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“And her boyfriend. Hope that’s OK?”
“Of course.” We were meeting all kinds of interesting people so far in Paris. I knew some people in the city already, of course, but we were having fun making our own friends, together. We both particularly enjoyed the family who lived in the apartment next door. They had a six-year-old girl who sat straight and poised through even multiple-course meals, eating stinky cheeses and fish right along with her parents.
“She eats everything you do!” Caroline had exclaimed at the meal we’d shared, marveling over the little one’s gourmet palate.
“Bien sur,” the mother had shrugged it off, but of course. She’d explained how at the state-funded preschools almost all Parisian children were served these kinds of meals starting from the age of two. “It is, how do you say…?” Many of our conversations proceeded thusly, with my high school French filling in with their better-but-not-perfect English. “Our heritage,” she’d finally declared.
“We are doing that with our kids,” Caroline had declared after they’d left, and before she’d caught herself, talking to me about our hypothetical children. But it was all right with me. Discussing our lives together didn’t frighten me off one bit. I loved that she was planning for our future. I couldn’t imagine one without her in it.
“We have a little over an hour.” I glanced at my watch. I’d taken to leaving my phone behind while Caroline and I ate our meals. Parisians did not look as kindly as New Yorkers on cell phone interruptions during their national pastime of enjoying fine food and wine. I was starting to feel the same way.
“I can’t imagine what we’ll do with all that time,” Caroline marveled, giving my hand a stroke with her soft fingers.
“Yes. Perhaps we could go to a museum?” I suggested. I knew what she and I both had on our minds. The only thing we wanted to be looking at was each other, and not as we strolled around among great works of art. We’d done plenty of that, too, you had to when in a city of such treasures. But there was a time and a place.
“Hmmm,” she pretended to consider my suggestion. “Or perhaps we could attend a concert? I believe there’s a chamber group playing at the church on the corner.”
“Delightful,” I agreed as we steadily walked closer and closer to our apartment door. “But then, during lunch, you did seem rather tense?”
She’d seemed exactly the opposite, full of laughter as she’d recounted her morning class. They’d been trying to make soufflés and it hadn’t exactly all gone as planned. The rising had more turned into sinking. But that was why the coveted diploma took nine months to earn.
“Did I seem tense?” she asked, instantly catching my real meaning. She brought a hand up to the back of her neck. “Yes, my neck is rather stiff. All that baking I’m doing.”
“You need a massage,” I agreed, bringing my key to the lock on the door. “And I’m just the man to give it to you.”
“You’re just trying to protect your investment,” she teased me, her hand running up the middle of my back. “You don’t want anything holding me back from becoming the very best pastry chef I can be.”
“It is true. I wouldn’t want muscle cramps or tension anywhere in your body to distract you from your learning.” I took her hand as we walked into the high-ceilinged entryway of our home.
“You’re extremely considerate,” she agreed, already starting to unbutton her blouse.
“I do aim to please.” And I proceeded to do just that.
CHAPTER 24
Caroline
Oh, Paris. Each day I fell in love with the city a little more. I couldn’t believe how close I’d come to never even making it there. Without Colt, who knew when I would have found the money, the time, even the sense that I could do it? To say my time in Paris had opened up a whole new world for me sounded like both an exaggeration and an understatement.
I’d always thought I ran a bit crazy with my baking obsession. The way I dreamed of flavors and textures, couldn’t stop thinking about how to get something exactly right, trying it again and again with slight variations in pursuit of perfection. It turned out that I was part of a whole tribe, and they all convened upon Le Cordon Bleu. The mothership to all of us crazies.
Three months into the diploma program, I already knew I’d made friends for life. You didn’t care so deeply about something, then fail again and again so dramatically with severe, demanding Parisian teachers raining criticism down upon you, without forming strong bonds. And then, when that one day arose when you did something right? When your pastry crust turned out light and flaky yet rich and buttery, and one of the harshest chefs gave you an approving nod? You’d exchange that thrilled look—can you believe it?—and share the exhilarating rush.
Colt shared it all with me, the good moments, the bad moments, and, of course, the actual fruits of my labor. You didn’t date an up-and-coming pastry chef without also getting to taste her éclairs, tarts and croissants.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he liked to say, sampling my bounty, sometimes in more ways than one. That man got so creative with food. That he credited to me, too, telling me I was the one who gave him all his inspiration.
Colt really made me feel sexy. But you know what else did, too? Paris! I’d heard rumors about Parisians being unfriendly. Thankfully, that hadn’t been my typical experience though I had been accosted the first time I’d entered a boutique on my own.
“You Americans and your baggy, baggy basketball shorts!” A shop owner had come rushing at me, tugging with frustration at all the extra clothing I’d swathed myself in. I was not wearing basketball shorts, of course, but to her my schlumpy T-shirt and roomy jeans were the equivalent.
“Come,” she’d ordered, and then introduced me to my new best friend: the wrap dress. Comfortable enough to move with me and my curves, I now had a few in my possession that made me feel like a sensuous, glamorous movie star as they draped and swirled and hugged my curves. Hannah hadn’t had time to join us, yet, but I couldn’t wait to show her around Paris, especially exploring all of the boutiques. Her eyes were going to pop out of her head. Colt and I were insisting that she visit sometime soon. All expenses paid, of course, courtesy of my rich-off-his-rocker boyfriend.
I wouldn’t say that Colt’s wealth had become normal to me. But it was such a seamless part of him, such an extension of who he was and how he lived, that I didn’t find it off-putting anymore. He never gave money a second thought. It was weird, honestly, but he was never flashy and obnoxious about it, nor did he ever bring my attention to expenses, and I had to admit that freedom from the burden of financial pressures, even for a moment in time in my life, felt pretty damn good.
It liberated me to do things I never had before. Like buy expensive naughty lingerie. Because, let me tell you, the Parisians knew their lingerie. Like all pleasures in life—wine, cheese, chocolate, bread—the French had explored them in depth and brought them to new heights.
The first time I’d shopped in a Parisian department store, I’d found a bra that made me blush. It wasn’t a kinky fetish shop. It was a mainline department store, the type where moms and moms-of-moms shopped. Yet the cut of the bra deliberately dipped below the nipples. It boosted you up, then put you on display. I’d felt embarrassed and furtive as I’d purchased it, looking around as if I’d been worried I’d run into someone I knew.
I’d grown more confident since then. The reaction from Colt had been worth it. He’d nearly gone insane, seeing me in that bra, and I’d learned the joys of teasing him. Especially if it got me into a bit of trouble. A little discipline never hurt. Too much.
We were usually so good about making time for each other. Even on busy days, we were exceptionally creative at the art of the quickie. But one Thursday Colt had been busy all day. He’d been in meetings since early in the morning, first at his Paris offices, then back in our apartment. I kept waiting for him to end his calls. It didn’t happen. I paced. I drank a glass of wine, feeling increasingly antsy. Itch
y. Impatient.
I could go out and entertain myself, I knew that. I could call up one of my new friends, take a walk, do any number of things. But that wouldn’t really satisfy the particular need I had. Colt had spoiled me, that was the problem. I now knew exactly what I wanted. Remembering my lingerie drawer, I wondered if I could figure out a way to get it.
In our bedroom, I slipped on a pair of thigh-high silk stockings. All the details, the pretty silk bows, the lace, made me feel so delicious, so feminine. I know I’d said wrap dresses were my new favorite thing, but that was for outside the home. Inside, you know when I felt really happy about my body, grateful for my dangerous curves? When I slipped into some naughty lingerie.
The panties were sheer, of course, with not much too them, cutting right up over the swell of my buttocks. They left plenty of skin for Colt to see and touch, maybe spank if I got him in the right mood. I’d see what I could do about getting him into it.
The bra was mostly sheer and black as well, with a thin satin strip teasing right over my nipple. You couldn’t see the tip of my rosy bud, but you could see my arousal. In the mirror, I played with myself, toying with my nipples, making them stiff so he could see them pushing against the satin. Straining for him. I’d see how quickly I could end his nonstop stream of phone calls.
I slipped into a pair of insanely high heels, all straps and detail, somehow both delicate and featuring studs at the same time. Sweeping my hair up into a messy twist, I ensured Colt had plenty of access to my neck. The way that man kissed me, sucked me, even bit me sometimes. I shivered in anticipation, letting a few strands trail down to my bare shoulders. Giving myself a sultry smile in the mirror, I walked out to play with my man.
I entered his office, all innocence, bringing him a glass of wine. It was happy hour, six o’clock. Quitting time.
