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“Just a moment,” I grunt and circle her in my arms.
Along the shadowed back wall is a small bathroom, probably reserved for docents and other knowledgeable personnel. I find the door unlocked and fling it open, dragging us both inside. It's a single stall with a porcelain sink and small commode. But it will do.
I don't even turn on the light switch, just lean down to tug the hem of her dress over her hips and then grab her ass in both hands and lift her onto the edge of the sink.
“You're not wearing any panties,” I growl into her neck as my fingers slide against her shaved, slick furrow. She's already swollen and open for me, wanting me.
“I was hoping we would do this,” she moans as her hands fumble against the front of my trousers. As soon as those long, soft fingers wrap around my heavy, throbbing cock, I can feel it pulse. I am seconds away from coming already as she tugs at my length, letting her palm slide along the slippery pre-come that covers the head.
“I need to fuck you, Jordan. I need you right now!”
She nods in the darkness, biting and licking a hot trail along the side of my neck. My trousers fall to the floor and tangle around my ankles as I enter her quickly, taking her all at once, bottoming out against her soft, shaved pussy. Immediately I am hammering into her as her wet sheath clasps against me like a mouth, sucking the life out of me, drawing the orgasm right out of me.
I was right. I begin to come immediately in bouts. It splashes against the porcelain as it flows back out of her with every wet, overflowing thrust. She mewls and bites my neck, shuddering hard as she climaxes, her fingers clawing against my shoulders.
Moments later, we emerge from the small bathroom, adjusting our black-tie finery around us. A few of the partygoers are standing outside the door and give us sidelong, knowing glances. But nobody judges. This is Paris, after all.
17
Jordan
Leaning over the wrought iron balcony railing, I rest my chin on my fingers and stare into the crowd below. People walk by in a hurry or slowly, smoking or not smoking, holding hands or not holding hands. It seems like gigantic dogs are the new trend this year. Everyone has to have one: malamutes, huskies, chows with their alien-blue tongues curling out to cover their smiles.
I could get a dog, I think. I think a dog would really enjoy some of our finer furnishings. But just to be different, I'll get a little one. A Chihuahua… no, a miniature pinscher. Min-pins are just the cutest little things, like the elf version of Dobermans.
The corner bakery is situated just so that the updraft brings me a delightful waft of yeasty smells every few minutes. I wish I could eat bread all day. That would definitely be a way to pass the hours.
I am just about to go in and rearrange some dining room chairs again for the fifteenth time when I see a lady with hair the color of a copper drum. It shines so brilliantly that even from way up here, I am momentarily entranced.
A redhead? I wonder if I could look that fabulous as a redhead. And maybe so many people wouldn't recognize me anymore.
It doesn't take long before I'm sitting in the bathroom with the box of hair dye in my hand, trying to find the English language directions on this huge sheet of paper that seems to fold out for yards and yards.
I mix up the batch and squirt the chemicals all over my head, knotting it on top with a duckbill clip and then carefully walking around the flat for thirty minutes without getting any on R’s prized stuff. I can just imagine what he would say if he came home and found a big coppery splotch in the middle of his big, white throw rug. He'd be incensed. He’d probably punish me, I think, and squirm a little.
After it's all washed out, dried, and falling in a fringe in front of my face, I just stare at it for a while. Why didn't I ever do this before? I look amazing as a redhead. It curls over one eye like Jessica Rabbit, bouncing under my chin in a cute little curl. A couple swipes of auburn-tinted eyebrow pencil and I look brand-new. Reborn.
And reborn with a little bit of sass, I comment silently. I give myself a couple of hip-pops in the long mirror and shake out my hair, pantomiming a coquettish, come-hither laugh. I can't wait for R to get a load of this.
I hear a knock at the door and wonder if he's forgotten his key, practically skipping to open it for him,
“Oh, um, —”
It's not him. I rock back in confusion. “Mr. Maillot?”
The portly, sneering little man we met at the Louvre looks me up and down slowly as he stands in the doorway. I can see his fingers moving inside his trouser pockets.
“How did you get up here? Didn’t the doorman…”
He waves his hands, cutting me off. “Are you alone?” he interrupts impertinently.
I cross my arms in front of me, barring his entry into the flat. He is apparently unimpressed, just shoves past me and looks around like he owns the place, like he belongs here. He cranes his neck to peer into the kitchen, and then into the bedroom.
“Monsieur King is not here?”
“He will be home any minute!” I lie. I'm not entirely sure how I can have this man ejected from my flat. 911? Is that it even a thing here?
He stops in the middle of the dining room, then pulls out a chair and drops his wide bottom into it. His legs fall open at the knee, leaving his crotch thrust in my direction as though daring me to look at it. I swallow my disgust and avert my eyes.
