The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (10 page)

I wasn't much of a note taker or record keeper in my personal life, though it was probably because my job consisted of compiling notes for others.  Something about that gold notebook called to me though.  The bee was impressed within the leather, an imprint of something having once been there.  Like a man's thumbprint upon a woman's thigh, or the slightest curve of a tooth left against the skin.  I had a thing for bees.  Once they left the planet, we humans would be hopeless regarding maintaining sustainable food supplies.

Save the bees!

I looked up, expecting to see the old proprietor standing there with his warm smile.  Instead, I followed a dark gray business suit sleeve up, and saw a tall man talking with another.  My heart gave a whoop.  The tall man was
him
.

And then my heart shivered.  The anxiety that I'd suffered at the grocery store returned, but much subtler this time because I'd been through this once already.  It could be another case of mistaken identity. 

What was it about manifesting that which you most desired in everything you saw?

"Seriously?  Is it really him?"

Yes.  I knew him well through glass.  Even dressed in a suit. 

I marveled at the suit, and thought through all the possible reasons that he, a man whom I had guessed worked from home, would be out in the city wearing said suit.  And here we stood, closer than close.  The risk of him walking out the shop door and right into me was great. 

I felt confidant that should he turn toward the door, I could sneak around to the narrow alleyway not ten steps away. 

It was a weird coincidence, us both being here at this particular time on this particular day.  But then I reminded myself that there are no coincidences in life.  Everything happens for a reason.

I believed in fate and destiny.  That's why I didn't dash off.  The universe had put us in close proximity for a reason.  I had to stick around and see what developed.  But I kept the alley in peripheral view.

He held up a leather-wrapped pen and was explaining something to the old store owner.  Were they discussing the quality craftsmanship?  Monsieur Sexy seemed like a man who would appreciate fine tailored goods.   Black tennis shoes.  No way.  Bespoke suits?  Yes, please.

I could let those fantasies wander for days.  I'd once read a meme online—likely at Pinterest—that went something like: as lingerie is to a man, a well-tailored suit is to a woman. 

Meowr.  Nummy.

Distracted by my thoughts, I wasn't even sure when he had turned to look out the window.  Directly at me.  His eyes widened in surprise, and then softened.  His familiar smile lessened my skyrocketing anxiety, but not my thudding heart.  I managed that silly little wave I did when I greeted him naked from my bedroom window.  I was fully clothed now.  So why did I feel more exposed than I ever had before?

Probably because he'd caught me staring at him unawares.  Would he dash outside and speak to me?  Demand to know why I was spying on him?  I hadn't been, but he couldn't know that.  He might think that I had followed him here.

What he did next set my heart to a crazy flutter.

He pressed his palm against the window, above the pretty hand-tooled notebooks.  Right there, but a foot from my face.  I'd never stood in such close proximity to him before.  It freaked me out.  My skin grew clammy, and then in the next second, flushed warm.  Being this close to him unsettled me, and made me want to dash for cover.  Yet my feet remained planted.

I lifted my hand and placed it against the pane, matching my fingers to his.  The glass was cold, but I swear it heated so quickly it was as if we stood palm to palm.  An intimate moment stolen amidst the mundane, while the ordinary world moved around us as voyeurs to our touch.

It was a touch.  Our first. 

I parted my lips to speak, feeling as if I should say something.  Then words felt wrong, too intrusive.  Just he and I, our eyes locked in a comfortable stare.  A close gaze that read me like a book.  His eyes were gray, but a bluish, end-of-day-sky gray.  I owned a tee shirt that color.  Faded and so comfy.  I wanted to climb into those eyes, snuggle up and never leave.  He'd welcome me in; I knew that he would.

The old man reappeared, and without removing his hand from the glass, my guy turned and said something to him.  My guy.  He must be making a purchase.  He turned back to me, lifted a brow, and waited.

I felt as if he might stand there all day, his hand pressed against the window.  I could, too.  The world could fall away and we would remain, holding up the glass that wasn't so much a barrier to us, as it was an entry into our souls.  But surely someone on the street would question sooner or later and ruin our moment.

Reluctantly, I took my hand away, then kissed it and blew him the regretful farewell.  He caught it against his heart.  The twinkle in his sky-gray eyes was there before his lips registered the smile. 

I was undone.  I wasn't sure my feet could move me away from such a sight, but I knew for certain that they would not walk me across the store's threshold.  Nor would he come out.  We had our rules. 

The touch had been enough.

Smiling to myself, I turned and almost stumbled as I took that first step off the curb.  Somehow I landed my other foot quickly enough, but I could still feel the mis-step in my heart.  I knew some part of me wanted to turn back, to look over my shoulder. 

I shook my head and walked onward.

I wanted to keep memories of our touch fresh and alive.  I pressed the hand I'd held to the glass over my mouth.  My lips were soft against my warm fingers, and a smile pushed up my cheeks.

My heart sang.

Chapter
Eight

Sitting up in bed, I stretched my arms over my head, and winced at the bright sunlight.  It was too early.  Seven a.m. according to the alarm clock, but I couldn't sleep.  I'd forgotten to close the curtains after spending the evening reading, while waiting for Monsieur Sexy to show in the window. 

He had not.  He must have had an entire evening of errands, or perhaps a visit to a friend's house that had kept him out late?  Or maybe he had a business meeting given the way he'd been dressed?  I didn't want to over think where he'd been.  That way lie Crazytown.

I was due in at the map shop by nine-thirty, so I dragged myself upright and slid off the bed, expertly landing my feet in pink fuzzy slippers.  I'd slipped on the soft blue-gray tee shirt after arriving home last night.  The color of his eyes.  Mm…  I tugged it up and buried my face in the softness.  A smile was irrepressible.

Leaning forward, I stretched out my arms, which tugged at my back muscles.  The bed was comfy, but sometimes I slept on my stomach and that screwed up my body's natural alignment. 

Glancing out the window, I noticed that his curtains were open.  The way the sun avoided his window for mine allowed me to see well into his room, even without lights.  He lay on the bed, his arms splayed, eyes closed.  White sheets were strewn haphazardly across his legs.  And…

"Wow."  I pressed my nose to the window to get a better look at the upright action across the way.  "Now that's some impressive morning wood."

Feeling not even a little guilty for observing his secret hard-on while he slept, I observed the natural phenomenon, teeth sucking in the corner of my lip.  Men were supposed to have erections all through the night, but mornings were their peak 'wood' time.  Or so I'd probably read in some woman's magazine.  Who ordered a study like that?  And could I volunteer to be a watcher throughout the night?

I wondered if he always slept naked?  He usually walked around in his boxer briefs.  I guess I hadn't paid attention to see if he put them back on after our window jack n' jill session.

Did it matter?  Not in the least.

His penis jutted up proudly, tilted toward his stomach as the weight of it pulled it down.  Oh, mercy, the weight of it.  I could imagine taking it in hand, wrapping my fingers around it.  The girth looked…substantial.  I might not be able to touch fingertip to fingertip.  I preferred a nice thick cock.  Girth was far more important than length.  I loved to feel the tug and pull of it sliding in and out of me, to sense that it was almost too thick to enter.  Not that he was slacking in the length department at all.  Far from it.

Curling my fingers against my chest, I sighed.  "I’d like to grab hold of that and not let go.  What you would feel like inside me, Monsieur Sexy." 

I sighed again, because that's all I could do. 

Well, I could jill off.  My nipples were hard, and my pussy probably wouldn't need more than a few strokes to get wet.  But it felt squicky to take advantage of him that way; to exploit his lacking awareness while he slept.

I blew his cock a kiss, then tiptoed to the shower.  Now, far from the eyes of a man who may wake and grip his hard-on, I directed the shower stream upward and landed it between my legs.  The massage mode thumped water against my folds and awakened all the important nerve endings.  I hummed deep in my throat and tilted my head forward, catching my free hand against the slick tile.

Putting one foot on the edge of the tub, I focused the water on my clit.  Pulse.  Shudder.  Pulse.  Fingers curled against the tiles.  It didn't take long to come.  And when I did, I gripped the showerhead with my free hand and cried out. 

Someday I would grip his cock instead of a bathroom appliance.

***

Richard beckoned me into the back room before I could flip the Ouvert sign on the front door to announce that we were open.  I'd forgotten about the map.  I'd printed the pictures from my phone, but then hadn't given them a second glance. 

The old map still lay proudly displayed on the drafting table.  Mint tea brewed nearby.

"Any ideas yet?" he asked eagerly.

"Nothing's come to mind, though I intend to search the internet for the symbol tonight." 

I'd simply been too busy to think about dusty old maps.  Especially with a sexy, naked man—with no compunctions whatsoever about flashing me—right across the street.  Directing me to do naughty things.  And joining in.  And oh, that pretty morning wood.

My chest heated and I fanned myself.  Summoning an excuse felt necessary.  "A little warm in here this morning.  You should call the air conditioning company, Richard.  Customers will linger longer if it's cool in the store."

"I don't need lingerers who have no intention of buying and simply want to hang out in the cool air until they head off to the next tourist stand hawking cheap scarves and plastic key rings."

I shoved a hand in my skirt pocket, fondling the fob attached to my front door key.  It wasn't plastic but it did read
I
hear
t
Paris.  I'd bought it at the shop two doors down.

"Besides, it's actually rather cool.  You feeling okay?"

"Uh, yes," I offered.  "Must be this warm sweater." 

"Come closer."  Richard beckoned to the map.  "Take it in again."

I wasn't sure what I'd see this time, but I wasn't one to disappoint an old man.  Though Richard wasn't that old.  In fact, he couldn't be more than forty-five.  While that was almost twice my age, he looked good.  If it weren't for the futsy sweaters, wrinkled khakis, and leather loafers that were his uniform, I’d call him seasoned.

"Close your eyes," he suggested.  When I balked, he added, "Use all of your senses.  It’s the only way to truly discover.  Draw in the scent of the paper and the ink."

I guess it wouldn't hurt to humor him.  I closed my eyes and leaned over the map, briefly imagining the man catching a good look at my ass.  That sent another flush to my chest, so I averted my attention back to the paper.  And…it did have a scent. 

"Old," I confirmed.  "Musty.  Maybe…damp?  And a little salty."

"Very good.  Now feel the paper.  Run your finger along the edges carefully and remember how I've taught you to respect the paper."

I carefully drew my forefinger down the serrated edge, expecting it to be soft and smooth like the deckled edges on the innards of a hardcover book, but instead it was brittle.  I lightened my touch.

"Taste it," he encouraged.

Closing my eyes and leaning way over I stuck out my tongue—

"Oh, dear no!"  He grabbed me back from the map by an arm.  "I was kidding about that one.  I don't want you licking my prized map.  But you take directions well, eh?”

I flushed at that comment.  I didn’t think he’d meant it to sound sexual, but…

“Now!"  He clapped his hands together.  "More details to add to your quest for the map's creator, eh?"

"Yes.  I sometimes forget how much the senses work in tandem."

"Oh, yes indeed.  You can't simply stare at a thing and expect to truly learn anything about it."

Like staring through glass at a naked man?  I'd learned a lot about Monsieur Sexy.  He preferred body-hugging underwear, though apparently he didn't sleep in them.  He could be playful and liked to dance when he thought no one was looking.  He was proud of his body, but didn't seem narcissistic.  And his eyes could devastate a woman's wanting heart.

"You need to incorporate all the senses," Richard continued, oblivious to my straying thoughts. "Immerse yourself in the subject.  Make a sense memory of the piece.”