The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (5 page)

The skirt dropped to the floor, puddling about my Louboutins.  I stepped out of the white pinstripes on gray rayon and kicked it aside.  Twisting, I stood before the window in my matching black lace set and beribboned high heels.  A shiver scurried from my neck down my arms and through my stomach ending at my mons where it swirled expectantly.  There's something so sexy about wearing shoes while in lingerie.  It was unusual for me, so it felt forbidden.  It was even more daring, to me, than walking around naked after a shower.

The man touched his fingertips to his mouth and blew me an approving kiss.  I would dream about that intangible kiss tonight.  While I wore the shoes.

I dragged the chair closer to the window and sat, knees together and feet spread.  An adjustment to one of the ribbon bows.  Perfect.  Leaning forward, I pointed to him.

He stabbed a thumb toward his chest and perked his brows in question.

"Yes, you."  I nodded.  "You gotta give if you want to get, Mr. Sexy." 

That should probably be
Monsieur
Sexy?  What was the French word for sexy?  I think it might simply be sexy.  I'd have to look it up later.

Splaying his hands out, he momentarily considered the request, or rather, made dramatic show of considering it, then nodded that yes, indeed, he must comply.  It was a teasing compliance.  He had a sense of humor, and that rocketed his appeal exponentially.

He unzipped his jeans.  I'd already seen him in his skivvies, so the unveiling would be nothing new, but the slowness with which he eased the snug denim down his thighs and to his knees almost undid me.  His thigh muscles were toned from fencing, and they flexed as he bent to shove the jeans past his knees. 

I bit my lip, catching my chin in palm, and experienced a moment where I thought I might start drooling.

When he stood in black boxer briefs he straightened and splayed his hands out in a
look at me
gesture. 
Does this please you?  I am a sexy Frenchman who has just dropped trou.  Only for you, my pretty mignon
. 

Was it weird that my mental version of his voice had sounded like Pepe le Pew?  Oh yeah. 

He flexed a biceps.  Nice muscles, and so cute with the way he tried to macho it up.  A nervous reaction, I thought, not so much showing off, as attempting to make light of the sexually charged, yet anxious, moment.

He lifted a bare foot and pointed to it as he shook his head sadly.

"Poor guy.  No shoe that you own could compete with these pretties."

I leaned back and lifted a foot to admire what was more distracting than the man in the underwear.  Almost.  Red-soled shoes or the hard body across the street?

Absolutely no question.

Turning on the chair and leaning my elbow onto the arm I tugged out the waistband of my underwear, let it snap back into place, and pointed to him.

He thumbed the waistband of his boxer briefs and toyed at tugging them down, which revealed a peek of hair as dark as that on his head.

I nodded and put on my best pout.  I added hands pressed together in prayer for good measure.  Please can I have some more, sir?

I don't think I'd ever seen a sweeter, yet devilish grin.  A shadow of a mustache darkened his upper lip, emphasizing his slightly crooked grin.  His eyebrow arched on the same side as his smile lifted.

Running a palm down his abs—yes, slowly, so I could imagine the hard, hot plane of strapped muscle as if it were beneath my own palm, breathing, tensing, growing hotter—he stroked the hand over his boxers, and even though the fabric was black, I could see the thickness beneath reacting to his touch. 

He gripped the package.  I was reminded of that Transporter movie—
Rule number three: never open the package
. 

Bedamned rule number three.  I wanted to tear open the package and look, touch, and lick, and enjoy.

He sucked in a corner of his lower lip.  The man was turned on by his own touch.  Or was it me watching him touch himself that did it for him?

A combination of both, I decided.  Because hell, my nipples were hard as diamonds, poking against the black lace bra.  I recognized pain, and realized that I was biting my lip.  I released it without a flinch.  I didn't want him to see my profound reaction.  But then…I decided my reactions were the only part about this that mattered.  We couldn't touch one another.  We were denied sound, smell, and taste.  This slightly dangerous liaison was all about sight and imagination.

I waggled my finger and tapped the air down, down, down.

And his boxers slid slowly down to reveal the thick thatch of dark hairs and the head of his cock.  Then the enticing bulge disappeared.  He'd tugged the boxers back up and waggled a chiding finger at me.

God, I loved that easy smile.

Forgetting that I wasn't normally so sexually forward, I pressed my palms together in another
please
gesture.

He shrugged, and then dropped trou in a swift slide from thigh to ankle.

"Fuck." 

I mean, seriously, there was nothing else I could say.

He stood there boldly, eyes glued to mine, noting every reaction, every minute movement as I leaned forward and pressed the cool glass with my fingertips.  A poor replacement for what I wanted to get my hands on.

He was hard and ready to go.  So rigid and firm that his cock stood at attention, pointing toward his abs.  The head of him was a deep magenta and thick like a summer-sweet plum.  His testicles hung heavy behind and below the gorgeous rod, and I almost made a squeezing motion with my hands.  Almost.

Thumbs up for him.  Oh why not,
two
thumbs up.

He smiled and shook his head, bowing it as he might have blushed.  But he didn't reach to protectively cup his equipment.  I adored his confidence.  How often did a woman get to watch such a sight?  And to direct it? 

Louboutins and a hard cock?  I was one spoiled girl.

“Mercy.”

The owner of the upright cock pointed to me.  My turn.

But just the underwear?  I stood and fingered the strap of my bra, then my waistband.

Both
, he mouthed.  I understood that request perfectly.  It seemed fair enough, since he was naked.  And he'd already seen my breasts last night so no problem going there again.

I toed out a foot and tilted my head in question.

He shook his head adamantly.  Keep the shoes on, was the message.

I hadn't a stripper bone in my body, but the idea of getting naked for a nameless man whom I may never speak to rubbed all the erogenous zones in my body.  Hard.  At least, I hoped to never speak to him if we were going through with this.  How embarrassing would it be to meet over the fresh fruit in the supermarket?  Hey, nice cock—er, bananas you've got there.

Commit, I told myself.  And have fun with it, my inner vixen chimed.  I'd deal with the fruity situation if and when it ever occurred.

Right.

Turning around to give him my back, I glanced over a shoulder and winked at him.  I slipped down a bra strap.  Just because I didn't have stripper moves didn't mean I hadn't seen them in movies.  A shimmy of my arm dropped the strap lower and I glided it down and off my hand.

Sight of his cock standing at attention made me smile, and I almost giggled.  Oh hell, why not?  I burst into giggles, catching a palm over my mouth.  A dip of my head to look around and through the window received a wink from him.

Silly girl, giggles made me feel even sexier.  And he was enabling me.  Scandalous.  Absolutely brazen.

Good boy.

Shrugging off the other strap, I let the lacy black slip of almost-nothing fall to the floor where I caught it on a toe of my shoe and lifted it to display for him.  With a flip of my foot I sent it off to land near the end of the bed. 

I cupped my almost-Cs, which were high and perky.  I was proud of them, and loved to have a man touch and lick them.  I actually couldn't get off without a lot of breast stimulation.  It was as if my nipples had a direct get-off line to my pussy.  No sucking, no coming. 

I lamented the missed sensation of touch from Monsieur Sexy, but as I turned to face him, I caught him with an open mouth, gliding his tongue along his teeth.  The look in his eyes, part pained want and another part soft desire, served me well enough.

Nipples hard against my palms, I bent forward, teasing him with a peek—but not yet.

I turned away again, and now I slipped my fingers down each side of my panties. He nodded encouragingly, and as the black lace slid down my ass and thighs, I bent, drawing them to my ankles and then carefully stepping out of them, giving him a view of my backside.  While down, I glanced around my hair and there was that appreciative open-mouthed gape again.

Too cute. 

I stood and turned, displaying my high breasts and neatly shaved crotch (no particular design; I just liked trimming the shrubbery).  His regard swept over my skin and I felt that intangible look tingle at my breasts and lower.  Mmm, my stomach was soft and my mons warm.  Yes, I was already wet. 

This vixen was getting her naughty on.

He gripped his cock.  I cupped my breasts, thumbing the nipples.  And as he nodded, I watched him stroke his rod. 

We were doing this.  Mutually pleasuring ourselves before a window, while all around us in the neighborhood below, life went on.  People strolled the sidewalks on a late-night walk or in search of Fluffy gone rogue.  Lost tourists prayed they'd find the nearest Métro stop.  Cars rolled quietly over the cobbled streets.

Could anyone see us?  Not from the street.  There were no other apartments on the third floor on our sides of the buildings.  Someone on the roof might get a good view, but no one ever went up there.  At least not that I'd ever noticed.

He pointed to me and then moved his hand down from his chest to his crotch and made a rubbing motion.  I understood what he wanted me to do, and glided my fingers down my stomach, panting in daring anticipation.

Daring to do this.  Daring to meet his challenge.  Daring to take what I desired without concern for whether or not it was right or wrong.  I wanted to do this…

I could do this.

I…

Bon courage
?  I shook my head, indicating that tiny niggle that wouldn't allow me to make the leap. 

I kissed my palm and blew him the reluctant send-off.  He reciprocated, but not without a disappointed shrug of his shoulders. 

I know, I know!  So close and yet unable to grasp the prize. 

With a wave goodnight, I pulled the sheers closed and scampered into the bathroom.  My heels clicked on the tiles, echoing my daring foray into exhibitionism.

Chapter
Four

Staring at my reflection I winked at the brunette.  I had begun something exciting and daring with a stranger.  I wanted it to continue.  But it had rushed into extreme territory tonight.

"Not that extreme," I muttered, retrieving the toothbrush from inside the medicine cabinet and adding a dollop of Elgydium toothpaste to it (clove flavored).  I started to brush.

Right, because extreme would be getting together with a stranger too quickly and having sex.  Like on the first date. 

All right, all right, I had to confess to one—no, two—one night stands.  I wasn't proud of them.  And yet, I wasn't ashamed of them either.  I'd been safe, using condoms, and sometimes I needed it when I needed it, and that didn't imply that I had to start dating, go to the guy's family reunion with him, start dreaming about matching bedroom sets, or ponder the many uses for rhubarb in baked goods.

Guys had no-strings sex all the time.  Why should women be stigmatized for wanting the same thing?  I certainly wasn't going to wear the guilt crown about it.

I wasn’t about to feel guilty about my window affair, either.  But I had the right to refuse when things didn't feel right, as did he.  No matter how much I'd wanted to keep going tonight, I had to listen to that inner voice that reminded me that I am the quiet introvert who would be appalled to witness such a scene from the streets below.

Appalled at first, but then, I'd probably grin and walk on. 

There was something about sex, the act of undressing together, of learning each other's bodies—well that was it, wasn't it?  We hadn't gone the route of undressing one another and trailing our fingers over skin to read subtle curves and muscles.  What we'd shared was pseudo-foreplay.  There wasn’t anything wrong with that.  In fact, it might be an interesting get-to-know you process, instead of the standard fingers over skin scenario.

I spit and rinsed and stared hard at myself in the mirror.  Really?

Fine.  I missed the skin contact. 

Oh, man, I wanted to wrap my fingers about his cock.  Feel its hardness, the heat of it, the utter strength of it.  Cup my palm over the head and—I wondered if he was circumcised?  He'd been hard so it was difficult to tell.  I'd never seen an uncircumcised penis up close and friendly-like.  My love for knowledge, and the desire to learn and explore things I was unfamiliar with, wanted him to be uncut.