Things were yet unconsummated but there was an escalating, mutually requited feeling – a growing need. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he held me firmly against his body. I felt him rise. Then he picked me up in his arms and carried me over to the foot of the stairs. Placing me down, he grabbed my hand.
‘Come on,’ he said, leading me upstairs with a sense of urgency.
Standing by his bed, his hands travelled to my waist. He pulled me close and kissed me. A long, deep kiss.
The drink buzzed inside me as I reached a contented place of having lost my inhibitions but not so giddy as to lose full control. The mask of alcohol enabled a faux confidence as my hands ran over his body. My palms took in the sturdy feel of his chest beneath his smooth grey top. My fingers wandered, travelling further down, past his belt where my whole hand met with the bulbous feel of him pressing hard against the fabric of his jeans. Reaching for his belt buckle, I pulled it loose.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said.
Too far into the moment to protest or care, I sat on his bed, pulled off my top and unclasped the damned bra myself, discarding it on the floor and appreciating the release. I turned to see him standing by the foot of his bed and caught sight of him stripping off his blue boxers at lightning speed, flashing his bare arse. He dived under the dark covers and flipped back the duvet to reveal his naked body as he lay on his back. I crawled in naked and kneeled next to him. He lay there. I’d expected him to take control. I thought he would make a move, but he didn’t. I stared down at him, puzzled by his flaccid dick.
Realising he needed resuscitation, I leant over him. My hair trailed his thighs as I took him in my mouth. He let out an unexpected moan. Surprised by his audible enjoyment, temporarily I stopped. His wide-eyed and open-mouthed look begged me to continue. I went back down enthusiastically and with my free hand I caressed his balls.
‘Stop… stop,’ he groaned.
I lifted my head from his groin. He stretched out his arm and pulled open his bedside drawer. He fumbled about, finally pulling out a packet. Then gripping it with his teeth, after a couple of attempts, he ripped it open. Holding the condom between his fingers, we both watched as he rolled it on.
‘Guide me,’ he said, offering me his now fully prepared stiff cock.
Inching forward on my knees, taking the lubricated feel of him in my hand, I pushed him inside, sinking my thighs down either side of his body. Rhythmically, I began taking him all in with each motion. Resting my hands on his chest, the up and down movement forced me to steady myself, realising that the effects of booze were not helping matters.
‘Sorry, that’s not very good,’ I said, wanting to stop the bouncing.
‘No. It’s good… it’s good,’ he repeated.
I continued, but the awkwardness of the situation was becoming apparent, despite his encouragement.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said and brought all movement to a standstill.
‘Turn over,’ he said.
I climbed off him, feeling relief at the thought of getting to lie down on my back. He rose up on his knees and got behind me on the bed, taking hold of my hips. His grip was firm but gentle as he held me. Automatically, I leaned forward onto my hands, unexpectedly finding myself positioned like a dog on all fours. Releasing his grip, he slid his hand between my legs, rubbing me with his fingers. Wetness trailed down my inner thigh. I hoped he hadn’t noticed the cellulite on the backs of my legs. I looked back as he wiped his hand against his own thigh. Then he placed both hands back around my waist and introduced his pelvis to my arse.
‘Guide me,’ he said.
Reaching behind, he felt limp again. Stuffing him back in place, he took over with a couple of quick thrusts before slowing to a gentle rhythm. It was more comfortable than before, being able to hold myself with my hands and him supporting me at the waist. He took one hand off my hips as he continued to thrust and smoothed his hand over my lower back, making me arch down as I relaxed. He leaned forward, penetrating deeper; his torso covered my body. I hoped it wouldn’t take much longer. Pressed against me, he took hold of my boobs in his palms, preventing them jiggling as he pounded me faster and more vigorously with each thrust.
On hearing his euphoric moan, I felt his release like a fire extinguisher being squirted. Relieved at him having got there, the rocking sensation slowed. He collapsed down on the bed and slipped off the soggy-looking piece of rubber, dropping it beside the bed.
‘Put your head on my shoulder,’ he said, holding out his arms for me.
Tired and partially nauseous, I nestled into him; our bodies entangled with his arms wrapped around me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
*
The next morning, I awoke to find him lying on his side, head in hand, staring across at me. Immediately, I pulled the covers over my body. Trying to hide, I felt awkward at being exposed in the sobering light of the morning sun peeping through the shutters, despite the actions of the previous night. And with smudged make-up, I was aware how awful my face looked in the morning. Instantly and sharply, he removed the covers from my body. He climbed on top. I wanted to escape. My teeth needed the once-over, but there was no chance. He trapped me. Sweeping my hair from my face, he kissed my lips.
He thoroughly studied my naked body, running his fingers the entire length of me. He whispered into my ear as his large hands stroked my mound. His French voice spilled seductive words about my soft and delicate English skin, acquainting himself with every inch of me; the same way he’d probably studied the controls of an aeroplane, but he was captain now. Having gained complete mastery, he pinned down my hands on the smooth sheets and pushed apart my legs with his knees. Then holding his position, he made me wait. On purpose.
Jet engines fired up and throttle engaged at the power setting, he thrust forward firmly. Powering along the runway, feeling the momentum of movement, he accelerated like Concorde. Engine temperatures in the take-off range, we became airborne, gliding upwards, cruising a while, prolonging the journey. Then on reaching altitude, an intense high voltage rush of electrical current ran through my body, before passing through his.
Easing off the throttle, reducing thrust and with a gradual decrease in motion, slowly and gently he descended. He brought all movement to a complete standstill, applying the brakes.
That was more like it and the way I’d thought about it in my head. He didn’t disappoint, even though I wasn’t rating his performance. And it was nothing like last night. The huge smile plastered on his face suggested he knew it too. I half expected him to light up a cigarette.
‘I’ll fix some breakfast,’ he said with a lingering smile.
Then he combat-rolled out of bed. My eyes rested on the shapeliness of his bum as he strutted out of the bedroom door. I sprawled out in the stream of sunlight that filtered through the window. Giggling to myself, remembering that night in the Parisian bar – he said he’d teach me to fly. I hadn’t contemplated it being quite so much fun. Gazing up at the ceiling and thinking more about his naked body, I hoped for another flying lesson.
Minutes later, he brought back coffee and croissants with honey on a tray. I’d been hoping to see him swing freely, but he’d thrown on some boxers and a t-shirt. It didn’t matter. My imagination had already delivered. He was perfect – well, almost. Marc had some learning to do. He brought me coffee not tea, but as he’d already scored highly for delivering breakfast in bed, I forgave him.
‘Today, we’ll go for a drive. I’ll take you past Chantilly Forest. Then we can head to the Palace of Versailles. You like that?’ he asked.
‘Sounds good,’ I said, not bothered in the slightest and thinking it was bound to involve some king called Louis. All French history seemed to involve a Louis of some description.
I didn’t care what we did. My head was still in a fuzzy, yet happy place. And content just to be with him, Paris was a bonus. The whole exploring France thi
ng had passed me by in my excitement to arrive. It amused me that Marc now had the impression that I was into cultural stuff. Although I couldn’t remember everything we’d discussed from last night, I could clearly picture what had followed.
‘Don’t you want any of these croissants?’ I asked.
‘Café,’ he replied, holding up his cup. I’d forgotten that he wasn’t a breakfast man. ‘I’ll go shower, you take your time,’ he said, leaving me to feast on his tray of delights.
He kissed me on the cheek and grabbed a towel from the back of his door, flinging it over his shoulder. Lifting the tray to one side, I swung out of bed with his duvet wrapped around me. Scooping back the curtain, I peeped through the window. The sun shone. It looked to be another fantastic, carefree and roasting hot summer’s day in Paris. My white floaty dress would be just right.
Trying to look pretty, it took time alternating between the bathroom mirror and the one in his bedroom. The bathroom light was better for fiddling with make-up application. And the mirror sat on the shelf above the sink, positioned at just the right height for me. He’d have to bow over it for shaving. In his bedroom, the larger oak-framed mirror on the wall above the set of drawers was bigger and better for fixing my hair. I’d avoided wetting it in the shower, trying to retain the waves from yesterday. Pushing my fingers through the roots, I lifted and sprayed with firm hold, adding more volume. My hair fell nicely over my shoulders.
In the kitchen, Marc attempted to top up my coffee.
‘Non, merci,’ I said.
Placing my hand over the top of my mug, politely I refused the refill. Then I pulled out a freezer bag from my dress pocket and produced a teabag. He stood and watched, still with the coffee pot in one hand.
‘Where’s your kettle?’ I asked, looking around the worktop surfaces, but not able to spot it.
‘What kettle? You English people ’ave kettles. We ’ave coffee machines. I can’t believe you brought your own teabags,’ he laughed.
‘I guessed that you wouldn’t have any… and I was right.’
‘You can boil some water in a pan if you like… or drink some café. We’ll make a good Frenchwoman out of you yet,’ he said.
‘In the meantime, I’m still English and I like tea,’ I replied.
He put a pan of water on to boil whilst I contemplated how different we were – the French and the English. The French were only across the Channel. A kettle was much more practical than boiling a pan of water. He obviously didn’t know many tea-drinking English people.
After knocking back my tea like a coffee addict, we headed out.
‘I’m sorry about the air conditioning not working. It stopped working only a few days ago,’ he said. His car was burning hot.
‘Don’t worry; I’m enjoying the breeze,’ I lied.
I hoped that my hair wouldn’t resemble that just-out-of-bed look by the time we arrived. The forceful gust that hit me from the side prompted me to rummage through my bag for a spare hair tie. Flipping up the vanity mirror, I assembled my hair into a loose ponytail, more casual than the scraped-back bun I wore for work.
The heat of the sun beating through was intense, making it a warm and sticky ride, even with the windows down. As a last-minute thing, I’d chucked some deodorant into my bag. I was pleased about that now, even though it made my bag bulkier. Keeping my arms spaced apart from my body avoided sweat patches, although it forced me to adopt a rigid pose.
‘You okay?’ he shouted, over the noisy hum of traffic.
‘Yep. Fine, thanks.’
He didn’t realise the inconvenience of his air conditioning having packed up. The effort of getting ready was probably off his radar – something reserved for the female of the species and a triviality to him. He just ran his fingers through his hair to put it all back in place.
‘The tree-lined road is Chantilly Forest; it goes further back,’ he said.
‘Looks pretty.’
On any other occasion, I would have loved him showing me his France. But being blasted in a wind tunnel and baked in a fan oven whilst trying to avoid a dishevelled appearance was putting me off the scenic route.
‘We’ll picnic there at some point,’ he said.
Today would have been ideal. I smiled back and kept quiet, not wanting to spoil his plans. Walking hand-in-hand through a forest had more appeal than coping with the hordes of tourists that were bound to face us at the Palace of Versailles.
We queued to get in. Standing behind Marc, I was aware of his body acting as a shelter when the wind blew. Following Marc inside, I noticed his slight swagger and since he’d removed his wallet, how his jeans curved the rocks of his bum, reminding me how he looked good sans jeans too. Then he turned around, handing me a guide. Tactfully, I skimmed the English section. The mention of King Louis privately amused me.
It was crowded as expected, but I was used to being huddled in with passengers on planes, although this place held far more people. As we shuffled along, herded through rooms, I looked up occasionally at the gold ornate objects. But I paid greater attention to looking down at the chequered black and white tiles, trying not to step on toes, until Marc took hold of my hand. I focussed on his warm, firm grip. That was more like it. A butterfly sensation re-emerged.
‘Come on. I show you the ’All of Mirrors. It’s most famous,’ he said.
As he led me away, I didn’t care where we were going. Amongst the crowd of people and the babble of low-speaking voices, he stopped and let go of my hand. Stepping behind me, he directed my body towards the centre of the room. His hands guided my hips.
‘So. What do you think?’ he asked.
The reflective rows of giant blingy chandeliers on display weren’t any match for the tingling sensation trickling down my neck with every breath of his caressing my skin.
‘Impressive,’ I whispered.
‘Come on… let’s get out of ’ere.’
As he spoke, the tone of his voice echoed through my body. Turning to face him, his soft lips touched mine, but only briefly. It was too public for more.
Pleased that he’d caught my vibe about heading out, we made for the centre of Paris by car. The busy traffic-filled streets on a Monday afternoon made Paris seem alive. Parisians liked using car horns.
‘Have you climbed the Tour d’Eiffel?’ he asked, looking over at me whilst driving.
‘Yeh,’ I replied. He needn’t know that I was thirteen and on a school trip at the time.
‘Good. I don’t ’ave to climb all those steps with you then. I’ve been up there many times… unless you want?’ he asked.
‘Maybe another time.’
Was that his usual choice of outing for romantic liaisons with lovers? Dropping the thought, I let it go and restrained myself from asking. Then as we drove by, he pointed out the Arc de Triomphe.
‘The roads join at a point to form a star shape,’ he said. Vaguely, I recalled the name from the same high school trip. Marc was still trying to educate me on the topic of France. It was kind of cute. ‘We’ll take a walk along the Champs Elysees. You can tour the shops.’
Now he was talking my language – shopping trips. The exclusive and high-end Parisian shops were out of my league in terms of the contents of my purse, but I could window-shop. Eyeing up luxury goods was more my style, rather than a culture or history lesson. Not that I didn’t have an appreciation, but with a hot man in Paris there were better things to do.
We parked in an underground car park.
‘Take a look round the shops, and when you’re finished, we’ll do lunch. Go wherever you like. Are you ’appy with that?’ he asked.
‘More than okay,’ I said.
Was he a man that liked shopping? Thrilled with his suggestion, I doubted it was his thing, having never met a man, other than Henri, that liked to shop.
We strolled down the bustling street. I spo
tted Louis Vuitton. Then a wicked idea occurred.
‘Let’s go here first,’ I said, pointing to the shop.
Dragging him by the hand, I couldn’t help responding to a devilish urge. How far would he be prepared to go to make me happy? We walked in. The shop assistant muttered some French words.
‘I’m English,’ I said, almost apologetically.
The sparsity of the shop meant that everything was immaculate and had its place. Marc stood by the door whilst I checked out the displays of bank-draining bags on offer. I’d never stepped inside a genuinely posh handbag store before, other than airport ones. My eyes rested on a swish-looking piece displayed on a stand. Not knowing whether I could touch it without first asking, I plucked it from the stand by its thick brown leather straps and ruined their neat display. The assistant watched. I didn’t bother to read the price tag; I knew it was massively beyond my means. I studied its features, examined the pockets and stroked my fingers over the heritage golden brass hardware.
‘Marc, do you have your credit card on you?’ I said, turning to him.
Marc stalled for a minute.
‘Uhh… sure,’ he said. His face lacked expression.
I held out my hand.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I asked.
He looked at me, perplexed, until a serious look caught up with his thinking. Then I could tell he was uncomfortable. He reached for his wallet in his back pocket; even though he’d told me all about the pickpockets, still he kept it there. Holding the bag in one hand and waiting for him to hand me his card with the other, I could see the raised eyebrow of the sales assistant taking more than an interest. Marc drew a card from his wallet. Stalling, he held it in his hand, until he outstretched his arm to pass it to me.
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a think about it. There’s another one I want to look at first,’ I said.
I put down the bag on the counter, grabbed Marc’s hand and waltzed out of the shop. Then I burst out laughing.
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 10