Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  The thing is, there’s hope for me yet. I wanted to sleep with Adriana. Craved the intimacy of her warm, naked body next to mine as I drifted off at two a.m., but particularly when I woke up a few minutes later. I wanted her talons in me.

  Not that she has talons, mind you. All the better for when her fingers are wrapped about my erection.

  God, her touch is incredible. I’ve had too many blowjobs to count over the years, and don’t get me wrong; it’s very, very hard to offer up what a man would say is a poor one. But from her, they’re fucking magic. She understands every nerve ending, every short breath I take. She knows what makes me go mad with pleasure, and we’ve only been together on two occasions. The woman is a goddess with her mouth as well as everything else. A goddess with lips of velvet, a tongue made for pleasure and a pussy that tastes like the nectar of the gods. I would eat her out for months on end, if it didn’t mean I couldn’t get my cock inside her.

  And now I’m sitting in my office, staring into space like a starry-eyed dreamer, thinking about that sensation. Her arms around my neck, her breasts pressing into my pecs. Her moans of pleasure as we both get closer and closer to exploding.

  I’ve known sexual pleasure. But I’ve never known intimacy like last night. The pure desire to give myself to another human is a new and wonderful feeling.

  She hasn’t replied to my text. But that’s fine. I’ve thrown her so many mixed signals that I know perfectly well what she’s up to. She’s holding the cards close to her chest, not letting me know what she thinks or feels. Telling herself that this is all casual, it’s just a fling. I know this, because it’s exactly what my instincts told me to do as well.

  Women think men can just fuck them and walk away without another thought, but the truth is that we males have too many thoughts. We’ve been socialized to conceal them, to pretend we have no feelings. From day one of our pathetic existences we’re taught not to let the world know that we hurt. “Suck it up,” my father used to tell me. “Never let them see you cry.” And it works. Our tears dry up, because we know that to cry is to prove ourselves less than human. Un-alpha. Weak.

  What a load of bollocks.

  I didn’t have time for crying, anyhow. I had a brother to look after. I had a father’s alcoholism to deny. And when I was older, I had money to make. Lots and lots of money. I wanted so much of it that it would shield me from obligation to any creature on the planet. Money makes a woman superficially interested in a man; just enough that she wants him, and perhaps wants his bank account. But not enough to make her love him, and that’s always been just fine with me. If I must use euros as a shield against affection, so be it.

  But Adriana, she’s different. She seems immune to my bank account. She’s impressed with my brain, my accomplishments, rather than my riches. I respect her for it. It’s yet another reason to adore her.

  She’s leaving soon. She’ll disappear off to an alternate universe where I don’t exist. I will aspire to forget her, and she me. We’ll chalk this up to a quick, intense romance of some sort. But here’s the thing: I’m not ready for it to end. Not yet. I want to make love to her every chance I get between now and the minute she steps on that plane back to New York. I want to steal her heart and hold onto it. I want to replace the pale, lifeless one in my chest with hers. She’s alive, beautiful, exciting, and she doesn’t even know it. And I’m quickly growing addicted to her.

  I rise to my feet to head down to the labs. Too much time spent languishing in thought is exactly what I’ve railed against all my life. Time to get to work and to forget, for a little at least, that my cold, dead heart has sprung back to life.

  Adriana

  Seven pairs of panties and a teddy later, I’m waltzing down a cobblestone Parisian street with the cutest little pink and white striped bag in hand. Something about the curving road makes me want to twirl around and dance, except that I’d probably turn an ankle on the cobblestones. It’s so damn beautiful here. The street is narrow, the buildings’ old grey façades facing each other in an intimate conversation, like they’re old friends.

  Back home on the streets of New York, everything is mayhem. Honking, yelling, rushing. Here, people are civilized. They don’t seem to give a shit about lateness or hurrying anywhere. I see Parisians stop each other on the street to have conversations. Men stand in doorways, smoking, arms crossed as they lean against the frame, watching the world happen around them.

  This is the life.

  The only thing that would make it better would be to have someone—no, not someone; Conlon—at my side so that I could turn to him and chat about how much I love it here. I want to share my thoughts with him. I want to tell him what this place is becoming to me. It’s a symbol of my happiness. And he’s part of it. He’s part of my heart now.

  With a big stupid grin on my face I march towards the Louvre. Then I remember that I never replied to his text about orgasms, so I stop and lean against an iron lamp post to pull out my phone.

  “I had a bunch of good times last night too,” I say. “Am having a different kind of good time today. Fewer orgasms, but more fancy undies.”

  Almost immediately I see a reply. “Fancy undies? I don’t believe you. Send photos promptly of you posing in said knickers.”

  I laugh and quickly snap a photo of an old man standing in a nearby doorway.

  Send.

  “Listen, woman. I know that I did a thing or two to that beautiful pussy of yours last night, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t age it to a strip of withered leather. You are a tease.”

  “I am. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to ask you if I could come by your place after my meeting tonight.”

  “We’ll see,” I say.

  “P.S. ‘We’ll see’ means ‘Yes.’”

  I’ve just become painfully horny. I want to throw myself into his arms, but I also want him to fuck me so hard that I scream.

  I woke up yesterday not knowing if I’d ever see him naked again.

  Now I’m wondering if I’ll ever see him clothed again.

  Twenty-Seven

  Adriana

  It’s Saturday night, three a.m. Rather, it’s Sunday morning.

  Conlon has just left my place. He’s beginning to remind me of Cinderella, the way he disappears at the wee small hours of the night, like he’ll turn into a pumpkin if he stays.

  But I’m not complaining.

  I’ve now been in Paris for almost two weeks, and I’ve seen him every day since my arrival. Every day he’s come to me somewhere, taken me out, brought me home to bed. Together we’ve wandered through the Pantheon, the Musée d’Orsay, the Picasso museum. He’s taken me clothes shopping in the Opera district.

  In all that time, I’ve never once been to his place, and he’s never spent a full night with me. He’s come close, but never does he allow himself to fully commit to sleep when we’re together; ironically, he hasn’t really slept with me since that first night on the plane.

  We haven’t discussed a future together. Instead, we’ve learned to live in the present.

  It’s hard for me, of course. Every day I work at reminding myself that if this is all we’ll ever have together, it’s enough. The truth is, I’m happy. My confusion is gone, and I know what I want. I want Conlon for as long as I can have him. And to his credit, he’s given himself to me as much as I could have hoped for.

  Today is the day when we’re supposed to head to Versailles. He said he’s going to swing by and pick me up at noon, and he says he has a surprise in store for me when we get there.

  “Wear a dress,” he insisted. “Something loose-fitting. No bra, if you can possibly muster it.”

  The very words made me horny as hell. He wants to have easy access to me in Versailles, one of the most crowded tourist sights in all of France. What on earth can he have planned for us?

  As I drift off, my mind races with possibilities.

  When I wake up at ten, I throw on a light blue cotton dress
with a fitted waist and a built-in halter bra to support the girls. The skirt’s full and gathered, a sort of 1950s style with multiple layers. Easy access, but still a little bit of a tease.

  As I pick out a pair of new Parisian panties I decide not to wear them, instead tossing them into the bottom of my purse just in case I decide I need them later. Today’s the day to go commando.

  Conlon is right on time, standing in front of my building at precisely noon, and I’m showered, fed and raring to go.

  “You look good enough to eat,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “I didn’t want to come up because I was a little worried that we’d never leave.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  He takes me over the the Saint Michel metro station, where he hands me a pre-purchased ticket.

  “This train is special,” he tells me. “I could’ve had a car drive us, but I wanted you to have the full Versailles experience. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.”

  When the train pulls up we hop on, and immediately I understand. The walls and ceiling are covered in images from Versailles: topiaries cut to look like orbs standing on stalks. The ceiling is lined with ivy trailing along a long trestle. Statues of ornate vases, naked men and ladies greet my eyes as I peer at the spaces between seats.

  More Parisian magic.

  “This is amazing,” I say, reaching for the seat in front of us as I turn and take in every inch of the car’s interior. We’ve got the whole thing to ourselves, which seems a little odd, but I suppose all the tourists have already made their way to the chateau.

  “I thought you’d like it,” Conlon replies, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me to him. “There’s more, of course.”

  “Of course. I was looking Versailles up—the gardens are enormous,” I reply. “Everything there is enormous.”

  “Yes, it’s true; there’s a lot of walking to do. There are a few bits I’d really like to show you, so I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.”

  Fortunately I am; I threw on some comfy flats for the day.

  We arrive about half an hour later, after spending a frustrated few minutes with our hands all over one another. That’s one thing about having a finite love affair; there’s no tiring of arousing each other. I’m in a constant state of flux between wanting to have sex with Conlon and having just finished having sex with Conlon. If I were to count, I’d estimate that we’ve now made love upwards of forty times in just under two weeks. Don’t ask me how my lady bits are managing to hold up, but they are.

  The palace itself is a bit of a walk from the train, and Conlon holds my hand as we make our way towards its gates. He’s wearing a well-fitting t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans that hug his body in all the right ways. I realize as we walk that I’m standing up straighter than I used to, looking around at the tourists wandering about as though to say, “Do you see my guy? He’s the most gorgeous man on the planet. And yes, we’re totally doing it.”

  Okay, that’s a little superficial. The truth is that most of my emotional energy is focused on the fact that the feeling of happiness that hit me days ago hasn’t deserted me yet. I’m still in that amazing mindset, still ecstatic that this is my temporary life. No, I haven’t done a lot of writing, either of the book that I set out to write or of Conlon’s memoir. But damn, the research has been a hell of a lot of fun.

  Today is research, too, at least in a way. I figure that Versailles is at the top of the list for romantic places to see with a lover, just below the Eiffel Tower, which I’ve promised myself I’ll only see with Conlon. We still have time, after all.

  As we head towards the palace, I expect to be surrounded by throngs of tourists. But instead of increasing in number, they actually seem to be disappearing. A few are leaving, but none whatsoever are heading in the same direction as we are.

  “Are you sure it’s still open?” I ask, turning to Conlon, a sense of disappointment almost quashing my joy.

  “It’s open, at least to us,” he assures me, but he doesn’t expand on his odd wording.

  A black and gold iron fence stands before us, but its gate is open. As we walk through, a man in some sort of military-looking uniform closes it behind us.

  Ahead is the palace, a beautiful building made of limestone interspersed with tall, arching windows and decorated in lavish stone carvings befitting royalty. The Louvre was once a palace, too, but it’s understated in contrast to the gold highlights that adorn this place.

  “I guess everyone’s inside,” I say as Conlon glances at his watch.

  “One p.m.,” he says. “Perfect.” Again, he fails to expand on the thought. Instead, he puts an arm around my waist and leads me inside. As we walk through a large set of doors, a man nods at him.

  “Monsieur Davies, Mademoiselle Stevenson,” he says, “Bienvenue.”

  “Merci,” replies Conlon.

  Okay, what the hell is going on?

  Not another soul is in the place, and Conlon slowly starts walking through as if there’s nothing strange about this at all.

  “What did you do?” I ask quietly.

  “Me? I didn’t do anything,” he replies, trying to throw me that innocent expression that he’s so bad at.

  “No? So where are all the people?”

  “I guess they got bored and left.”

  “Pfft. You lie.”

  We walk through the galleries, looking at paintings and suits of armour, taking our time as we slip through the bedrooms of kings, queens and duchesses. Never once does Conlon explain what’s happened, or why we seem to have the entire palace of Versailles to ourselves.

  After a while he turns to me. “This place is nice,” he says, “but it’s the gardens that I really love. Shall we?”

  I nod, still wondering what he’s up to, and he guides me outside.

  I’ve seen photos of the gardens before, but nothing quite prepared me for them. A perfectly manicured vista unfolds before us as we step outside; trees trimmed like a series of identical upside-down cones. Statues that look like they were just crafted by Michelangelo yesterday.

  In the far distance a long, rectangular pool of water awaits us.

  “Let’s head towards the lake,” says Conlon, taking my hand once again. As we walk, he begins to talk.

  “When I was a child my parents saved up for a few years and brought us to France,” he tells me. “We came to Versailles, which is paradise for young boys. Galen and I ran about these gardens, joking with one another about how one day we’d be rich and own a place like this.”

  “Okay, Conlon,” I chuckle, “you’re not telling me you’ve somehow bought fucking Versailles.”

  “Oh, hell no. It’s not for sale. I did, however, manage to buy a day and a night at Versailles for myself and a special guest. They’re renovating a wing and I thought they might like a little contribution to the project.”

  “Oh my God. How much did that cost?”

  Conlon stops in his tracks and turns my way. “That’s not important,” he says, cupping my cheeks in his hands and kissing me gently. “Nothing is important today except for you and me.”

  My heart grows four sizes with those words of his. It was already threatening to explode out of my chest, but now it’s throbbing, reminding me how much I’ve grown to adore this man.

  He guides me towards the lake, our pace slow, relaxed as we enjoy the sensation of one another’s touch. This day is perfect already, and it’s really just begun.

  Before we get to our destination though, Conlon takes my hand and guides me to the right, into a sort of high-walled hedge maze. “I want to show you something,” he says. “This was our favourite bit.”

  We walk down a long, pebbled pathway, green walls surrounding us on either side, before Conlon turns us to the right again, then the left, guiding me to a sort of hidden dead end.

  I look around, marvelling at how much work must go into maintaining these perfectly groomed, massive hedges.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I say, turning around s
lowly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  He’s backed away and when I turn to him I see that he’s staring at me, that gorgeous hungry look set into his eyes. He licks and bites his lower lip slowly before stepping towards me. Without a word he pulls my dress’s straps down, exposing my breasts to the warmth of the summer sun.

  He slips onto his knees despite the pebbles underfoot, greedily ensnaring a nipple between his lips. I let out a sigh loud enough to frighten a flock of birds into flight.

  Conlon’s left hand slips down, pushing my skirt upwards, and finds my naked sex. He lets out a moan that tells me that he’s very pleased at my lack of panties.

  “Adriana,” he says, pulling away from my breast long enough to look up at my face. “How did you end up so perfect?”

  “Genetics,” I tell him.

  Playfully he pulls my skirt over his head and presses his lips into my pussy, his tongue seeking out the magical spot as his hands grasp my ass. I part my legs, pulling my feet apart to give him access, and wonder what the chances are of someone coming around the corner to see me standing with my tits out, a man’s face shoved into my naughty bits.

  Then again, I’d be fine with it. Legend has it that King Louis was pretty promiscuous; he had sex with all sorts of women, probably in this very place. We’re only abiding by royal tradition.

  “Conlon,” I moan, turning to look about, “there’s a stone bench behind me.”

  “Yes, there is,” he replies between licks.

  I pull away and flit over to it, parting my legs and pulling my dress up to my waist to show him my very aroused pussy. And he’s on his knees again, lapping at me even as he pulls at the button on his jeans and splits them open.

  A moment later he’s deep inside me, my back pressed against the beautiful cold surface of the bench. Conlon’s mouth is on mine, seeking my tongue, devouring me, wanting me, needing me as much as I need him.