Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2) (45 page)

Sandrine spotted me immediately and ran over to me with open arms. We exchanged a typically French double cheek embrace.

“Ça va?”
she asked.

“
Ça va bien.”
I replied. “
Merci beaucoup
for helping me with Madame Paulette’s burial.”

“
Pas de problème
. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Like many Europeans, Sandrine spoke perfect English though she liked to throw in a little French. I, in turn, could conduct a conversation with her in French, thanks to Madame Paulette’s tutelage.

Sandrine was one of my favorite and most respected store managers. She was bright, organized, and always one step ahead. She ran the store with both a smile and an iron fist. Recently, at the age of thirty-two, she had become engaged to a successful, handsome doctor.

“Do you have a little time? I’d love to take you out for a drink to thank you for helping me and to celebrate your engagement.”

“For you, I always have
zee
time,” she said brightly.

We ended up going to a lively café that was a few doors down from the store. Over champagne, we caught up on business and then moved on to personal stuff. She was getting married in April—it was going to be a big Jewish wedding at her family’s country home in Provence.

“My
maman
eez
driving me crazy!” she sighed. “Everything she loves, I detest. Can you imagine… she wants jars of butterflies on every table that
zee
guests will set free after we say our vows!”

I laughed lightly. “At least you have a mother who cares about you,” I countered. A wistful expression fell over me. Sandrine was one of the few people, other than Kevin and Madame Paulette, who knew about my crack whore mother.

She twitched a guilty smile. “You’re right. She means well.” She sipped her champagne. “I hope you will come.”

I let her know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A big smile spread across her face.

“What about you, Gloria?
Eez
there anyone new in your life?”

Blushing, I shook my head and said, “Not really.”

“Gloria, I don’t believe you. Your face gives
eet
away. Spill
zee
beans as you Americans say.”

Draining my champagne, I broke down and told her all about Jaime—including the complications with Victor and Vivien, who she openly despised.

“Mon dieu!
This
eez
heavy. But I would have given my tongue to
zee
cat to see Vivien’s expression when she saw you and Jaime kissing at
zee
restaurant
. La putain!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. She’d just called Vivien a whore! Like Kevin, Sandrine could be so brutally honest. And a bit wicked. That’s why I adored her.

“So what does Monsieur Zahn-deur look like?”

The way she breathily said his name with her French accent sent me over the moon. I described Jaime to her, from head to toe, as if he were a painting in The Louvre. The words came so easy. In my mind, he was a work of art.

“He sounds like a hottie!”

I giggled. Usually the word “hottie” made me cringe, but the way she said it—HAH-tee—was charming. My cheeks heated.

My delightful French friend and colleague took a sip of her champagne. “Gloria, are you in love with him?”

“I’ve only known him for a week.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A loud sigh escaped my lungs.

“Ah, Gloria, you are! You are!
Mazel tov!”

I remembered Madame Paulette once telling me that sometimes
l’amour
slinks up to you like a cat; other times it attacks you like a lion. Jaime Zander was a sexy beast who had all but consumed me. I could no longer deny my feelings. Yes, I was hopelessly, helplessly head over heels in love with him.

My heart began to roar at the very thought of him touching me. Longing and lust surged through my body. I grasped my friend’s French manicured hand and murmured, “Sandrine, what should I do?”

“It
eez
simple. Don’t let him go.”

I smiled back. It never ceased to amaze me how wise French women were.

“But don’t tell him you love him until he tells
eet
to you.” More words of wisdom.

The check came. As we hugged good-bye, my sage friend whispered into my ear, “I’ll see the future Monsieur and Madame Zahn-deur at my wedding.”

When I got back to our hotel room, three dozen long-stemmed red roses, arranged in three tall crystal vases, awaited me. My heart melted. Mr. Zander was true to his word and a romantic.

I dipped my nose into one of the bouquets and inhaled deeply. The scent was divine. Intoxicating just like him.

“Hey.”

At the sound of his voice, I straightened up and caught sight of him stepping out of the bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes zeroed in on the deep “V” that emanated from it and then traveled up over his washboard abs and toned pecs. My gaze met his, and my breathing hitched.

“They’re beautiful!”

“My biceps?”

Conceited fuck!
I scrunched my nose.

“No, the roses.”

“Thanks.” He cocked a bashful smile as though the flowers were an embarrassing afterthought. Our eyes stayed locked on one another. Silence. My sex was throbbing, my heart pounding. I wanted to be lost in him. Neither of us moved. The seconds felt like hours.

“Get over here, you,” he said at last, and in a heartbeat, I was in his arms. We were at each other as if an apocalypse was dawning. Kissing, groping, stroking, licking. He lifted my sweater over my head, unable to get it off fast enough. Panting, I kicked off my ballet flats and said good-bye to my leggings. The towel fell off his torso, and we were fused together, flesh to flesh. With his mouth locked on mine, he walked me backward until I was sandwiched between him and a wall.

“Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he said, lifting me off my feet.

Our eyes level, I did as he asked, looping my long legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He gripped my ass to support me. Between my thighs, I felt his hot cock line up with my opening. “Gloria, you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to have you like this.”

“Shut up and fuck me.” I couldn’t believe my own words. I was begging for him.

“I’m going to give it to you hard.”

Oh, yes!

“Promise me you’ll scream my name like it’s the only word you know.”

“Girl Scout’s honor!” I gasped even though I’d never been one.

Satisfied, he slammed into me with a powerful thrust pushing me into the wall with the force of his body. We both cried out with carnal pleasure. As he got into a rhythm, he latched his hungry lips back onto mine, and I moved my hands to his face, cupping it in my palms. Our kiss deepened, our tongues locking together in an erotic dance. We moaned and groaned into each other’s mouths.

I squeezed my legs tighter around him as he picked up his pace. My breasts skimmed his chest, and my clit was pressed tight against his pubic bone, making the sensation of every deep thrust so much more intense. I was a sweaty, whimpering bundle of bliss on the verge of a major orgasm.

“Angel, I can’t fucking get enough of you,” he breathed against my mouth.

And I couldn’t get enough of him. The words, “I love you” were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit down on it to hold them in. Sandrine was right. He had to say them first. I drank in his sexy, heated face, longing for those three little words to form on his lips.

“Do I feel good?” he asked instead, his breathing harsh.

“Yes!” I cried. I was losing all control, a breath away from detonating.

“Good. I’m going to give you what you want.” He rewarded with me with a squeeze of my clit, and that’s all it took. I screamed his name for the first time over and over as an intense explosion of fireworks sprayed my core. He ground into me and came hard, shouting my name. I could feel his hot release pouring down my already drenched thighs. He rested his glistening forehead on mine, our heated breaths mingling. I stroked his damp hair.

“Fuck, Gloria. That was even better than I imagined,” he said hoarsely.

Confession: Wall banging was something I’d fantasized about ever since he’d mentioned it in his conference room. It had exceeded my expectations too. It was like a thrill ride—the kind you had to hold on to tightly or you might fall off. The experience was in a word: mind-blowing.

His breathing almost back to normal, he transferred my limp, glistening body into his arms and licked his upper lip. “I’m not done with you, Ms. Long.”

This man was insatiable. Though spent, I wasn’t done with him either. I wanted more. As he carried me away, the wildfire inside me burnt out of control, consuming every part of me. Sandrine was right. Even if he hadn’t said the three magic words, I couldn’t let him go.

We fucked our brains out again in the shower and then we hopped into his bed, minty clean, naked, and wasted. He spooned me into his body, wrapping one sculpted arm around my chest. The deft fingers of his other hand glided along my folds.

“You’re always wet for me, Gloria.”

“You’re not going to fuck me again?” I asked, trying to imagine what it would feel like in this cuddly position. It felt delicious to be blanketed by his warm body, and I was quite frankly unsure if I could handle another mind-blowing assault.

He nuzzled the nape of my neck. “No, angel, not even if you begged for it. We need to rest up for dinner and the surprise I have in store.”

“What kind of surprise?” The word made me buzz with lust and curiosity.

“Come on, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Now, close your eyes.”

Obeying him, I was shrouded in his scent, his breath, his touch. I reflected on this shift in power. Being dominated by a man was something new for me—uncharted territory. As I drifted off, I had to admit I was more than enjoying it. I loved it. And I loved him. Only one question weighed on my heart: Did he love me?

The restaurant Jaime took me to was an intimate neighborhood bistro, walking distance from the hotel. With its candlelit, red-checkered tablecloth tables and funky outsider art on the walls, it was definitely not the kind of restaurant where you’d find Victor Holden. Chances were he was holding court with his business associate and some hired high-priced female escorts at some posh club on the Right Bank.

We sat side by side like true Parisians along a red leather banquet. His thigh brushed against mine and our shoulders touched. When he turned to speak or look at me, his warmth breath grazed my flesh. He smelled delicious and looked as sexy as sin. He was clad in all black—elegantly tailored, belted wool slacks and a form-fitting cashmere sweater that clung to his prominent biceps and showed off broad, chiseled chest. Mr. Fucking Continental! I was wearing my blue chiffon dress, the one I’d worn when we went to dinner in New York with matching blue lace lingerie. Jaime had insisted I wear it along with my hair down; the least I could do was oblige. It was a small concession but nonetheless piqued my curiosity.

“Why this outfit?” I asked after a sip of the expensive Côtes du Rhône white wine he’d ordered.

“Because, Ms. Long, it makes you very surprise-worthy.”

A shiver zigzagged down my spine. He still hadn’t given me a clue into the surprise he had planned. Though I was sure it had to do with lifting up the skirt of my dress and doing some very naughty things. My nerve endings tingled at the thought of the possibilities. While the meal in front of me, a delicate poisson au beurre, looked delectable, I had a hard time eating it when I knew this gorgeous man was totally eye-fucking me. His denim blue eyes burnt into mine. I squirmed, my panties soaking with desire while my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.