Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  Heat sweeps through me like a fire, and I can barely take this closeness, this rampant desire in his eyes.

  “Yes,” I murmur since I can’t form any other word right now. Everything with him is a yes.

  He groans as he claims my mouth, planting a searing kiss on my lips. It’s harder than he’s kissed me before. It’s possessive and demanding at the same time, as if he needs my lips bruised and bee-stung.

  This is the first time we’ve kissed in private. We’ve kissed on the steps of the design show, outside the metro, and in the salon. But this is a kiss for behind closed doors. It’s a kiss before clothes come off.

  Yet I’m keenly aware his brother is in the next room.

  He breaks the kiss. “This is what you do to me,” he says, taking my hand and putting it between his thighs so I can feel his hard length.

  He’s beyond aroused. He’s thick and hard and hot even through his jeans, and I want to climb on top of him, slide down on him, and ride him right here on the couch in his living room.

  Only we can’t. “I’m not going to sleep with you for the first time when your brother’s drunk in the other room.”

  “I know,” he moans, and it sounds like sad resignation. “But I’m very patient, and I can wait for you.”

  “There are some things you don’t have to wait for though,” I say, and my gaze drifts to his balcony.

  “You want to see the view?” His tone is curious.

  A hint of a smile crosses my lips. “I want to see the view from my knees.”

  * * *

  “Let me get this straight,” he says as we step onto his balcony on the fifth floor of his flat. Below us is a cobbled street. Across the way are gorgeous apartment buildings. “You’re going to give me a blow job in exchange for me agreeing to let you marry me to save my brother’s company?”

  I look at him and flash my most wicked grin. “You are correct.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  I drag my nails down his shirt and cup his bulge. “It’s only unfair if you’re assuming that you’re the only one getting pleasure from the blow job.”

  He groans obscenely. “You’re perfectly fucking dirty.”

  “I wouldn’t assume that until your cock is in my mouth.”

  “Christ,” he mutters, his voice already husky and rough. He grabs a cushion from the chair on the balcony and sets it on the ground. I kneel on it as I work open his zipper, tug down his pants, and free him. His cock says hello, and it’s my chance to murmur my appreciation. He’s long, thick, and velvety steel to the touch. I wrap a hand around him, and he takes a sharp breath.

  “Fuck, that feels better than it should.”

  “You should feel spectacular. That’s the point of our arrangement. Isn’t it?” My tone is firm, brooking no argument. I look up at him. He gazes down at me. Understanding passes between us. We are on the same page. We get orgasms and profits from this—nothing more, nothing less.

  “Yes. Our deal is quite possibly my favorite I’ve ever struck.”

  I stroke him. “You look better than in your pictures. I like you right-side up and rock hard.”

  He laughs. It’s cut short when I flick my tongue over him. His sounds turn into heady groans as I draw him in, running my tongue along his shaft.

  His groans intensify as I savor his cock with my mouth. He ropes his hands through my hair, curling his big palms over my head, and I open my throat for him. He tastes clean and dirty at the same time. But the good kind of dirty, born of lust. It’s the scent of a man turned on—turned on because he’s already pleased his woman.

  It’s the scent of desire.

  He finds a rhythm, thrusting into my mouth as I wrap my lips tight around his length. I might look subservient to anyone watching—and anyone could watch if they peeked through their curtains across the avenue—but as I wrap my hands around his hips so I can grab his ass and pull him deeper, I’m keenly aware I have all the power.

  And I need it terribly.

  I need the power play. I need to make all the choices, to enter this deal with my eyes wide open.

  Neither one of us believes in marriage, but we both believe in honesty, and in honest pleasure. Giving it, rather than giving away my heart.

  And soon, as he rocks deeper into my mouth, nearly robbing me of my breath, I’m awash in pleasure too. I am in its throes, completely gripped by it, loving this almost as much as he is.

  He grunts that he’s coming, and I dig my nails in tighter, and make sure I drink down every last drop that he gives me.

  The sounds he makes are so intoxicating that I’m aching for him when he finishes and pulls me up. He kisses me madly, his hand slinking under my skirt once more, his groans guttural and wickedly thrilled when he finds I’m slick and hot.

  “My turn,” he says, and a minute later, his fingers are inside me, and I’m coming again.

  Somehow, we’ve just sealed a marriage deal. Our agreement is to help each other in business, and to bring each other bliss.

  Just so there are no misunderstandings, I wrap my arms around his neck. “This is a deal. It’s an arrangement.”

  “We’re in agreement.”

  “It has a beginning,” I say, my eyes never straying from his.

  “It does.”

  “And it has an end,” I say, keeping my tone strong.

  Resolved.

  I am resolved.

  He nods, his expression steadfast. “It has an end.”

  19

  Elise

  “So this is how it goes.”

  My brow knits as I stare at Veronica across the counter at The Sweet Life, her flagship candy shop in Montmartre. “How what goes?”

  “The process. The descent into madness.” She grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then holds it to her mouth. “Dear diary, today my friend Elise lost the cheese from her cracker. She came into my shop trying to convince me that marrying the man whose nudie shots have graced her phone for more than a year won’t end in heartbreak.”

  I hold up a finger. “Correction. I came here for a cinnamon stick, to give you the scarf I picked up for you at Annalise and Charlie, since it matches your fantastic complexion, and to tell you about my new plan to win a very potentially lucrative ad deal with a luxury hotel chain. Not to convince you of anything.”

  “Lies we tell ourselves.” She taps her purple spatula against a tray of confections. The spatula matches her apron—white with violet polka dots.

  I bend to catch a whiff of the delicious scent of sugar. It swirls in my nostrils, with afternotes of strawberry and milk chocolate.

  “Want one?” she asks.

  “Chocolate-covered strawberry is hard to resist.”

  She hands me the candied fruit, and I pop it in my mouth. After I chew, I finish the thought. “It’s not a lie. It’s a plan, and a damn good one.”

  “Do you really believe this marriage is just business?”

  “What do you believe it is?”

  “A recipe for you to fall for his hot Viking ass while you play house.”

  I scoff. “Veronica, don’t you know me by now?”

  “Yes. And that’s why I worry about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all under control. It all makes sense. It’ll be fine.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Drumming my fingers on the counter, I attempt again to deflect. “How about that cinnamon stick?”

  She hands me one, and I lick it, savoring the spicy, sweet heat.

  “And you think you’re a cinnamon stick,” Veronica adds.

  “I assure you, I’m not into licking myself.”

  Laughing, she points at me. “Don’t try to sidestep the topic by making me laugh at your dirty bird side.”

  “You’re a dirty bird too,” I fire back.

  “Be that as it may, my point is this—you think you’re tough and fiery, but you’re really . . .” She pauses, scanning the shelves of confectionery before she grabs a bag of
gumdrops, shaking it in her fist. “You’re a lemon gumdrop.”

  “Aren’t they sour?”

  “Exactly. People might think you’re tough, but on the inside you’re sweet and gooey.”

  “That’s not a very pleasant image. Perhaps you don’t deserve this scarf.” I tug it from my bag and hug the ruby-red silk number close to my chest.

  She drops the gumdrops and makes grabby hands. “Don’t keep the accessory from me. But don’t deny you have a soft inside either.”

  “Hardly.”

  She stretches a hand across the counter, grabbing my forearm, imploring me. “You think you’re nails and stone since Eduardo, but you’re still that woman who believes in love. I know you. I know you are.”

  I bristle at the suggestion, raising my chin. “Love is for other people.”

  “I love you like a lemon gumdrop, and I think what you’re doing is noble and also dangerous as hell,” she says, dropping her grip as she moves to rearrange bonbons under the display case.

  “We laid out all the rules,” I say, with a bit of urgency in my voice. I want her to know I can handle this.

  “But don’t you like him?”

  “Of course I like him. That’s why I want to help. We both gain something from this, and I enjoy his company. There are far worse ways to spend the next three months.”

  She arches a brow. “You enjoy his company? Can you be any more clinical?”

  I sigh heavily. “It’s true. I like being with him, and I want to help.”

  “And what happens when you start to like him beyond enjoying his company?” she asks, sketching air quotes.

  “I’ll stop that from happening.”

  “How do you stop it? Do you truly think you can stop yourself from falling?”

  “Yes,” I answer in a split second. I believe it because I have to believe it. Because it’s the only way to live.

  “Look, I’d like to buy into that too, but it’s not my experience. I was falling for Lars the boat captain, and the thing that stopped me was that we don’t live in the same country.”

  “And the thing that will stop Christian and me is an expiration date,” I say, keeping my focus on the practical aspects of this decision.

  “An expiration date isn’t the same thing as the whole damn country of Germany being between you. Lars and I texted after I left Copenhagen. I thought I could put him behind me, but I couldn’t, so we kept in touch. We tried to make plans, but we could never be free at the same time, so I had to let it go.”

  I smile, trying to make light of the complications she’s outlined—complications I’ll have to be wise about. “Have a scarf.”

  I hand her the silky snake of fabric, and she tosses it around her neck. She pouts saucily and juts out a hip in a pose.

  “Lovely.”

  “In any case, my little lemon gumdrop, since you’re going to do this anyway, all I will say is this—keep your eyes wide open. Be aware of all the potholes. There are booby traps literally everywhere. If you want to come out of this with your steel heart—cough, cough—intact, you need to have your guard up in a whole new way.”

  “Guard up. I’m on it.”

  “Oh, and take some lemon gumdrops. You’ll need fortification.” She winks and hands me the bag of candy. Her expression turns serious as she sets it in my palm. “And I’ll be here when the expiration date passes. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “There is no expiration date on our friendship.”

  “It’s non-perishable,” I say with a smile, then I thank her and leave. As I wander up the block to my home, I pop in a gumdrop. It’s tart at first, as promised, but then it’s all soft and sweet.

  As if it’ll melt into you.

  Surely I’m no lemon gumdrop with Christian. I’ll be a fiery cinnamon stick. Even though, as I open the gate to my home, delighting in the blaze of yellow tulips, I wonder if he likes candy that’s a little bit tart at first but then sweetens as you savor it.

  20

  Christian

  “I can’t believe I lost the bet.”

  Griffin and I walk along the river at the end of the next day, the afternoon sun casting sparks of light along the water.

  “Did we have a bet?”

  “Yes,” he says indignantly. “How could you forget?”

  “What was it?” I bite into the egg crepe that I picked up at my favorite crepe dealer, wracking my brain to figure out what we wagered on.

  “It was ages ago. But I bet a pint you’d be single until the end of time.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Sounds like some stupid shit we said at the pub, mate.”

  “That sounds like everything we say at the pub.”

  “True.”

  “Still, I’m kicking myself for losing the bet. It’s making me laugh—the idea of you being married.”

  “I was married before. You’re aware of that?”

  “I know, but you’re not now.”

  “So is half the population of the once-married people. Half of marriages end.”

  “I’m aware, but the amusement level on this is still quite high,” he says with a smirk, as a twilight boat tour cruises by, kicking up a spray of water not far from us.

  “So, me getting married makes you laugh. Thanks.”

  He waves a hand. “No. It’s the bonkers idea that this will somehow be all business for you.”

  “Business and pleasure,” I add, taking another bite.

  “Need I remind you of the time you got involved with the client who wanted to enlist you as her boy toy and claimed she was knocked up, practically chasing you back to the homeland? At which point you swore off entanglements of that sort?”

  “She was not pregnant,” I add.

  “She definitely was not, but back then you said not to mix business with pleasure.”

  “Elise isn’t a client. This isn’t exactly mixing the two. It’s uniting the two for mutual goals,” I say, explaining as clearly as I can how the deal with Elise is vastly different.

  “That’s hilarious, mate. How you say that as if you believe it.”

  I stop in my tracks and fix him with a serious stare. “I do believe it.”

  “Fine, fine. Keep telling yourself that. Just do me one favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t crush her heart.”

  “I don’t plan on it, but I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about her.”

  “Of course I care. Your girl is friends with mine. If you break Elise’s heart, Joy will kill you, and then my woman will be in jail for murder.”

  “And you’ve never had a thing for conjugal visits behind bars?”

  “Exactly. Nor do I want Joy going to prison for strangling you. All you have to do is be a gentleman and don’t hurt Elise.”

  “It warms my heart that your consideration is for me and for Elise, rather than whether you can dip your wick from behind bars or not.”

  “I think of everyone.”

  “Listen, it’s going to be fine. I know Elise,” I say, since the one thing I’m sure of is that she’s even less of a fan of forevers than I am. “She has walls like I’ve never seen before. You think I have guardrails? I have nothing compared to her, and there’s no sledgehammer on heaven or on earth that will knock down her walls.”

  “Good—keep it that way. You’re all better off as is.”

  I hold up my free hand in surrender as I dive into another hunk of the crepe. “Look, if anyone’s heart is going to be broken, it will be mine.”

  Griffin laughs. “Somehow, I don’t think that can happen.”

  As I make my way home to check how Erik is doing, I hope Griffin’s right. I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s the slightest bit nervous, and a little bit hopeful too, when I think about talking to Elise this evening.

  That’s when we’ll finalize the plans for our wedding.

  Our wedding.

  21

  Elise

  Two and a half years ago
. . .

  * * *

  Stop and Smell the Days blog

  * * *

  May 15th: One fine iris and lavender afternoon that I’ll always remember

  * * *

  My lovelies . . .

  * * *

  We don’t wear perfume for men, do we? Not us scentsual women. We wear it because we are inexorably drawn to it. It is the signature of a woman. It’s an invisible allure she leaves behind, a note held long and lasting that can turn heads and leave men wondering who she is, and what her story is.

  And you’ve chosen that “note” for my big day.

  I’d dreamed of this day for years.

  Don’t laugh. I’m like any girl in this regard. I’ve dreamed of white and flowers and sunshine. I imagined the warmth beating down on my bare arms and the fresh, clean smell of a garden that I walked through to meet my groom.

  I was the girl who grew up in the city, surrounded by steel and concrete. That’s why flowers whispered to me from Central Park, inviting me to play. Flowers became the antidote to my overwhelming, gritty city life. I went to the park and climbed the statues and pretended to carry a bouquet of violets and tulips across a field on my wedding day.

  Then, I knew nothing of romantic love, or of sex appeal, of course. Now I do, and I want to share the story of my wedding day with you.

  I slipped into a white scoop-neck dress, clipped my hair up on both sides in silver barrettes, and headed down the stairs of the inn in Provence, surrounded by family.