The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin

by Michele Renae

  Would he send me to a restaurant and once there I'd have to communicate with him via cell phone and Skype? It would be weird, but I was up for anything he had in mind. But if he asked me to kiss anyone nearby I would call foul. One daring new encounter for the day had been enough.

  Crossing my fingers that if he did send me somewhere it would be with front door taxi service, I fluffed out my hair, then decided to blow dry it with a flip to the ends.

  Next up, the dress. He'd seen me in lingerie, my robe, and nothing. A few times I had stripped off my clothing for him before the window as he'd watched. And I guess last night I'd done the upper strip for him. Mm, that had been a good one. It upped the erotic level when he told me what to do. And challenged my ability to release inhibitions and really trust. I'd almost panicked in the dressing room. But I think he'd realized that.

  Or maybe not. He had said we would return to the shop some day. I liked that he thought in terms of us going places together in the future.

  I sorted through my underwear drawer, my fingers browsing over lace and satin and a few cotton pieces—then I remembered. He'd requested me sans underthings tonight.

  A sensual tingle scurried up my stomach and tightened my nipples. I was submitting to his will. And I liked it.

  My fingers traced down the lace dress. Snagging the price tag, I almost pulled it off, but stopped myself. I scampered into the bathroom for a nail snips to do it right. Didn't want to risk snagging the fabric or putting a run in the lace. Not after that credit card bill.

  "He has to be rich," I said as I pulled the dress up around my naked thighs. "How many guys can lay down their card like that for a little bit of lace?"

  Had he done it to impress me? At this moment was he lamenting the bill he'd receive next month and wondering how he would cover it?

  I shook my head as I reached behind to tug up the zipper. (Yep, I could have zipped myself at the store.) Monsieur Sexy wasn't the sort to do such a thing. He didn't need to impress me. And judging from the fancy suit I'd once seen him wearing, he appreciated fine clothing and could afford it.

  With the dress hugging my skin, I smoothed my hands up to cup my breasts. The lacy neckline dipped low and accentuated my almost-Cs. A pushup bra would have really worked the dress, but no. I turned to the side and admired my silhouette in the mirror.

  "Not bad. Have I lost weight?"

  Because I used to have a nudge of a muffintop going on, but even in this body-hugging dress I couldn't see a nudge at all.

  "Nice."

  I hadn't been paying attention to what I ate lately. Any poundage that had slipped away had to be because of the hot new love affair. I'd take it.

  With an excited shimmy of my hips, I glanced at the Louboutins holding court before the foot of my bed. The black leather beauties tied around the ankle with velvet ribbons.

  "Fingers crossed the rain stops."

  Sitting on the gray velvet chair, I pulled on the supple leather shoes, and tied them about my ankles. I tilted my head to look out the window. Though he'd left the curtains open, I couldn't see into his bedroom across the street. Rain blurred the view, and the lacking sunlight sheened his window with a white glare.

  We'd come a long way. Voyeurism across the street from one another to cyber-sexing. I sighed.

  I couldn't understand how some couples actually engaged in cyber relationships for long periods of time. It was only so satisfying. And more and more it was growing frustrating. If I was honest with myself, cyber sex was unfulfilling. Left me empty even though I wanted to believe it filled me. Sure, it fulfilled my need for mental connection. But the physical contact?

  "Hardly."

  We were still watching one another. Participating, but only with ourselves.

  The doorbuzzer rang. I wasn't expecting anyone so, engaging a cautious stride, I slunk up to the door. Weird, right? I didn't think a serial killer would knock first. On the other hand, what a perfect way to gain entrance into the unsuspecting woman's apartment: knock and greet her with a smile.

  Oh, my God, I think too much.

  Peering through the peephole I spied a man dressed in a white chef's uniform and holding an armload of bags and boxes. I opened the door and he introduced himself in French.

  "Parlez vous anglais?" I asked.

  "Non, Mademoiselle."

  He barged past me and looked about, his arms loaded with goods, and headed into the kitchen. From what I could guess he was saying, and the delicious scents that emerged as he began pulling things from the bags and boxes, he'd brought dinner.

  Yay! Now I didn't have to brave the weather in my pretty things. And how cool, Monsieur Sexy and I would have a private meal together.

  The chef sneered at the kitchen table scattered with books, files, and other assorted ephemera that basically lived there because I had too much stuff and not enough storage. I sensed his disapproval.

  "I'll get that." I rushed to clear the table, grabbing heaps of stuff and…swinging around, I eyed the floor before the living room window. I got that far before books starting falling out of my arms.

  An annoyed 'tut' echoed out from the kitchen. The fridge opened and closed. Plates and goblets were retrieved from my cupboards. A strange Frenchman shuffled about in my kitchen setting up a meal for me, and I was thrilled. Who cared if he was the cooking serial killer? At least I'd leave this world with a full stomach.

  After a plate had been set on the table with a silver dome over the top, and silverware placed in the proper setting, he poured wine and then gestured I sit. "Mademoiselle."

  I sat and he pulled up the chair.

  He checked his wristwatch and nodded. Satisfied. "Eh…er…Skype?"

  "Oh, yes!" My dinner date began soon. "Merci, Monsieur."

  He bowed and then pointed to the fridge. "Le dessert. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Bon appétit!" he called as the front door closed.

  And I sat in wonder before the table, my fingertips playing with the silverware. They'd never gleamed so brightly. Must have something to do with being positioned in the proper place settings.

  I sipped the wine. "Mon Dieu. This is…" I grabbed the bottle and scanned the French label. "I don't know what this is, but it tastes expensive. Amazing."

  Note to self: look up this wine online later.

  I could get used to being spoiled. Yet no lover waited for me to wrap my arms around and kiss in thanks. At the very least I needed to blow him an appreciative kiss. Which I wouldn't be able to do if I didn't get my act together.

  Dashing into the bedroom, I retrieved the laptop and turned it on as I returned to the table. Setting the laptop at the top of the table setting, I seated myself.

  Skype pinged and Monsieur Sexy's face flashed onto the screen. "Bonsoir," he greeted me with goblet of wine held high.

  "Bonsoir." I tapped the screen with the goblet rim, and he did the same. Cyber-toasting at its best. "This is amazing. I can't believe you planned all this."

  "The dinner has arrived? Excellent. I was worried it would not happen for the timeline. Ah, I see you have your food before you. And I have mine."

  I could see him from head to tabletop. Before him sat an elegant dining service and a bottle of wine. He was suited up. A thin violet tie filed down a gray shirt and a darker gray suit. He looked like a GQ model. Seriously. I'd seen him walking down the street in a suit, and if the man didn't belong on a runway, then neither did Naomi Campbell.

  "Are you pleased with the selection?" he asked.

  "I haven't looked yet. The chef just left." I took the silver cover off my food and it released a gush of savory scents. Tiny ravioli and white sauce accented with carrots and something deep red, probably peppers. "I love shrimp."

  "And the chef, did he leave dessert in the fridge?"

  "Yes. Do you want me to—"

  "No, leave it for later. Let's enjoy our meal and chat. Ah, you are wearing the dress. The neckline frames your breasts perfectly. I wish I were there to kiss around the lace. Stand up and let
me admire you."

  I did so and turned, propping a hand at my hip. Then I leaned forward to give him a better view of the lace-surrounded bosom he so wanted to kiss.

  "No underthings?"

  "Just the lace and my skin," I said. Then the vixen in me inched up the lace hem, slowly gliding up my thigh until—just as the dip of my labia were revealed I tugged the dress back down. "Does that please you?"

  "I have just received a sneak taste of dessert. I told you I would think about you today and I did. But I tore the lace in my fantasy."

  "Really? Where?"

  "Where was I fantasizing about you?"

  "No, where did it tear?"

  "Ah." A smile glinted in his eyes. "At the hem of your skirt. I tugged too quickly and hard. Needed to get my hand between your legs to feel you wet and hot on my fingers."

  I clamped down on my lip with my teeth. The man was too much. But just enough for me.

  "Let's eat before we start ripping any lace," I suggested. "This will be fun. Sort of like a dinner out. You sitting across from me, me from you."

  "Except I can't smell your perfume or stroke the back of your hand, or even move closer to slide my hand up your thigh under the table."

  I paused with a fork full of tiny shrimp and white sauce suspended above the plate. He had such a way with words. And here I'd been worried about eating quickly before the food got cold. He was thinking only about me. And how he would touch me.

  "You do that very well, you know?" I said.

  "What is that?"

  "The interested lover part."

  "I am interested in everything about you. Will you allow me to tease out more details tonight?"

  "Go for it."

  "Excellent." Propping his elbows on the table, hands steepled before him, revealed the diamonds in his cufflinks. Small and set in brushed silver. Classy.

  "I do want to know about the bees," he said. "If you will indulge me."

  "Yes, the bees." I set down the fork and toggled the stem of the wine goblet between my fingers. "My grandfather's farm was sold at auction last year. He grew red clover on a small farm in Iowa. Honeybees have become so scarce they no longer pollinated his plants and his crops had become worthless. The bees are dying out, and when they are gone, our food sources will suffer."

  "France has the same problem. I watched a documentary on it not long ago."

  "You watch documentaries?" I wiggled on the chair, thrilled to learn we had a common link. "You like learning new things?"

  "Always." Sexy Frenchman's smile directly ahead. Crinkle at the eyes. Glint in the irises. And… Direct hit to my heart.

  I sipped more wine so my goofy smile wouldn't break out. I loved chatting with him via Skype, but I seriously needed to turn off my window on the screen. I could see myself, and I was always checking to make sure I didn't have food in my teeth or was sitting slumped. I had a tendency to slump.

  Pushing my shoulders back, I reminded myself about the newly absent muffintop. I looked great this evening, and I intended to work this dress for all it was worth. (Which was quite a lot.)

  "Did you know the Jardin des Plants has a bee exhibit?"

  "They do? I haven't yet stumbled onto it when I visit. I love that garden. That one, and the Luxembourg in the 6th. I love espaliered trees and carved shrubbery."

  "I like a nicely trimmed bush myself." Frenchman's wink.

  Mercy. I was undone.

  A waggle of his brow pushed me closer to the edge and I wanted to abandon the meal and just fuck. But...no. I took a deep breath and relaxed. Though I must say I was pleasantly moist between my legs right now.

  I traced a fingertip around the goblet rim. "So tell me what you are passionate about. Beyond the work you do."

  "I like to stay fit. That is why I teach fencing. I used to fence competitively, but I injured a muscle in my leg and now I'm useless for the intense competition. I like to cycle."

  "Really? Around the city?"

  "No, too many tourists. I have a mountain bike that I take out often with friends. We bike hundreds of miles, crash down mountains, and get horribly banged up. It's a riot."

  I suddenly felt so out of his league. The man was sexy, a computer brainiac, and he participated in sports that pushed him to the limits and chewed him up and spit him out. How cool was that?

  What did I do for exercise beyond rushing to the Métro in kitten heels and struggling with women in the line before Louboutin? (Well, and masturbating. Orgasm counted as exercise, right?)

  "The mountain biking explains your tan," I said.

  "It is fading. I haven't been out since before the move. Been too busy with work. I'm training new employees here in Berlin. It's intensive stuff, but the guys seem to pick it up easily. They're a smart bunch. I will be pleased if one or two learn enough to promote."

  "Promote? Are you like the head honcho?"

  "Yes, I own the company. We're small, but within a few years I plan to take on the world."

  "More power to you, boss man."

  "Merci." Another tilt of his goblet toward the screen. "I am the most competitive with myself, I admit."

  "I can relate. I have a type A side that comes out when working. But I counter that with my type C side."

  "Type C?"

  "Comfort whore."

  "I'm not sure I understand, but I suspect it is a good thing for you."

  "Oh, it is."

  I finished the shrimp pasta and set down my fork. "So, I know what sports you like, that you're smart, and that you like to dance around in a towel when you think no one is looking."

  "Eh. I am a terrible dancer."

  "I wouldn't say terrible. I've seen your hip action. So what else? Tell me what TV shows you like?"

  "I don't actually watch more than an hour a week."

  That made me sit up. I noticed my dropped jaw on the tiny screen and closed my mouth quickly. Wow. That said so much about him. But it figured. If he were owner of an up and coming business when would he have the time? Competitive and determined. Love it.

  "I like to read," he offered. "When I'm not cramming new information into my brain from the latest software and systems updates, I have my nose stuck in historical fiction."

  "What's your favorite book?" I asked.

  "The Three Musketeers, of course."

  "What?!"

  He sat up abruptly and glanced around, tugging at the knot of his tie. "Did I say something wrong?"

  Poor French dude. I'd freaked him out.

  "Nothing wrong," I hastened out. "You just said your favorite book, and it's one of mine, too."

  "Is that so? Dumas created classic heroes. I reread the story every few years. It is the reason I took up fencing. When I was a kid I wanted to be a musketeer."

  "Oh, you are," I said before I realized I was speaking about my fantasies and not real life.

  "You think so?"

  "I know so. If I can make a confession?"

  "Please do. I love it when you reveal your secrets to me, mon abeille."

  His sexy accent stirred beneath my skin and warmed me everywhere. If he knew I was wet for him right now… Well, I'd let him know about that soon enough.

  "When I first saw you moving in…" I pushed aside the plate and pulled the laptop closer. "You were carrying a box with your fencing foil sticking out of it."

  His eyes softened, admiring me. I soaked it in like a sponge.

  "First, you need to know my mind wanders. A lot. I can go from reality to fantasy like that." I snapped my fingers in example. "Anyway, that day I saw you moving in, I started thinking about swords and musketeers. And then I imagined you as a musketeer. On your knees. Licking my pussy."

  "Is that so?"

  I nodded. I couldn't be embarrassed with him. This was a step deeper into confidence.

  "Did I push my way under your skirts?"

  "I think I was on a bed, lying back. You pushed up my skirts and I spread my legs for you." I hadn't gotten much farther with the fantasy at the ti
me, but I sure could imagine things progressing now. "You want to know how it felt?"

  "Of course, you must tell me. How do you like me to tongue you?"

  The lace dress was suddenly far too stuffy for this warm room. I tugged at the neckline then cautioned against ripping the lace. Only he could do that.

  "All over at first," I decided. "Tasting me, slipping up and down along my folds to learn my structure."

  He closed his eyes and his lips parted slightly. "I can imagine that. Tucking the tip of my tongue between your folds and tasting your sweetness and heat." He flashed open his eyes. "Are you hot right now?"

  "Oh, hell yes."

  "Lift your skirts for me, mon abeille. Let me glide my tongue over your treats for dessert."

  "But what about the dessert in the fridge?"

  "You are still hungry? Go get it. But I will be displeased if you do not return naked."

  "Is that so?"

  Such a demand would have normally had me snappishly refusing to play along with any man's silly desires. But this man was different. He was mine. And I wanted to please him. And I had been thinking this dress was getting too hot.

  "Be right back."

  I took the supper dishes away from the table and set them in the sink. Unzipping the back of my dress as I pulled open the fridge door, I let the sheath fall to the floor around my heels. Comfort whore, remember? I stood there in the light from the fridge, allowing the coolness to waft over my warm skin. It tickled. It teased. It was weird, I know, but hey, I was working with what I had. And that was a laptop, and an eager Frenchman whose voice could bring me to my knees.

  I wasn't about to disappoint.

  A small white box sat in the fridge, labeled dessert, as if the White Rabbit had been in here while I wasn't looking. If it had said eat me, I wouldn't have blinked at doing just that. I took it out and stroked my fingers over the box. It was a nice box, not like those flimsy takeout boxes. Something designed to present a gift.

  I recalled the red envelope and wrapping paper he'd used to send the bee notebook and his email address. Fine. Elegant. He was a discerning shopper. Dare I believe his discernment went as far as the woman with whom he'd chosen to engage in an affair?