Chapter 3
Chapter Three
O ur trip to Paris was uneventful except my August group was proving challenging in the enthusiasm stakes. Maybe poor Laura had dragged in some kind of mood killer that was affecting everyone.
Whatever it was, it made my plans to go see Pierre after our first-night information session was over even more enticing.
I rode the elevator to the hostel’s rooftop bar alone. It surprised me how good my new lingerie felt. Not only did I feel sexy, but I was also contained. It was a lace miracle.
I couldn’t wait for Pierre to see me in this pink matching bra and panties. Just the thought of his reaction had my insides thrumming like my body was playing harp strings.
The elevator door opened to the thumping music and vibrant crowd that was synonymous with Haute Voltage . Our group was in the roped-off area. Strolling toward them, I spied two things. One was the Eiffel Tower, beautifully lit up in the distance.
The other was poor Laura. The forlorn expression on her face had those lovely harp strings that’d been humming through me yanking right out. She looked to be a million miles away from the partying crowd around her. The wine glass in her hand was still brimming with the yellowy liquid, confirming she hadn’t touched it. She was flanked by the South African twins and three more female tourists from our group.
Other than Laura, the women had obviously snapped out of whatever funk had gripped them during the bus trip here as they were now glowing with smiles and jiggled to the catchy beat played by the DJ in the far corner.
Planting a grin on my face, I joined them. “Hey, ladies.”
They all replied with varying versions of hello. Laura’s eyes met mine and the sorrow flooding them deflated my heart. “Hey, Laura, are you okay?”
She nodded.
“If you want to talk, I’m here.”
Again, she nodded. I got the impression that if she attempted to say anything, it’d open giant floodgates that she was fighting to keep closed.
“Or I can send Roman over to cheer you up.” Roman could make even a death row inmate feel better.
All the women turned to Roman who was standing a few feet away with a group of six men. Maybe he felt our attention because he turned at the perfect moment to the seven smiling women looking at him. His balls probably swelled to coconuts as his grin expanded to spectacular.
Roman was so freaking sexy that I wouldn’t be surprised if half these women had wet dreams about him tonight. Hell, make it all of them. Except me of course. Roman was my coworker. And he was younger than me. He was off-limits.
Besides, he’d already demonstrated how little he was interested in me. My ghastly boob-squish moment last tour was a testament to that.
Admittedly, I’d been drunk and had probably looked like a bloated pufferfish as I’d puckered my lips at him. But according to Zali, any normal man would’ve jumped my bones, or at the very least, had a grope.
Then again, Roman was not normal.
His smile alone confirmed he was a man on top of the world—a man who had his shit together. I dragged my eyes from him to the six women around me, all of whom were still staring at Roman. They liked what they saw. And what woman wouldn’t?
Roman should have shot his hand up when America’s Next Top Model was casting for their upcoming round of male contestants.
These women were all gorgeous in their own way—young, vibrant, beautiful, and sexy.
An idea flashed through my mind like wildfire. I should hook him up with one of them. Or maybe the twins, together.
Faarrk. Where the hell did that come from?
When the twins turned their gaze back to me, guilty spikes attacked me like a thousand devils’ pitchforks.
I am sick. Perverted.
Five weeks ago, sex never entered my mind. Now, I was even conjuring up kinky stuff for other people.
I need my head read.
It was close to nine-thirty before Roman and I finished our welcome speeches, and everyone began to disperse.
Roman singled me out, sashaying over to me like he owned the place. “Hey, Red.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a way that I assumed I was meant to interpret.
“Hey, Roman.” I wiggled mine right back at him. But it wasn’t that easy, and I probably looked like I was having some kind of cyborg meltdown.
“So, I guess you’re hooking up with Pierre again.”
“What? No. Why do you think that? ”
He looked at me like I was a weirdo. “Because you haven’t stopped smiling since we left London.”
“Oh, so I can’t smile anymore?”
“There’s a smile, and then there’s that smile.” He bumped his hip to mine.
I chuckled. “That smile?”
“Yeah, the one that says I am getting laid tonight .”
I burst out laughing. I knew all the smiles.
The one that said, ‘I’m okay’ when I wasn’t.
The one that said, ‘I’m enjoying your company, but I’d rather have a pap smear.’
The one that said, ‘thank you, boss, you’re the best’ when really, I wanted to stab a pencil through his eyeball.
But I didn’t think I’d mastered the ‘I’m getting lucky’ smile.
When my insides purred like a cat, I wondered if maybe I had. But this tour wasn’t about me. It was about Roman. I bumped my hip right back at him. “What about you? Any of the women in our group grab your attention?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I do. All of them.”
“Ha-ha. You’re funny.”
“Jesus, Roman, are you blind? The women I was standing with were drooling over you.”
He pursed his lips. “No, they weren’t.”
“Uhhh, yeah they were.” What the hell? He really didn’t see it. I studied his handsome features. Could it be that this Italian God really didn’t know how stunning he was? It’d be a first to meet a guy in that category. In my thirty-one tours with Vacation Dreamz, I’d met a lot of hot, single men, and maybe it was the energy of being a tourist that brought out their cockiness, but just about every one of them thought their shit didn’t stink.
“I’m going to take these guys to that bar I went to last month. There’s no need to ask you if you want to come. Right?”
I smiled up at him. “I’m that obvious, huh?”
“It’s not a bad thing. You have my number if you need me. If not, I’ll see you in the morning.”
A flicker of something flashed across his eyes—concern, disappointment, confusion? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it. Roman really did need fixing. After tonight, I was going to kick my wing-woman skills into overdrive.
Roman’s smile lit up his face, and rubbing his hands together, he turned from me and strode to the men. “All right, guys, finish your drinks. Let’s get going.”
The nine of us crammed into the elevator, and I remained silent as their excited banter bounced from one thing to the next. Not for the first time, I wished I was a master at small talk.
That missing skill was probably a remnant from my childhood when I spent nearly every waking moment trying to dodge discussions. I preferred to play with stray, flea-bitten animals than risk revealing just how different I was.
Any other single, twenty-nine-year-old woman riding an elevator with eight hot, available men would’ve practically humped the leg nearest to her.
I wasn’t like other women.
My crazy childhood had instigated my detachment from my female counterparts and the void had grown greater as each birthday had rolled around. I was as freaky as a third nipple. But this freaky chick was about to get her freak on with Pierre. Yay, me.
In my room, I brushed my teeth and fiddled with my wild hair until I gave up. I contemplated applying a few products from my first collection of makeup in decades, that the lovely assistant at Selfridges had helped me choose. Foundation maybe? Lipstick? Or a touch of powder or rouge? But then I remembered Pierre’s comment that he hated women who hid behind a fa?ade. With the image of his gorgeous chocolate eyes devouring me with their intensity, I grabbed my bag and trotted out my door.
In the elevator, I tugged at my new top, adjusting it over my bust. It was a simple white blouse with a dozen cute pearl buttons down the middle that added a touch of class. I’d deliberately left the top button undone. Usually, I hid my body from prying eyes. Especially my breasts.
But last month, being naked in front of those stunning men, Pierre, Luca, and even Oscar, had changed me. Based on their reactions, they’d all liked what they’d seen. And I’d liked watching them watch me.
Mother had started my hatred for my body. William had taken that hatred to a level of disgust. They’d made me believe I was a freak.
But thanks to my newfound libido, I’d learned that being a freak wasn’t so bad. My body wasn’t hideous, it was just different.
Different in a good way.
Strolling along Avenue de Saint-Gwendolyn, still hyper-aware of my sexy lingerie, I admired the twinkle lights embellishing the trees. I inhaled the delicious aromas the restaurants somehow managed to waft out their doors. And I smiled like a woman who was about to get lucky.
Ha, Roman was right—I probably do have that smile.
And I feel so freakin’ sexy.
Who’d have thought a touch of lacy lingerie could do that? I couldn’t wait to see Pierre’s expression as I undressed. To feel his warm hands caress my breasts. To be swept up in his passion.
I picked up my pace.
By the time I arrived at his restaurant, my heart was galloping and my insides were dancing. With my breath trapped in my throat, I stepped across the threshold and despite the subtle music, a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the back.
The restaurant was empty of patrons. But the dirty plates and lipstick-stained wine glasses on one long table confirmed that hadn’t been the case all night.
Pierre stepped out of the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. His gaze landed on me, and his expression morphed from pleasant to incredible.
Just seeing his eyes light up was enough to have me tearing my clothes from my body. I reined that thought in with mental images of that poor couple who’d endured my impromptu strip show last time.
One of the lessons I’d learned last month, besides checking my surroundings before I stripped, was restraint. Pierre had shown me the glory of foreplay.
I was willing to explore a hell of a lot more of that magic.
Pierre stepped toward me, arms open, smile wide, and sporting a look of desire that had my insides pirouetting.
“Daisy. You look ravishing tonight.”
He said all the right things.
Clutching hands, we kissed each other’s cheeks. I inhaled his glorious cologne.
When had I become so aware of men’s scents?
William had spent a fortune on cologne, but he never smelled as good as the European men I’d met.
“Allow me to cook for you, please.” He placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me to my table.
Cook? I wasn’t here to eat.
I wanted to decline. To say we had much more fun things to do.
But this was his restaurant, his livelihood. It was wrong of me to expect him to sacrifice that.
He tugged out a chair and fussed over me, ensuring I was comfortable, and draping a napkin over my lap in a way that was inexplicably both sexy and efficient.
He dashed off to get me a champagne and all I could think of was downing that drink as quickly as possible so I could get into his pants.
Oh, God. Did I really just think that?
Bloody hell, what was wrong with my unforgiving brain? As Zali kept reminding me, I was a single woman with a healthy libido who’d been deprived of nourishment for way too long. I was just catching up.
Yet the niggling thoughts that I was just like my mother persisted.
Mother slept with any man she could get into bed—young, old, ugly, really ugly, single, married. It didn’t matter.
At least I had morals. I could never have sex with someone who was married. Roman’s ex-girlfriend had done that too and look how much he was hurting because of her.
So wrong.
Pierre returned with a glass of Louis Roederer champagne along with a crystal tumbler with cognac for him. We clinked glasses and I sipped the delicious champagne, hoping the drink would settle my racing mind.
“I am so pleased you are here, Daisy. We will make love, yes?”
The bubbles in my mouth shot right out my nose.
I coughed and spluttered and blurted an apology.
Pierre rubbed my back. “I am sorry. That was impatient of me. You do that to me, Daisy. You drive me crazy.” He wriggled his brows and lowered his eyes to his groin.
Dabbing the napkin to my chin, I followed his gaze to the bulge in his pants.
Holy hotness.
Placing the napkin aside, I cleared my throat. “You know.” I curled my lip through my teeth. “I’m not actually hungry,” I lied. I was ravenous, but my stomach could wait.
His eyes danced from my cleavage to my lips, to my eyes, to the front door, and back again. He placed his hands on my cheeks and drew our lips together. Our kiss was soft yet intentional, with passion and familiarity that only two lovers could share.
Clutching my hands, Pierre eased back, his eyes absorbing me, his tongue slicking his lower lip. His attention had me believing I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
I could be the cover girl on any magazine.
I could turn heads, and not because I was a freak of nature, but because people envied me. They wanted to be like me. Big-boobed, frizzy-haired me. The woman who drove Pierre wild with lust.
I was on top of the world. Woo-hoo. It’s damn good to finally be up here.
Pierre raised a finger. “Wait here.”
He dashed off, and as I giggled at his eagerness, he whizzed around the restaurant like a man possessed, turning off lights, powering down equipment.
Within minutes, he was back at my side, apron removed, and I was pretty sure he’d refreshed his cologne. His delightful musk scent had me deciding that I needed my own fragrance. One that represented who I was. The one and only perfume I’d ever owned was a Christmas gift I’d received from William early in our relationship. I’d tossed it with the bulk of his leftover stuff when I’d kicked him out of our apartment.
I’d hated that perfume anyway—it had made me sneeze. It was the reason why I’d never ventured down the perfume aisle at Marks & Spencer.
Pierre rescued me from my tumbling thoughts by reaching for my hand and touching his lips to the back of my palm. “Shall we go, mon beau? ”
I blinked at him, at the dirty dishes lining the table behind him and back again. “Go? But what about?—”
“Not important.” He flicked his hand. “You, Daisy, are important.”
Giggling, I nodded. “Only if you are sure. I could help you?—”
He gasped. “No. No. No. We have no time to waste.” He stood, and holding my hand, eased me to standing. Kissing the back of my palm he then pulled back, grinning like a man who’d won a Ferrari.
Flipping the sign on the front door to closed, he shut it behind us and strode to his Vespa. A man on a mission. I tugged on the helmet, and he kicked the bike to life.
I wriggled onto the seat, clutched my arms around his waist, and reveled in all kinds of wonderful as Pierre whisked us through the busy streets.
My gaze snagged on one fascinating Paris scene after the next. My mind danced from the thrill of what we were doing now to what we were going to do once we reached his apartment. And despite the numerous potholes we scooted around and barreled through, my boobs managed to stay contained within the sheer lace of my bra.
It was a fashion marvel.
We left the bustling traffic and entered his narrow cobblestoned lane. His neighborhood had looked beautiful during the day—at night it was even more stunning. Twinkle lights dotted the balconies. Potted plants were bathed in a variety of colored decorations providing enough glow to see all the Vespas lined up like a sales presentation.
The neighbors looked to be competing for the best-presented home. I’d never seen anything like this growing up in trailer parks. Hell, we’d never even owned a potted plant—at least not a live one.
Pierre parked the Vespa outside his turquoise door and quickly hustled me forward. “Quick, get inside before Mrs. Bauchenne sees us.” He spoke in a hushed whisper as he wrangled the key into the lock.
The door banged open.
“Shit.” He scowled as we stumbled into his entranceway.
Dashing past a collection of shoes and umbrellas, we scrambled up the internal stairs, giggling like a pair of streakers on a nudie run.
At the top, I tossed my handbag onto the nightstand beside the bed and turned, ready to jump Pierre’s bones. In a flash we were kissing. Our hands were all over each other.
Greedy. Hungry.
I clawed my fingers through his hair, down his back, over the bulge in his pants. He squeezed my breasts, thrust his hips forward, and moaned enough to confirm I was driving him wild.
He heaved a breath and eased backward, his eyes alive.
I, too, was alive, glowing from the inside out—every nerve pulsed to a delicious beat.
Pierre whipped his shirt off, and it was like a starter gun had sounded. We clambered to get undressed like we’d crumble into a million quivering pieces if we didn’t get naked. Now.
He yanked off his shoes and tossed them aside.
I did the same, removing my socks with them.
He yanked off his belt and tugged at his jeans. I fumbled with all those little buttons on my shirt, wishing I’d never found them so cute.
I was at my last button when I glanced at Pierre.
He was naked, his mighty erection pointing right at me. The light from the kitchen cast a lovely glow over his muscular torso like he was one of those male review dancers about to perform. And my oh my, I was so ready for that performance.
Holy smokes.
His rock-hard cock confirmed he was too.
He strode to me, curled his hand around my neck and kissed me.
Tingles of pleasure sizzled up my scalp and down to my pulsing pussy.
I drove my fingers through his hair, grabbed a handful, and pulled him toward me. Our tongues dueled in a fierce battle to taste each other.
I reached around and clutched his butt. The delicious mound was putty in my fingers.
I’m a wild woman.
With our lips locked together, my hand left his rump and inched around to his front. Pierre stepped his feet apart. He was not shy. It was one of the things I liked about him . . . his sexual confidence.
William had been the exact opposite.
I obliterated that untimely comparison by reaching between Pierre’s legs. I cupped his balls, feeling their weight.
They were heavy. They were hot. They were utterly glorious.
A groan tumbled from his throat and vibrated across his tongue. His reaction was the sexiest aphrodisiac in the world. Continuing my exploration, I released his balls and wrapped my fingers around his shaft.
Pierre was thick and ready.
A hot, hard pole, sheathed in silky skin.
I had to look. Releasing him and easing back, I made a show of admiring his manhood.
A wicked smile crossed his lips as he curled his fingers around his cock and glided his hand along his glorious member. He sucked in a sharp breath and when his eyes rolled, I was front and center to an exquisite show of unbridled passion. “Look what you do to me, Daisy.”
“Hmmm. The question is, what are you going to do to me?” My question stunned me.
I, Daisy Chayne, was out of control. It felt so fucking good.
His eyes flared, and without a word, he reached for my last button, and as his fingers fumbled with the tiny obstruction, his lips met mine. Pierre was an incredible kisser. His tongue, his lips, his hands—everything worked together to absorb me into the moment.
I heard nothing. Saw nothing. It was just our lips, our tongues, us . . . together.
Stepping back, Pierre curled my shirt off my shoulder and tossed it aside. He looked down, his eyes widened, and a gasp left his throat. “ Ooh là là.”
His reaction to my lingerie was absolutely perfect. He curled his hands over my satin bra, gliding his finger beneath the edge of the pink lace. I tried to take in every glorious second. The extreme concentration on his face. The rise and fall of his chest. His mighty erection.
All of it drove me wild. I wanted his hot tongue on me before I imploded.
Reaching around, I unclipped my bra, tossing it onto the puddle of clothes on the floor. Being topless in front of a man would’ve horrified me a few weeks ago. Not anymore.
He fell to his knees and as I clutched a handful of his hair, he sucked my breast into his mouth. I was a dominatrix, demanding my lover take me to the limit.
Pierre succumbed to my wishes, licking, nipping, and sucking my breast until my nipple was a throbbing pebble.
Every nerve in my body tingled with anticipation.
He curved his hand beneath my boob, touching that sensitive part below my mound that barely received attention. The sensation was incredible, out of this world.
I hadn’t noticed he’d undone my pants until the fabric fell to my feet. Kicking them aside, I stood wearing just panties before my French lover.
My French lover.
Wow. I had a French lover.
I had to hold back a giggle.
With one hand on my breast, and his lips around my nipple, Pierre glided his hand up my inner thigh, each time inching closer to my lacy panties.
He was a patient lover. Closer and closer he probed, teasing my flesh, sucking my nipple.
“Please.” The word tumbled from my lips.
“Pardon?” He was a tease, drawing out my pleasure.
“Please, Pierre, do it.”
“Hmmm, what exactly does my lover want?”
Oh, God, his accent was so sexy.
“I want your finger inside me. Please.” I couldn’t believe I was begging, but damn it felt good.
Pierre slid my panties down, tossed the tiny piece of lace aside, and continued his exploration up my thigh. I bent my knees, holding my breath. My nipples were rock hard. My pussy was pounding out an urgent beat. My whole body was aching for his touch.
I clutched his head, ready to squeeze the life out of him if he didn’t oblige.
He slipped his finger into my throbbing hole and whatever he touched inside me shot delicious tingles along every nerve.
My growing orgasm was huge, mammoth even.
Closing my eyes, I let my body take over. I inhaled his glorious scent. His ragged breaths were in sync with my own. He added a second finger to his first, and clutching a handful of his hair, a groan tumbled from my throat. I was ready, oh so ready.
Pierre whipped his fingers out so fast I stumbled sideways.
He scrambled to his feet.
His eyes were wide, fear-driven wide, his erection enormous.
“Pierre.” I heard a woman’s voice. She was at the bottom of the stairs.