The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (61 page)

Chapter Seventeen

So, we're good, me and Monsieur Sexy.  Every relationship has its stumbles, right? 

The past few weeks had been bliss.  I worked days.  Jean-Louis worked days.  (He had another upcoming business trip, but that wasn't until spring.  I had him for another two months all to myself).  We shared meals together, at whoever's place we managed to land.  We slept together at that same place.  Most of the time we had sex.  Some nights we snuggled and chatted about our dreams and aspirations.  Then we fell asleep listening to each other breathe.  Very cool.

And those roses he'd sent me as a makeup ploy?  They just dropped dead a few weeks ago.  Those puppies lasted over two weeks.  Amazing.  I scooped up a few dried petals I hadn't noticed from under the coffee table and tossed them in the garbage.  Tied up the full garbage bag, slipped my feet into a pair of flats, and headed down to the lobby.  Dropping the garbage in the closet designated for the building's waste, I then skipped outside and across the street.  Without a coat.  It was mid-February, but it was amazingly warm in France.  In the fifties.  I loved it.

High-fiving Jean-Louis's building concierge, I then raced up the three flights of stairs.  I knocked on his door, but then I punched the digital code and entered.  He was expecting me.  And—

"
En guarde
!"

Pinned against the wall by a blade to my neck, I almost shrieked, but then I giggled.

"You are not supposed to giggle when threatened by a musketeer," he insisted, maintaining a stern demeanor.  Stepping back and swinging an arm toward the wall he grabbed another weapon.  "Here!"

He tossed me a fencing foil and I tapped the side of his blade with mine, setting him back.  I delivered a riposte to his lunge and backed him across the room toward the sofa.  After a week of daily lessons I'd picked up a few moves.  Generally we used masks and vests, but I sensed he would never hurt me.  Though I did worry about him losing an eyeball from my misplaced blade.

"Surrender?" he challenged, blade tip to my heart.

"A musketeer never surrenders," I defied, with a lift of brow.

"I am the musketeer."

"No, I believe you are the evil Cardinal's guard.  Take that!" 

I dashed away his blade and swung to deliver a deadly slash across his thigh.  The blades were not sharp along the length and the tips did have the red plastic button on them.  And yet...

Jean-Louis yelped and grasped his thigh, falling to his knees.  He was a good faker.  But never in bed.  Nor was I.  A woman who faked orgasms was asking for a lifetime of disappointment. 

What was I doing?  Right.  Defeating the enemy.

I nudged my opponent's shoulder with the toe of my shoe and he collapsed onto the floor, rapier clattering across the hardwood and imaginary blood spilling in a crimson pool beside his leg.

"I win!" I announced, and strolled toward the rack on the wall to replace the fencing foil.

Suddenly from behind, I was grabbed about the neck.  My palms slapped the wall.  Jean-Louis's erection nuzzled against my ass through the clingy brown leggings I wore.

"You are too cocky," he said.  "Definitely musketeer material.  But you must never leave the enemy bleeding.  Always pierce him through the heart and watch him die."

Yikes.  That was macabre.  Bloodthirsty, even.

"I still win," I whispered, and jutted out my ass to rub against his cock.  "You know why?"

"Why?"  Now his hands cupped my breasts.

"Because having been defeated by the finer swordsman, as part of your punishment you have now agreed to be my willing slave.  Over there."  I nodded toward the ottoman before the window.  "Sit down.  Wait for me."

Jean-Louis collected his rapier, returned it to the hook on the wall then strolled over to the ottoman and sat, falling backward, arms spread.  He wore comfy jersey pants, and from my vantage the sun shone across his lap, highlighting the thickness in his lap beneath the fabric.

I traced my upper lip with my tongue.  Instead of going to him, I strolled to the sofa and knelt on it, propping my elbows on the back.  I faced him.  "I want to watch you care for your sword," I cooed.  "Make it nice and hard for me."

He sat up, answering me with a wink.

"And then make it drip for me."

His hand eased over the bulge in his lap.  "I can do that."

He tugged down the pants—no boxer briefs beneath—and his penis sprang up, hungrily seeking attention.  He slid down the pants and kicked them aside. 

"Shirt, too," I directed.  I wasn't about to be deprived the scenery of those ripped abs.

The tee shirt flopped onto his pants and he gripped the main stick.  A musketeer took great care with his sword.  It was as if a third arm to him.  Always there and at the ready.  Monsieur Eiffel was ever ready. 

His penis straightened with a gentle glide of his curled fingers up the shaft.  Each up and down direction tugged the foreskin over the crown, and then down to reveal the head that grew deeper in color as his erection engorged with blood.

Eyes closed and head tilted back, he leaned against one palm, while falling into a sort of meditation of sensual experience.  We'd watched one another get off for weeks at the beginning of our relationship.  And when we'd graduated to cyber sex that, too, had been one-sided sex.  Since then, we'd spent so much time mingling limbs and tasting skin and touching legs, breasts, asses, and hair, that it felt new again to watch this singular practice.

My nipples hardened and I rested my breasts upon the back of the leather sofa.  Fingers playing over my tee-shirt, I lightly grazed a hardened peak. "Mmm..." I said out loud.  "That ottoman sees a lot of action."

He smirked and said, "You have an ottoman fetish."

So I did.  Sounded weird.  But seriously?  Sprawled across a large round piece of soft velvet furniture in the middle of a room, stranded with my attentive lover, was my kind of fetish.

Jean-Louis hissed and squeezed his cock.  His hand now rapidly milked his shaft, coaxing it toward lift-off.  His gaze met mine.  A quirk of brow.  His wink devastated.  He liked it when I watched him.  I—ouch!

I'd bitten my lip and my cry had paused Jean-Louis in his intent motions.  "What?"

I tasted blood.  All I could do was laugh and shake my head.  "Don't stop.  You're almost there."

"Come help me."  He patted the ottoman.  "What is it you always say?  Pretty please?"

He didn't need to ask twice.  Pulling my shirt off as I approached displayed the sheer black bra beneath.  My nipples were dark peaks.  I dropped to my knees before him and glided my hands alongside his thighs on the velvet.  He spread his legs, inviting me in closer.

"You want a kiss?" I asked, looking up sweetly into his sky-gray eyes. They were a subtle blue.  The color of the sky after the rain.  "Or just a lick?"

"Both," he said.  His cock, the head red and engorged, bobbed before me.  Teasing me.  Tempting me.  "
S'il vous plâit
."

Pressing my lips to the head of him seared his heat against my mouth.  He was hot and smooth, a wicked tool that we could both use to our own means.  I gripped his shaft; the veins bulged against my palm.  My thumb rested along the thick underside vein, and it squished when I put gentle pressure on it.  So full. 

Dashing out my tongue I licked the tip of him.  He swore softly and lay back, stretching out his arms.  His fingers touched each side of the round cushion.  Gliding a palm up his belly and across the soft dark hair that curled about his cock, I took my time licking down to the root where I detoured and painted thick strokes over his testicles.  The tender jewels hugged up tightly against his body.  He was so ready.

I wanted him inside me.

Shuffling out of my leggings, I almost stumbled, but caught myself above him.  He smiled that knowing Frenchman's grin. 
I have you entranced
, it said. 
You are weak around me.

Oh, yes, I was.

Mounting him, I directed his cock between my folds, slicking the head until it glided effortlessly up and down, over my clit.  Right where it counted most.  I rubbed the power spot with his heated rod, using it as if it were a vibrator.  But the real thing was so much better than steel or silicon and a power button.  Pressing hard to him I worked up and down in small, deliriously delicious movements, then with a shift of my hips to redirect him to my slit, I plunged down upon him, taking him in deeply.

He hissed again.  The man was on fire and that heat radiated within me.  Every part of me tightened.  All my muscles, my skin, my jaw, my pussy grew tense. 

And with but a few determined thrusts from him, he coaxed away the tension and I released, as simply as that, and came in a shuddering, shouting, laughing victory.

***

Snuggled on the sofa under a blanket, Hollie and I watched a movie that streamed from the laptop.  La Femme Nikita was one of our shared favorites.  An oldie but a goodie, I loved the heroine's growth from hardened criminal to self-assured yet even harder assassin. 

The scene where she leaves her boyfriend was playing now and Hollie nuzzled her head against my chest and looked up to me.  "This can work," she said.

"This what?"

"Us.  I mean, for a long time.  I love you, Jean-Louis.  More than I ever thought I could love someone."

I kissed her.  Sometimes hearing it felt so good.  Like a reassurance I hadn't known I'd needed, but did.  "A long time sounds good to me."

Did that mean we were destined for marriage?  Possibly.  But I didn't bring it up.  It wouldn't be fair with my wife still lingering on the sidelines.  My lawyer reported she was back in town after an extended stay in Greece.  With a lover?  Most likely with a number of lovers.  I suspected that was one woman who could never mutter 'This will work for a long time'.

"I called my realtor yesterday," I said, touching the remote to turn down the sound on the laptop.  "As soon as the divorce goes through I want to start looking for a place in the country."

"That would be some kind of dream.  A chateau in the French countryside."

"Then I will get a dog, and maybe a cat."

"I'd visit you if you owned a cat.  I'm holding out judgment on the dog."

"Visit me?  Hollie, if I find land, I want you to live with me.  In a chateau that has vines crawling up and down the outer walls.  Like, happily ever after."

She lifted her head to gaze into my eyes.  A wrinkle impressed along her temple from lying on my chest.  She was cute.  So pretty.  And possessed of a gorgeous soul.  And I felt as if, no matter what we went through, she was the one meant for me.

"Happily ever after sounds perfect," she decided, and laid her head back on my chest.  "Tomorrow is Valentine's day."

"I know.  I have a surprise for you."

"Goodie.  I considered making you dinner, but that wouldn't be a satisfying present.  I have my own surprise for you.  Should we make it a date?"

"
Oui
.  It's a Friday, so I'm taking the afternoon off from work.  You can do the same?"

"Deal.  I'll come over around four, after I've finished my work."

I hugged her.  We fell asleep on the sofa as the movie credits rolled, then I startled awake and carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.  I loved the way she moved as if a cat, stretching her body along mine, pressing her breasts against my ribs, and tucking her head between my arm and chest. 
Mon abeille
.

Happily ever after?

I honestly believed we could have it.

Chapter Eighteen

Today is a day a majority of people abhor.  The hearts and kisses day.  The 'if you don't get chocolates or flowers you suck' day.  Been there.  But, you know, it's not like the masses understand we are actually celebrating a Roman saint.  And if he was a saint, would he condone all the sex and hookups we engaged in in his name? 

I think this was the first Valentine's Day I'd been in a great relationship that actually made me want to do something a little crazy.  Like wrap a winter coat over my naked body (artfully decorated with glitter) and head out to surprise my lover. 

I did say a
little
crazy.  Wasn't like I was striding through a public venue with the intent of flashing my lover.  Been there.  Don't want to think about that one.  Ever again.  I was just dashing across the street and keeping this adventure between the two of us.

My Louboutins protested the wet tarmac as I strolled across the street.  But seriously, they had been through worse.  After the New Years Eve fiasco I'd decided to wear these puppies to shreds.  I had to get my thousand euros worth out of them, didn't I?

What little snow Paris had gotten was melting thanks to the nearly fifty-degree temp today.  I smiled at the building concierge and entered behind a tall woman who wore an elegant gray wool top and skirt set.  After admiring the swing of her blonde hair, my eyes fell to her shoes.  Sleek steel heels and a black patent leather pointed toe.  Killer.