Only You

by Carmen, Roya

  “You will need some shoes too,” he says with a smirk. “What size are you?”

  “Seven.”

  I smile as he studies the shoes, brows furrowed. He toys with a slutty platform with an impossibly high heel, but he sets it back and settles on a classic sparkly sandal with a low heel.

  “Perfect,” I tell him.

  He takes my hand again and leads me past the shoes and racks filled with dresses. We walk around the corner to a bright red door.

  A secluded little corner.

  He turns the doorknob and shoots me a wicked smile. “I think you might need some help putting on that dress.”

  8

  The space is very small. The orange walls are covered with colorful vintage posters and a tall mirror. There’s a cushioned stool in one corner. It’s small and simple, but it’s all we need.

  He locks the door behind us, and I drop the dress as soon as he presses his mouth against my shoulder. I close my eyes. My pussy swells, and my chest feels heavy. I want this so much.

  I stare at our reflection as he slowly peels off my pink tank top. Today, I’m wearing a pretty blue lace bra and matching silky briefs.

  “I like this,” he says as he pulls the strap of my bra over my shoulder and bites gently. God, he’s going to be the end of me.

  We have less than an hour, and he’s moving so slowly. I glance at my watch and see we’ve already been gone almost thirty minutes. We can’t do this. We don’t have time. He has a girlfriend.

  I take in his long, lean body against my mine, the dark hair on his arms, his week-old beard, shaggy hair, his mouth pressed against my skin, his teeth gnawing at my flesh—the sight is so fucking sexy and primal. I really don’t want to ask what I need to ask. I just want to shut the hell up and let him fuck me.

  But I can’t.

  “Are you married?”

  His head jerks up, and his reflection smiles at me. “No,” he says with a bewildered expression.

  “Good. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Again, he smiles, apparently amused. “No, not at the moment.”

  “Who’s Sophie?”

  His grin is so big I notice he has an adorable dimple. As if he wasn’t hot enough already.

  “Sophie is my sister,” he tells me with a laugh.

  Now I feel like a real idiot. “I’m sorry,” I say, staring at the floor. “I just don’t sleep with men who are with someone else.”

  I venture a look up at him again. He’s serious now. “I am not with anyone.”

  He undoes the clasp of my bra, his fingers warm and soft against my back. It falls to the floor, and my breasts are revealed, my nipples hard and begging to be touched. He grips the band of my shorts and pulls them down swiftly.

  “Now, can I have you?” he practically growls.

  Yes.

  He toys with my panties and slides them over my hips. He falls to his knees behind me as he glides my clothing down the length of my legs, all the while sliding his studded tongue along my skin. I’m practically floating in the clouds when I ask him if he has a condom, and he looks up at my reflection and nods, his eyes dark as the night sky.

  He stands again, and I turn to him. I press my hand against him and feel his hard-on through his linen pants.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” I point out.

  He reaches the spot between my thighs, and I pull one leg away—I want him to touch me. He slides his fingers along my swollen lips. “You are already wet for me…” Each word is slow and sexy. “I want to make you come again. I want you to look at yourself in the mirror when you come.”

  I need him. I stretch to the tips of my toes and pull him to me. His mouth crushes mine, his tongue wild. I pull at his T-shirt as I fiddle with his fly. I want him so badly. What I feel for this man I barely know seems surreal. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to touch another human being this intensely.

  He reaches into one of his pockets and grabs a condom, and I finally manage to pull his pants down over his rear. We manage to get it on, working furiously together. He leans back, sits on the stool, and pulls me over him. I straddle him, eager and so hot.

  Our lips are locked when he finally sinks into me. In this small orange room is only us and the ragged sound of our labored breathing. I still have my sneakers on as I press my feet against the floor and grab his broad shoulders as I pound against him. My mouth untangles from his. I nip at his jaw, my mouth delighting in the taste of him, the feel of his hard stubble on my tongue. As I press harder into him, he hits my G-spot, and it feels so damn good, I want to do this forever. I don’t care if we’re here all day, if the seven other students in the class are left there sitting in the sun with their art pads, wondering what the fuck happened to us.

  This just feels so damn amazing. As his moans sink into mine, I know he’s nearing his climax too. I pull my mouth away from his face, grab a fistful of his soft hair, and stare at our reflection. As I get lost in the bliss of one of the most amazing orgasms I’ve ever experienced, I muffle my moans in his hair. His growl is muted against the hollow of my neck as he comes.

  My head is pressed blissfully against his shoulder when I feel him stir.

  “We only have about twenty minutes left,” he tells me, “and it takes ten minutes to walk back.”

  Way to kill the mood. I want to stay like this forever, but I swivel off him awkwardly and turn my back to him. I search for my shirt amongst the clothing strewn about. The pretty tutu dress is still on the floor.

  “But I want you to try on the dress and the shoes,” he says. “I want to see.”

  I turn back toward him. His pants are done up, his satchel across his chest, and I have no clue what he’s done with the condom—I’d rather not know.

  “We don’t have time.”

  He checks his watch. “You’re right. We don’t even have time to eat, but I do have protein bars and apples in my bag.”

  I shrug. “It will have to do.”

  “We can eat them on the way.”

  As we scurry out of the store and he waves good-bye to his cousin, I can’t even look at her, convinced that she knows what we were up to.

  “I’m really bummed that I didn’t even get to try on that beautiful dress.”

  “Me too,” he says with a smile. “You would have looked like a princess.”

  “I couldn’t have afforded it anyway.”

  He smiles and hands me an apple. I sink my teeth into it, ravenous. I’m not sure if an apple and a protein bar will tide me over. I’ve barely eaten anything over the past two days. I could hardly touch my burger last night. At this rate, I’m going to be crazy skinny when I get back to Vermont. But I have to admit, this is my kind of diet.

  * * *

  We spend the afternoon in the center of Old Quebec, at la place Royale, painting the three-hundred-year-old church there. It apparently was burned down and built again. Painting this church right now, when all I can think about is Alex and me getting it on in that little vintage store, seems almost sacrilegious. Every time I look at this painting, I’ll remember the sex in the tiny orange room, the smell of Alex, the taste of that crunchy apple, and the sun beaming down on us as we stand in the square, painting.

  Thankfully, I’ve worn a large-brimmed hat as Alex suggested. Every now and then, I sneak a peek at Alex, and he shoots me a sweet smile as he walks around and offers instruction.

  When he reaches me, his face breaks into a huge smile. “Well, I can see that it is a church. That is a good start. You must be getting better.”

  I roll my eyes to the sky. It really is no use—I’m a horrible artist. Trish is laughing her head off, clearly happy again. She was a little peeved I wouldn’t share the details of my lunch hour.

  We take a small break at a cool little bistro in the square. I have a lemonade served in a mason jar—everything is so quirky and delicious in this city. My heart beats a little faster when Alex takes a seat next to us.

  “How are you finding the class?” he as
ks Trish.

  She beams. “I love it so far. It’s been a lot of fun. But I don’t think I’m having quite as much fun as my friend Sammy over here,” she adds with a playful wink.

  Alex smiles and blushes. The sight is just adorable—who knew he was so bashful?

  He turns to me. “I am having dinner with my sister tonight. I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

  Of course I would. Just the thought of additional time spent in his presence fills me with absolute delight. I look at Trish, who I’ve pretty much been ignoring all weekend.

  “Can the both of us come?” I ask. “I’d rather not be a third wheel.”

  He smiles. “It sounds like a plan.”

  * * *

  We have a wonderful dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant. Alex and his lovely sister, Sophie, go over the details for their father’s sixtieth birthday—which is why they’ve been chatting so much. Alex tells me that his mother passed a few years ago, and ever since, he and his sister have been very close to their dad. They try to be there for him as much as they can.

  We say good-bye, and I close my eyes as Alex and I faisons la bise, also known as kissing on both cheeks, which is the custom for good-byes around here. I breathe in his intoxicating scent and wish he could take me with him and make love to me all night long.

  * * *

  Stretched out on my bed, I stare absently at the intricate ceiling of our hotel room, thinking about him.

  “He’s such a nice guy, don’t you think?” Trish says as she slips into her summer jammies. “You lucked out hooking up with that guy.”

  Yes… lucky, that’s me. I finally find a great guy, and he lives in another country. All I can suddenly think about is how we’re leaving in two days. In about thirty-six hours, I’ll have to say good-bye to Alex forever. My chest aches at the thought. I don’t want to say good-bye. I like him too much.

  “Why didn’t you run off with him tonight and go screw his brains out?” Trish asks with a playful laugh.

  I frown. “I wish. But he was with his sister and all.”

  “You’re probably hurting for it now,” she teases. “He was looking mighty damn fine.”

  I picture his gloriously messy hair, the slim-fitting tee, worn jeans, and delicious stubble. “He was.”

  “I could step out for a bit.” She turns to the ridiculous shower next to her bed. “You could take care of all that pent-up frustration. The jets on that shower could come in handy.”

  I sneer as I throw a pillow at her. “I’ll be fine.”

  She shrugs playfully. “Suit yourself.”

  9

  Day three.

  I’m so sad I could cry. This is our last day, and we’re working in the studio again. We’re doing ink and wash today. I’m not sure what that is, but Trish assures me I’ll enjoy it.

  “Ink is one of my favorite mediums,” she tells me.

  I’ve worn my sexy and playful polka-dot undies and even dabbed a little perfume under my knees. Seriously, if I don’t get lucky at lunchtime, I’ll scream. I can barely focus on my art as I anticipate lunchtime. I’m not even hungry. I’ll be happy to eat another apple and protein bar after I finish “screwing his brains out,” as Trish so eloquently put it.

  Once again, my work is shit. But it’s okay—everyone knows I can’t draw to save my life.

  I keep staring at the large clock on the wall. The hands seem sluggish. I silently plead with them to move faster as if I have some kind of telepathic power.

  Finally, when the clock strikes twelve, Alex pretty much rushes everyone out. One sweet old lady, who goes by Marie, says she’s brought her lunch along and wouldn’t mind staying at the studio to work on her piece. With a hand on her tiny shoulder, Alex leads her politely out and tells her he’s actually locking up the studio for the lunch hour.

  He’s locking the studio all right. For naughty times.

  As soon as the lock on the door handle has been turned, he swivels toward me. I meet him halfway, and our mouths connect, restless and hungry. He tastes so sweet. His large hands hold my face as he bites my lips gently. He’s such an amazing kisser that I could do this forever.

  He pulls his mouth from mine so cruelly. I stretch to the tips of my toes, my mouth reaching for more, greedy.

  “I want to make love,” he whispers. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

  I want that too. I want to discover every inch of his body. I’ve barely seen him at all. I reach for his T-shirt and slide it up his torso. He helps me pull the shirt over his head, then I step back and take him in for a second.

  Damn.

  He’s all man. He’s hairier than I’m used to, but I love it. I press my mouth against his chest and taste him again. He pulls me in closer and hoists me up against him. I wrap my legs around his hips as he carries me to the Victorian loveseat. There’s a soft blue blanket thrown across it and another soft throw over the arm—it’s perfect. He settles me gently on the cushions and kisses me again. I pull him to me, working his fly. He claws at me and pulls my top over my head, revealing my polka-dot bra. He smiles.

  “Very cute,” he says as he kisses the swell of my breast.

  I prop up my ass and pull at my summer skirt. We don’t have a lot of time, and I want to be completely naked with him, feel his hot skin against mine. We seem to be on the same page as we furiously undress each other.

  Finally, we find ourselves skin to skin. My body is sandwiched between the soft blanket and the heat of his body—it’s heaven. Heaven is not clouds and angels playing the harp. It’s this. I think I’ve found religion.

  He kisses me again, trails his mouth along my neck and collarbone, and I sink my face into his soft hair. He travels to my breasts and licks softly. I arch my back, wanting more, and he gives me more as he buries his head between my legs. His hot tongue feels so good, but this isn’t what I want right now. I want him inside me.

  When we are finally one, I wrap my legs around him tightly, not wanting to let go. He looks into my eyes as he slowly thrusts deep inside me. I trail my palms along the smooth curve of his ass as he sensually pulls in and out of me. I arch my hips up against him, and every time he hits my sweet spot, I moan loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

  Finally we both get lost into our climaxes, transported to another world. We’re hot and sweaty as we come to, and I don’t want to pull away.

  But he does, and my heart sinks—for just a second. He’s pulling me up over him. I press my body along his torso, and he wraps a protective arm around me. It’s perfect.

  “I wish we had more time,” he says, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

  “Me too.”

  We lie in silence for a little while, and I trace the picture of the woman on his arm with the tip of my finger. “Tell me about this tattoo.”

  “It is a picture of my mother. It’s a reproduction of one of the paintings she did, a self-portrait.”

  I turn my face toward his. “Your mother was an artist?”

  He smiles. “Yes.”

  “Mine too!”

  He cocks a brow. “Really?”

  “She’s a syndicated comic artist. She has a popular comic strip featured in over a hundred papers,” I tell him proudly.

  He smirks. “I find that hard to believe.”

  I laugh. “I know—I didn’t inherit any of her artistic ability. She even tried to teach me as a kid, but I was useless.”

  “You are pretty bad.”

  I punch his shoulder. “You’re mean. I just need a bit of practice.”

  He stifles a laugh. “I don’t think that would help.”

  “You’re my teacher. You’re supposed to be encouraging.”

  “Why did you take this class?”

  “Trish roped me into it. Like I already told you, my boyfriend just dumped me, and she didn’t want to leave me alone for a weekend. She was afraid I would go kill his new girlfriend,” I add with a smile.

  He stares at me, wide-eyed. “Your boyfrien
d left you for someone else? He’s a fool.”

  I smile. Alex might be my favorite person in the world right now.

  He unhooks his arm from my body and checks his watch again. “We only have thirty minutes left, and I need to actually eat today.”

  I growl softly, staring at the clock. I hate that stupid clock. I reluctantly pull myself from him and stand. I reach for my underwear and slip it on.

  He watches me with a playful smile as I pull up my panties. “I have a surprise for you.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Really?”

  He slips into his boxers and bounds over to his desk, where he grabs a large green box. I’m filled with anticipation as he inches closer to me, his face as bright as a summer day.

  “For you,” he says as he hands me the large box.

  I have no clue what this could be. The box is quite light. I guess that it might be some art supplies: paper, paintbrushes, maybe one of those cool paintbrush cases. He might have faith in me after all. But when I tear open the box, my heart swells as I spot familiar tulle and sparkles.

  He bought me the dress.

  “You said you wanted to try it on,” he says.

  I’m speechless. I can’t believe my eyes. No one has ever done anything this nice for me. “Thank you,” is all I manage to say. I’m really touched. This dress wasn’t cheap.

  He smiles. “Try it on.”

  I step it into it, praying that it won’t be too small. With the way I’ve been eating these past few days, luck is on my side. I know I’ll probably never get to wear it anywhere, but the idea of slipping into it once in a while and twirling around in my living room makes me giddy.

  He helps me slip into the dress and zips me up. I turn around, shy, then do a little twirl. The dress feels right, and I think I look pretty nice in it.

  He gazes at me for the longest time. “Très jolie.”

  I don’t know much French, but I know that means “very pretty.” I smile bashfully.