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Finishing up, I toweled off and got dressed. When I returned to the living room, it was just in time to see him exit his bedroom. How was it that there was suddenly something about him that made him look even hotter? He had been gorgeous before, but now, all I could do was bite my lip and hope he didn’t notice the bulge growing in my pants.
“You look refreshed,” he said, staring at me amused. “How was the shower? Good?”
“Yeah,” I said, struggling to speak.
“Nice! As you could probably guess, my door was unlocked, you know, in case of an emergency. I guess no emergencies came up.”
I giggled like a ten-year-old. He noticed and laughed heartily. I had to pull myself together. I might be an idiot, but I didn’t have to act like it.
“I mean, the place wasn’t on fire, so…” I said, trying to regain my self-respect and failing.
“Am I going to have to burn the place down to get you in there? Okay. Well, remind me to pick up some matches later.”
I giggled in reply. Okay, now he was just making me giggle on purpose. Was he getting a sick pleasure from watching me humiliate myself? He was such an asshole, such a gorgeous, irresistible asshole.
“Food,” I said, changing the topic with the only word I could force out of my mouth.
“Right! And again, I know the perfect place,” he told me with a smile.
Like I said, the guy was an asshole. Because the place he chose was a café overlooking the river. Sitting outside, we shared French toast, and a basket of croissants while sipping our coffees. It was like a movie. And every second that passed, I fell more in love with him.
Leaving the café, Remy led me to the famous Champs-Élysées, where he insisted we do some shopping. I thought he meant for himself until we entered the most expensive-looking store I had ever seen and he said,
“Let’s find you something bold. You always dress so conservatively. You need something that will catch everyone’s eye. They need to see you the way I do,” he said, guiding me through a high-end store on Avenue Montaigne that made my wallet weep.
“This,” he said, selecting a jacket and pants from a rack.
“No shirt?” I asked, looking around at the selection.
“With a body like yours?” he bemused. “It would be a waste. Go,” he said, ushering me off.
Trying on that outfit and others, and then modeling them for him, I felt like a doll. Each time he ran his hand down the seams checking its fit, my heart pounded. He had to know what he was doing to me, didn’t he?
Standing there not being able to touch him back was torture. And the way he looked at me when he found an outfit he liked put thoughts in my head of him pushing me into the dressing room, stripping me bare, and having his way with me.
“Perhaps these glasses, to show off your intellectual side,” he suggested, as he leaned in and put a pair of lightly tinted sunglasses on my face. His scent wafted over me. My knees weakened feeling his breath on my cheek.
“Or this jacket to showcase that tiny waist of yours,” he continued, engulfing my sides with his large, powerful hands.
Staring up at him in the mirror, his annoyingly charming smirk flashed back. Yep, he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Well, screw him, I wasn’t going to give in to it. I would resist everything. I would create a wall between the two of us that was fifty feet tall. I would not let him in.
But, with every moment we spent together, my resolve crumbled. With every touch, being disconnected from Remy became unbearable. I was headed towards dangerous territory, and I couldn’t stop myself. So when we left the shops with the sun streaming beautiful streaks of yellow and orange across the Paris streets, I slipped my fingers between his.
It was enough to quiet the aching screams in my head. For that brief time, I had him. He was mine. It was all I would allow myself with the taken man beside me. And for the moment, it was just enough.
“This is one of my favorite spots,” Remy said as we approached a casual, yet busy restaurant for dinner.
“What makes it your favorite?” I asked, wanting to know everything about him.
“I don’t know. It’s unpretentious.”
I chuckled. “I thought you liked pretentious.”
“Me? Are you joking? All I need is a bottle of Château Pétrus Pomerol and a little Époisses de Bourgogne on a cracker and I couldn’t be happier.” Remy paused. “Okay, I heard it. But I still deny it.”
“Ahh, the poor little rich boy can’t acknowledge his privilege,” I teased.
That flustered him. “I brought you here for the French Onion soup. What could be less pretentious than that?”
