Lovehoney Erotic Fiction: Take Your Partner and Other Tales of Seduction by Lily Harlem

Author:Lily Harlem [Harlem, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908887108
Publisher: Lovehoney
Published: 2012-11-27T00:00:00+00:00

Paris By Moonlight

by Justine Elyot

So far I have only seen his hand, but a very fine hand it appears to be. It is sometimes clutching a document, or holding a telephone receiver, or the fingers—long fingers—tap at a keyboard. If the dove-grey jacket sleeve were a little shorter, I might be able to see his naked wrist… oh, how starved must I be that I salivate at the prospect of seeing a wrist? It will be slender yet strong, weighed down by the linkchain of an expensive watch; fine hairs will catch the golden light from the desk lamp, complementing his deep tan. The underside, though, will be pale and vulnerable and dabbed with a circle of exclusive cologne.

How does he smell? I think he will smell of money. French money—Euro. A faint metallic tang overlaid by sumptuous scent from one of the luxury parfumiers: Guerlain, Caron, Dior. And strong coffee on his breath.

I move away from the window, shaking my head at my own pathetic behaviour. I have been in Paris less than half an hour and already I am imagining torrid assignations with unknown Guillaumes and Jean-Claudes. I am meant to be here to heal my soul after a painful break-up, saturating it with frivolity and culture, and pain au chocolat. Not taking up with a horny French accountant, or whatever he might be.

I blame Haussman. It was his idea to design the city so that the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over courtyards to rows and rows of other floor-to-ceiling windows. A voyeur’s paradise, and I love nothing more than to spy into the rooms and lives of total strangers—how was I meant to resist?

I contemplate the minibar, flick through a selection of foreign language TV channels. Perhaps I should dress and go out, sit at a pavement café, drink a beer. Surely I am not the first woman to ever holiday alone in Paris? But somehow the thought of the streets and parks full of lovers is unbearable. I should just order room service and go to bed, ready for a full day of sightseeing and gallery visiting tomorrow. Or I could just risk another swift peek at my Jean-Claude…

He is standing with his back to the window. The cut of his jacket is elegant; his shoulders are a little narrow, but his legs are long and he has a fine abundance of dark brown hair. Maybe he is in his late thirties or early forties, I think, as he moves away from the window. He is holding something close to his face—a dictaphone, I guess? I imagine him speaking low-voiced French phrases into the mouthpiece, recording a message for me. Allez ici, mademoiselle. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I laugh at my own stupidity, then catch my breath as he turns in his pacing. He is too far away to see in great detail, and the lamplight casts a shadow over his face, but I can make out metal-framed spectacles and a strong jaw. I think he’s handsome.

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