The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (41 page)

I had to take a moment to succumb to a costume orgasm over the two of us.  He in his damask coat and breeches a la the seventeenth century, with lace dripping from his wrists and tied at his throat, plus the billowing ostrich plume on his hat.  It screamed swashbuckler! 

And I in my silk dress cinched tightly to push up my breasts. We made a dashing pair.

Bracketing my face with his palms, he kissed me again.  Too quickly, he pulled away to gaze into my eyes.  His breath, tinted with champagne, hushed over my mouth.  The spices on his skin mulled the champagne into a sweet treat.

I wanted him to touch me.  Everywhere.

"I know where I'd like you to put your mouth," I said.  The vixen that had blossomed within me over the past month fluttered her lashes and stepped back from the musketeer.  My skirts shushed the carpeted floor.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle.  I am at your command."  He swept a dashing bow that would have reduced any damsel to a swoon.

I turned and strolled to a long table set along the back wall.  It was half-covered with purses, backpacks, and messenger bags.  They could be easily moved.

Walking up the fabric of my skirt with my fingers, I smiled to myself.  Desire rushed forth and pushed away any niggling reluctance.  Because, yes, I was nervous.  Here I stood in the same room as the man I had only communicated with via window and computer screen.  It was real now.  Nothing to hide behind.  And my heart burst from the chrysalis to flutter its wings.

Turning to him, I lifted my skirt high enough to reveal my thighs, on which I wore not-quite period appropriate white silk thigh-high stockings.  Pink bows tufted at the tops, inviting his eye.  And a little higher....

"
Mon Dieu
."  He brushed the hair from his face, his eyes glued to my nethers.  "
Mon abeille
, you did as I asked."

He'd once requested I not wear panties the first time we were to meet.  Who was I to disappoint a musketeer?

He dropped to his knees and took off his plumed hat, tossing it aside with a dashing sweep.  That move made me suck in a breath.  Damn, but I had such control over him right now.  And he was my willing sycophant, walking up to me on his knees.  He ran his palms up my thighs, looking over my neatly trimmed pussy.  He took his time.  I could feel his eyes on me, much as I had come to feel his desire through the window, and to sense his arousal while he sat in a Berlin hotel room and the computer screen had provided but a facsimile of sensual awareness.

Hot breaths hushed on my thighs where the pink bow had first drawn his eyes.  Then the heat whispered higher and moved to the apex at my mons.  His unabashed study of me swirled a delicious tingle up my spine and I clutched the skirt fabric expectantly.  I grew so wet; if I'd been wearing panties, I would have creamed them.

Eventually, he looked up to me.  His eyes were the color of the sky after the rain.  Gray-sky eyes.  Though the room was muted with low light, his pupils glinted.  I ran my fingers through his hair.  The soft curls slipped about my fingers like ribbon. 

I gripped a hank and gasped, "Yes, please."

First press of his mouth to my pussy stirred up a moan from me.  His heated breath tickled sensation across my skin.  He kissed down the patch of hair that didn't form a pattern so much as I liked to keep it short and neat.  A kiss there, another kiss next to it.  The pressure of his hands at my thighs pulsed my muscles there.  The rub of the gold buttons on his coat tickled aside my knee.

I'd once fantasized about him dressed as a musketeer, kneeling before me to sup between my legs.  Seriously.  Talk about a fantasy come true. 

Reality was much better.

The point of his tongue dashed out and licked along my labia, tasting me, slowly tendering a line from top to bottom of the slit.  Then he journeyed along the outside, up, down, and up again.  He'd drawn a line around the most sensitive parts of me.  Yet when he pressed his tongue against my clit, where the tiny bud had already begun to swell and seek sensation, I gripped his hair tighter and bit down on my lip.  "Fuck yes."

"I have wanted to taste you for so long," he murmured, pressing his cheek to my trimmed thatch and glancing up.  "
Exquis
," he said. He tapped my labia and slicked my juices teasingly along the seam.  "May I go further?"

"Uh-huh," I managed, though truly, my gasps should have been invitation enough.

His finger glided inside me, and I moaned at the delicious intrusion.  How many times had I fingered myself for his viewing pleasure, brought myself to orgasm as he had done the same to himself so far away from me?  Now it would be different, and the same, and so, so right.  It was fifty ways to heaven to feel him inside me.  Invading me in the most desirable way.  When he curled his finger forward and brushed my ridged G-spot, I cried out.

"Ah...  That is the place," he said as he kissed my clit and worked his finger slowly, expertly, within me.  A hush of hot breath against my swollen bud clenched my stomach muscles.  Moans gasped out unbidden.  My skin heated and breaths panted.  Mercy.

He stroked my inhibitions away, drawing up the vixen until my entire system tingled in anticipation.  My cheeks flushed, as did my breasts.  I clutched at the fabric and his hair, seeking stability, yet desiring to soar unbound.  His kiss deepened, his tongue manipulating the swollen head of my clit, while his finger inside me danced me closer to the edge, to a wicked fall that I wanted to take, nets be damned. 

This man could make me soar.

"Hollie."  His whisper fluttered through my being.  A harmonization to the intensity of the imminent orgasm. 

I was so close.  Right there.  I squeezed my thighs together, but not for long.  Didn't want to stop him from doing as he pleased with me.  And when he suckled my clitoris and brushed it ever so lightly with his bottom teeth, I surrendered.  His heat, his mouth, his fingers.  The tickle of his hair against my thighs.  The press of his bicep along my leg.  Oh, but he owned me as I shuddered and threw back my head, not crying out, yet moaning deep in my throat as orgasm won.

He wrapped one arm about my hips, pulling me hard against his mouth; that wicked tongue still teasing at my throbbing clit.  It was almost cruel to attempt to prolong the exquisite pleasure, but that didn't stop me from tilting my hips toward him to keep him there.  Hot and wet and so hungry against me. 

"Yes," I murmured.  Breaths panting, one hand fluttered down to find landing on his shoulder. 

He glided up along me, kissing my breasts that heaved up and down within the confines of the dress.  Oh, yeah, real heaving bosoms.  Take that romance chicks!  His tongue tickled my flushed skin as I gasped, flying on the orgasm that had rocketed me through the stratosphere. 

I usually did not come so easily or quickly.  It was because this had been our first touch.  Our first intimate connection.  Without removing a stitch of clothing, the man had mastered me.

Now he sought my nipple with his tongue, though the dress stays were tight and not eager to give up the prize so easily.  I hooked a leg about one of his and pulled his hips against mine, my mons still bared.  The rub of the rough, damask fabric breeches against my skin teased at the fading orgasm.

"Your orgasm is even better up close and in my face," he said as he nipped the crest of my breast.  "You taste like my fantasies,
mon abeille
.  But I need more.  All of you."

The musketeer hiked up my leg and levered me onto the table behind me.  Would he fuck me right here in the closet?  Had it been half an hour?  I didn't want us discovered.  And yet I wanted him to fuck me.  To shove his cock into me and fill me—but no.  We could wait.  We had to.

I pushed him back and yet clung to an intricate button on his coat.  Pulling him to me, I kissed him hard, deeply, tasting my own salty flavor and mining a desperate groan from him. 

"Take me home," I said between quick kisses.  "I want you to fuck me, but not here.  In private.  Yes?"

He pulled my hand down and pressed it over his breeches.  My God, his cock was hard.  Thick and sturdy, as I knew from witnessing his erection many times through glass.  I squeezed my fingers over it, eliciting a strained moan from him. 

"You want me to go down on you quick?"

"No, not quick," he said.  "You are right.  We must leave.  Now."

He grabbed my hand, and I shuffled down my skirts as we headed out the doorway.  Perfect timing.  The valet caught the key Jean-Louis tossed to him, and he winked, sliding me a sidelong assessment as we rushed by.

Let him look and wonder.  What else did he think we had been doing in the coat closet, eh?  The guy probably had a small side business going renting out the room to horny lovers while he went on break.

We glided toward the main foyer, but I abruptly pulled Jean-Louis to a stop.  "I have to say goodbye to Melanie.  The party hostess.  She's my best friend."

"Very well.  I'll hail a cab.  You've five minutes before I—"  He slid my hand over his erection again.  "—take care of this myself."

"Oh, no, you don't.  Monsieur Eiffel is all mine tonight."  Monsieur Eiffel is what he called his cock.  Yeah, I know.  But so much better than Roger, right?  "I'll be out in four minutes."

He kissed me hard and held my stare for so long I whimpered as I felt my pussy moisten to flood level.  And then I shook my head, and with a giggle, took off toward the main ballroom to find wicked Alice and thank her for inviting me to her Wonderland.

***

The cab ride, which was only ten minutes long, was a lesson in self-restraint.  At first I didn't care what the cabbie saw.  I reached for Jean-Louis's lap, aiming to get a good grip on his main shaft, yet he tutted me and waved an admonishing finger. 

"Patience," he said with a delicious little-boy smirk.  "We are almost there."

I think he tipped the cabbie generously.  I'm sure that had been a fifty euro bill he'd handed over.  Jean-Louis was comfortable financially; at least that's as best I'd been able to determine.  A few weeks ago he'd enticed me into a high-end shop on the Champs Elysees (via Skype) and had bought me a two thousand euro dress without blinking.  And his apartment, situated in the snooty 7th arrondissement, must cost twice that every month.  Yeah, he was rich. 

But the money didn't matter.  Seriously.  I wasn't a gold digger.  I didn't need much in this life.  Books, a cool peachy moscato, and some fancy Louboutins were the things that made me happy. 

And one sexy Frenchman.

We sailed up the stairway to the third floor where, at his door, I took the initiative and punched in the digital code.

"I remember the code from when I watered your plants," I provided.  It had only been a few days since I'd done so.

That had been the day I'd learned he was married.

No, I wasn't going to think about that right now.  He was in the process of getting a divorce. And I was too horny to rationalize the good, bad, or downright wrong regarding this hookup. 

It was all good.  It had to be.  It would be.

I entered his apartment, which was dark save for a narrow golden beam cast across the hardwood floor from a nearby streetlight.  As soon as I heard the door lock click behind me, I was spun about.  My back hit the door.  He held me by the wrists, gently, yet with the promise of control.  I gasped in a breath, my breasts heaving up from the tight stays.

"Hollie," he said.  "I love your name.  It is you.  It pleases me to finally say it to you.  Hollie, my pretty window lover who likes bees and fancy shoes."

"Jean-Louis," I said as if savoring a treat.  "My Frenchman.  A man who teaches computer mumbo-jumbo online and loves a great chocolate cupcake."

"You also like to watch me jack off."

"I could say the same for you."

"
Oui
.  You know how to stroke yourself until you cry out.  I adore the expression on your face when you come.  Eyes closed, mouth open.  Mm...  Your breasts are so pretty."  He kissed the top of each one.  "And your pussy is what I want always."

He lifted me into his arms and carried me across the vast room that wasn't furnished because this was the spot where he taught fencing to students.  An aged brown leather sofa delineated the living area from the practice space.  We passed by the sofa, of which, I'd once had a delicious dream about the two of us having sex on. 

He set me down briefly then lifted me in his arms, sweeping up my legs and managing to get a good grip despite the heavy and cumbersome skirts.  "The men in the seventeenth century certainly had a lot of dress to deal with," he said. 

"Yeah?  Well, I'm thinking those buttons on your coat and breeches are going to take far too long for my urgent needs."

"You want me, eh?"

I kissed him when he paused in the doorway to the bedroom.  Our mouths fit perfectly.  Was it cliché to think we were meant for one another?  Hell, we'd had practice getting to know one another over the past month.  Now was for exercising all the unrealized desires that had been building to a head.

Once in the bedroom, he deposited me on the bed and I landed on my back, finding it hard to pull up to sit with the tightened corset.  The costume had taken some time to lace the corset up the side, which was positioned thus only to make it easier to dress alone.  I could understand now how the women from the past had required maids to help them dress.