Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  She’s so open, so surrendered, so completely unabashed in her sensuality. I can barely take it, and I swear I’m not just licking her. I crave her so damn much that I’m fucking her with my tongue, devouring her with my mouth. She cries out, arching her back high and shuddering as she comes on my lips, her taste flooding my tongue, her sexy scent filling my head.

  She moans for ages, saying my name, panting wildly, and making incoherent sensual sounds that I want to bottle and listen to again and again. I could get addicted to the way she comes, how she lets go so completely. She makes me want to give her orgasms over and over—she makes me want to give her everything.

  For a moment, that thought terrifies me. This should be just sex. I know that’s all that we’re having. But somewhere along the way, it’s started to feel more than the physical. It’s started to feel like something else entirely.

  I need to shake off those thoughts. We have a deal, and sex is part of that deal.

  I stand, strip off my shirt and trousers, and get down to nothing, reminding myself that just because she’s easy to fall for, that doesn’t mean it would be wise to let go.

  She props herself on her elbows and stares at my cock. “Well, I think you’ll be more fun to ride than the eagle.”

  Laughing, I say, “I should hope so.”

  “Hey, the eagle was a lot of fun.”

  “Then get on me and let’s see how I compare.” I flop beside her. We already had the safety talk and decided we could go bare, so she straddles me and positions herself over my length. She rubs her thumb along the head, sliding over a bead of liquid that she brings to her mouth. She sucks it off, closing her eyes, as if she’s tasting the most delicious thing ever.

  Holy fuck. I’ve seen nothing sexier in my whole life than my wife savoring me.

  I blink away that word.

  Elise.

  Elise.

  Elise.

  But she’s also my wife for the next three months, and that turns me on in some base, filthy, and wonderful way. “I want to fuck my wife.”

  “I want to fuck my husband,” she says, just as fiercely.

  My breath hisses as she takes me in hand and rubs me against her. I groan at the extraordinary feel, then I grunt loudly as she lowers herself onto my shaft, sending sparks of electricity through my body.

  Sliding down, she takes me all the way. Pleasure ripples through me as she rises up. My gaze drifts to where we meet, and my dick throbs harder as I watch us, the way she takes me in, then how I slide nearly all the way out.

  My hands grip her hips tightly as she rocks, taking her time at first, then finding a faster rhythm. I run my hands up and down her body, over her belly, cupping her breasts, memorizing her everywhere.

  I settle a hand between her legs, my fingers stroking, and in seconds, she’s shaking and shuddering on me. She falls forward, slamming her hands to my shoulders, her body trembling as she whispers savagely, “I’m coming.”

  I didn’t need the heads-up. I could tell. But it’s so erotic, so incredibly sexy to hear her say it unbidden, like the sensation is so intense she had to voice it, that I fuck up into her harder, thrusting faster. As she comes down from her high, I flip us, so she’s on her back. I hike her legs over my shoulders and drive deep into her again.

  She ropes her hands around my neck, urging me on. “Come with me.”

  I’m nearly there, and the thought that she might come again is nearly too much. “Can you? Come again?”

  She nods. “I think so. Just keep doing that. Keep doing everything.”

  Her eyes don’t stray from mine, and the connection between us is so intense, so electric. I’m not sure at all why, or where it’s coming from, but it’s wholly new and completely fantastic to feel this sort of ecstasy racing through every cell in my body.

  Her eyes flutter closed, and her lips fall open, and her face turns into a picture of exquisite bliss as she trembles and lets out the neediest, sexiest moan I’ve ever heard, chasing it with a wild yes, yes, yes.

  Whatever teasing, whatever fun and games have existed between us, are gone, and a raw, honest desire is all that’s left. And it’s all I need to join her. Her pleasure flips the final switch in me. I thrust deep and hard, coming inside my wife, the pleasure blotting out the warning sign in my head that tells me not to develop any feelings for her.

  Correction—any more feelings.

  25

  Elise

  “And that’s how I envision Durand Media marketing the Luxe Hotel’s new European resort locations.”

  The CEO, Nate Harper, leans back in his leather chair in the boardroom at his Place de la Madeleine offices, steepling his fingers. “Tell me, what do you see as the single biggest marketing challenge in entering the new marketplaces?”

  I push up my glasses, and I answer with confidence. “The biggest challenge is also the biggest opportunity. It’s reaching millennials, who will then become loyalists. But we need to connect with them first, and I’m prepared to,” I say, detailing more of how my agency can reach that key market for his hotel.

  He fires more questions, and for each one I have an answer. The market insight is spot on, he says, and I have my . . . husband to thank for that. A whiz, sharp with insight and concise with analysis, he provided exactly what I needed to complement the creative vision I have for this campaign.

  At the end of the meeting, Nate rises and clasps my hand in a long, hearty shake. “Very impressive. We hope to make a final decision soon. Thank you so much for coming in, and I’m glad Armand made it possible for us to meet.”

  I beam. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  I’m giddy as I leave his offices. I practically punch the sky once I’m a block away and can properly let all my excitement bubble over.

  I grab my phone and sit on the steps of L’église de la Madeleine, the massive church that’s the anchor of this section of the city. Briefly I contemplate texting Veronica or Joy, or maybe even my brother. But honestly, there’s only one person I want to share this news with first.

  The person who made it possible for me to go in there today and kick ass. I haven’t seen Christian in ten days, not since the weekend we were married in Copenhagen. He left for London to meet with board members and a few key shareholders the day after our wedding. As the married one now, Christian’s fronting the firm, but Erik is running it as he’s always done. Once Jandy’s shares are bought back in a few months, Christian and Erik will run the company as the majority shareholders, though Erik will still be the front man.

  I do love their closeness and the way they depend on each other and trust each other unconditionally. Sometimes I wish I was closer to my brother, Jay. He looks out for me, and I know he cares for me deeply, and I love the little necklace gifts he gives me. But we don’t have the sort of connection Christian and Erik have. Jay is busy with his life and his family over in New York, and I’m busy with my life here.

  I click on my text messages, ready to type out a note, when I find Christian has already sent me one.

  * * *

  Christian: Tell me everything. Did you blow them away?

  * * *

  Elise: I think so. I feel like I nailed it.

  * * *

  I’m grinning crazily as the sun beats down, and passersby crisscross in front of me, parking themselves at tables and steps leading into the house of worship.

  * * *

  Christian: Excellent. I knew you would.

  * * *

  Elise: Your insight was amazing. I felt like a rock star, peppering off numbers and analysis. You are a god at that.

  * * *

  Elise: Oh, you’re also a god in bed, but I think you know that already.

  * * *

  Christian: Why, yes, please do compliment me more. It feeds my ego and makes other parts larger too.

  * * *

  I laugh as I stare at the message, as if I’m in my own private flirty bubble right now, even as God and tourists peek over my shoulde
r.

  * * *

  Elise: I like everything about those other parts. And I like that quick brain that made this possible.

  * * *

  Christian: I’m glad I can be useful. But seriously, it was all you. You can only nail something if you know what to do with the info you were given. Now we need to celebrate.

  * * *

  Celebrate. That’s one of my favorite words. Celebrations imply champagne, high heels, and nights out with friends. I’ve always loved a celebration because it means there is good news, and good news brings that most elusive of emotional states, one that’s so hard to truly attain and sustain—happiness. But I feel it now, and I’m aware of how quickly it can disappear. Best to embrace moments like this.

  * * *

  Elise: How do you want to celebrate?

  * * *

  Christian: Ideally, by licking champagne off your breasts. But I think before we get to that, we should do something fun. What do you like to do for fun? Besides go on crazy roller-coaster rides, shop for your friends, plant flowers, and enjoy fancy and decadent meals out.

  * * *

  My heart does a little jig—he already knows some of the littlest details about me, like my penchant for showering my friends with gifts for no reason. Those are my favorite kind of gifts—pointless ones, because that’s the point.

  * * *

  Elise: All of the above, and I also like dancing.

  * * *

  Christian: Swing? Tango? Foxtrot? Please say no as I can’t do any of those, and ballet is out of the question.

  * * *

  An image flickers by of the type of dancing I want to do with Christian, and I wonder if he’s any good at it.

  * * *

  Elise: None of the above. I mostly like dancing late at night in clubs when I can let loose with my girlfriends.

  * * *

  Christian: Do you want to go clubbing with your girlfriends, or do you want to go with me when I return this weekend?

  * * *

  I write back, the answer falling from my fingers so easily, so smoothly, that it feels like the only way possible I could want to celebrate, though I haven’t yet won a thing.

  Except, perhaps, a night out with the man who’s front and center in my mind.

  Elise: With you.

  26

  Elise

  Saturday looms before me like the face of the clock, the second hand ticking obnoxiously in my ear.

  I busy myself with work in the morning, cloistering myself in the office with Polly, my creative director, who’s whipping through Photoshop mock-ups for the Luxe. Just a few extra items to send to Nate. Call it campaign Impress the Hell Out of Him.

  As I look up from the media plan, she smiles, points to her screen, and declares, “Booyah.”

  It always makes me laugh when she blurts out supremely American sayings. She is American, but she also says them with a certain over-the-top flourish.

  “And what has earned your booyah seal of approval?”

  She slides the laptop in my direction, showing me a new concept for a social campaign. My eyes widen, and my marketing bones hum. “That is booyah and a home run.”

  She nods approvingly. “You haven’t been away from the homeland too long. You still know our little sayings.”

  “You know I can still shoot the breeze,” I say, with a wink.

  Polly has been with my agency for four years, and we’ve bonded over a love of marketing, and of being Americans working abroad. She flicks her pink-tipped blond hair off her shoulders and gives me an inquisitive look. “Also, I don’t think I’ve said this, but you seem happier lately.”

  I blink, surprised at the forthright comment, but then she’s always been like that. “I do?”

  “There was a time when you weren’t—” She shakes her head, as if she can’t find the words. “I think for a while you put on a happy face and sort of made it through what I suspect was a tough time.”

  She doesn’t know all the sordid details. At least, I don’t think she does, and I could kiss her for phrasing her words more diplomatically than Dominic did.

  “Now,” she says, gesturing to me, “you seem to be glowing.”

  “Don’t even say it. I’m not pregnant.”

  “I would never suggest that. I’m just glad that you seem so buoyant.” Her eyes drift to my silvery wedding band.

  I follow her gaze and nod. “I’m glad to hear that it’s evident.”

  I don’t elaborate, and she doesn’t ask, and I like it that way. My new marital status isn’t a secret, but it’s not something I feel the need to announce to my employees.

  For a moment, though, I wonder. I worry. If my attention wandered during my whirlwind marriage to Eduardo and during the fallout too, what does it mean that Polly is able to read me now? Even though the situations are vastly different, is it good or bad that she can tell I’m in a better place emotionally? And does that mean I’m not giving my all to my work?

  I try to reach for an answer, but none comes easily, so I decide being in a better place is a better thing, plain and simple. That better place is also synonymous with here—me at the office on a Saturday morning, pouring all my focus into work. I’m on the cusp of brand-new opportunities, rebuilding and shooting past the place where my agency was a few years ago. Maybe an arrangement where everything has been brokered from the start is the best kind for my bruised heart and my wounded business. Both are healing. Both are becoming stronger on the other side.

  “Anyway, I like seeing you happier,” she says as she shoulders her messenger bag.

  She leaves, and I stay, finishing a few items and sending along a marketplace insight to Nate on Copenhagen, gleaned both from Christian’s analysis and my own observations of the city during my trips there. Nate replies quickly: That’s interesting! I hadn’t thought of those angles.

  A grin spreads across my face as I move the mouse to close down my inbox.

  But a new message pops up before I shut down. It’s from John Thompson, the head of the Thompson Group. He’s probably vying for Nate’s account.

  * * *

  Hey Elise! How are you? Should we meet for drinks? Maybe we can join forces and discuss winning some deals together?

  * * *

  I give his email the side-eye. He’s a competitor. I don’t want to meet with him to join forces, but I also believe in keeping your enemies close.

  * * *

  I reply: I’m pretty busy, but my schedule should free up in a week or two. Talk then?

  * * *

  He writes back swiftly: Count on it.

  * * *

  I take off soon after. I cut across the city to The Marais, where I spend the afternoon wandering through the intricate network of streets, the curvy jigsaw puzzle of one of the oldest parts of Paris, its cobbled passageways that cars can barely squeeze through. Some days, when I’m in the maze of The Marais, I feel like no one can find me. Like my phone is uncallable, my life untraceable. Like I’m one with the place.

  Over the years, I’ve tried to truly understand my ties to this country, given I spent my first two and a half decades of life in New York. Sometimes, it’s the creative heart of the city that I discover in unusual places. Like the whimsical cookware store I stroll past that sells antique rolling pins and irresistibly mismatched saucers and cups. I pop in and pick up a white rolling pin with red handles for Veronica.

  Or the shop on the corner that still boasts an old sign reading “atelier” even though it peddles eclairs. The baker never removed the sign. I stop in and buy a small box of caramel eclairs for my next-door neighbor who doesn’t get out much since her hip surgery but still craves her favorites.

  I don’t always find the answers to my questions about why I’m drawn here even when my family is still stateside, but Paris seems to be the true north on my compass. It points here.

  As I turn the corner, I stumble across a café I’ve never been to before, with carnival music playing softly inside. It’s pa
rked right across from an eight-room hotel I’ve heard of—a decadent little inn said to have the most opulent rooms, complete with gold fireplaces and ornate decorations, like a celebration of debauchery.

  Maybe that’s why I like this city. If you want to celebrate, it’s easy. Food, and wine, and drink, and treats are everywhere, and you never have to travel far to indulge.

  I take a seat at an outside table and order coffee as I gaze at the hotel, remembering my first time in this city. I was six and Jay was twelve, and I felt like Madeline from the children’s books. Maybe Fancy Nancy too.

  For so long, I was raised out of place. I was the halfsie, as I joked with Christian. The child of French parents, speaking that language at home, embracing that culture behind closed doors, while to the outside world, I went to American schools and American classes and lived in an American city. All of that shaped me. It shaped my brother too. But the funny thing is he stayed behind, or maybe he stayed where he was always meant to be.

  As for me, I was restless. I never felt truly content until I boarded a plane and spent my junior year of college here. That was the first time I felt the hummingbird beating in my heart slow to a more reasonable pace, one that didn’t make me frantically wonder what was around the corner and if I’d fit in.