The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (9 page)

I dipped my head into a shy smile because he surprised me with that intense regard. 

Then I shook my head, surrendering to a little laugh.  My finger had not stopped the soft, teasing strokes.  I squeezed a nipple, intensifying the stirrings of release.  Tilting my hips forward, I spread my legs wider.  I don't think I'd ever sat quite like this when I'd jilled off before.  I had to scoot forward to the edge of the chair so my fingers wouldn't jam into the seat with each downstroke. 

Monsieur Sexy had switched up his moves.  His cock sprang free against his stomach while he pinched his nipple.  Pointing to me, he then pinched his fingers before him and dashed his tongue between them.

I arched back my shoulders, feeling his tongue on my nipples, hot and wet.  I bent a leg and pressed the heel of my foot on the chair, which moved me forward a bit.  Catching my hand against the glass, I quickened my strokes, slicking into my folds to juice up, and then swiped back across my swollen clit.  My core swirled.  My loins hummed.  My hips wanted to rock quickly, but I couldn't in this position.  It was a different feeling though, and I liked it.

He flicked his tongue over the top of his little finger, and the sight of it released a moan from deep in my throat.  I imagined his tongue at my breast.  Taking my hand from the window, I glided the fingers over my tongue, then slicked them over my nipple.  Yes! 

Feeling the wobbly, loosening stir of orgasm focus between my legs, I increased pace of my strokes and made them firmer.  Yes, so close.  And he jacked off quickly now, his eyes no longer on me, but unfocused immediately before him.  Concentrating, probably as close to orgasm as I was. 

His shoulders shuddered.  Ab muscles tightened, unreal in their sweaty, glistening appeal.  He was so strong, so powerful.  His jaw clenched, and suddenly, he opened his mouth and—I switched my gaze lower.  He spilled over his hand and a splash of creamy ejaculation spotted the window.  Still gripping his cock, he pressed his forehead to the glass.

The sight of his orgasm pushed me over the edge.  I pressed my legs together, and my rapid strokes lured up the explosion that shimmered through my thighs, hips, and torso.  My hips bucked forward and I cried out a short, blissful sound.  "Yes." 

Bowing my head and falling back into the chair, I panted through the delicious reward of my efforts.  And then I laughed softly.  My limbs were loose.  I brushed a hand across my face to cover it as the laughter subsided.  I dropped my arm along the side of the chair and lay there, spent and blissed out.

Tilting my head, I saw Monsieur Sexy grab the notebook off the bed.  He slammed it against the window and I reread the words:
Exquisite. Bold.  Gorgeous
.

I blew him a kiss and wished him a good night.

He saluted me, and then wandered off into the recesses of his bedroom where it connected to the bathroom.  I didn't need to see him.  I would close my eyes and dream about him all night.

Chapter Seven

I caught him dancing about his bedroom, a towel hugging his sculpted hips and water droplets sprinkling the muscles that flexed his back.  Fencing equipment lay scattered across the end of the bed.  I'd seen flashes of the blade in his living room earlier as I'd noshed on creamy risotto in front of the TV.

There must be music playing in his room because he shifted his hips side to side.  Now I saw his lips moving.  He was singing.  And he wasn't aware that I was watching from my nest on the chair with book in hand.

He sorted through some books and files stacked on the night table next to the bed.  He read before going to sleep; just like me.  Tucking a file under his arm, he then scooted around the bed, performing a twirl that I'd be impressed to see on any dance floor.  His abs flexed beautifully.

I sighed.  Fencing had honed that man's physique.  I wondered if he practiced any other sports?  I wasn't in to sports, but I may have to search the channels for a fencing match one of these days.

I performed a little wave, but he didn't notice.  He dance-stepped all the way to the door, gripped the doorknob—then paused.  Twisting a look over his shoulder as if remembering to look across the street, he saw me, and smiled.

Whew. 

Stepping up to the window he beamed at me and waved.  Then he tapped his ears and pointed to the dresser, where I assumed he must have a stereo. 

I snapped my fingers and grooved my shoulders in my best Beyonce impersonation—she had nothing to fear from me—then pointed to him.

He offered a sheepish shrug. 

"Very sexy," I mouthed, knowing he wouldn't understand, but it didn't matter.  I twirled my fingers in a circle.

He did another spin, ending in what was probably his best effort at a Michael Jackson sort of bent head, hand to the back of his skull pose.  Stick with the fencing, I thought.  I was thrilled to have seen that unguarded moment from him, though.  Monsieur Sexy had some groove in those hips.  And he didn't take himself too seriously. 

Nice.

Reaching for the notebook he now kept on or near his bed—it was nestled under the discarded fencing jacket—he quickly wrote something, then pressed it flat to the window.

"Online business meeting with Tokyo,” I read.  “Ten minutes.  Sorry."

Offering a consoling shrug, he dropped the notebook onto the bed.  Turning back to the door, he again paused with the doorknob in hand.  Setting the files on the bed, he then tugged off the towel, splayed his arms, and allowed me a look at the high and mighty erection.

If that was all I'd get from him tonight, I could live with it.  Every seven or eight inches of it.  Springy and hard, even doing a few dance moves of its own as he turned to the side to give me that view.

I gave him a thumbs up and blew him a kiss.  He caught the kiss, smashed it against his heart, then grabbed the towel and the files.  Two seconds later the bedroom light blinked out. 

Online business meeting?  I wondered if the people on the Tokyo end would be aware they were communicating with a man in a towel?  And an exquisite erection beneath it.

Sighing, I picked up my book and plopped onto the bed.  With hope, I'd get to the steamy parts tonight.

***

It started to sprinkle outside while I was in the supermarket, loading my basket with fruits and whole grains.  I was making a concerted effort at eating healthy.  I'd already reduced my sugar consumption considerably, but grains didn't cut it all the time.  Which is precisely why I'd nestled the package of dark chocolate beneath the box of barley. 

I perused the wine selection, which was quite good, considering that it was sold in a grocery store.  On the other hand, I was in France, and wine in a grocery store was akin to milk in the American grocery stores—de rigueur.  I was in the mood for a sweet, peachy moscato.  I'd broil another goat cheese tonight, and hide the barley at the back of the cupboard.  I figured I scored points in the health column merely for the purchase. 

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The male cashier was cute in a geeky sort of way, with green-rimmed glasses and a flip of blonde hair over one eye.  He sat behind the register with bored disinterest, running my dozen items over the beeping scanner.  He probably didn't notice how I stood taller, or that I'd combed my hair into a chignon this morning because it had emphasized my cheekbones.  Or maybe he did and didn't care.  Or he was gay.

That had to be it, because I was looking damn good today—if I did say so myself.  Attribute it all to great fantasies about my sexy neighbor. 

I slashed my credit card and stuffed the items into the bag I always carried with me.

Swerving to avoid the grasping, chocolate-coated hands of a toddler sitting in a cart, I approached the automatic double doors, but paused before I could activate the motion sensor embedded in the rubber pad.

Outside, standing before the store, speaking with another man gesturing as if giving directions, was...him.  My window lover.  The man with the steel cock, and the charming smile that started in his eyes before his mouth caught on and joined in on the fun.

My heart rocketed to my throat, then dive-bombed.  I actually felt it land in my stomach and splash; the feeling was that visceral. 

What to do?  I didn't want to see him.  Well I did.  But—no.  We'd agreed to the rules.  No names, and walk away if we ever see one another in public.

I turned my back to the door, my eyes running over the store window littered with painted sales lingo.  I stood before the only door.  It served as both entrance and exit.  Those who entered were corralled to the right to queue down the aisles of frozen foods.  Those leaving filed out from the left. 

If I walked out now, I'd have to pass by him, and I didn't think I could slip past without him noticing me.

I managed a sneaky look over my shoulder as I stood there, hoping others would assume that I was waiting for someone still in the store.  He was fully dressed (I had yet to see him completely clothed, unless you count fencing gear) in slouchy gray jeans and a loose tee-shirt.  Black tennis shoes graced his feet.  Hmm… Didn't seem like his style.  He gestured down the street, and the man he spoke to nodded.  The glint of a gold watch on his wrist caught my eye.

He turned suddenly, heading toward the door.

Ack!  I rushed away from the door, and past the cashier who'd checked me out earlier.  He gave me a quirk of a brow, even as he slashed the next customer's lettuce across the scanner.  Spying a stack of flyers, I bent and drew a finger over a picture of fluorescent oranges, while managing to sneak a look under my arm. 

Black tennis shoes stepped on to the rubber matting.  He stood there… 

Just stood there.  What was he doing?  Looking at me?  No, he couldn't recognize me from this angle—well, he had seen me bent over, my bare ass toward the window—but I wore a knee-length skirt now. 

"Please," I murmured, picking up the flyer and turning my back to the door.

"Ah!" I heard him exclaim.  The doors slid open and he strode back outside.

I made it to the glass doors before they even slid open.  Impatiently, I waited for the sensors to react to my presence, and slipped through as soon as I could when they did.  I turned the corner without thinking.  Oh hell, this was the same direction he had walked. And he stood right there.  Closing a car door that was parked at the curb, he turned and began walking straight for me, swinging a recyclable bag in one hand as he inspected his watch.  He'd forgotten his bag.

And—wait.

"That's not him," I said on a gasp.

The stranger nodded to me.  I must have looked like a fool just standing there checking him out.  He was tall, with brown curly hair, but—nope, not my window lover.

Feeling a flush climb my neck and checks, I turned and jog-walked the other way.  It was opposite the direction of my apartment, but I'd be damned if I was going to walk toward that complete stranger.

Releasing a huge breath, I paused before the window of a sweet shop three storefronts down.  Eyeing the lush, matte-black boxes of pastel gumdrops in the window display, I ever so cautiously cast a look out of the corner of my eye.  The sidewalk before the supermarket was void of people.  Tennis Shoe Man had gone inside.

Pressing my forehead to the glass, I closed my eyes.  "I let my imagination get the better of me again." 

What would I have done if it actually had been him?  I couldn't run away from him forever.  I liked what we had started.  It was new and adventurous and fun.  And it was safe. 

Safety felt right to me for now, though I'm not sure why.  It wasn't as if I'd had a bad experience with a man.  Breakups happened all the time.  So did awkward marriage proposals.  I didn't despise dating either.  Not short term, anyway.

There was just something about Monsieur Sexy and his willingness to accept what we were doing as it was.  He was a mystery to me, and the mystery was what attracted me to him.  He was forbidden fruit, yet different.  No one had told me not to touch; I simply could not touch.  Therefore, I had to find new, more inventive ways to show him my pleasure, and hopefully, give him pleasure in return.

Noticing the snooty gaze of a bespectacled sales clerk from inside the sweet shop, I stepped back from the window.  I decided to cross the street and walk another block over before turning in the direction of my apartment.  Crisis averted.  I had some window shopping to do.  It would help me walk off my nerves.

***

A line queued outside Louboutin like usual.  I wandered by, smiling smugly.  I'd already claimed my extravagant prize.  I overheard whispers from those in line that they were running low on a certain model of shoe.  Oh, the harrowing travails of the Parisian woman and her quest for pleasure!

A fine leathers shop was located about six blocks away from my neighborhood.  I always slowed when nearing its turquoise door and understated window display.  The items inside were handmade; tooled lovingly, I assumed, by the elderly owner who always flashed a warm smile for those passing by the store window. 

I stopped to take in the window display that featured some gorgeous, leather-covered notebooks.  They were similar to the simple, moleskin notebooks I often saw in bookstores, yet were more elegant and lush. Smelling like rich leather, I imagined, and substantial to hold in hand.  A simple bee, with wings spread, was tooled on the lower right corner of a creamy golden journal.  A crushed-violets cover bore the iconic fleur-de-lis.