When in Paris... (Language of Love) (27 page)

She likes me. I like her. We’re in Paris having a great time. It’s as simple as that. No need to make it all complicated.

Thoughts of Ashley flash briefly through my mind.

I already have enough complications in my life.

***

OLIVIA

Our final day in Paris is a free day, which means no more group stuff and we can do what we want. Since Zach and I have hung out every day, I naturally assume we’re going to do something together today.

We all still have to check-in in the morning before we leave and we’re expected back at the hotel by six to check in before we leave for any evening plans.

We’ve hit all the major tourist spots, and today I just want to browse some of the shops along the
des Champs-Elysees
. Zach doesn’t particularly strike me as a shopping kind of guy, but I’m pretty sure I can convince him it will be worth his while.

Good God, I’ve gone from virgin to nymphomaniac in the span of less than a week. We’ve had sex every day since we started. I can’t help but blush at the memories of
that
—how much I always want him, how desperate he gets me and how good he makes me feel. Zach must have made some kind of arrangement with Bill, because he’s always conveniently gone the hours we’re making use of their room.

I’ve never been in love before and I can’t even profess to know what it’s like, but my feelings for Zach sure feel like something close. He’s the first person I think about when I wake up in the morning and his face is the last I see before I close my eyes and go to sleep. Yeah, it sounds so clichéd and corny, but that’s how it is.

I go to his room in the morning and propose my plan. He says he’s up to doing whatever I want to do. It’s hard to tell how sincere he is about
shopping
since he’s wearing that sexy grin that curls my insides. I tamp down my anticipation for what is going to happen tonight, reach up and press a quick kiss on his lips before I head back to my room after first evading his grabby hands.

Mike asks Rebecca to spend the day with him and I can tell she doesn’t really want to but she insists that she doesn’t want to be a third wheel when I invite her along with me and Zach. I assure her I need another female along for support—we are, after all, going shopping. The speed at which she agrees tells me just how much she wanted to come despite her protests. And that’s how we all end up spending the day together, her, Mike, me and Zach.

That day I have more giggly-girl fun than I’ve had in forever. Rebecca and I are like co-conspirators dragging the guys through every shoe, clothing and accessory store we can find. Worse, we force them to carry the shopping bags. Zach and Mike take it all in stride, handling the four hours we spend tearing up and down
des Champs-Elysees
with greater tolerance than probably most guys.

At two, the guys force us to stop for lunch. At this point of our stay, we’re all pretty tired of Parisian cuisine, so after asking around in his less-than-fluent French, Zach manages to locate a restaurant that serves
good ole American food
—as in cheeseburgers and French fries.

When we’re told there’s a fifteen-minute wait, Zach catches my hand in his. “We’ll be back in a few,” he says to Rebecca and Mike.

A knowing smile spreads across Mike’s face. “Right, dude.”

Zach proceeds to tow me outside, out of the warmth of the restaurant.

“Where are we going?” I ask, laughing helplessly.

When I look up into his blue eyes, he quirks a brow but doesn’t say a word, leaving me to only guess at what he’s planning.

We turn down the next cross street and find shelter in the alcove of a brick apartment building. He immediately tugs me into his arms, his hands like bands around me. His head swoops down, his mouth crushing mine. It all happens so fast, I don’t have time to think, just react.

“God, I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he pants against my lips, his heart thundering under my palms.

My own breathing is ragged, my senses reeling as we exchange deep and drugging kisses. When Zach slowly ends the kiss, I force my eyelids up.

“Hopefully, that will keep me until tonight.” His voice is low and seductive, twisting my insides like a pretzel.

Instead of the day growing warmer, the air has taken on a biting edge but I feel like I’m being heated from inside.

“Come on, we need to get back. I’m absolutely starved.”

Chuckling softly, Zach takes my hand and we head back to join our friends.

~*~*~

That evening a group of us that now includes Bill, Dawn and Allison, celebrate our final evening in Paris by enjoying a leisurely dinner at a restaurant not far from the hotel. At ten, all seven of us pile into two yellow taxis and head down to a nightclub that comes at the recommendation of Zach’s brother.

To my delight, the nightclub,
Le Batofar
, is housed in a cool red metal tugboat anchored on the shores of
La Seine
. We arrive shortly after ten thirty and by midnight the place is packed to the gills.

The music is a mixture of electro, hip-hop, rock, punk and new-wave. Bolstered by a few drinks, the guys allow us to coax them onto the dance floor. Zach and Mike don’t need all that much coaxing because surprisingly enough, they can actually dance.

Dancing with Zach is the perfect excuse to have his hands on me. And mine on him. Not that we’re groping each other like many of the couples gyrating around us. It’s more having his hands coasting down my waist and clasping my hips as I swivel them in tandem with the beat of the music while resting my hands flat against his chest and staring up into his burning pale-blue eyes.

We dance nonstop from almost the minute we arrive until a little after midnight. Without saying a word, as one song flows into the next, Zach stops dancing, takes my hand and leads me from the crush of the dance floor.

There isn’t an empty stool or chair in the place, so he braces against the red metal rails of the boat and pulls me toward him, spinning me around so that my back is to him. Reflexively, I move to turn and tuck myself into his side but his hands on my hips stop me.

Zach bends his head and whispers in my ear, “Don’t move.” His voice has an odd catch to it, like he’s in some sort of pain. I angle my head and look up at him. Big mistake. His gaze sears me, hot and full of lust. I know what he wants. Which is fine because I want the same thing.

“Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.” The place is noisy but I don’t have to raise my voice for him to hear me. I make sure invitation is unmistakable in my eyes.

Down his head comes again. I face forward, giving him full access to my ear. “We can’t leave yet, I’ve got a problem.”

Now I’m perturbed. I furrow my brows and begin to turn around but he tightens his hands on my hips to keep me planted directly in front of him. “I said don’t move.” His voice is a bit more forceful.

“What’s the problem?”

With the slightest exertion of pressure on my hips, he pulls me back until I feel his “problem” pressing against my butt. I hear his sharp intake of breath that ends on a low groan. Heat pools between my thighs. I lock my knees to keep myself upright.

He immediately sets me away so his crotch is no longer in contact with my butt. I laugh despite the fact that I am squeezing my thighs together in an effort to tamp down my growing arousal. If we leave the nightclub now we can be at the hotel in twenty minutes, and naked and in his bed three minutes after that.

I send him another glance over my shoulder as I bear back against him. I can feel how very turned on he is.

“Seems like you have a
big
problem.” The breathiness in my voice conveys just how turned on
I am
. It’s been a long time since I’ve been turned on like this in public. Scratch that. I’ve never been turned on like this in public.

His hands tightens on my hips and his head drops until his forehead is resting on the crown of my head. I can feel how he’s struggling with his breathing and the vibration of his groan causes another frisson of desire to race down my spine. He grinds his erection into me as if he can’t help himself and then abruptly separates our lower bodies.

His voice drops an octave when he growls in my ear, “You’re going to pay for that.”

I laugh. I love it when Mr. Control joins the human race and loses his.

“Promises, promises,” I tease.

A promise he’s going to keep tonight—I’ll make sure of that.

It takes ten more minutes before he has his “problem” under control. In twenty-five minutes flat, we’re in his room at the hotel where, true to his word, Zach makes me pay into the early hours of the morning.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

ZACH

As great a time as I had in Paris, it’ll be nice to get back to the good ole US of A. We all meet in the lobby at an unforgiving six a.m. deadline and I’m crazy tired, given I only got four hours sleep last night. But I couldn’t have spent my last night here more happily occupied. Olivia in one word is amazing.

She and Rebecca straggle down late, which is completely unlike her. But I know how she spent the night.

“
Hey,” I say softly when she comes to stand by me. And despite all the things we’ve done in and out of bed, she gives me one of those shy smiles.

“
Hey,” she replies.

I make no attempt to kiss her, something I’d done the last four days. I’m not sure exactly why, all I know is that we’re going home. Home to me is reality: homework, exams, football, having to deal with the crap with my dad—or in my case—not dealing with it. Home is also Ashley and all the shit that goes with that. This is what I’m going to miss most about this trip, being able to escape all of it, if just for a short time. In my mind, I’ll always connect the amazing time I had in Paris with Olivia.

“
Let’s try to get seats together,” she says while
mademoiselle
Dubois goes through roll call.

“
Yeah.” Of course I want to sit with her.

And we do manage to get seats together. It does require a bit of finessing but when I learn the clerk is a huge fan of American football, I shamelessly drop my brother’s team and name—something I rarely do—and soon she’s shuffling seats and
voilà
, Olivia is sitting next to me.

We end up spending half the flight home sleeping, the rest in quiet conversation as we recount the highlights of our trip and share stories about our lives.

“
I’ve been driving since I was fifteen,” I tell her.

She doesn’t look the least bit surprised. “And what, you got your car on your sixteenth birthday, am I right?” she asks, her tone smug and knowing.

It used to irk me that everyone thinks just because my brother is this big-time football player, my whole life has been served up to me on a silver platter. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

“
For your information, I shelled out half the money for that car. Money I earned on my own performing hard manual labor. So no, it wasn’t a gift.”

Her eyes, appearing more green than brown today because of the dark-green sweater she’s wearing, widen and her eyebrows shoot up. Now, that surprises her. Hardly flattering but I let it pass.

“
Really? I just assumed…”

“
Yeah, that I’m just some spoiled brat, right?” I try to take a teasing tone, but there’s an edge to my words I can’t seem to smooth before they emerge from my mouth.

Contrition instantly fills her eyes. She lays her hand on my arm. “No, of course not. You’re just so much different than I thought you were in high school. But then,” she teases with a smirk, “I didn’t like you in high school.”

“
Yeah, you did,” I say, lowering my voice and watching her closely. I think we’ve already established the interest on both our sides.

She narrows her gaze at me. “That’s right, it was you who didn’t like me.” I notice she doesn’t deny my cocky assertion, which I only said to get a rise out of her. And in turn get an unintentional rise out of me.

Instead of refuting hers, as I’ve done before and obviously to no avail since she’s bringing it up again, I give her a slow smile. “But I like you now.”

Her eyes snap open wide. Clearly not the response she'd been expecting. She pauses, probably deciding if she should press me again for the reason why or let it die. The smile tipping her mouth indicates she’s decided on the latter. That and the way she starts caressing the skin near my wrist.

She has beautiful hands. They’re soft and slender, the nails not too long or too short. My mother would call them elegant and in this, I’d have to agree with her. Although before I could never understand how hands could be elegant. All I know is Olivia's feels good to the touch. She feels good all over, period. Smells good too.