have you ever so desperately wanted something to happen that anticipation jittered in your veins?  While at the same time, if it really did happen you felt sure you'd pass out?