The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (6 page)

But did it matter?  I'd chickened out tonight.

I clicked off the bathroom light and wandered out to the bed in my pretty high heels.  No, I hadn't been a chicken.  I was being smart.  I'd already stepped out of my box and had toed the comfort zone line.

Perhaps tomorrow tonight, I'd stick a red-soled toe across that line.  I wanted to do that.  It wasn't the safe distance we had between us, or the daring eroticism of the imaginary boundary that excited me about this liaison so much.  It was simply new and fun and not ordinary.

Spreading my arms wide, I did a back-first full-body plant onto the fluffy comforter on top of my bed.  I lifted my legs to stare at the Louboutins, pretty black enticements caressing my feet.

Intangible kisses moved along my legs, traveling toward my ankles until his fingers touched the black ribbons and tugged, gently, yet insistently.

Mmm, my sleep would be laced with delicious dreams tonight.

***

“I’m ticklish,” I whispered in my dreams.

A kiss pressed to my anklebone, Monsieur Sexy paused and looked up at me.  Eyes of an indiscernible color dove into mine.  I exhaled to counteract the sudden increase in my adrenaline.  He knelt before me, my foot in his hand, the black ribbons spilling over his wrist.  He wore nothing.  I wore a black lace bra and panties. 

And the shoes.

“Relax,” he said in a deep voice that worked like a shot of whiskey to my nerves.  Of course it was in French, too.  And my dream-self understood every single word of it.  “I want to worship you.”

I settled back on the tufted gray velvet chaise, hands dropping to my sides.  The perfect spot for reading, the chaise was curved so my body melted into it.  I
became
the chaise when I laid on it. 

His tongue dashed out to lick my ankle near the ribbon.  The soft schush of velvet across my skin was punctuated by my breaths that had grown more shallow and quicker.

The ribbon struggled for hold as the tug at the knot beckoned.  He’d snatched an end with his teeth and as he sat back on his heels, he pulled the ribbon free to its full length.  The straps slithered from my skin as if a silk robe slipping away. 

His cock jutted upright, a proud column.  I could reach for it, but, no, I wanted to linger in this seduction.  Receive what he wanted to give.  I sighed, closed my eyes.  I needed his touch, this foray into the forbidden with the man behind the glass.

Ribbon still in his teeth, he growled and playfully tugged at it.  I popped open an eyelid and chided him with a waggling finger.  “Bad puppy.”

He dropped the ribbon and pouted.  Then he lunged to my foot and kissed me where the ribbons had left a slight impression around my ankle.  Slowly, tenderly, he kissed and licked, then drew his tongue down the side of my foot along the shoe’s shank.  And there, he touched my exposed arch.  The zing of sensation made me spasm in my gut and my foot jerked—but his hand slapped over the top of it, holding me firmly.

His eyes admonished while his tongue lashed out in a teasing lick along his lip.

I breathed rapidly.  He looked hungry.  I couldn’t wait for the devouring.

His tongue slid along my arch and my back curved in tandem.  The exquisite torture curled my fingers at my sides and into the velvet chaise's decadent nap.  I moaned.  His other hand loosened the back of the shoe from my heel, and his fingers glided firmly over the base of it.

I reached for his head, but he was too far away.  I wanted to run my fingers through his glossy hair, grip it hard, and tug.

It was when he kissed the side of my heel, then bit gently into the meat of it that I sucked in a gasp and moaned as the sensation fluttered up my leg and to my groin.  Every nip, every lash of his tongue, the firm pressure of his kisses, effectively imitated the flutter in my rapidly moistening pussy.

I slid a hand down my stomach and pressed against my clit.

“Good girl,” he whispered.  A tongue lash to the underside of my arch lifted my hips and I dove my fingers between my folds.  “So pretty.”  He slipped the shoe from my foot and admired it a moment, then tossed it over his shoulder.

I couldn’t manage a protest to his careless regard for my prized possession, because his tongue now traced the inner side of my foot and ventured toward my toes.  I paralleled his motions with strokes across my clit.

A lash of hot wetness strode between my largest toe and the next where the thin silver ring coiled.  He made a point of his tongue and speared the delicate curve at the base between the two toes. 

“Oh,
mon Dieu
,” I moaned.  And I’m not even French!  “
Oui
.”  The word drawled out in a plead for him to never stop, never stop, never…

He tickled and traced between all my toes, and then he shifted his body around to the end of the chaise.  One hand held my ankle firmly, while the other danced his thumb along the underside of my foot where it was softest, pale from lack of sunlight, and ultra-sensitive. 

I writhed on the chaise.  My fingers dove into my heat and I wet them to draw out and slick against the swollen labia.  No window between us, yet still, I pleasured myself. 

Correction: he was pleasuring me in the most exquisite way.  I was merely enhancing that touch.

His mouth enveloped my toe.  He suckled the tip of it, pressing his tongue against the soft underside and gently impressing his teeth there, and then there, but never for more than a second.  It was as if he were at my breast, sucking deep and hard, and…

“Oh, yes, like that,” I purred as my nipples tightened with a zing.

As he moved to the next toe, I realized his hands strolled along my skin.  One gently stroked the inside of my arch, tracing the curve back and forth softly, while the other glanced over the top of my foot and up my ankle and calf. 

And at his mouth my toes were worshipped, teased, and devoured.  The littlest toe inspired his comment, “So cute.”

Kneeling and straightening, he added a new touch treat to the mix.  Rubbing the head of his cock under my foot, he teased the bold, hot head against my sensitive skin.  I curled my toes about the molten shaft.  Mm, it was soft and suedelike on the outside, yet so incredibly hard overall.  He tapped my toes with his rod.  The man’s moan vibrated across my skin, raising the hairs and coaxing the imminent orgasm up, up, up…

He swore softly as he eased his cock between my foot and his hand.

“Yes,” I hissed.

He again slid around the side of the chaise.  Moving his tongue down to explore my arch, his hand glided up the inside of my thigh.  The moment his fingers plunged into my wet pussy and brushed, perhaps accidentally, across my swollen clit, my body surrendered and my shoulders thrust back. 

I cried out.

Bliss won.  Laughter spilled from my lips. 

And Monsieur Sexy tilted his head aside my knee and winked at me.

***

Early evenings usually provided a slump in the parade of curious tourists who wandered into the map shop facing the Seine.  Fine by me.  My mind was free to wander as I absently dusted the map drawers.  I’d tucked the Louboutins in my bag and wore them today.  Every step I took reminded me of his tongue lazing over my arch.  Of his hard cock rubbing against my soles, his hips rocking, his jaw tightening as he pleasured not only me, but himself as well.

My boss called me into the back room.  His voice startled me so abruptly from the fantasy I dropped the feather duster behind a wooden file cabinet.  I’d figure out a retrieval method later.

As soon as I saw Richard standing there in his button up Mr. Rogers sweater with a twinkle to his blue eyes, I knew he had found something that excited him.

I had too, but window voyeurism, plus a side order of foot fetish, was not something I would bring up in conversation with my boss.

He splayed his hands to sweep over the map he'd carefully laid on the drafting table before him.  The aged wood table that was pocked and slashed from years of use was tilted slightly so the map, unattached to the edges with the usual metal clamps, did not slide off.

"Something you found on your recent excursion to Scotland?" I wondered, lingering in the doorway. 

The room was small, and though he'd never made a pass at me, and I didn't feel as if he ever would, the closeness always felt odd.  Besides, my nipples were hard and my pussy wet after that little foray into remembrance. 
Bad puppy
.

"Yes, come take a look and tell me what you see."

He was fond of puzzles and muddling over the prizes he collected during his travels.  Sometimes he brought back a rare map, other times they were copies.  Most often he returned with dozens of reproductions because they sold for a good price, and quickly.

I approached the drafting table and, keeping my hands behind my back as I'd learned to do so I wouldn't absently touch what could be ancient and delicate paper, I inspected the yellowed map. 

"It's Milan," I said.

"Yes, yes.  Very good."

I'd never been to Italy but when one works in a map shop recognizing cities merely by shape becomes an unexpected talent.

"What year?" he quizzed.

"Hm…"  I studied the key on the lower left corner, which was elaborately framed with baroque curliques and a cupid.  (Always the cupid.)  I didn't read Italian, so the words were like Greek to me.  Make that Italian.  I recognized the city name and…  "Is this the year?"  I pointed to some words that I thought could have been numbers.

"Very good.  1496, actually."

"Ah.  Medieval Milan.  Nice.  Who drew it?"

"That's for you to puzzle out."

"But you already know, right?"

"I have my suspicions.  Look at it a while.  I'm sure something will catch your eye that will lead you down the same path I've already explored.  Tea?"

He turned to the tea service behind him, and I nodded.  Richard brewed a killer mint tea spiked with lime.  Like a hot little mojito in a cup, I'd once said to him.  He hadn't understood the reference, or my thrill, so I'd restrained myself from mentioning that it would have tasted super with a shot of rum.

Lime-tinged mint filled the room as he poured.  And I studied the map, blessedly relieved that this fascinating challenge had diverted my lusty thoughts while standing in such a small space with my boss. 

Old maps were gorgeous, works of art in and of themselves.  Before landing this job I'd never appreciated their beauty.  Now, I had begun my own collection, and I was searching for a post-Revolutionary New Republic Parisian map that featured all of the changed names the city had endured for those years.  Nôtre Dame, the Temple of Reason?  I had to find that map.

"This symbol looks familiar."  I hovered a fingertip over the circular design of intricately woven ribbon.  Knotwork, actually.  A monogram of sorts rested in the middle.  "Where have I seen it before?  On another map?"

"Unlikely," he provided.  "But that symbol is your key to naming the cartographer who designed this map."

I tugged out my cell phone.  "Do you mind if I take a picture of it?"

"Go ahead.  Take a shot of the whole map and various parts of it.  You know I'm not going to reveal who I think made this until you provide your own guess."

I snapped a few shots, smirking to myself.  The man was eccentric, but sweet. Turning around, and shoving my phone back in the front pocket of my skirt, I was handed tea. 

"To new discoveries," he pronounced

We toasted with a ting of our glass teacups against one another.

Chapter
Five

Dinner at Angelina with Melanie was a treat that we indulged in. Because Melanie was uber-busy, always jet-setting the world, our standing date at Angelina became a priority for us.  We cancelled meetings for it.

Melanie’s job title wasn’t exactly clear, but party planner for foreign clients was close enough.  She spent half of the year in the States talking up potential clients for her firm, and the other half in Europe schmoozing the clients with alcohol, parties, and weekends spent at Marseilles sunbathing on yachts.  Or Greece.  Or the Bahamas.

Nice job if you could get it.  

Melanie and I were opposites on the scale of introvert to extrovert.  She could attract men at a party with a laugh and a flash of her bright green eyes.  She had that bold, carefree, Audrey Hepburn laugh that I found myself even worshipping at times.  And she was gorgeous, all six feet two inches of her, and miles of red hair that she tended to twist about her fingers while talking.  Mercy.

I strived never to refer to my hair as mousey or washed out.  It was chestnut, or at least that's the term that made me feel the best about the growing-it-out bob.  My blue eyes stood out, distracting from my plain hair.  I also liked my mouth.  It was perfectly shaped and soft—thanks to the sugar scrubs I used on it once a week.  I actually scrubbed my whole body with vanilla sugar all the time.  I did like to take care of myself.  My mother had taught me that if I didn't love myself first, no one else was going to.