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If I had my way, I’d...
“Don’t you think?” she finishes.
Fuck. I have no idea what she’s talking about. Christ. Just then, as if by magic, the waiter swoops in. I love the French. They know just how to woo, and how to do damage control when something gets in the way. They’re a nation of cock-lockers, not cock-blockers.
“Madame,” he says. “More wine?”
“Yes, please,” Jordan answers, looking up at him. I take the opportunity to surreptitiously check out her body again. Her elegant neck, her proud breasts, her waist. Her arms. It’s all perfect.
I wonder what day it is today.
What’s less perfect is to be stuffed like sardines in this restaurant, instead of stuffing her sweet pussy. But that’s how they do it in Paris: pack in the tables until everyone’s on each other’s lap. I wouldn’t mind if Jordan were on mine. I can feel my cock strain against my zipper.
Jordan, you make me want to bend you over right here.
“Monsieur,” says the waiter.
“Oui, s’il-vous plait,” I answer. She looks up at me, probably surprised at my decent French accent. “I spent some years in France,” I say as an aside, by way of explanation. “As a child, and then later for business. It’s partially why your family and I lost touch the last decade or so.” Her eyes widen. I don’t mention Justine, my ex. She’d be the other reason.
“Oh my God,” she says quickly, covering her mouth just as fast as the words come out. “I just remembered you.”
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of the rich dark wine, and hold it in my mouth a moment before swallowing.
“I was totally embarrassing to you, wasn’t I?” she asks slowly. She puts her face in her hands. I want to grab her and tell her no, she was just a kid, but I’d embarrass myself.
“Don’t be silly.”
When she finally looks up at me, her eyes are apologetic and her smile mortified. “I tried to monopolize you as a kid. I would not let you out of my sight.”
I grin. “Well, yeah,” I finally admit. “You were quite...eager.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
My hand snakes across the table of its own accord, moving to touch her arm. “Don’t be.”
When there’s finally skin-to-skin contact, we both jump. I knew there was something strong there, but I had no idea that it would be like this. Burning. Electricity scorches through my fingertips and she jumps back, her eyes widening in shock.
“Mr. King,” she says. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “You don’t have to call me Mr. King.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to sound, and Jordan blushes. I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry,” she answers. “I remember you, but I don’t really know your name, and even if I did I’m not sure I could say it out loud.”
I’d like you to be screaming it, I think. Over and over.
“You don’t know it?” I say. “Don’t your parents refer to me?”
“Yeah, my dad does,” she answers. Shit, I didn’t want to bring him into this. “But he most often calls you ‘King.’ My mother usually says ‘your friend, King.’“
“Ah,” I say. “Yeah, most people in college called me that.”
I think Margaret doesn’t like me too much. She’d definitely not like me if she knew what I was thinking right now. I take another sip of wine, to stall. “Well, what does it matter if you know it if you can’t call me by it in any case?”
“I know it starts with R,” she offers.
“Then call me R.”
“Okay,” she says. “R.” She’s rolling it around her mouth like it was a hard candy. “Rrr.”
