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pajamas? It’s probably something utilitarian, like a long cotton gown. Whatever it is, in my mind, she’s naked and the sheet is barely covering her beautiful mocha colored body. She’s lying on her stomach with the crisp white sheet just resting at the apex of her curvy behind. And when she turns over, her full breasts are swollen and ripe, just begging for my attention. Her hair is scattered on the pillow, and she has a beautiful smile on her face as a result of the delightful dream she’s having.
I climbed out of bed and went down to the gym. I needed to release the lust I was feeling. When I went back upstairs, I was still worked up. I walked down the hall and stopped at Gabriella’s door. I placed my hand on the knob and thought one little look to confirm my fantasy might help me sleep. I turned the knob and started to push the door open and stopped.
She’s not like the others. She’s different. You want this one to last. You can go the distance. You can be the man she thinks you are.
I cursed into the towel, went upstairs to my room, took an ice cold shower and went to sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
gabriella
* * *
I walked into the kitchen and the incredible smells of French cooking traveled up my nose. I’m not sure who Marie is, but I know she and Phillippe have a special bond.
“Bonjour, Marie.”
She looked up and smiled. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gabriella.”
“Please, just Gabriella.” She didn’t seem happy with my request. “When it is just us, Gabriella will be fine, s’il vous plaît.”
She smiled and nodded. “The other demoiselle was…”
“The other?”
She lowered her head and said something under her breath in French and then looked up at me. “The demoiselle that…”
“Chantal?”
“Oui. Elle n’était pas très plaisante. I’m sorry. I forget, only English.” She winked.
“Merci.”
She smiled. “We must begin your French lessons today. Monsieur Phillippe loves speaking in his other language.”
“He does?”
“Oui.” I sat down and she placed a large cup and saucer in front of me, and filled it with coffee. Then she placed a basket of croissants in front of me, along with butter and apricot jam. “Eat, I made this morning.”
I took a croissant out of the basket and it was still warm. I broke it in half, spread a little butter and jam on it, and bit down. It was flakey, light and oozing with flavor. It was definitely not like those poor imitation croissants back home. “Marie, this is incredible.”
“I have to teach you how to make.” Her French accent was beautiful and I appreciated her speaking in English.
“S’il vous plaît.” I swallowed the delectable pastry and followed it with a sip of coffee. I’ve only been in Paris a few hours and my tastebuds are spoiled. “Mademoiselle Chantal?”
“I don’t think she really care about Monsieur Phillippe. She only care about the money. When they come, deliveries, all the time they are here, deliveries…Dior, Chanel, Saint Laurent, Gucci, Vivier, Lanvin, LaPerla, Vuitton, Nina Ricci…they all make deliveries.”
“Really?”
“Monsieur Phillippe like nice things, but all she do is shop, shop, shop. She hurt him in the end.”
“How?”
“Bonjour.” Phillippe walked in, kissed me and then he kissed Marie on the cheek. “How did you sleep?” He walked back and stood next to me.
“Well. How about you?”
“I had a little difficulty falling asleep.”
