“Uh huh.”
“I was surprised to see such a beautiful woman without a…how you say…husband?”
Oh, give me all the breaks, you skeezy bastard. Just because I’m not tethered to a man doesn’t mean I’m single.
“I’m sorry, but I…” I begin.
“You must be a modèle,” he adds.
“A what now?”
“A modèle.”
“Oh, a model?” I laugh, more at him than with him. “No. Nothing of the sort.”
“You should be. You are so beautiful.”
“Yes, you said that already,” I tell him, suppressing a snort of derision.
“Do you know how we speak in Paris?” he asks, seeming to ignore anything I say.
“Oh, I don’t know. In French?” I ask.
“No. With kisses,” he replies. I laugh again, thinking someone must be filming me from the bushes for some kind of French Candid Camera show. This guy can’t be for real.
“That’s nice,” I say. Somehow the jerkwad takes this as an invitation. He leans in and kisses my left cheek then my right.
Okay, weird.
But things get even weirder when he goes for my lips. He nearly hits them, too. It’s only with some seriously quick evasive manoeuvring that I manage to slip aside, under his arm, and spin around to confront him.
“Look, buddy,” I hiss. “I’m not here to get groped by horny shirtless sweat-monsters.”
“Come, ma belle,” he protests, “this is how it works in Paris.”
“I don’t care if you tell me that Parisian women strip naked and bend over for your pleasure every five minutes. I’m not going to let you touch me.”
The bastard reaches for me, grabbing the strap of my dress and pulling me towards him. I’m prepared to rip the damned thing off to get away from him when someone grabs him, dragging him away from me in one swift motion. For a second I feel like Superman has just descended from the sky to rescue me.
“Jacques, for fuck’s sake!” another man’s voice bellows. Of course his name is Jacques.
Wait a minute. That was Conlon’s voice.
Shit.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words cut through the air as he shoves handsy Jacques against the tree, one fist gripping his t-shirt, other fist pulled back like he’s going to punch the guy in the face. “The lady told you to stop.”
“She didn’t say stop,” he whines.
“Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t clear,” I blurt out, facing my assailant. “Is fuck off sufficient to get the point across?” I’m so rattled by now by the whole thing that Conlon’s appearance is a relief. But the thing is, he knows I’m here. I’m going to have to talk to him.
Fuck.
What the hell have I done to deserve this?
He lets Jacques go, shoving him towards his friends on the soccer field, and turns to me.
“You all right?” he asks.
I nod. “More or less.”
“Sorry about him. He’s…French.”
I don’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. Conlon’s not supposed to be my knight in shining armour; he’s a lying, cheating jerkass.
“The only man you should be sorry about is yourself,” I shoot him. Okay, so it would seem that I’m more annoyed than grateful.
Katherine would tell me not to be so quick to judge, to listen what he has to say. But my anger’s pretty much conquering any desire to be rational.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“Who was the woman at the airport? Your wife?”
“Wife? I don’t have a wife.”
“Fine. Girlfriend. It’s all semantics, anyhow.” I move to turn away, ready to make my escape. I’m too angry by now to feel embarrassment.
“I don’t have a fucking girlfriend,” he says, reaching for my arm. His touch is electric, and I hate my brain for being so excited by his fingers.
I spin back to him, wrenching myself free. The gorgeous billionaire sex god has lost his status, and I’m ready to clobber him in the teeth. “So the woman who picked you up at the airport was what, your accountant?”
“Not exactly. But you’re not far off. She does work for me.”
My heart skips about fourteen beats. I’m going to need a defibrillator soon. “She what for you?”
“Works. She’s a contractor who occasionally works for me, though I’ve a good mind to fire her for that stunt. I didn’t ask her to pick me up, and I wasn’t remotely happy about her appearance at the airport. I was waiting, hoping to find you and offer you a ride. I wanted to talk more about…”
“Yes?”
A pause. “My memoir.”
Ah. So that was why he hung around. He was trying to figure out how to get a woman he’d just humped to write a pile of flattering things about him.
“I still want you to write it,” he says. “That is, I still want to discuss the option with you.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea, Conlon…”
“Oh, screw it,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “There’s more, Adriana. You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?” He thrusts a frustrated hand through his thick hair and looks around, flustered. “I didn’t want to leave things as they were. I was looking for you, waiting for you outside of the baggage area because I wanted to see you again. Then fucking Monique came along and spoiled everything. Look—I don’t blame you for being pissed off at me. But I wasn’t cheating on anyone with you. I wanted you, plain and simple. I don’t bloody go around and proposition women daily, whatever you may think. I don’t sleep around on people.”
He takes a step towards me, moving into my space, and I let him. What else am I going to do? I’ve been craving these answers like oxygen.
“You weren’t cheating…” I say. It’s not a question. I think some deep-down part of me knew it already.
“Of course not. I’m a pig and a bastard, but not that sort. I don’t lie to women, at least not deliberately. I’ve been criticized for my bluntness, in fact.”
“Right,” I say, taking a step back to try and clear my mind. His heady scent is killing me, and my loins are on fire again.
“Conlon!” someone shouts in an accent that makes his name sound like “Koh-loh.” “Qu’est ce que tu fais là?”
He turns his head and waves them off. “Il faut que je parte,” he yells in perfect French. At least I think it’s perfect, which makes this the second French thing he’s done immaculately in the last 24 hours.
Oh, great. Now I’m thinking about his tongue.
“Listen, I’m heading back to the office,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “Would you like to come see it?”
I nod like I’ve been drugged and can no longer use my voice.
“Good,” he says. “Wait here a second.” He goes darting off somewhere and comes back a moment later with a small gym bag in hand. “It’s not far. I’ll need a shower when we get there, but if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes I’d love to show you around my place of business. Maybe when you’ve seen it, you’ll be willing to talk about the memoir.”
“Of course,” I say. I’m still in shock, still reeling from the news that the man who took my resurrected virginity isn’t a total shit after all. My brain has no idea what to do with this information. Conlon Davies has gone back to being attractive, sexy, perfect, smooth. And I want him more than ever.
I’m so totally screwed.
Sixteen
Conlon
Adriana is wearing red today. A sundress, plunging in the front just enough to tease me with the outline of her succulent breasts. No wonder that prick Jacques was drooling over her.
And no wonder my cock is rock hard right now.
As I guide her through Parisian streets, we talk. The city feels like a new world while I’m by her side. With every new sight her face shifts, moves about, takes in some vision of splendour. She sees Paris as I haven’t seen it since I first moved here, or possibly ever. Every doorway is a w
ork of art to her; every lamp post charming.
I begin see the world through her eyes, breathe its air through her nose. I can feel her bliss at being here. I see it in her step, which has turned light and airy. None of the heaviness of the world lies on her shoulders right now, and I can only hope that my presence has something to do with that.
“My building is only a few blocks away,” I tell her. “It’s not your typical office tower, not like what you have in New York.”
“Good,” she replies, looking at me sideways. There’s a twinkle in her eye now, like she’s finally realized that I’m not screwing her around. But I can feel that she doesn’t entirely trust me, and I can’t really blame her. Even if I’m not a liar, I’m not sure I’m to be trusted. A man who’s never committed to a woman is a walking red flag. On the other hand, she’s leaving in a few weeks, so commitment isn’t a particular issue. Maybe we’re perfect for one another.
“Anyhow, about the memoir,” I say, “I’d like to discuss it further. Would you be willing to have dinner with me sometime this week?” Perhaps it’s a foolish question. I’m asking her on a date, really, even if it is for business. Getting this woman alone after dark is perilous. I’ll want my cock inside her. I’ll want to eat her out. I’ll want to see how many times I can make her scream my name.
“I’m not sure,” she replies. No, of course you’re not.
“Just…think about it,” I say. “Ah, here we are.” I put my hand on the small of her back and steer her towards my building’s door, an ornate art deco concoction of iron and glass. I feel her tremble gently under my touch and I’ve got to say, I’m thriving on the sensation. If only she knew what was occurring inside my shorts, she’d be very pleased with herself.
“We’re heading to the top floor,” I tell her as I press the elevator button in the foyer. “Bit of a long ride, I’m afraid.” I stare at her, awaiting a response.
“It won’t be the first long ride I’ve had with you.” Good. Her sense of humour has begun to return.
“Nor, I hope, the last.” I lean in close to her. “Hopefully no one will come knocking on the door to tell us to stop this time.”
She blushes. Mission accomplished.
The doors ding when they open. I guide Adriana onto the elevator and follow closely behind. Breathing in her scent, I taste her on the air as the doors slide closed. Maybe I’m being overly territorial, but I can’t help it. I’m as hungry for her as I was the first moment I laid eyes on her. A part of me wants to murmur, “Take off your clothes” and see if she’d do it. See if she’d let me back her against the mirrored walls, take her nipple in my mouth, thrust my fingers inside her. I want to eat her alive.
But I don’t. I’m a perfect goddamned gentleman as I stand in the opposite corner of the elevator, eyeing her beautiful body. I also don’t tell her that I’m happy to see her. I am the epitome of dishonest honesty, concealing my true nature but not lying about it. If she turned to me and asked me to, I would hit the emergency stop. I would pleasure her until she wept.
God, I’m going to have to masturbate in the shower, aren’t I?
Finally the doors open and we venture down the hall towards my office. My receptionist eyes Adriana with raised brows. “Une amie,” I tell her, and she leaves it alone, returning to whatever work she was doing.
I shut the door behind us once we’re inside. “I’ll take you on a tour in a few minutes,” I say. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home. There are drinks on the side table. I’m going to hop in the shower.”
Adriana’s eyes are locked on mine, but after a moment they cruise down my body, like she’s getting one last look at me in my football attire. “Did you want to join me?” I ask, risking a swat in the face.
Her mouth opens—so sexy—then shuts again. “I’m good,” she says.
“Yes, you are.” I step towards her, strongly contemplating putting my hand on her waist, drawing her to me and kissing her hard.
But I don’t do it. Too soon. Too foolish. I need to earn her trust.
“Be right back,” I say.
ADRIANA
I nearly called his bluff. For a second I contemplated reaching back and undoing my halter top to let my dress fall around my ankles. God, the elevator ride up here was torture. Every second in the metal box reminded me of the bathroom where Conlon and I shared…well, everything in the world.
I don’t want him any less, now that I’ve had him. If anything, I want him more. But this time I want to do it right. I want time and space to explore each other. I want to taste him properly. I want him to make me come with his mouth.
Wait—no. What am I even doing? I’m not supposed to be here. Not supposed to entangle myself again. He was supposed to be a one-off, a fling, a literal one night stand.
But here I am again, my mind racing with thoughts of this man. Wondering how many times I could have sex with him before I hop the plane back to New York. How many times I could see him before real feelings begin to develop.
I envy men. Envy their ability to compartmentalize, to shut their feelings on or off, depending. I envy Conlon; I don’t think he’s ever had his heart broken.
When I hear water running in the bathroom attached to his office, I make my way over to the array of beverages on the side table. Decanters of this and that delicious-looking liquid. Vodka, rum, bourbon.
My eyes stop when my gaze settles on a bottle of red wine. Perfect.
I pour myself a glass and wander about the office. Beautiful, expensive-looking paintings hang along his massive walls. One large window looks out over the Seine and Paris’s black rooftops. Everything here is so swollen with character and beauty that I almost feel like that window is the most beautiful work of art of them all.
As I’m staring out at the exquisite view, I hear the water shut off.
“Adriana,” Conlon shouts a moment later from inside the echo chamber that is the bathroom. “I’ve been thinking about this memoir.”
“Yes?” I say, taking a step towards the sound.
“We could break it into chapters interspersing my upbringing and my business,” he says. I take another step, my eyes looking at everything but the bathroom door, which is wide open.
“Sounds good. I’ll need to talk to you about it, though. I have a lot of questions.”
“Sorry, what was that?” he asks. I take a few more steps before I realize that he’s done the same, and he’s now standing, buck naked, in the doorway in front of me. Droplets of water coat him from head to toe as he rubs a towel through his hair. His cock is standing like a sergeant at arms between his legs, completely erect.
Oh, sweet French poodle. I want him so badly right now that I can taste him.
Adriana, you’re staring like an idiot.
I swing away, splashing wine over my cleavage in the process.
“Shit!” I shout.
Conlon comes tearing over with a his towel in hand and circles in front of me, patting me down. Rather, patting my tits down.
Shit, shit, shit.
I want you.
He’s still naked. It seems that he was more concerned about looking after my breasts than covering himself up, apparently. And here I thought the English were supposed to be prudes.
“Excuse my attire,” he says as though reading my thoughts. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, though.”
“True.” I can’t speak complete sentences anymore. I want to eat him up.
“You okay to look after yourself?” he asks in the sexiest voice ever. “I’m afraid that if I keep patting you down I’ll come all over your lovely dress.” Completely unashamed, he gestures towards his hard-on. Nope, he’s definitely not a prude, as if I didn’t know that already.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying with all my strength to look anywhere other than at the beast between his legs.
“Right,” he says, darting into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.
My dress mercifully manages to escape the wine deluge and my breasts se
em relatively unscathed as well. By the time Conlon pops the door open, he’s dressed in a suit, but no tie. His white shirt is open at the collar, showing off his tanned neck. He slips on a pair of stylish brown leather shoes and wanders over to me. This time he puts a finger under my chin and pulls my face up so that my eyes meet his.
“Beautiful,” he says. “You’re fucking beautiful, Adriana, do you know that?”
I shake my head slowly, my blond hair trailing over my chest. Right now, all I can think of is how beautiful he is.
“No, you don’t, do you?” He sighs. “That’s what’s so sexy about you. You have no idea how delightful you are.” With that, he turns away and walks to the door, his tight, round ass making a mockery of my self control. God, he’s a torturer. My panties are soaking wet, my body craving penetration, and he’s about to take me around to see the building, like nothing just happened.
Lucky compartmentalizing bastard.
Seventeen
Conlon
I could probably have kissed her back there, and she wouldn’t have resisted. Not at first, anyhow. But I know her by now. I know that even if she’s a little horny, she’s trying like hell to force herself into professional mode. She wants to convince herself that I’m nothing more than a client and that a relationship between us would be a bad idea.
Well, she’s right. She’s here temporarily, and anything more than a fling would be all but impossible. But that’s not what I’m concerned about when I consider making a move. I can’t help but consider my terrible track record with women. If she gets attached, I might break her heart, and that would feel…
Awful.
Because it would break my heart as well. Against all odds, it turns out that my impenetrable heart has just recently grown slightly vulnerable.
Until yesterday I’d never missed a woman in my life, aside from my mother. But I missed Adriana after our less-than-happy farewell at the airport. I wanted nothing more than to see her again. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1) Page 10