Amanda's Guide to Love (21 page)

Rationale
: If you are over twenty-five,
chances are you’ve been around. While experience is attractive in men, it isn’t
something a woman wants to flaunt. No one expects you to be a virgin these
days, but informing your new boyfriend you’ve had eighteen lovers before him is
a
bad idea
. Believe us.

A
word of caution
:
If you insist on being honest, then by all means, go ahead and tell him about
all your former lovers. He may take your confession with equanimity and even
humor, but here’s what will happen next: (a) he’ll disappear from your life
(because, frankly, what man wants to compete with eighteen other men, all of
whom he imagines exceptionally well endowed); or (b) he’ll stay, but will have
a much harder time picturing you as a bride in a
virginal
white
wedding dress. Just saying.

Permissible
exception
: You are
allowed to tell your new boyfriend about your first lover and your most recent
one, letting him assume you haven’t had anyone in between.

Damage
control
: If he’s
too rational for his own good and insists there must have been others, then
just say, yes, there have been one or two but it was a long time ago. If he
still won’t let you off the hook, demanding names and details, dump him—he’s
going to be more trouble than he’s worth.

Pitfalls
to avoid:
(a)
saying too much, (b) not saying anything.

~ ~ ~

As
soon as she got home from work, Amanda launched into vacuum cleaning, dusting,
filing the papers on her desk, and rearranging cushions on her designer couch.

Kes was coming over at nine thirty
with Japanese takeout.

She was a little nervous, which she
chalked up to her perfectionism. He was going to see her apartment for the
first time, and she wanted him to be impressed. She wanted him to see it
through her eyes, to understand why she had refused to look for jobs outside
Paris.

At eight thirty, she decided the
place was as close to perfect as it could be and headed to the shower.

The first thing she saw as she
walked into the bathroom was Christophe the Spider. The furry black critter was
back, peeking out of the bathtub overflow hole. Amanda let out a frustrated
sigh. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the truth: the spider wasn’t
leaving of his own accord, and she was going to have to deal with him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she didn’t have time for
it, what with Kes arriving in less than an hour. She stepped into the tub and
turned the water on.

The spider watched her.

“You’re trespassing,” she said as
she shampooed her hair. “Your kind belongs outdoors and in dusty attics. But
not in my bathroom.”

Christophe seemed to be listening.

“Please leave, will you?” She
stared at him, her expression pleading. “Don’t force me to do wet work.”

Christophe stirred in a way that
appeared enthusiastic.

“Oh my God!” Amanda clapped her
hand to her forehead. “Are you suicidal?”

The spider didn’t move.

“Do you actually want me to
eliminate you?” She narrowed her eyes at the stubborn creature. “Or are you so
happy because you think ‘wet work’ means sprinkling you with water?”

Christophe just stared at her.

Jesus.

She shook her head in desperation
and finished her shower without saying another word or even looking at the
intruder. She would have to warn Kes about him just in case he had a phobia.

As it turned out, he didn’t.

“Hey there,” he said, squatting
down before Christophe. “So you’re Amanda’s roomie, huh?”

“Absolutely not. He’s a trespasser
and a stalker,” she said.

Kes looked up, grinning. “Does he
have a name?”

“Christophe.”

“What if Christophe is a girl?”

“He’s a boy.” Amanda rolled her
eyes. “I’m being daft. I just . . . had to call it something.”

“He does look like a boy.”

She crouched next to Kes. “What if
he’s venomous?”

“Nah. Christophe is harmless—to
humans, at any rate.” He stood up. “Will you show me the rest of your
apartment?”

She led him to the living room,
where she’d set the coffee table for their dinner in front of the TV.

“Why don’t you put your stuff
here?” She motioned to the empty space between the bowl of cherry tomatoes and
the bottle of mineral water.

He set the sushi boxes and the
bottle of Chablis on the coffee table.

“We can eat first, if you’re
hungry, and then I’ll show you the bedroom,” she said with a saucy smile.

“I’d rather see the bedroom first.”

Her smile grew wider. “Then we’d
better put the sushi into the fridge.”

When sushi and wine were safely
inside Amanda’s powder-blue Smeg, Kes took a step toward her.

The closeness of his hard,
beautiful body made her dizzy.

For a moment, they just looked at
each other. He moved closer still and bent his head down a little. She tilted
hers back. He stared, his obsidian eyes locked on her mouth.

Her gaze wandered over his irises,
his thick lashes, his out-of-this-world eyebrows, and his yummy lips. She breathed
him in. He smelled clean and a little salty, like the air of his native
Camargue. Correction—he smelled like the Camargue air spiced with . . .
sandalwood?

No, something tangier.

Whatever that essence was, it fit
him perfectly, making his scent so intoxicating it messed with her brain on a
deep, chemical level.

The anticipation of holding him in
every shameless way she wanted and kissing him as if the sky were falling was
incredibly erotic. It made Amanda’s blood quicken in her veins and her pelvis
ache and clench, soaking her lacy underwear.

She put her arms around his neck
and dissolved into his kiss.

Later, when she replayed the
evening in her mind, she couldn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She
must have led him there while they were kissing. And undressing, judging by the
trail of discarded clothes on the floor.

In the bedroom, they stroked and
kissed each other everywhere until he backed her to the bed and stretched out
over her. Amanda gasped, welcoming the weight of his body. So snug, so right.
She spread her thighs, and he moved between them.

His eyes locked on hers; he braced
himself on his arms and entered her.

She moaned softly and wrapped her
thighs around his hips.

With every delicious stroke, her
eyes closed so she could focus on her sensations more fully. But she forced
them open again. The position offered her a view of his chest, shoulders, and
neck that was too precious to miss. She wanted to feast her eyes on his
masculine beauty while he made love to her.

His thrusts grew harder, and
Amanda’s moans, louder.

Oh, the vigor of him, the strength
in his arms, the overflowing vitality of his muscled body. Lying beneath him,
filled with him, she quivered from the power of the life force he was pouring
into her.

“My gadji, my sweet gadji,” he
rasped.

When her body tensed and her legs
trembled with the intensity of her release, he said something else—a raw,
feverish word in a language she didn’t understand.

“
Kamotoute.
”

He came after that, growling his
pleasure into the air and collapsing on top of her.

For a few long moments, they clung
to each other, their bodies still joined, sweaty and spent.

He kissed her and rolled over.

For a while, they just lay on their
backs, his long fingers interlaced with hers.

When her breathing calmed, Amanda
turned to her side, facing away from him. It was only ten thirty, but the
prospect of getting up for the dinner they’d planned seemed too overwhelming to
contemplate. He drew closer and hugged her from the back, curving his warm hard
body around hers.

Hard
everywhere
.

“I
want you,” he whispered in her ear.

“Again?”

His pushed her hair to the side and
kissed the back of her neck. “If I had you a thousand times already, I’d still
want more. Looks like I’m hooked.”

She turned to face him and smirked.
“Fear not, it’ll pass. It’s just—”

He silenced her with a
searing kiss.

* * *

When Amanda woke up, Kes was
half-awake, his breathing still even but not as deep as when he slept. She put
her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and the delicious warmth of his
skin. Then she reached for his face and touched the back of her hand to his
cheek. His morning stubble grated against her skin, creating a most pleasurable
contrast of rough and soft, masculine and feminine. She enjoyed the sensation
for a few moments before she flipped her hand to caress the side of his face.

He smiled with his eyes still shut
and shifted his head slightly, leaning into her palm. His scent had changed a
little compared to last night. It was less sandalwood and more salt, and she
found herself wishing that if heaven existed, it would smell like him now.

Amanda propped her head on her
elbow to gain a better view of his face and muttered, “I can’t believe I’m
still tipsy.”

“On what? I don’t recall us
drinking any wine last—”

“On you.”

His eyelids fluttered open. “Why,
Mademoiselle Roussel, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it to be nice. Just
factual. It’s actually quite annoying.”

“Not from my perspective.”

“Hmm . . .” She
traced the contours of his face, thoughtful. “Must be your pheromones. I bet
your levels are higher than average.”

He gave a falsely innocent look.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not for me. I don’t . . .”
She struggled to find the right words. “I like it when things are compartmentalized.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lust and sex belong in the night.
Morning is when reason rules, when my mind is at its clearest. It’s when I jump
up from the bed and get busy.”

“And instead you’re lingering here,
still tipsy on me,” he prompted.

“Exactly.”

“Cheers, then.” He gripped the back
of her head and kissed her on the mouth.

She lifted her thigh and wedged it
between his.

He broke the kiss and wrinkled his
brow apologetically. “I really need to pee.”

She drew back, letting him stand.

He turned around halfway to the
door. “Don’t move, OK? I’ll be back in a minute.”

When he reappeared in the doorway,
she was sitting on the bed, wrapped in her satiny bedroom robe.

“Damn.” He sat down next to her.
“Can we rewind to where we were before my bladder ruined everything?”

“No can do.” Amanda shrugged.
“Anyway, we can’t just hang out and do what we feel like doing.”

“Why not? It’s Sunday.”

“Because it’s . . . wrong.”

“Amanda, why can’t you just relax
and let things take care of themselves every once in a while?”

She chewed on her lip. “The last
time I let things take care of themselves, they went very, very wrong.”

“What happened?”

“You really want to know?”

He nodded.

“The love of my life realized that
another woman was the love of his, and he dumped me.”

“You’re talking about Rob, I
presume.”

“And Lena.”

“Let me tell you a story.”

She sighed. “If you must.”

“There was a man who always
expected the worst. He lived a charmed life—blessed with good health and a
wonderful family. But he was always on his guard and never, ever happy. He died
of old age, surrounded by his wife, children, grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren. Just before his heart stopped beating, they heard him
mutter, ‘I knew this was going to end badly.’ ”

She shrugged. “And the moral of the
story is?”

“You tell me.”

Amanda gave him a defiant look.
“The key to a perfect life is to be on your guard and unhappy at all times.”

He threw his hands up in defeat.
“You need help, ma belle. I’d say a dozen sessions with a psychoanalyst or
three with my grandmother.”

“I’m fine, thank you
very much.” She stood. “If anyone needs help around here, it’s you. For your
gambling addiction.”

An hour later, she emerged from the
bathroom waxed, moisturized, and fragrant. Kes lay on his stomach across the bed,
reading a book.

Her
Guide to Perfection
.