The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (4 page)

My apartment did not face in the direction of the river, and even though the Eiffel Tower was less than a five-minute walk away, I had no view to speak of. 

Unless you considered washboard abs a view, which I would gladly take over the Iron Lady any day.

The phone in my front pocket jingled as I rushed into the bedroom to abandon the shoes on the unmade bed.  Answering the phone, I tugged out the elastic binder from my hair.  My temples relaxed, as did my shoulders.  I generally wore a ponytail when working at the map shop.  Simple, no-nonsense, business style.

I slipped out of my well-worn, red kitten heels (I’d only been a little embarrassed to walk into Louboutin in the poor things) and unzipped my pencil skirt, letting it hang at my hips.

It was Richard, from work.  I hadn't run into him today since I'd worked half a shift for Rachel, and Richard tended to come in over supper hours.  The owner of the shop was a middle-aged Brit who had never married.  Richard traveled the world searching out the maps he sold in the cozy little shop that sat kitty-corner to the Nôtre Dame cathedral.  I imagined that he was an Indiana Jones adventurer, because he certainly boasted some biceps under the sweaters he wore and was always darkly tanned.  Not ugly, though he had no girlfriend that I was aware of.  I didn't think he was gay either, but who knew?

"Tomorrow?"

I shoved the piled clothing on the big velvet chair aside and managed to plop one thigh onto it as I leaned back over the strewn mess.  Strained relaxation at its best.  I popped open my blouse buttons and undid the front snap on my bra.  Ah, freedom. 

"Of course I can open the shop for you tomorrow, Richard.  You know I'm almost always available to fill in."  Yet I never wanted to work full-time out of the home; I was too satisfied being my own boss.

Rachel, the pretty French ingénue who had married last year, and who worked full time in the shop, had gone into labor this afternoon two hours after we'd switched shifts.  (Must have been at the moment I'd slashed my credit card at Louboutin.  Its plastic scream had likely drowned out Rachel’s cry of alarm.)

"Don't worry about a thing, Richard.  I'll be there by nine-thirty to open by ten."

I hung up, and before I could get too comfy, my feet tingled expectantly.  The shoe box on the bed looked absolutely miffed that I'd tossed it aside, as if a leaf of lettuce that always got picked off the sandwich before eating.

"Sorry." 

I retrieved the beige box and this time, transferred the piled clothes from the chair to the floor, before settling into the soft, velvet hug and carefully, lovingly, unboxing the prize.  As some geeks did with their Apple computer products—the unboxing process was ritual (I'd seen the photos online)—I did with my shoes.  Though I refrained from taking pictures.

The lid was a nice weight, and designed to glide off the box with the slightest
schush
of welcome, as if the innards had been hermetically sealed, pristine, and in wait of the first stroke of a woman's glossy red fingernails.

Setting aside the cover, I pulled open the white tissue paper and ran my fingers (sans red gloss; I only polished my toes) over the inner sportscar-red fabric bag.  It was soft and embossed in black with the Louboutin logo.  It spoke of luxury, and a big credit card bill next month. 

Yeah, so, a girl should never put a price on satisfaction.

A smaller drawstring red bag included extra heels.  Yay!

Carefully untying the bound bag ties, I trailed each ribbon out to either side of my lap.  I worked the fabric ruched about the ribbon straight until the bag emitted the shoes.  They slid out like a dream.  I set the box aside on the floor and smoothed out the bag on my lap before placing the shoes on it.

Hey, we all have our quirks.  I know some of you do this with a box of chocolates, carefully perusing the chart to ensure you don't pick that awful orange cream.  Or what about those phones that come with the factory-placed plastic shield to protect the glass?  Don't deny you keep that plastic on to preserve the factory seal.

The shoes sat upright, facing me, the bows at the heels plumping out from their forced containment.  I stroked the black leather and the velvet ankle ribbons. 

"Mine, all mine." 

I hadn't bought myself a gift since the thin silver toe ring—that I always wear—last Christmas.  A girl should be more generous to herself.

I leaned forward to sniff the leather.  Smelled like…leather.  And glue.

Screw the ritual.  I needed to feel these babies against my skin.  Sure, I'd tried them on in the store.  So the whole first-wear hermetic seal thing was total bubkiss.  But the fantasy was still running in high gear.  My heartbeats had already raced me to the bottom of the grand staircase where the makeshift princess waited for the prince—make that a musketeer—to place the shoe on her foot.  And then they would ride off to his castle and live—

Seriously?  I'm sure that castle had like fourteen toilets.  And who do you think got stuck cleaning them?

I intended to select my Prince Charming with great care and get a tour of his house before saying 'yes' to anything, and that included scrubbing toilets.

I tucked my toes into a shoe, slowly sliding my foot in until the platform conformed to my arch and my heel snugged against the curved leather.  The fit was not cozy like bedroom slippers.  High heels were not designed to be comfortable.

I laced up the ribbon, which wrapped about my ankle once then tied it in a bow at the back of my calf.  If there was a body part I could be proud of it was my feet.  They were size seven, had high arches (made for high heels, don't you know) and the toes were straight and perfectly graduated from big to small, no odd middle toe sticking out longer than the rest.  I only polished my toes, never my fingernails.  And always a chili red that matched the finish of a Smart Car I'd once owned.

Sliding my fingers along the smooth gloss of the red spike heel and sole, I couldn't help a lingering moan, sort of a milk chocolate melting on the tongue combined with the first imminent waves of orgasm moan.  Yeah, it was that good.

I bent and slid my other foot into the remaining shoe, gliding a finger along the leather—I think the sides were called the shank—and brushing the edge of my foot where the arch showed a sliver of space between the shoe and skin.  Soft there.  I loved having my feet touched.  Not ticklish at all.  I could make a serious argument for the soles of my feet being an erogenous zone. 

The second ribbon bound about my ankle, I leaned forward, pressing my chest to my lap, palms to the hardwood floor, and admired my prizes.  The supple leather basked in the glow of the bedroom lamp.  A tilt of my foot and the light flashed regally on the red soles.  Louis XIV had started the red-soled fashion trend back in the seventeenth century while occupying the court of Versailles.  Thank you, Louis.  I feel like a queen.

Leaning back in the chair I lifted my feet.  All hail, the Louboutins!  I didn't intend to take them off.  Ever.  I'd sleep in them tonight.  I swear.

I noticed movement outside the window.  The sheer was pulled aside and I'd forgotten my lighted bedroom served as a stage.  Leaning forward and placing my feet on the floor in what I deemed was a sexy pose, I remembered my open blouse and—I didn't pull it closed.  The bra was open, but the cups hadn't slid off my breasts yet, so I wasn't revealing anything he hadn't already seen. 

He stood there, an arm to the window, other hand cocked casually at the hip of his snug fitting jeans.  (Yes, to any man who didn't subscribe to the slouchy jean fad!)  Yet for as snug as they were, they also sat low on his hips, exposing those gorgeous Adonis arches, muscles that veed down toward his delicious package and compelled me to stare.

I gave a sheepish wave, wondering how long he'd watched my silly shoe ritual.

His thumbs up both relaxed my worry and heated my neck with a blush.  He pointed toward my feet.

Yes, they are my goddess gear.  Bow down before them and worship the red heels—and me—if you dare.

Wow.  One incident of flashing a stranger had pushed all of my sliders up to ten.  Someone must have slapped a piece of duct tape over my inhibition button.  I think it was because of the privacy we shared.  Despite the two of us standing before windows, we were three stories up, and no one from street level could see either one of us unless we stood right up against the glass.

Enclosed within my dollhouse stage, I was safe to explore the vixen's fantasies.

Standing, I walked before the window, not so much displaying the shoes to him—he was a guy; they could care less about shoes—as testing the feel of them.  I walked a few paces, head down to keep the shoes in sight.  The ribbons tickled the backs of my ankles.  A shiver tracing from toe to thigh and up higher tightened my nipples.

Turning, I walked toward the chair, ensuring the fit and making sure the torture level wasn't unbearable.  I bet I could wear these puppies for half an hour, tops, before begging for mercy.  Forget about walking any farther than my apartment down to the sidewalk to catch a cab; I'd never make it to the Métro stop three blocks away.  And trust me, Louboutins and band-aids lashed across my heels were a fashion faux pas I did not want to commit.

I paused, and assumed a high fashion pose, one foot crossed before the other and toe angled outward; one that would emphasize the shoes for all the viewers.  (Hey, it's my fantasy.  And again, don't tell me you haven't done this before the mirror hundreds of times.)  And then, a side view for him.  Bending forward slightly and lifting one leg in a pinup,
oh you've startled me
, position.  I did all but the fingers to the mouth mock gasping.  Didn't want to push it.

Oh hell, why not? 

Fingers going to my mouth, I feigned a surprised, 'oh, you caught me slightly undressed swooning over my shoes' expression.

Results were hearty laughter from across the street.  I wished I could hear the sound of it.  I imagined the tenor was deep, full from the chest, and that it came easily, not forced.  Did he speak English?  Or was he all French?  Was he even French?  He could be British, or maybe a displaced American like me.

Please let him be French
.  He'd seemed to understand me the few times I'd spoken to him through the glass, and the textbook he had been reading was titled in English, so I was falling on the 'knows English well' side of things.

Now he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the window to watch my show.  His hair was tousled this evening, and I decided that was his look.  Sexy messy with a finger comb now and then, and yet, it looked as if a stylist had worked on it forever.  It must smell freshly showered with a hint of spicy shampoo lingering in the wet strands.  Mmm…  

Standing upright and matching his gaze, I wondered what came next.  I'd done the runway walk and the pinup bend.  While such blatant posing should make me feel foolish and shameful, I hadn't touched embarrassment.  It felt natural standing there, my blouse open and my skirt unzipped, ready to slide over my hips with a shimmy. 

It was the shoes.  Had to be the magical power of the shoes.

He lifted his shirt, revealing abs so hard and taut they could blow out a truck tire.  I licked my lips.  He laughed again, and pointed at me.

I tugged apart both sides of my shirt in question.

He nodded, and mouthed something I couldn't understand.  With a shrug, he then spoke an unmistakable, "Please."

Or at least, I'd interpreted it as please.  Maybe he'd initially said
s'il vous plait
?  He could have said anything.  No, he'd asked permission.  He'd begged for me to remove my shirt.  Kind of, sort of, maybe?  Yeah, I was going with begging.

Turning away, more to hide my sudden blush than anything, I didn't vacillate over his request too long.  My back to him, I shrugged my shirt down to my elbows.  Remarkably, the bra stayed in place.  Attribute that little miracle to underwires and a perfect fit La Perla black lace pushup.

Dropping my arms at my sides, the blouse glided down to my wrists.  A shake of my hands and a swing of an arm swept it onto the velvet chair beside me.  The black lace bra clung to my almost-C cups as I turned slowly toward him.  (I was closer to a B-cup, but when a girl wavers between two cups, she always rounds up.  And that is gospel.)

He kissed his fingertips and blew the morsel to me.  The intangible kiss permeated the glass between us and scurried beneath my skin as if some kind of injected heat.  A man's silent approval of what he saw before him.  I didn't even worry about the nudge of muffintop that had blossomed thanks to the many macarons I was forced to consume every time I passed a patisserie.  Yes, forced.  If I didn't eat them, the pretty pastel treats would sit under glass all day and grow hard, crunchy, and unpalatable.  Who could live with such a horror?

He tugged at the waistband of his jeans, then pointed to me.  Skirt off, too, eh?

Again, I didn't think beyond what the flirtatious, wanting, giggling vixen inside me desired.  This was fun and daring, and I knew I wasn't going any farther than shirt and skirt until he gave a little on his side as well.  Besides, we were separated by two sheets of glass and fifteen feet of air space.  We stood in completely different buildings. 

It could never be completely safe—I might run into him on the street some day and then, whoops!  But I cautioned myself from thinking that far ahead.