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“Like my lover this afternoon.”
“Exactly.”
When Ian was charming, he was devastatingly so, oozing with designs for her pleasure and his. But when he was engaged in the business that took him from her—business he refused to divulge—his mood was glacial and efficient. She might as well have not been around. She would have been perfectly happy to entertain herself in this small, bustling French resort, but Ian insisted that she remain in the hotel room. That hadn’t posed much problem in the two weeks they’d been at the resort, but his excursions without her becoming more frequent, the time alone seemed unnecessarily empty.
It had been nearly six weeks since she fled her husband’s home. In that time she refused to think of that horrifying night her marriage ended. Escaping was the simplest thing to do, far easier than facing the reality of Reggie’s detective work, her adultery, his lack of trust, her hurt, his anger, her frustration…the list of damages seemed without end and was far too many to look at. Running away with the scoundrel that had blown the fidelity from her marriage
was as reckless as all the other blunders in her comedy of errors. Though it certainly kept her from the pain of trying to heal what was so deeply wounded.
Jocelyn forgot about Reggie while keeping up with Ian—a project that was simple for several weeks while they pretended they were new lovers or newlyweds. They had sex morning, noon and night, in whatever plush hotel room or seedy hostel they happened to land. In quaint shops he would fondle her. In out-of-the-way corners, he’d expose her breasts so he could suck her nipples. In the arched doorways he’d take photos of her half-naked, playing with her pussy, or her bent over with her skirt flung up over her naked behind. In cafes at tables with long cloths, they’d sit side by side and bare their genitals under napkins, raising so much heat they’d hardly finish a meal before finding some alleyway behind the restaurant to finish the sex they started. Amsterdam, Belgium, Germany and Switzerland played host to their frenetic journey as they moved daily to a new venue for their blatant play. Only in Northern Italy did they slow the fury and remain a few days. Then in France, Ian announced he had to get back to work, which simply meant that Jocelyn had a few late afternoons and evenings to kill by herself. That should hardly have been a difficult task.
“You wouldn’t mind if I took a walk on the promenade?” she asked him a few minutes later as she dried her sun burnt flesh on a thick beach towel.
“I would,” Ian said. He was almost out the door, and Jocelyn regretted having asked him at all.
“Then I’ll see you when you get back,” she said.
“Don’t wait up, I will be late.”
“That late?”
He pecked her on the cheek like a traveling husband. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab your ass when I get in bed and fuck it soundly.” Flashing her a smile, he walked out.
Time’s the enemy of a lonely woman. Fidgeting her way through a few magazines she’d already read, and glancing through a dreary chapter in a suspense thriller, Jocelyn ached for more. Most importantly, she needed some relief from thoughts creeping through the carefully constructed barricade she’d erected to obscure the recent past.
“It’s not going to work, Ian,” she finally announced aloud even though he wasn’t there to hear.
Going to the closet, she rifled through her wardrobe, pulled out a dozen things she discarded, and finally settled on a slim green cotton dress that belted at the waist and would look terrific with the wrap sandals she’d purchased in Italy. Just so Ian couldn’t accuse her of flaunting herself, she tied the volumes of dark red curls into a scarf and applied scant make-up—though she didn’t need much enhancement to look inviting to any man. There was sex in her eyes. Like the dew of perspiration on her skin and moistness between her legs, it was subtle. That sexual allure was something that would remain inherently with her as long as she was swimming in this sexual ocean that seemed to have no pattern to its endless waves.
Early in the evening there were tourists in the village still meandering through the tiny streets in search of bargains. Jocelyn ducked into several shops picking up stray items that struck her fancy. She was living on mad money, that fund she’d created long before Reggie, that was intended to cushion her against some dangerous financial fall. Using it for its intended purpose she had no need to dip into her husband’s money or even try to extract cash from her defunct business. Her attorneys would probably eat away anything that was left after she tubed it all—and just as well. Better to have everything stay safely in the past where she didn’t have to think of it.
“Ah, I’d hoped to find you,” a man’s voice took hold of her thoughts in the middle of buying a hand-painted silk scarf.
“You!” she exclaimed, seeing her beach lover standing next to her.
He was clothed in white cottons that draped his dark complexion with a hint of purity—even though purity was hardly in his eyes. He smelled of man’s cologne and there was some minty toothpaste on his breath. His compact body wedged between her and a woman on his other side seemed instantly fused with hers, though he was still a few millimeters from touching her. That he corrected placing his hand tenderly at the top of her ass finding that she was wearing no panties.
“Would you like a drink?”
“If you’d tell me your name,” she said, all the while letting his roving eyes caress her as the images of sex transmitted over psychic wires directly to her brain.
“Andre,” he told her. A small, interesting accent accompanied his speech so she believed him not a Frenchman at all, and as much a foreigner on French soil as she was.
“Jocelyn,” she returned the pertinent information.
“What a lovely name,” he said. “It sounds as sensuous as your body looks.”
He took her hand and led her through a throng of people in that crowded shop, and held her close as they walked past the busiest part of the market to a near empty café. They sat in a corner by themselves and looked out at the other shoppers as they waited to be served.
“Something sweet?” he asked, when a man with a white apron across his middle approached the table. Without her answering, Andre turned to the waiter and ordered something in French she was not familiar with. Leaving a hand to fondle her thigh, his warmth penetrated through her dress and surged toward her crotch. She felt as one with him as she’d been on beach, making her believe that there was much more to gain from being close to this stranger. Even before the drinks arrived, he was toying with the hairs of her pussy, not trying to do more, but making his presence something she could not ignore.
“I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly this afternoon,” she said. “There was really no reason for me to go back to my hotel except that my lover is paranoid, I suppose.”
“Ah, I see. Then we won’t let him know what we’re doing tonight,” Andre said with a furtive grin.
They chatted about the resort while they finished their drinks. Then in a hurry he hustled her from the café without explanation.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
