Amanda's Guide to Love

by Alix Nichols

  Amanda searched Jeanne’s and Mat’s faces for signs of irritation or fatigue, but found none. Knowing how bad Jeanne was at hiding her feelings, the only logical explanation was that she actually wasn’t irritated. Or fatigued. Her smile seemed genuinely happy, and even Mat looked as though he didn’t mind the interminable photo shoot among the rosebushes and various other shrubs that populated the municipal park of Balleville.

  Weird. Was the wedding day so special it put the newlyweds in a beatific mood that nothing could ruin?

  “Hasn’t he already photographed them with both sets of parents?” Pepe asked, frowning.

  “He has,” Kes confirmed. “But I think I figured out what his plan is.”

  Amanda smiled. “Please enlighten us.”

  “He’s sampling the different tree species of this park. If we’re lucky, he’ll stop after the magnolias.”

  “I hope he does,” Pepe said. “I’m parched.”

  “Pe-pe and Na-na.” Amanda looked from one to the other. “Did you guys meet through a website that matches people based on their names?”

  Pepe widened his eyes in mock surprise. “How did you know?”

  “These days,” Nana said with a tight smile, “Pepe prefers to be called by his full name—Jose-Antonio.”

  “I bet it has something to do with him being a manager,” Amanda said, “in charge of managing an agency.”

  “What do you think of Paris, Nana?” Kes asked, looking unusually earnest. “How does it compare to Copenhagen?”

  “I like Paris.” Nana’s smile was genuine this time. “It’s not as cozy as Copenhagen, and there are too many places where you can’t enter with a stroller. But it’s beautiful and fun. I’m taking courses to improve my French so I can start applying for jobs when Freja is a bit older.”

  Pepe turned to Kes. “And what about you? What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a stockbroker,” Kes said, thankfully sticking to the script.

  He stuck to it for the rest of the day, never goofing up and playing his role with confidence and aplomb. He chatted with everyone and charmed everyone. But he always stayed near Amanda and danced only with her.

  And, boy, he did it well.

  Salsa, rock, zouk—you name it, they danced it. When Maximilien Philippe launched into his spellbinding cover of “C’est si bon,” Kes pulled her into his arms. Amanda shivered and thought that this was very, very bon. But when the song ended, she changed her mind. Rocking in Kes’s embrace to Philippe’s sensual crooning hadn’t been just bon. It had been glorious.

  What was more, she didn’t give a hoot about how blissfully in love Rob and Lena were. The purpose of bringing Kes to Jeanne’s wedding had been to protect her ego. He’d done her one better and shielded her heart. Whether it was his hungry gaze or simply his presence, it soothed the pain she usually experienced around her ex and his wife.

  She hardly even glanced at them. No unhealthy fascination, no envy, no poisonous regret. Tonight, Amanda stayed in the here and now, wholeheartedly celebrating Jeanne and Mat’s union.

  And having an exceptionally good time.

  When Kes led Amanda to their room—dragged would have been a better term had he acknowledged the degree of Amanda’s tipsiness—he knew one thing was certain. If he kissed her now, she’d let him do more.

  Much more.

  All of it.

  During the last few dances, she’d clung to him, murmuring something about him being smoking hot and her being soaking wet. She gave him heavy-lidded gazes and bit her lower lip repeatedly.

  Meaningfully.

  Once in the room, she climbed on the bed without bothering to remove her pumps and beckoned him over.

  He kicked off his shoes and socks and lay down next to her.

  “Oh look,” Amanda said, pointing to the ceiling, “the room is spinning!”

  “You’ve had too much to drink, ma belle.”

  “So what?” She tore her gaze from the light fixture on the ceiling and gave him a seductive smile. “Hold me.”

  He set his hand on her slim waist and began to caress her through the silky fabric of her gown.

  Should he move higher and cup her breast? Why was he even asking himself this question? Perhaps because it felt wrong, that was why.

  “Mmm.” Amanda closed her eyes and nuzzled his neck.

  She sounded dopey.

  He kept his hand on her waist, slowing his movements and then just holding her until she fell asleep.

  As he listened to her drunken yet endearing snoring, he wondered how much longer he could play this game.

  Not much.

  Something had to give.

  The question was what was going to give first—her resistance or his resolve.

  * * *

  Kes woke up to Amanda fumbling for something.

  She still had her gown on but no shoes—he had removed them before falling asleep.

  “Have you seen my watch?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

  He stretched out. “You weren’t wearing it last night.”

  “Right. Must be in my purse.” She rubbed her eyes. “Do you have yours? We shouldn’t be late for the wedding breakfast.”

  “Time slayers,” he mumbled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Someone—can’t remember who—said it about clocks. Time dies when you look at them and comes alive when you turn away.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug.” He turned on his side, facing her. “Haven’t you noticed how you feel fully alive only when you forget to look at your watch and forget about time?”

  “I never forget about time. In my world, planning and anticipating is vital.”

  “I can appreciate that,” he said. “But in my world, thinking about the future all the time prevents you from enjoying the present.”

  She turned to face him. “So what are you saying? That instead of rushing to the breakfast we should just stay in bed and . . . enjoy the present moment?”

  “That’s an option.” His lips twitched. “Another option is to shower and then come back to bed and enjoy the present moment.”

  “God, I must reek!” She jumped to her feet and darted to the bathroom.

  While she washed, he lay on his back and waited with a happy grin on his face. So far things were going according to the plan he’d hatched last night after Amanda fell asleep and he took a cold shower to kill his arousal.

  It was happening today. This morning. In this room. They both wanted it, and he’d had enough of her warped reasons as to why it was wrong.

  When she emerged from the bathroom—swathed in a terry cloth towel with her hair damp and her skin flushed—his breath caught in his throat.

  Please, come to me.

  She padded to the bed, sat on it for a brief moment, and then stretched out to face him.

  He placed his hand on her bare shoulder.

  She didn’t move.

  Taking it as a permission to continue, he stroked her arm, adding pressure with each pass.

  She stared into his eyes, her blue gaze enthralling him like the waters of the Mediterranean Sea. He spread his fingers, pressing his thumb into the underside of her slender arm and caressing the silky skin there.

  “Mmm . . . nice.” She let out a languorous sigh. “But you’ve got to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “If we have sex now, we’ll do it again when we’re back in Paris, and it’ll become an affair. I don’t want an affair with you, Kes.”

  He stared at her, poker-faced.

  “We’re too—” she began.

  “Different to be a couple,” he finished for her. “You’ve said it before. And you may be right . . . but you won’t disagree we’re great as lovers.”

  She didn’t disagree.

  “Why can’t we just have a good time together?” He searched her eyes. “We’re both single, and we’re already friends. Why not friends with benefits?”

  She reflected for a lo
ng moment before giving him a smile. A big, toothy, sincere smile.

  “Truth is,” she said, “I could use a benefit or two at this point in my life . . .”

  Is that a yes?

  “I want you so much, Amanda,” he said, inching closer to her.

  She stared at him, her gaze traveling from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes.

  And soon he could think of nothing other than her lips. He propped himself up on his elbow, cupped her face, and leaned in for a gentle kiss. Her mouth was soft and deliciously responsive.

  He took his time, raining light kisses on her lips, chin, and cheekbones.

  She arched her neck, and he pressed his lips to the yummy hollow at the base of her throat. He licked and kissed her neck, moving up to her elegant jawline and sweet chin. A long moment later, he returned to her mouth. Except this time he wasn’t gentle—he was demanding, punishing even, fueled by his want and emboldened by her welcome. He took possession of her lips, grazing them, rubbing them with his thumb, and sweeping his tongue over them.

  When he could delay no more, he pushed inside her mouth and explored it thoroughly, putting two months of pent-up desire and denial into the kiss. She tasted like heaven. A horny, passionate heaven that had finally opened up and let him in. Through the blaze of lust consuming his brain, he could hear the sound of her rattled breathing and feel her hands gripping the back of his head.

  He could smell her arousal.

  Sweet Lord.

  It nearly sent him tumbling into a release.

  He pressed his palm into the mattress and pushed himself up, putting a few lifesaving inches between their mouths.

  Amanda gasped for air and was about to pull him back when her mind sounded a deafening alarm: Last chance to make a U-turn!

  She winced.

  “Was I too rough?” He looked at her with concern. “I’m sorry, ma belle. Your taste messes with my gray matter.”

  “You weren’t too rough,” she said. “And the taste—it isn’t mine. It’s the flavor of my lip balm.”

  “I’m sure it’s yours.” He trailed his fingers over her slightly swollen lips. “I ate all your lip balm off in the first ten seconds.”

  She smiled.

  “And you know what?” he asked, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “I love the way you taste here even more.” He reached down and touched his fingertips to her mound.

  His touch was featherlight at first. Tentative. She didn’t push him away. There was no more point in pushing him away and resisting what she craved so badly. She might as well admit she’d missed the U-turn . . . and enjoy the present moment.

  He pressed harder, cupping her with his entire palm.

  God, the pleasure of it.

  She wasn’t completely naked under the towel wrapped around her. In a desperate attempt to fight the inevitable, she’d put on her panties after she showered. But Kes didn’t try to slip his fingers inside them. Neither did he attempt to push in through the fabric that was now slippery with her want. He just held her with his grip firm and acutely erotic—a harbinger of what he had in store for her.

  She wanted to stay in that touch. She wanted to shift her body so she could be in contact with even more of his palm. More of him. They’d made love in her fantasies every night for two months now. Amanda had become an expert at summoning up the feel of his body on top of hers, the smell of his skin, and the cadence of his thrusts.

  Ah, to experience all that again, right here, right now in the warmth and quiet of this morning! To let him pleasure her, encourage him to fan her throbbing need until it peaked, leaving her boneless and sated . . . And then to do it again in the afternoon. And at night. And the night after that . . .

  Until one of them tired of the other. Or until Kes left town.

  She focused her gaze on his face. He was staring at her, his eyes pitch black. They promised her delectable things—things she hungered for.

  Were they worth the trouble?

  Was he worth the trouble?

  “Exactly how much longer are you in town for?” she asked, her voice coming out all weird.

  “Three or four weeks.” He cleared his throat before adding, “I’m in luck at the casino, so I’ve extended my stay, but after a month I have to go no matter what.”

  “OK.”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “I’m accepting your new deal.” She grinned, giddy. “Let’s have the benefits, Gypsy boy.”

  That’s when his fingers slipped inside.

  She reached to return the caress and found that he was stark naked under the blanket. And oh so happy to greet her.

  A little later, he unwrapped her, lapping up her body like a sugar-deprived kid with a gigantic lollipop. Then he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her thighs.

  She quivered with anticipation.

  But he didn’t seem in a hurry. He stroked her thighs and massaged her most sensitive spot. In response, she arched and writhed and oozed a mess down there.

  He shook his head, smiling.

  “What?” she grunted.

  “It beats me how you could keep rejecting someone you want so badly.”

  She blew through her cheeks. “Arrogant ass.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Ha-ha.” She hesitated. “Do you have a condom?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  “I think you do.” She smiled. “I think you brought a whole pack of them.”

  He rolled over and pulled open the drawer to the night table.

  Yep. There it was—a pack. She grabbed the box and opened it. “We’d better get started if we’re to work through all of these today.”

  He settled on his back. “I’m at your service, Madame Roussel.”

  As she sheathed him, she wondered if this time would be as good as in Deauville. She’d relived that weekend so many times in her fantasies she could no longer tell which parts of it were real and which were her imagination. What if they failed to recreate the magical quality of their lovemaking? What if her unrealistic expectations ruined it for her and for him?

  He sat up and touched her hand. “You’re frowning. Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head. Damn the chatterbox inside her brain. If anything ruined this for her, it would be her own inability to stop overthinking everything.

  She traced the bulging muscles in his arms and placed her hands on his chest. Her gaze drilling into his, she pushed gently and guided him to lie down on his back. When he did, she lifted herself up and straddled him. Savoring every delicious second of it, she slowly lowered herself on him and began to move.

  She’d tried this position with every lover she’d had, always hoping for fireworks and always missing her mark. It should have been the best with the control it offered. She could set the pace and the depth of the strokes. She could pause at will and start again without having to ask or urge with nonverbal cues. It was perfect . . . in theory. In reality, it was enjoyable enough, but she’d never been able to come this way.

  Not once.

  She rocked and gyrated her hips, slowly and deliberately, while her eyes feasted on Kes’s body. His torso was magnificent beyond words—lean, tanned, and muscled. He whispered her name, stroking her everywhere. When he reached her breasts, he cupped and fondled them. His handsome face was flushed and his dark gaze, locked on hers. It held passion in its bottomless depths, and something else . . . something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  “You’re so beautiful, my gadji,” he said, his voice raw with desire.

  Or was it emotion?

  She peered at him before discarding the daft idea. He was starved for her body, just as she was starved for his. Emotions had nothing to do with it.

  He slid his hands down to her hips, pulled her up a little, and held her a couple of inches above him, still impaled. She leaned forward, planting her hands on the mattress. And then he began
to hammer into her, hard and fast.

  Incredibly, impossibly fast.

  She gasped—and let go of her doubts. A few more thrusts and the last conscious thought deserted her mind. The world shrank, and soon the entire universe contracted into what was building up in her core. She stopped seeing, stopped hearing. It was as if his frantic pounding had torn her out of time and sent her to a place where nothing mattered, nothing existed beyond the pleasure that pulsed and escalated inside her.

  A pleasure that grew unbearable just before it burst, filling her body with sequins and glitter.

  She cried out her release.

  He came right after her, a deep growl straining his face as he pushed her down to the hilt and held her there.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Fourchon

  ~ ~ ~

  A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

  Guideline # 9

  The Perfect Woman makes sure to be as beautiful as her genes and pocketbook will allow.

  Rationale: Looking good is not an optional add-on when you’re a woman. It’s a necessity.

  A word of caution: Good looks are distributed unevenly across the population. If you weren’t born with the winning ticket, you can do a lot to improve yourself, but please be aware of your limits and the limits of plastic surgery . . . unless your goal is to be a walking freak show.

  Permissible exception: You can relax a little about your appearance if you (a) have a great sense of humor, (b) are over eighty, (c) are trying to survive in the desert.

  Damage control: There are 1,786 things an average-looking woman can do to be prettier. However, only the improvements in the following three areas can propel her into a different league: (a) weight, (b) skin, (c) hair. If you manage to get any two of these three into a decent shape, you’re doing really well. If you fail on all three accounts, we recommend you forget about the other 1,783 things and focus on developing a great sense of humor.

  Pitfalls to avoid: (a) thinking that beauty is all you need to be a Perfect Woman, (b) neglecting to wax your legs in winter.

  ~ ~ ~

  “We didn’t see you at the wedding breakfast,” Jeanne said when Amanda entered La Bohème the following Monday.