Owning It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Wow!” I whistle. “That’s, like, super harsh. Just because a girl likes to flirt and smile doesn’t mean she is une fille facile!”

  “I know that, but many French men do not understand that the American girl has a different way of behaving. Her open behavior is as natural to her as a French woman’s reserve.” He runs his hand through his hair again. “I am making a mess of this, aren’t I?”

  I think about Vivia and her infectious joie de vivre, the way she greets every stranger as a friend, and then I think about Fanny, and the way she greets every stranger with wary skepticism, and I realize American girls and French girls are completely different creatures.

  I shake my head. “I dig you.”

  “Bon,” he says, smiling. “You see now, telling me you are a virgin and that you are not ready to let me make love to you is not the behavior of a fille facile. A tease would not be honest. She would play games because the game is what makes her happy. Comprendre?”

  I nod.

  He wraps his arm around my waist, and we continue walking down the path. The anxiety-churned nausea waves have subsided. I am again with chill. The pressure to be a sophisticated sexy kitten is gone. I can just be me, Laney.

  “Gabriel,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder, “I really dig you.”

  He chuckles. “You do?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “How much?”

  “Like, more than all of the John Hughes movies ever made. I just like being with you.”

  “I am glad,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Because I like being with you too.”

  It’s crazy. Gabriel is a virtual stranger, but he feels as familiar and comforting as Hoppy or Theo.

  Theo.

  I try to imagine what my best friend would say about me hooking up with a strange French man. I hope he would say, “Dude! You and Gabriel are, like, craft beer and food truck tacos. You’re the original one true pairing, Lane. Get your sex on, girl, and get up next to your man before it’s too late and your moneymaker is as rusty as that old Red Wing we found in the res at Valmont.”

  We arrive at Gabriel’s building, and he unlocks one of the pair of carved wooden doors that are typical of these beautiful old Baron Haussmann buildings. He leads me down a narrow corridor and up a curving staircase to the top floor. He shoves a key into a lock and turns it until it clicks.

  “Welcome to my home, ma fleur,” he says, pushing the door open and stepping aside to allow me to pass.

  His apartment is small, but crazy cool in an old Paris apartment gets a hip face-lift kind of way. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. Another wall has a built-in bookcase with a rolling ladder attached. The bookcase is painted a shark gray and has different-sized nooks. Some of the nooks feature stunning black-and-white photographs in metal frames, lit with sleek stainless-steel gallery lights. There’s a high-backed, armless gray velvet sofa and a low industrial table with stacks of books and black-and-white prints.

  I walk over to the bookcase and look at one of the photographs, a striking shot of place Vendôme with people moving through clouds of steam rising off the rain-slick granite pavers. The puffy white steam contrasts against the darkly silhouetted people and buildings.

  “Is this place Vendôme?”

  “Oui.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “I did.”

  Gabriel is standing behind me. I can feel his warm, wine-sweet breath on my neck.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much,” I say. “It’s a beautiful, haunting shot, Gabriel. You are talented.”

  “Thank you.” He kisses my neck. “Would you like to take your coat off?”

  My coat. My dress. My panties.

  This is crazy. Half of me wants to strip naked and beg Gabriel to make love to me, and the other half wants to button my coat to the neck and run from this apartment like a . . . like a . . . frightened virgin rabbit running from a confident fox and his erogenous-zone-stimulating den.

  I unbutton my coat and hand it to Gabriel. He carries it over to the sofa and drapes it over the back.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, walking through a darkened doorway. “I will be right back.”

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, running my hands over the soft fabric. Gabriel flicks on a light, revealing a small, sleek gray-and-white kitchen. I hear glasses clink together and the pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle. Gabriel returns, carrying two glasses of wine. He puts the glasses on the table and then walks over to the bookcase, grabs a slender remote, and pushes two buttons. The lights from the modern glass chandelier dim, and soft music plays from a slender speaker affixed to the wall.

  He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it over a chair, and sits down beside me, pulling me back against his chest.

  “Come here, ma fleur,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “I want to hold you while you tell me something.”

  “Something?”

  “Anything.” He rests his chin on my head. “Tell me something, anything. I just want to hear your voice.”

  I don’t know why, but I tell him the first things that come to mind. Serious and silly things. I tell him about my ADD and that, even though it is difficult for me to stay focused long enough to read a book from cover to cover, I started and finished the Alexandre Dumas book he gave me before he left for Damascus. I tell him about the first time I met Theo, about learning to drive stick by cruising Boulder in the Bananarama, and about the time Theo talked me into going to a concert in Denver. I had this ear infection, and I thought he said it was Mallay, which is this wicked techno rock band from Manchester, England.

  “So I dressed for a rave. I dreaded up my hair and wore a neon spandex bodysuit and fluffies.”

  “Fluffies?”

  “Furry leg warmers.”

  Gabriel chuckles. “Let me guess; it wasn’t a Mallay concert?”

  “Nope,” I say, laughing. “Not even close. It was some group that played flutes and did interpretive ballet. It wasn’t in an old warehouse, but the performing arts center. Everyone is walking in wearing semi-formal attire, and I’m kicking it in a glow-stick bra and glow-in-the-dark makeup.”

  Gabriel’s chest rumbles as he laughs, a rich, warm sound that makes me feel like I am wrapped in fluffies.

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do?” I look up at him and smile. “I waited until the music started and did my own little interpretive dance routine in the aisle.”

  “Show me.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Why not?” He grabs the remote off the table and pushes the buttons until he finds a fluty, new-age tune. “Show me, please.”

  I laugh and start contorting my limbs to look like tree branches blowing in the breeze, whipping my hair back and forth, and making a rushing wind sound with my mouth. I keep twisting and contorting my body and face in time to the music until Gabriel lets out a booming laugh and pulls me back onto the sofa beside him.

  “You thought I was just an artist, but you had no idea I possessed mad dancing skill, did you?”

  “You continue to surprise me, Laney.”

  He pushes another button on the remote, and the flute music is replaced by a slow, sexy Ne-Yo jam. He stands and pulls me to my feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Show me some more of your mad dancing skills.”

  He lifts my hands to his shoulder and grabs my waist, moving my hips in time to the seductive beat. We move together in the dark. I rest my cheek against his collarbone and close my eyes, listening to the throbbing, thumping beat of his heart and his throaty voice singing the lyrics of the song, imploring me to say-it, say-it, say what I want him to do to me. Spiritual gurus talk about moments of divine clarity, when you receive insight into the universe. Here’s some insight: if I live a hundred years and have a quadrillion lovers, I will never have a more erotic moment than I am having right now, dancing in and out of the shadows created by the city’s twink
ling lights with Gabriel’s voice pleading in my ear to say-it, say-it.

  One song fades into the next and the next, but we keep slow-grinding in the dark, making love with our clothes on. I am lost in a fevered delirium of berry wine and Gabriel’s sweet kisses, dizzy and drunk on this crazy, improbable love. He kisses me, in a drugging rhythm that matches the music and the movement of his hips against mine. He thrusts against me, his tongue, his big, hard . . . until my legs are as loose and rubbery as stretched out rubber bands, until I feel like I am falling, falling, falling . . .

  It takes me a few seconds to realize that Gabriel has lifted me into his arms and is carrying me into his bedroom. He carries me to his bed and lays me down on the feathery duvet, then walks over to his dresser, pulls out a plain white T-shirt, and hands it to me.

  “The bathroom is right through there,” he says, nodding in the direction of a small hallway. “Use whatever you want.”

  I carry the T-shirt into the bathroom and close the door. I am about to climb into bed with a hot, seriously experienced French man, but I am not nervous. Like, not even a little. I believed Gabriel when he promised we would only hold each other and sleep. I believe he won’t ask me for something I am not ready to give.

  I strip out of my dress and bra, hang them over the towel rack, and pull Gabriel’s tee over my head. It’s soft, smells like his cologne, and hangs to my mid-thighs. Next, I squirt some of Gabriel’s toothpaste on my finger and brush my teeth.

  When I go back into Gabriel’s bedroom, he has already pulled the blinds and is waiting for me in bed, one bare, muscular arm behind his head, a reassuring smile on his handsome face.

  He pulls back the covers, and I climb in beside him. My bare legs slide against his, and I shiver at the warm, roughness of his male skin.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” I whisper.

  He pulls me closer so my head rests on his bare shoulder, my breasts press against his hairy, rippled chest, separated by a flimsy cotton tee.

  “Relax, ma fleur,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling growl in my ear. “You are as stiff as a board.”

  He rubs my back, his strong hand making slow, soothing circles between my shoulder blades until I relax, melt against him, melt into him.

  “Bonne nuit, Laney,” he says, kissing me on the lips. “Fais de beaux rêves.”

  “Sweet dreams, Gabriel,” I say, closing my eyes and draping my arm over his chest.

  The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is Gabriel’s heartbeat in my ear. It sounds a lot like Ne-Yo singing, say-it, say-it, say-it.

  Chapter 25

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Too Afraid to Love You” by The Black Keys

  “Scared to Death” by HIM

  “Bonjour, ma belle.”

  Gabriel kisses and nuzzles my neck, his beard grazing my bare collarbone. I shiver and moan, then blink away the morning grit and arch my back, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders.

  “Every girl deserves that,” I say, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Every girl should wake to a ‘Good morning, beautiful’ greeting. The world would be a happier place—like, way, way happier.”

  His chuckle echoes softly in my ear.

  “I would be willing to do my part, but I don’t think it would be possible for me to greet every girl.” He sucks my earlobe into his warm, wet mouth, and I shiver again. “Besides, there’s not enough room in my bed.”

  “Funny,” I laugh, ruffling his hair. “You’re very funny, Gabriel Galliard.”

  He kisses a path from my collarbone to my lips and then does a push-up over me so he is staring at my face.

  He whistles and shakes his head.

  “What?”

  “You are really beautiful.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “You’ve got to be kidding! I didn’t remove my makeup or wash my face last night. I haven’t brushed my hair or my teeth. I must have crazy scary morning face.”

  The mattress shifts, and Gabriel straddles me. The only things separating his manly bits from my girly parts are my Victoria Secret panties and his Calvin Klein briefs. Hello, Vicki, meet Calvin! My cheeks flush with skin-singing flushy-crushy heat. He pulls my hands from my face. I keep my eyes closed because I, like, can’t even right now.

  “Look at me, ma fleur.”

  I shake my head. “So not gonna happen.”

  “Really?”

  I nod my head.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  He trails his fingertips over the curve of my breast, making slow, shivery circles around and around.

  “Laney,” he coaxes in a deep, husky voice, “look at me.”

  I open my eyes, because, like, for real? Who can resist a handsome man imploring you to obey him in a voice that is panty-dropping sexy and accented with French? Not this girl.

  He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t smile. He just stares into my eyes, a deep, soul-probing look that feels like he is slowly peeling off my tee and VS panties. Exposed. I am so totally exposed.

  “You are so beautiful,” he says, pressing his hand to his chest. “You make my heart ache. Ache because I know soon you will kiss me good-bye, and hours will pass before I can look at you again.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, blinking back tears. “That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “De rien.” He rolls off me and climbs out of bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  I try to avert my gaze, but Gabriel’s chiseled body is a serious eyeball magnet. His broad shoulders and back taper to a narrow waist. The white band of his Calvin boxer briefs contrasts with his tanned skin. My gaze move up his back, following the deep valleys on either side of his spine, the sharp planes of his shoulder blades. He is an ancient statue of a Corinthian warrior, a carved god who has leapt off his pedestal to walk among the mortals.

  “Would you allow me take your picture, ma fleur?” he asks, striding back into the room with a camera in his hands.

  “What?” I shriek, pulling the blankets up to my chin. “Why would you want to take a picture of me now, looking like this?”

  “Because this,” he says, holding the camera up his face, “is beautiful.”

  He pushes the shutter release, and the shutter makes a soft clicking sound as my image is recorded again and again. I narrow my gaze like a sloe-eyed vixen, cross my eyes and stick out my tongue, and finally blow him a kiss. He laughs and clicks a last shot before setting the camera on the nightstand and climbing back into bed with me.

  “Merci, ma fleur,” he says, pulling me against his chest. “Now, I can look at your face when you aren’t here.”

  We make out, kissing each other, sliding our hands up and down each other’s bodies, exploring warm curves. Gabriel grabs my breast, wrapping his big hand around my soft flesh, squeezing and kneading it until I don’t care if I have epic, Sasquatch bed head and mascara smudged under my eyes.

  I am floating high-high-high in the Nethersphere of desire, lost in a hazy, cloudy dimension way, way beyond reality when Gabriel stops kissing me.

  “Merde,” he swears, rolling out of bed, grabbing his jeans, and shoving his legs into them. “I’ll be right back.”

  What? What just happened? Where is he going?

  The doorbell buzzes—buzz, buzz, buzz—and I realize someone is at Gabriel’s door, someone super-eager to speak to him.

  I look at the clock on Gabriel’s nightstand and jump out of bed. Oh my god! It isn’t really twenty after seven already, is it? I have to work a shift at the gallery at nine, and I am going to be late.

  I hurry into the bathroom, strip out of Gabriel’s tee, and take a lightning-fast shower, scrubbing my body with his gritty, manly scented soap, and drying off with a hand towel (because I am so not going to rummage through his drawers).

  Three minutes later, I have dressed, finger-combed my hair, finger-brushed my teeth, and slapped some color into my cheeks.

  I hear the breathy femal
e voice as soon as I step out of the bathroom and freeze in my tracks. Well, this is awkward. Should I wait in the bedroom and risk being late for my shift at the gallery or join Gabriel and his early-morning, breathy visitor and risk appearing jealous?

  What would Vivia do? I wish my iPhone wasn’t in my purse in the living room because I could text her and ask her.

  A badass woman would walk into the living room with confidence, chest out, nose up, lips pursed like, “Mmm-hmm, I own this room . . . and this man.” A badass, confident woman wouldn’t cower in the bedroom worrying about what some stranger will think about her.

  I walk out of Gabriel’s bedroom with my best interpretation of a badass, confident woman and trip right over Gabriel’s boots where he kicked them off last night, before our slow-jam dance sesh. I hear you, universe. I am not a badass bitch. Got it.

  I look over at the door, hoping Gabriel didn’t see me trip. He has his back to me and missed my gawky near-pratfall. Giselle saw me, though. Willowy, we are more than friends Giselle. She smiles a closed-mouth reptilian smile at me and thrusts a boulangerie bag into Gabriel’s hands, cooing in French, “I know how much you adore the bichon au citron from Maison Honoré, so I thought I would bring you one, mon cherie.”

  Pointy, sharp arrows of distrust find a tender target in my heart, and I have to silently repeat the sensei’s admonition about jealousy. Jealousy and suspicion are houses built on foundations of insecurity. They are sad, bleak dwellings with air so toxic it kills bigger, more beautiful emotions. Jealousy and suspicion are . . .

  Not working. So not working.

  Giselle widens her eyes, pretending as if she only just noticed me. “La! I am sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t know you had a visitor. I have only brought pastries for two.”