Reid’s helpless groan vibrated in her chest and his lips did a nuclear fusion number on hers. This man put his body, his mind and his sanity in her hands and she loved it.
She broke his kiss with her own moan, but her newest ambition was taking his delight and making it awe. She sat on the closed toilet lid and put her hand to his belt. He jerked, smacking his head on the low ceiling.
“Zarley.” A warning she wasn’t taking because his voice dropped into that low, toffee molasses thick tone he got when he was turned on. “I don’t think—” She unzipped him. “Oh, fuck, you’re a goddess.”
After that he helped, getting clothing out of the way. He put one hand to the ceiling and gathered her hair in his other. “Need to see you.”
Need to be quick. She took him in her hand and rubbed her thumb lightly up his shaft, making the breath come out of him in a slow unsteady stream. With more time she could draw out the anticipation, have him out of his mind before he came. A slow lick following the path of her hand, and then she opened her mouth over the crown of his penis, a titillating flick of her tongue and she took him as deep as she could.
He banged his hand on the ceiling and his hips flexed and when she sucked, hollowing her cheeks, his chin dropped to his chest as if the vertebra in his neck had dissolved.
Not since Dalton, when everything was the first time and the experience was heightened by the sneaking around and the idea they were the only couple in the world to ever feel so in love, had another man responded to her like Reid did.
His reactions were an aphrodisiac and she would never have enough of them.
Not since Dalton had she felt what she felt for Reid. He’d snuck up on her and now he was in her blood.
“Going to—”
Yes, he was, and she wanted it.
Trying desperately not to pump his hips or make too much noise, he murmured her name over and over until all she could do was take in the torn wonder in his voice, clutch his shuddering thighs and swallow him down.
No sooner had she pulled off, and he dragged her up to his mouth for a kiss worth more than Paris. For a man who didn’t know how to kiss a few months ago, who still looked for a sign of permission if he wasn’t already half-cut open with lust, he topped the class.
The tap at the door, the question, “Is everything all right in there?” should’ve been embarrassing, but she’d court any humiliation to have Reid look at her as he did now—as if she ruled his world.
“Perfect,” he answered, managing to get a paper cup of water and a wet hand towel to her.
She snuck out first, avoided eye contact with anyone and was already seated with the inflight magazine open in front of her when he sat beside her. He leaned over the console and they kissed.
“I hate flying,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s irrational, more lives are ruined in traffic accidents.”
“You hate irrational.” That’s two reasons for him to be twitchy.
“I’m coming to see its value.”
She scratched her blunt fingertips on his head. “How’s that?”
“Never believed in romance either.”
His eyes were half closed and his breathing easy. The benefits of the mile-high club agreed with him. Seeing that agreed with her. “Romance isn’t real. It was made up by novelists and spread by Hollywood. It’s a lie peddled by every exotic dancer in every city of the world,” she said.
“Cynic.” He kissed her again. Not the kind of kiss two passengers on a plane, with an attendant two rows back discussing dietary concerns, were supposed to share. The kind that would fire through her body and spark its awareness all over again. That too was romance.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll demand a rematch.”
He snuck a quick pass of his hand over her breast, a finger sliding under her bra strap. “If I wasn’t almost unconscious I’d be all over that. Once we’re off this plane, you’re mine.” He sat back in his seat, hit the recline button and closed his eyes.
At thirty thousand feet or at sea level, how she felt about him was the same. She watched him fall asleep and now she was the one who was afraid, because she did believe in romance, she was his, and she didn’t know what to do about that.
TWENTY-FIVE
The apartment Reid booked was on Rue Charlot in the Marais. There was a bar at the end of the narrow cobblestone street, a bakery, a cheese shop and food market. There was a large four-poster bed that made Zarley laugh when she saw it.
They had everything they needed and the time together to enjoy it.
They spent that first day discovering the neighborhood and that first night they ticked another sex act off the list. In the old-fashioned bed, they had lazy, slow sex they were both too tired for and yet couldn’t give up. Reid stressed about it being good enough for Zarley for the five minutes it took to realize this time she wouldn’t leave him after a night, make him wait a whole week to see her again.
He woke alone, but could hear her clattering about in the little kitchen and stumbled out to see her setting up breakfast. She had fruit and coffee and croissants made with chocolate that were still warm and smelled delicious. She had groceries she unpacked. She danced about the small space, going from the countertop to the refrigerator to the table wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts in the school of Daisy Duke, and a skimpy tank.
“Did you go outside looking like that?”
She grunted and pointed to a chair. He sat. She slapped a plate of fruit in front of him. “Yes, and then I realized French women dress better than American women, but that’s not what you meant.”
He rubbed his face, but not hard enough to scrub the dickhead out. “I was being a jealous asshole. You can wear whatever you want.”
“Without your permission or approval.”
Jesus, what was wrong with him? He got her undivided attention and then opened his gob to make her regret it. It’s not that he meant to sound like a judgmental douchebag, but that’s how it came out. “Of course.”
“Eat your croissant.”
It tasted like ashes. This is why he’d been alone; he was no damn good with people. “Zarley.” She licked a buttery flake of pastry off her top lip and raised a brow at him. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re in Paris, I forgive you.”
It couldn’t be that easy. It shouldn’t be.
“But we have to talk about money.”
And there we go. Right as usual.
“If I win the prize money I can pay you back for the airfare. Economy class, because you upgraded on points. But I can’t pay you back for this,” she waved a hand around the apartment. It was bright, airy, furnished with comfort and not the most expensive he could’ve booked. “I can afford a youth hostel, not this gorgeous place.”
He went to speak and she cut him off.
“I know you know that, and this was your choice instead of a hotel. And I love it. I can buy food, I can cook for us. I can pay my own way otherwise. But if I don’t win, it’s going to take me a while to pay you back. And you know it’s quite possible I won’t even get an invitation to compete. Being in Paris is only one prerequisite. The performance tape I submitted might not be good enough. It shows what kind of place Lucky’s was. I might not be good enough. Cirque Du Soleil artists perform there off-season. If I don’t win, then you’ll have to wait longer for the money.”
“I don’t want your money, Flygirl.”
“It’s not about what you want. Same as what I wear isn’t about you.”
“But—”
“What are you going to say that doesn’t sound like I’m a rich guy so I get to call the shots?”
He shut his mouth with a snap that made his head hurt. She made his head hurt. Frustrating beautiful woman. He’d only been a rich guy for the last few years. He wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were but with Owen as his example he’d kept it as close to his regular life with one enormous exception—he could buy pretty much anything he wanted. Except, as it turned out, he didn’t want
much except the comfort of his girlfriend.
“You’re going to win.”
She snorted, took a sip of coffee and waited for him to bury himself by saying something dumb again.
“After I saw the flyer, I spent hours on the Madame Amour website. I watched competitors from past years and feature artists, I’ve watched you, and I know you can win. You know you can win or we’d be in Texas.”
“You were drunk when you watched me, Back Booth, and desperate to get laid.”
“I wasn’t that drunk or that desperate. I can tell you exactly what costume belongs to what song and how you wore your hair.”
She laughed.
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“Stop us from having an argument.”
“You mean win the argument. Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed.”
“Would’ve if you’d stayed there with me.”
She said nothing for long enough he was mentally stripping those tiny excuse for shorts off her body and he didn’t need a bed to do with her what he wanted, no argument about that.
“We should go out,” she said.
“We should.”
Argument averted.
Zarley changed her clothes because this was Paris and everyone dressed better. They went to the Louvre.
The Louvre irritated the fuck out of Reid. Hundreds of people taking pictures of the art, filming their experience for later instead of absorbing it now. You’d be looking at a painting and someone would pop in front of you for a quick snap and move on. Too whacked for words. And don’t start about the Mona Lisa. He had a reasonably clear view of the small painting above the crowd of people with their outstretched hands and selfie sticks. Zarley had no chance of seeing it, even standing on his shoes, and they gave up trying.
Hours later their feet gave up.
Back in the apartment, they chilled. She wanted to cook an evening meal and he thought better of stopping her. There’d been no word from the Madame Amour people and she was on edge, taking it out on the vegetables she chopped.
He sat opposite her at the counter. “You wore a little black skirt with pinstripes, you were a sexy secretary, and danced to that Bodyrockers “I Like the Way” song with your hair done in a bun with a pencil in it. There’s a line in that song about always getting it wrong.”
She put the knife down and turned to face him.
“You wore a bra with purple fringing and the tiniest bikini pants, and you danced to “Let me Think About It” with your hair all teased out.” He made a motion at the side of his head, wild hair, wild woman. “Yeah, you thought I was too drunk. I only got properly drunk after I saw you on stage. Want more? You wore this ripped-up red leather thing, stuck to you like a second skin, and danced to “I’m A Bitch,” and one night you danced to “Lightning Crashes” in a white corset, suspenders and stockings, with red butterflies in your hair. I swear you made half the men at your feet bawl like babies.”
“Oh my gosh.” She rounded the counter. “Lou banned me from using that song after that night.”
“I never noticed any of the others except what order they appeared in and how that related to you. I never got seriously drunk until your last set was done.”
“I think I might,” she paused and his breath stalled, what, what? “Swoon. That’s so romantic.”
“Hmph.” She was making fun of him. He grabbed for her, got a hand to her wrist. She’d showered when they got back and was wearing those tiny shorts again. Her skin smelled of lavender soap.
“What are you up to?”
“Up to my neck in you.”
She fluttered her eyelids at him and skipped out of his grasp. Then, attracted by laughter outside, she went to one of the tall windows that opened to an iron window box with red geraniums growing in it. She pulled the filmy curtain aside to look out at the street.
Like she’d dropped breadcrumbs and he was starving he followed her, coming up behind her, putting his hand to her throat and easing her body back into his. She tipped her chin up and he looked at her upside-down face. “Can’t help it. Can’t not want you.”
“Greedy.”
“For you, always.” He used both hands to explore her body. He’d watched her dress, knew she was naked under the shorts and tank. He pulled the tank over her head, he cupped her breasts, rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, and pinched, until her happy noises turned shocked and he looked up.
There was a man standing opposite them in a window of an apartment building much like theirs. He wore trousers and a shirt, but the shirt was unbuttoned. He was older, dark hair, trimmed beard, swarthy skin, in good shape.
Before Reid could yank their curtain back into place, Zarley trapped his hands. “He can see us.”
There was a strange note in her voice and she hadn’t tried to move away. “Flygirl, do you want him to see us?”
Her body shuddered and her breath quickened. She moaned and gripped his thigh to hold him in place. The man opposite lifted his gaze and smiled.
“What do you want, baby?” He spoke in Zarley’s ear, a whisper because he wasn’t sure he could share her like this, but he knew she wanted it. He’d thought kink might be the way she’d used the posts of the bed to tantalize him, tying his ankles up. But this, this was altogether more than he expected.
Her answer was another moan. He smoothed one hand down her body to the edge of her shorts and stopped, with his thumb tucked inside. That movement bared her breast to their neighbor. “Do you want me to undo these?” She’d wanted to tie his wrists as well, but he’d argued he might come to harm if he couldn’t touch her.
“Yes,” a shaky hiss.
He popped the stud and undid the zipper. Zarley’s whole body was shaking, and when he put his hand inside her shorts and cupped her, she thrust her hips forward and slammed her hand down on his.
He might come to harm now. This was confronting.
“You want me to make you come while he watches?”
Her head thrashed, rolling on his chest, no? But she worked her hips into his hand and her eyes were glued on the watcher. Reid’s were too. Their neighbor had undone his trousers, his hand, in a slick parallel of Reid’s, was in his underwear. He nodded to them, as though urging them on and Zarley breathed in excited gasps.
“He sees you, Zarley. He thinks you’re sexy, beautiful. He wants to jerk off while I pleasure you. Do you want that?” Could he do it, take her while another man watched? There was an entire laneway, sheets of glass and sound barriers between them but it felt like the man was in the room with them. He had his erect cock in his hand now, stroking slowly.
“See what you do to him, baby.” Reid was hard too, and fast losing the sense of what the right thing to do was. If he pulled Zarley away from the window, he’d keep her safe from being seen, but nothing in the way she reacted told him she wanted that. “See what you do to me.”
The scent of her arousal filled his nose and she ground against him, hips and ass. He buried his face in her neck and his fingers in her wet core. She was going to come hard and fast like he’d done in the lavatory on the plane. Across the way, the man’s chin was up, his eyes narrowed and his mouth moved as he brought himself on. Reid could do this for Zarley, because it’s what she wanted, so he wanted it for her.
“You’re going to make him come.”
She jerked in his arms, “Yes, yes.”
“You’re going to make me come.” He was still fully dressed, but he got his shirt off over his back and head with one hand, while Zarley moaned and thrashed. When he checked the window there was a woman in the frame, blonde and busty. She turned her head to see them and Zarley cried out.
The woman smiled, then went to her knees in front of the man, accepting his cock in her mouth and his hands in her hair. The man’s mouth kept working, instructing the woman, and his eyes never left Zarley.
“Reid.”
He shoved Zarley’s shorts further down her hips so he c
ould get his fingers inside her. Silky and hot and perfect. He sucked on her neck and she came on a keening cry, bowing forward, hands gripping his wrists, then rocking back into his chest making a song of his name.
Over the way, the couple had changed positions. The woman stood, palms planted on the window glass. Her blouse was open, her tits spilling from black lacy bra cups yanked aside. Her blue skirt was flipped up over her back and the man thrust into her from behind. The woman’s eyes were closed, but the man still watched Zarley.
“More, Reid. Please more.”
Now who was greedy? He wouldn’t take Zarley like that. He wouldn’t share her that far. The woman’s mouth was open, she panted and pushed back against the man, tossed her head so her hair flicked about. She was going to come hard too.
He released Zarley long enough to ditch his sweats and drag a dining chair in front of the window. He placed it so his back was to the window and Zarley could watch through the window. He sat and she kicked her shorts off and straddled him. He forgot about the other couple when Zarley lowered herself onto him, kissing him with soft, slack lips and a hand tight in his hair as comets zipped across his vision.
The chair had rungs and she used them like stirrups to ride him, hands on his shoulders for leverage, eyes locked on his. “You’re so goddamn fucking sexy, Zarley.”
She bounced on him. “You make me feel it. I love it.” She pulled his head down for a kiss that made his feet lift from the floor. She’d said it, not him, but he’d take it. His spine was shot through with electric sparks that zapped him every time she bore down. In the park, he thought he might die if he couldn’t have her, now he might die from having her.
She didn’t look out the window, she never broke eye contact. He had no breath, no thought beyond the ache of heat and shock she generated. He felt the pull of her in his gut, in his thighs, in his chest, in his shins, and enough power arched up his back as his balls drew tight to blow the top of his head off.
He came first, holding her hips to stop her drawing off, unable to contain his shout. She followed, shuddering and gasping, her teeth clacking, then collapsing into him.
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