by Galia Ryan
He’d heard the train whistle blow and glanced over at the station entrance. She was already on the pavement, searching for him. He didn’t move. Fuck, she was gorgeous. White t-shirt, khaki shorts and those long, long legs. Her hand lifted. She had seen him. He took a step forward, his mouth suddenly dry.
“No problems getting away?” he asked as she slipped into his arms and put her mouth on his. It had only been a couple of weeks but amazingly he had forgotten how slender she was and, as his hands moved down from her waist, how small and firm her bottom.
“None. You were so very believable on the phone. You must have had a lot of practice.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The sensation of her body against his was highly arousing, and it took an effort not to grab one of her breasts and enjoy the deliciousness of it in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.
“Have you missed me?” She leaned back to look at him, pressing her belly against his as she did so.
“A little.”
“Just a little?” she teased. He had been hard since early morning, but not as hard as he was at that moment. That he was so obviously turned on must have given her a sense of power, for she was rubbing against him wickedly.
He cleared his throat and eased her away. Christ, he wanted her so badly. He hadn’t been like this for years.
“You think I have nothing better to do than think of you all day?”
“Well, have you?”
He had to get the conversation under control. If he didn’t, she would push him too far. He had a momentary and very unpleasant image of being arrested in the station car park for lewd behaviour.
Walking around the vehicle he opened the passenger door for her. “What would you like to do first? See the apartment?” he asked over the roof.
“Of course. And if I don’t like it …” Her words drifted off.
“Then I will put you on the next train home.”
“Would you?”
“If that was what you wanted me to do.”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do for me?” Her eyes might have been wide and innocent, but her mouth was definitely not. The tip of her tongue was gliding across her top lip suggestively. Suddenly she laughed. “Show me the apartment. And after that, take me out.”
He deliberately took the longer route, wanting to impress her with the splendour of the town. Her excitement was contagious. She had twisted and turned in her seat, making sure she missed none of it.
The apartment was in the old port area. In the confusion of narrow streets and alleys he drove carefully—climbing, twisting, and turning until they finally drew to a halt in a small cobbled square. All around them were faded ochre buildings and shuttered windows. As he cut the engine, he told her they were not far from the summit of the hill and the church that had dominated the skyline for centuries.
Getting out of the car he stretched gratefully, but the air was hot and dusty, and immediately hit the back of his throat. Stephanie had taken a few paces and was looking around her. Behind a wrought-iron grill a large cat was dozing. Charles realised that far from being asleep, it had one yellow eye fixed directly on him.
There was no other living soul in sight.
“It’s over there.” Retrieving their bags from the car boot, he inclined his head to show the direction. “Just up those steps past the boulangerie.”
“Great. Fresh croissants every morning.”
Her tone had less enthusiasm than he’d expected, and his heart sank. Glancing around he tried to see the place through her eyes. Was she too young to appreciate the resilience, the aged beauty? Perhaps he should have looked for something a little more modern, somewhere with more concrete and glass.
“You okay?” he asked tentatively. He moved to stand beside her.
“Sure,” she replied. “I just didn’t realise it would be so old.”
“Consider it romantic. For all we know that was the famous balcony in Romeo and Juliet.”
“I hardly think so. Not only did Shakespeare set that play in Italy, but that balcony,” she looked pointedly at the one he had indicated, “would collapse under the weight of two people.”
“Have you no heart?”
“You tell me.”
At least she was smiling, he thought.
Carrying their bags, Charles led the way towards a blue painted door. He had the key ready and, given the vintage of both door and lock, they required surprisingly little effort to open. The shadowy foyer beyond was cool and welcoming.
“I think you’ll like it,” he said.
They climbed several flights of tiled steps until they reached a landing. There he unlocked another door. He had rehearsed what he considered a half decent real estate agent’s spiel, but in the end said nothing. Instead he was quiet as she investigated the apartment.
In his opinion the place was perfect. A mix of old and new—stone walls, beamed ceilings and views onto a fourteenth-century clock tower vied with contemporary features such as the stainless steel kitchen bench top and glass shower. She opened a patio door and the intense perfume of lemon blossom drifted in from the terrace. He followed her outside.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s lovely. Really lovely.”
He took her in his arms. “I think so, too. So, do we have a deal?”
“Maybe.”
“Only maybe?” He placed a delicate kiss on the spot just below her ear and caught a trace of something. It was clean and floral. Shampoo? he wondered. Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply.
Her head was back, and he found the hollow of her throat. Then his lips were hard against hers. She tasted so sweet, or perhaps it was just that her lips were soft, almost untouched. At last he could claim ownership of her. He cupped her breast, loving the firmness of it, the luscious weight, the way it moulded so perfectly to his hand. Her breasts were the only part of her he knew; until that moment they were all she would give him.
To his delight she gave a soft moan and arched her back to give him greater access. Accepting the unspoken invitation he quickly slipped his hand up under her t-shirt. Her bra was a flimsy, lacy affair and offered little resistance to being tugged down in order for him to roll a nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She was clinging to him almost as if she had lost the ability to stand.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, dropping his mouth to her neck again. He wanted to savour every part of her. Jesus Christ, it was going to be even better than his fantasy.
She was whispering in his ear. “Not yet.”
He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “What?”
“Wait,” she repeated more urgently. Then, “Don’t rush me.”
“I won’t.” He returned to her lips and kissed her hard, his tongue probing the wetness of her mouth.
Wanting her to know the effect she was having on him he took her hand and placed it over his crotch. His erection was even bigger and harder than before.
“Look what you are doing to me.” He was breathing heavily.
Unexpectedly she twisted away.
Confusion slowly gave way to understanding. She wanted to take it slowly, play hard to get, even. Well, that was okay. It would make it even more exciting for both of them. He reached for her again, but she had already taken another step back.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was muffled. She had covered her face with her hands.
He was at a loss. She was close to tears. It must be something he had done. Or said.
He knew it couldn’t be the fear of an unwanted pregnancy. They had discussed that weeks ago, and although he had put forward that he would use a condom, it had been her decision to take a course of oral contraceptives instead.
So what was it? He needed to refocus, get a grip on himself. Perhaps it wasn’t anything. Just first-time nerves.
For God’s sake, he was acting like an over-eager schoolboy. She was right. This was something that needed to be special for her.
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“I want to ask you something.”
He heard the tremor in her voice. “What is it?”
“Suppose I don’t want to do it right away. Suppose I want to wait a little longer.”
“How much longer?” He tried not to show his dismay.
“A day or two?”
A day or two he could handle. Just. “That’s fine. Whatever you want.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “Where will you sleep?”
That was something he hadn’t considered. He had naturally thought they would be sharing a bed from the outset. He opened his mouth to suggest he would sleep on the sofa. After all, it would only be a day or two. But she had already stepped forward and put a tentative hand on his chest.
“I know you wouldn’t mean to, but I would feel pressured if you were here.”
“I suppose I could get a hotel for a couple of nights.” He sighed.
“I knew you’d understand.” Her arms were back around his neck, and she laid her head on his shoulder.
He felt more deflated than ever.
“I want it to be perfect,” she said quietly.
“So do I.”
After a moment she eased away and crossed to the parapet to lean over it. “Hey, you should see this view. Shall we go out?”
He found the grace to smile. “Go unpack,” he said, waving her inside. “Grab a shower if you want. I’ll find a hotel and be back here in, what, an hour?”
Stephanie gave him a look of gratitude.
“Thank you.”
“That’s okay,” he reassured her. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t rush things. Let’s just enjoy ourselves now that we’re here.”
Chapter 5.
As Charles had hoped, any lukewarm enthusiasm Stephanie might have expressed for the older part of the town vanished when he introduced her to La Croisette, the fashionable boulevard frequented by the famous and not so famous. As they made their way along the busy pavement, she tucked her arm in his and kept up a rambling monologue of what, and whom, she considered acceptable. All seemingly without pausing for breath. Her standards were exacting and those who fell short were shown no mercy. But he didn’t mind. The late afternoon was still pleasantly warm, the air breathable—considering the traffic—and he was content to do little more than admire the sheer extravagance of the vehicles parked at the kerb.
She stopped mid-stride, as if hit by a thunderbolt. “I need to go shopping.”
“You look fine to me.”
He really meant it. In his eyes she had little need of embellishment. Tall enough to attract attention, he wondered why she couldn’t see her svelte figure and naturally blonde hair were already gaining both admiring and covetous glances.
“Oh, please! Look at me. So provincial.” She gestured impatiently at the jeans and cowboy boots she had changed into just an hour earlier. “I want to make you proud.”
“You already do.”
“Then I want to make you more proud.” She purposely led him towards a shop front. “Ohhhh. Do you like that?”
She was gazing longingly at a dress in the window.
He looked up at the awning. Gucci. Of course it was beautiful, he thought, it was expensive.
“Will you buy it for me?”
“Only if you let me take it off you.” What else could he say?
“Of course.” She snuggled against him happily. “It would be my pleasure.”
Stephanie was in her element. Attended by a smartly dressed assistant, she dove in and out of the changing room, trying on design after design. When she found something she liked, she paraded before him, demanding to know his opinion.
Forty minutes later he was paying for not one, but two dresses—apparently the only solution to her inability to choose one over the other. It went without saying there was also the need for a handbag and, unless he really expected her to wear her boots, a pair of peep-toed shoes with an indecently high heel.
Stephanie gleefully asked the assistant to wrap one of the dresses and her own clothes; she would return in the morning to collect them. Meanwhile she would wear the rest.
Stepping back out onto the pavement, Charles had to admit that not only did she look stunning, but she was the perfect image of a young Riviera jetsetter. Platinum blonde hair, perfect skin and designer clothes. All that was missing was the sports convertible and fashionable friends. That such a transformation could be so easily effected was a little disquieting, so he pushed the thought away. She was young and desirable, and already attracting admiring glances.
He put his arm round her possessively, aware even as he did so that he was succumbing to an inherent need to demonstrate ownership.
That thought also made him uncomfortable.
Later that evening, having dined and enjoyed just enough champagne to be pleasantly intoxicated, they sat on the restaurant terrace and watched the night owls saunter along the promenade. Stephanie seemed unable to tear herself away from the beautiful people. He asked what she wanted to do; she suggested a nightclub. He would have preferred a casino but was brought up short, realising she probably wasn’t old enough to enter either.
“That’s ridiculous. I’ll be seventeen soon.”
“Not for another month, if I remember rightly.”
He lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and refilled his glass. As if in compensation, he added a little more to hers.
“Don’t you think I look seventeen already? Eighteen, even?” Her elbow was on the table, chin in hand. She was deliberately flirting with him.
“What I think doesn’t matter.”
“Pouf.” She flounced back in her chair. “In that case you might as well take me back to the apartment.”
He reached for her hand and twined his fingers in hers. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed.”
“I’m not. Tomorrow you can take me to the market. Did you know Mickey Rourke is here for the festival?”
“Is he? You like him?” He couldn’t have cared less.
“I like older men. Older men are interesting.” She slipped her hand free and focused on the rising bubbles in her glass. “I saw him in a movie. With Kim Basinger.”
“Which one?” There was only one he knew of, and that was classed as soft porn. Surely not?
“I think it was called Nine and a Half Weeks.”
He swallowed.
“Someone snuck the video into school,” she continued in answer to his unspoken question.
“And you didn’t get caught?”
“Of course not.”
Taking a long sip of her Perrier-Jouët, she ran her tongue over her top lip. He wondered if she was aware of the habit, or if she did it deliberately. Either way it was very sexy.
“It was a good movie,” she said thoughtfully.
“It was an interesting movie,” he agreed.
“I like that she was given the freedom to enjoy her experiences.”
“The freedom?”
“Of course.” Lifting her eyes, she gave him that intent look that he found so disconcerting. “If you are told to do something, no matter what it is, then surely you are not responsible.”
“That is one way to look at it.”
“How would you look at it?” Her curiosity seemed genuine.
Suddenly he wondered if she was hinting that a similar arrangement would appeal to her. The idea was intriguing, given that he had assumed that once they had slept together the relationship would have run its course. Had he read it all wrong? And if so, exactly what did she want from him? That he would continue to be her sexual mentor?
“Wouldn’t it be unwise to give another person so much control over you?” he ventured after a moment. He needed to be sure where this was going.
“Unwise? Yes. But scary, too. Deliciously scary.”
“You would have to choose the other person carefully.”
“No. There would be no choosing. It would just happen.” Her voice had become suddenly wistful. “Like falling in love, I
suppose.”
He took just a little too long to consider the point.
“So,” she went on, “what shall we do tomorrow?” Her mood, ever mercurial, had changed again. She was holding her glass out in expectation that he would refill it once more.
Even though he expected no more, he was still disappointed when she offered only a chaste kiss at the threshold of what was now apparently her apartment. He had hoped that she might have mellowed; after all he had bought her the clothes she had wanted. And he had wined and dined her at one of Cannes’ more exclusive restaurants.
He put his arms around her and, as before, she melted into him. Her arms snaked around his neck and her lips found his. Briefly.
“Good night Charles. Thank you for today. Will you take me shopping again tomorrow?”
He managed a smile. “Of course.”
“Good. Come and get me at ten?”
In the end, it took not one or two, but four days for her to complete her end of the bargain.
In that time he had taken her to see movie stars walk the red carpet, shown her billionaires’ super yachts moored in nearby Monte Carlo, and bought her what he considered an entire wardrobe. Their evenings had been elaborate affairs, allowing her to see and be seen at places frequented by the rising echelons of society. Lunches, on the other hand, had been far more relaxed. Taken outside cafés or patisseries, they usually consisted of tapas and perfectly chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Crepes stuffed with seafood also found favour with her. Burgers and hot dogs did not, as he found to his cost.
“Have you any idea what goes into those things?” she said with obvious contempt.
“Meat,” he suggested, “onions?”
“You see. You have no idea, have you?”
“Have you?”
“Of course. Don’t you realise how important it is to keep up with that sort of thing? These days you have to know exactly what manufacturers are putting into your food.” She was getting into her stride. “Your body should be a temple.”
“A temple,” he mused. “I think mine already is. One dedicated to the Vestal Virgins.”