Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  He rises and offers me a hand to shake. “They think you’re as fantastic as all get-out. Wait. That’s an American saying. I’m going to have to hire you for my own idioms now.”

  “Well, that’d be the cat’s whiskers, Jean-Paul,” I say with a smile.

  He laughs. “Well done. Blimey, well done.”

  “Not sure blimey fits, but hey. You must be knackered at the end of the day,” I say, keeping up the volley.

  His smile spreads across his wrinkled face. “You are a top translator. The best. Go take yourself out to dinner on me.”

  He hands me a gift card. I stare at it in disbelief for a moment, then I thank him. When I leave, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  As I head down the stairs and into the Paris twilight, I can’t help but feel I got away with something. Instead of a reprimand, I have fifty euros on a gift card to spend at a restaurant.

  And as I walk down the street toward the river, I grin.

  And I laugh.

  Maybe I did get away with something. Maybe I’ll keep getting away with it. I’ll certainly try my hardest.

  “One egg crepe with cheese.”

  Christian places the order at the crepe stand near Deux Magots, then turns to me as he waits for his favorite crepe-maker in the city to make a savory dish. “Here’s the thing. You know the risks. I’m not telling you something you don’t know. The question becomes what happens when you leave for the other side of the world?”

  “When I leave, I leave,” I say coolly, because what else is there to say? There’s a real expiration date to me, and I can’t pretend it won’t come. I’ve no clue when I’m returning, especially since I should be able to pick up written translation work remotely, feeding my bank account as I travel.

  “Ah, so she’s cool with it?”

  I scratch my jaw, and glance down the street, trying to remember how Joy has reacted to the prospect of me leaving. “Pretty sure.”

  Christian arches a skeptical brow. “Pretty sure?”

  “She knows I’m going to Indonesia.”

  “Right. But does she know you’re staying there?”

  I sigh. “I don’t even know if I’m staying. I’ll probably wind up someplace else.”

  He draws air quotes as he repeats, “Someplace else.” He shakes his head. “For a man who makes a living translating words precisely, you’re being awfully imprecise on this matter.”

  “You didn’t even think I should get involved with her,” I fire back.

  “And you didn’t follow that advice, did you?” he says, laughing.

  “Not really.”

  “My point is this: now that you’re involved, don’t you think you ought to at least let her know this can only be a short-term thing? Be direct with her.”

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I have to imagine she knows.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t imagine. Just be clear, like you should have been from the start.”

  “It’s never been pertinent before.”

  “I’d say it’s pertinent now.” He claps me on the back. “I think you have your work cut out for you, mate. Good luck with that one. I wouldn’t want to be you telling a woman you’re hot for that you need to clock out in a month.”

  As I flash back to the day I ran into Joy when she was still Judy to me, I’m reminded that she wasn’t looking for anything. That hasn’t changed. She’s still not looking for anything, and neither am I. We’re Archie and Judy, and they were fine with a whole lot of “not looking for anything” together as they explored.

  “It’s all going to be fine. Neither one of us wants anything more.”

  Christian laughs as he takes the crepe and bites into it. “Right.”

  As I walk along the river, I run my thumb over the list of ten. I’ve completed three, I’m working on a fourth by teaching Joy French, I do the postscript on an ongoing basis by keeping in close touch with my parents, and I’m about to check off one more item.

  Item number nine.

  Take a chance on something that terrifies you.

  The funny thing is, going for it with Joy doesn’t scare me at all. It excites me. It enlivens me. Maybe this means it doesn’t quite fit the bill, but I don’t care.

  I’m going to cross it off anyway.

  * * *

  9. Take a chance on something that terrifies you.

  * * *

  Griffin: The night is young. Do you want to pick up where we left off? Because it’s literally all I want to do. And I know you like it when literally means literally.

  21

  Joy

  * * *

  I’ve swallowed a nest full of butterflies.

  Wait. Butterflies don’t live in nests.

  They live in a swarm.

  Actually, that’s not right, either.

  It’s called an army. I remember from one of my science classes.

  I set a hand on my belly, trying to quell the army inside it.

  What is wrong with me? I’m thirty. I shouldn’t be this nervous. But it’s not nerves. It’s excitement. It’s the thrill. It’s the wild, fantastical feeling when you fly upside down on a roller coaster.

  But with an army?

  I scratch my head as I wait.

  Screw it. I need to know what it’s called. As I pace across the iron footbridge in Canal St-Martin’s, the emerald leaves of the trees glistening from the earlier showers, I unlock my phone. “Google, what is a group of butterflies called?”

  She answers in her pleasing robotic voice. “A group of butterflies is called—”

  Fingers brush across the back of my neck. “A kaleidoscope.”

  I don’t just shiver. I shudder. My bones melt. Heat swirls through me. That voice. That accent. This man. I turn around. Soft moonlight frames his face. “How did you know that?”

  He shrugs, a grin lighting up his handsome features. I want to run my fingers along his jawline. But I don’t yet have the permission to touch him freely whenever I want. “Marine biology,” he answers.

  “Butterflies aren’t marine life.”

  “True,” he says, then takes a liberty I haven’t. He runs the back of his fingers across my cheek. I gasp, and then it turns into the start of a moan. “I don’t know, then. I suppose I picked it up somewhere along the way. Maybe because it sounds prettier than a swarm.” He takes a beat then says it again, “Kaleidoscope.”

  It’s both beautiful and sensuous, like everything he says to me.

  “It is prettier,” I say breathlessly, because his fingers are on my face. His body is inches away. The air crackles between us and my body hums as if I’ve tuned in to his frequency. There’s something in the air tonight, and it’s the anticipation of a night that’s not ending.

  It’s only beginning.

  “I’m glad you could meet me here. Do you know why I chose it?”

  I shake my head, swallowing past the dryness in my throat. I want him to quench my thirst. A cool breeze flutters by, and I shiver. He tugs the collar of my pink jacket closer together. “Are you cold?”

  “Not in the least.” I lean my hip against the green railing.

  “I’ve been working on a list of my own since I met you. A list of places.”

  “What sort of places?” I’m floating, as if I’m watching this moment from later tonight, or tomorrow, or a few years from now. I’m living in the present, but I’m also keenly aware that this is a time I will return to, over and over. This is one of those pivots in life. When you see everything through this prism.

  “Places to kiss you.”

  I close my eyes for a second, my knees going weak. I can’t touch the ground. I’m falling, sinking so far under I will lose myself. And I want to be lost in this night. He reaches for my arm, steadying me.

  “Where?”

  “I want to kiss you at Moulin Rouge. I want to kiss you at the top of Notre Dame. I want to kiss you in one of the covered passages, down a quiet hallway, where our footsteps echo as we escape the crowds. We�
�ll find a deserted doorway, and I’ll pull you into it and kiss you like crazy.”

  This is desire. This is what poets write about. This is what songwriters croon for. This feeling, and the sense that it can’t last forever, but you want it to. You want to cocoon yourself inside it with your lover.

  “God, yes,” I say with a groan that’s nearly ripped from my body. I want him so much. I want him to kiss me, to take me, to fuck me. I don’t know how to contain this much longer. I don’t have room for it. I’m going to burst with lust.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you on bridges,” he says, running his hand down my arm. “Kiss you at cafés and in museums. I wanted to devour these perfect lips at the flower market.” He brushes his fingertip over my top lip, and I go up in flames. Portrait of a Melting Woman. Canvas: Paris. Medium: flesh and desire.

  “I’ve wanted you to kiss me everywhere,” I say, grabbing his shirt. “I’ve wanted all those kisses. In front of the Eiffel Tower. Under a streetlamp. On my roof.”

  It’s his turn to groan. A sexy, dirty, masculine sound that reminds me we aren’t just playing kissing games. We are a man and a woman on the edge.

  There’s only one agenda tonight.

  “I want to take you everywhere,” he growls, threading his fingers through my hair. “Kiss you on every street corner.”

  “In front of every shop.”

  “But most of all, I want to kiss you here.” He runs his finger along the side of my neck, and I stretch, giving him room, giving him all the room to rain kisses down my neck, and he does.

  Oh God. He does. His lips sweep across my skin as night falls, as I fall, as this kiss reverberates in my body, as it echoes in my bones.

  He touches the hollow of my throat. “And here.” He presses his lips there, and I murmur.

  This man is going to reduce me to nothing but lust and a wish for him to take me home and strip me bare.

  “And here,” he says, dusting his finger over my top lip. “This is my favorite place to kiss in Paris.”

  “Please,” I whimper, and then we stay like that, hovering as if we’re holding a pose, lips brushing against lips.

  We slam into each other. He pushes me against the railing, and I grab at him, clawing at his shirt, yanking him close. He crushes his lips to mine. A brutal, searing kiss. It’s hard and it’s ruthless and it feels like being claimed.

  We can’t go back to who we were. There’s no more time to act as if we’re only friends. He kisses me deeply and passionately and madly, and I kiss him back, and we don’t just kiss with our lips. Our whole bodies are in this. He’s grinding against me, and I’m jerking and tugging and pulling him closer.

  But I can’t get close enough to him.

  I clasp his face, my thumbs on his jaw, his hands in my hair, and we devour each other. I feast on his lips, and he seems to revel in my mouth, and I’m going to climb him. I’m going to jump him and climb him and do filthy things to him in public. I ache for him. My body is begging, crying for him to fill me. I’ve never ever felt like this. Never wanted someone in this kind of bone-deep, soul-crushing way. I can’t take it anymore.

  Judging by the way he breathes and groans and grinds against me, by the way his tongue fearlessly explores my lips and mouth, by the way his hands rope through my hair, he’s as lost as I am.

  Or maybe we’re both just finding what we want.

  “How close are you?” I ask.

  “A few blocks away.”

  “Take me there.”

  22

  Griffin

  * * *

  She’s never been to my flat before. It’s small, unassuming, and roughly the size of a car. But I’m not giving her a tour right now. I have one place I want to go. Her. The second the door closes, I yank her against me.

  “Clothes. Off.”

  She nods, fiddling with the buttons on my shirt, sliding one open, then the next, then another. I tug at her top, yanking it off.

  And . . . holy fuck.

  Her bra is emerald green, and I’m already in love with it. It’s lace, see-through, and it holds the two most wonderful sights in the world. “This, too. I’ve only had ten thousand fantasies already about your tits.”

  “Pervert,” she says with a naughty grin as I unhook her bra while she undoes my shirt.

  Her bra falls to the floor, and the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen are inches away from my hands.

  And then, yes, in my hands. I knead them, squeeze them, fondle them. “Spectacular.”

  “Why, thank you,” she says, then, as I dip my face to the glorious land, sucking one rosy nipple between my teeth, she cries out.

  No more teasing. No more sarcasm.

  Her noises are pure lust, and they make me even harder.

  I lick and suck as she moans. I lavish attention on each teardrop breast, making sure they’re properly adored by my mouth. Then, she grabs my hair hard and yanks my face up. Her green eyes are fierce and blazing with desire. She slams her hands to my chest, running her fingers along my pecs, over my abs, and down toward the waistband of my jeans. I groan. It feels so fucking good to have her hands on me, to feel her fingers exploring my body.

  Her eyebrows wiggle. “Have I mentioned how much I like six-packs?”

  “No, you haven’t. How much?”

  “So very much.” She slides closer, her hands working their way to unbutton my jeans, pushing my briefs down. My cock announces how incredibly happy it is to see her with a full-on salute. She takes my hard length in her hand, and I swear, time stops for a few mind-bending seconds as she touches me for the first time. My eyes close as I savor the intensity of this moment. There’s no place else I’d rather be but rocking into her soft, talented hand. “So much it makes me want to have my hands all over you,” she says playfully, then squeezes hard.

  I hiss. Electricity sparks all over my skin. “If you wanting to get your hands on me comes from having a six-pack, then I’m absolutely grateful I followed that one to the letter.”

  She laughs as I smile, then we both go quiet as I thrust into her hand again.

  Her voice is a dirty whisper. “Your dick is beautiful.”

  I grin as I open my eyes. “You know that sounds even hotter in your sexy American accent.”

  “Stop it. My accent isn’t sexy.”

  “It so is. It turns me on. Especially the last thing you said. Maybe say that again, yeah?”

  She grips me harder. “Your cock is beautiful.”

  “Mmm. Yep. Totally hot accent, and that’s also my favorite thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She squeezes on an upstroke. “Now get your beautiful cock inside me, Griffin.”

  “Scratch that,” I say, groaning. “That’s my new favorite thing.”

  I grab a condom from my wallet, push my jeans down, and kick them off. Then I regard her, leaning against the door, half-dressed, tits out, lips bruised and bee-stung. I wave the condom at her. “This is a problem we need to fix right now. Full nudity is required, Joy.”

  She’s topless, but her jeans and heels are still on. “Allow me to rectify the situation.” She unsnaps her jeans and pushes them down. Then, because I’m a gentleman, I kneel and pull them off the rest of the way, helping her step out of them, till she’s in nothing but a scrap of green lace, because of course, Joy wears matching lingerie.

  And it’s beautifully, deliciously, slippery wet lace, as I discover when I slide my hand between her legs. Lust jolts my entire body as I feel how slick she is, even through her useless, pointless knickers. I draw a deep, satisfied breath as I tease my fingers across her. “I want to feel this all over me. I want my fingers inside you, my tongue on you, my cock in you.”

  A tremble moves through her body. “Je suis excitée.”

  I blink up at her, surprised she used those words correctly. “I didn’t teach you that,” I say with a quirk of my lips.

  She grins naughtily. “I learned it a while ago. I can finally use it properly.”

  “You used
it fucking perfectly,” I say as I slide the waistband slowly down her hips. “I believe these knickers have done their service. I think it’s time we give them a proper good-bye and get them right the fuck off.”

  I tug them down her legs then leave them on the floor with her clothes. I kiss my way up, and she shudders as I travel along her soft skin. And there, at the apex of her thighs, is the paradise I’ve fantasized about. One trim red landing strip leads to the promised land. My fingers play with the soft curls as I trace a path to her center. “Enjoy every day, and eat it like a fruit,” I say in a low, dirty whisper. Then I press a kiss to her clit, and she makes the sexiest, most sensual sound I’ve ever heard, an ohh that makes my cock twitch, makes me ache even more to be inside her. Her hands fly to my hair, and she yanks me closer, her breath coming in sharp, erratic pants. She rocks against me, and I feel like she’s almost there already. The possibility of her coming on my mouth intoxicates me. I flick the tip of my tongue faster, groaning as I lick her, tasting her sweetness, savoring the evidence of her desire.

  But seconds later, she pushes me away. I give her a look from my spot on the floor. “You don’t like it?”

  She drags her hand down her breasts. “I like it too much.”

  “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

  “It’s a thing when you go down on me like that.”

  I laugh. “Like how?”

  “Like you’re devouring me.”

  “Fuck.” I can’t resist her. I press another hot kiss to her clit and then rise. “I want to devour you.”

  “I want you inside me.”

  Well, I can’t argue with that, so I grab her, hoist her up on my shoulder. She squeals. “What are you doing?”

  “Wall-fucking is great, but I’ve got a mind to spread you out on the couch by the window. I’ve wanted to fuck you so the neighbors can see.”

  The shutters are open, and a spring breeze wafts in, the curtains fluttering. “Your neighbors are Peeping Toms?”

  I set her down on the gray couch by the window. “Joy, it’s Paris. We are all voyeurs here.”