French Kiss, page 16
He ran a hand higher up my leg, and as his lips brushed the crease between my leg and hip, he slipped a finger inside me, moving it gently. He spread my legs a little wider and rested my knee over his shoulder, continuing to swirl a finger, then two, and bringing that moan to the surface.
I felt my back arch and my brains scramble a little bit more as his mouth moved to where his finger had been. I stopped thinking. He flicked his tongue again and again, which took me to higher and higher places. I loved how he knew exactly where to touch me with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue. He spread my legs a little wider and sucked lightly until I moaned with the sheer pleasure of abandoning my need to think and soaking up the exquisite feeling of his tongue and what it was doing to me. I looked down and saw him watching me, enjoying my slow unraveling. I’d never been completely comfortable losing myself with another person. I liked to be in control. But I trusted him and it allowed me to let go, to experience every shudder, to let him make me feel this good.
“Oh my God… yes… there… yes… Josh,” I cried out as his mouth and his tongue brought wave after wave of shivering ecstasy. The feeling overtook me as I started to come, my hands in his hair, my brain a dizzy mess.
I leaned forward and lifted his lips to mine, sinking into him and pulling him toward me as I moved backward onto the bed and he lowered himself carefully onto me. I reached to unbuckle his belt and undo the button on his shorts. He was way ahead of me, pushing them down and throwing them on the floor.
“Ah, so you do sometimes forego neatness,” I said.
“When I’m with a hot, half-naked woman? Yeah. And speaking of which, you’re not nearly naked enough,” he said, drawing my dress gingerly up over my head. He reached around my back and unclasped my bra, pulling the straps over my shoulders. I’d never imagined him seeing me like that and I fought the instinct to cross my arms across my chest.
I met his eyes, expecting him to lighten the mood with humor but instead he was gazing at me like he was overcome with emotion. He’d looked at me with many different expressions over the years, but never this way.
I eased his boxer shorts down and wrapped my hand around his erection, aware of a change in his breathing as I rubbed my hand slowly back and forth along the shaft, feeling it get even harder in my hand.
He shifted to lay down next to me and ran a hand over the contours of my cheek, down along my jawbone, but I could tell he was working hard to keep his breathing under control. He buried his lips in my neck and let out a long sigh. “Oh. Hannah,” he said, his eyes closed. Then he rolled toward me, pulling a pillow under my head, his body hovering over mine while he watched my face.
“Before we overthink it?” he asked, smiling.
“Who, me?”
“Well, you, actually. I’m not even sure I can tell you my own name.”
I laughed. “Oh, we’re way past overthinking. I’m gonna need full on therapy tomorrow. But fuck it.” I reached for my purse, where I’d stashed a couple condoms, and pulled one from the inside pocket. He ripped open the foil and rolled it on, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m not going to think about why you have condoms in your purse…”
“C’mere,” said, pulling him closer, loving the feeling of his weight on top of me as he teased me with the tip, stoking my desire to have him inside me. First desire. Then desperation. Then my hands were wrapped across his back, my nails digging in, when he finally entered. His moan matched my own at the gorgeous feeling of connection.
He moved slowly, gently, taking his time. I could feel the build to a second orgasm and I ran my nails down his back and found his lips again. He began a series of deeper thrusts, claiming his own ecstasy that began to seem indecipherable from mine. The rest was a blur of pleasure and heat and not wanting him to stop.
Please and thank you.
Later, when we lay there together, not needing to talk because it was us and we were good with the quiet between us, Josh reached for my hand. He brought it to his lips and I closed my eyes. And that was how I fell asleep.
22
The Morning After
July 12
Paris - Morning
I’d forgotten to shut the curtains, so the morning sun streamed insistently through the windows, urging me to get up and go outside. I’d fallen into such a deep sleep that for a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I remembered I was in Paris, not in Belgium with Shelby and Amrita, and the previous day and night began gliding through my mind. Maddox, the Eiffel Tower, the boat, the rain, Josh.
The best parts of the night filtered back, my heart warm and full with the memory of falling asleep intertwined with Josh. I lay in bed, savoring that feeling, until I turned my head, expecting to see him sleeping on the pillow next to mine. But that side of the bed was empty, the pillow dented with the memory of a person no longer there.
My heart started thumping, the ideas coming fast. Josh freaked out… he couldn’t face me in the light of day… he hopped on the first train back to Germany… Most of the details from the night before came back in emotional waves—warm happiness when I thought of Josh holding my hand as I fell asleep, longing to kiss him again, then embarrassment at whatever I might not be remembering.
But now he was gone.
I had no recollection of him leaving. Maybe I’d passed out and forgotten about him telling me this had all been a mistake. Maybe he’d hurriedly put his clothes on and gone back to his hotel the minute I fell asleep. My mind was still unfurling the worst scenarios, painting myself in the most unflattering light—desperate and sad, destined to be alone—when I heard the key in the door.
The fog of wine and confusion had me pulling the covers up under my chin, drawing the most logical conclusion that someone from the hotel housekeeping team was coming to make the bed, and I was still naked. But a moment later, the door opened, and Josh was standing there, holding a paper bag, a bundle of flowers, and a large bottle of water.
When he saw me, he started to laugh. “Good morning. You okay?”
“I’m just… confused. I thought you were in Germany.”
“Now I’m confused. Why would I be in Germany?”
“I figured… I don’t know, morning-after regrets?”
“Regrets that would send me to another country? Please. Do I look like a guy who has any regrets at all?” He smiled, but I was still half-asleep, and I couldn’t have said what kind of guy he looked like. “I am a little hungover, though, I think. What did we drink, a liter of wine? Each?”
I looked around the room, which looked pinker in the bright light of day. On a chair was the jacket he’d worn the night before. If I’d noticed that earlier, I might not have assumed he’d run back to Germany. I was probably hungover as well, but my brain and body were still muddling through the basics.
“How long have you been gone?”
He shrugged then looked at his phone. “I guess about two hours. I couldn’t sleep once the sun came up, and I didn’t want to bug you, so I hopped in the shower and went out for a walk. I know you like your sleep.”
“Need. I need my sleep. I wish I could get by on less.” It had been a discussion on many an occasion because Josh was one of those people who felt great after sleeping for six hours. He could also fall asleep anytime, anywhere, if he was given the opportunity, which said to me that he really was sleep-deprived even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it. We’d discussed that too.
I looked at him through my still-bleary eyes. His hair was slicked back, and he looked fitter and taller than he had for the past three years.
Or maybe I’d never really seen him.
The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and behind the exterior was a wry, funny guy who was so much more than a one-night fling. In the morning light, I found him just as attractive as I had the night before. It hadn’t been an alcohol-fueled dream. Well, it had definitely been alcohol fueled, but I didn’t feel embarrassed or regretful about anything that had happened.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. The night before had been amazing, and here he was, smiling at me with a paper bag in his hand. And flowers.
Josh still looked tentative, standing in the doorway. “Is everything okay? You seem, I don’t know, like you’re scared of me or something.”
I looked down at the covers, which I still had tucked protectively under my chin. “I thought you were housekeeping.”
“Ah.” He took a step closer, and the door closed behind him. “I’m not.”
“I see that.”
For a moment, Josh seemed to forget he was holding onto a bouquet of roses. Then he looked down and extended them toward me. “I saw these, and it reminded me of how much you like to watch the sun set over the bay at home.” He bent down and kissed me lightly before laying the flowers on the pillow next to me. They were ringed in orange petals with an intense yellow center. They did look like the sun.
“You’re so sweet. They’re gorgeous.”
He held out the bag to me. “I also got a bunch of pastries. Croissants, pains aux raisins. There’s about a pound of butter in here.”
“Oh my God, sounds sinful.” I lifted my head a couple of inches off the pillow and felt an ache that sliced like a knife through my forehead. “Yeah. My head is pounding.”
He took a bottle of Advil from his pocket. “I had a feeling.”
“C’mere,” I said, reaching a hand out to pull him toward me. He came and sat on the bed. “I’m happy to see you.” As usual, I’d gotten a bit less than my required nine hours of sleep. Why should vacation be any different from the rest of my life?
“Me too,” he said.
“So… are you gonna stick around Paris for a little while?”
“Are you saying you want me to?”
“Yes, I would love that.”
“Then yes. I’m at your service.” He held out the bag. I unfolded the top, and before I could peek inside, the scent of butter wafted out in a delicious siren call. “I know, they can make them at home, but they’ll never taste as good as here.”
“Then I think we’d better eat them immediately.” I took out a croissant and broke it in half, the buttery insides pulling away last. Crisp caramel-colored flakes dropped on the white bed sheets, but neither one of us made a move to be any neater. I handed half to Josh and took a bite of mine. “Oh. My. God.”
“Amazing, right?”
“I think somewhere a gym trainer just died.” I pulled the soft insides out and ate a light, buttery layer.
He grabbed two water glasses from the bathroom and poured us each a full glass. “Did we drink any water last night?”
“Isn’t wine mostly water?”
“Ah, I forgot about that, Doctor. You’re right. We’re good.”
“I feel pretty good.” I felt happy, and for maybe the first time in my life, I didn’t think or wonder about anything. I didn’t analyze or fret that I was making a mistake or that Josh was the wrong guy. Everything about him felt right.
I pulled Josh toward me on the bed, almost making him spill his water, but he deftly kept it balanced until he could put the glass on the nightstand. Then he rolled toward me, peeling another layer from his half of the croissant and feeding it to me.
“That is delicious, I’m not gonna lie, but it’s not what I want,” I said, reaching a hand around Josh’s heck.
He dipped his face toward mine, and I felt the same electricity when we kissed as I had that first time on the boat. I was still bound in the bed sheets, and he was fully dressed, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel the softness of his lips on mine and to know that what I’d experienced the night before was real. This was Josh, the guy I’d known for three years and never considered dating. And now I couldn’t see him any other way.
“I could do this all day,” I said. “And I feel a little guilty. About Paris. Like there’s stuff we should get out and see.”
“You’re so type A,” he said, laughing at me.
“Yeah, so are you. Tell me you weren’t thinking it.”
“No, you’re totally right. It’s a gorgeous day. We should be outside. And I can kiss you outside, too, so it’s a win-win.”
23
A Day in Paris
July 12
Paris - Later
A half hour later, I’d showered and downed almost a liter of water. “You realize I’m gonna have to pee every fifteen minutes when we’re on our walk.”
Josh nodded. “This may be news, but Paris has bathrooms. Quite a few, actually. Better to be hydrated.” We’d had two cups of coffee each in the small breakfast room in the lobby of the hotel, where I inexplicably had enough of an appetite for two poached eggs, a big slice of baguette with jam, and a bowl of strawberries. “For three years, I’ve been telling you breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and now you finally listen,” he said.
I didn’t care that I’d have to keep my gym membership going for another thirty years after this trip. It was worth every mouthful. “I’m not done, either. I want to go back to Pierre Hermé, now that it’s open, and try those chocolates.” We’d walked past the storefront at some point during our rambling tour of the Left Bank, and I doubted I could find the shop again without looking it up. But I was determined to go back.
“The pâtés de fruits are good too,” Josh said.
“What are those?”
“They’re these little fruit jellies. Like they’ve taken fruit and sugar and cooked it down to just this sweet, intense fruit flavor and formed it into little squares. You have to try them.”
“I’m not arguing. I’ll try anything here.”
We turned onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and Josh stopped at an ATM for some cash. Standing on the corner of Rue du Bac, I looked down the broad boulevard in both directions. Cars and mopeds raced by when the lights turned green, and pedestrians waited for quiet moments to dash across against the signals. The storefronts were alive with bright displays of shoes and handbags and fabulous French clothing and candles and perfumes. I was never much of a shopper, but this was Paris. Maybe it was time to become a shopper. Or a museumgoer. Or I could just eat my way through the city, trying every pastry, cake, and chocolate until I could identify a favorite. My idea of the city had changed from a destination for a fling with a guy who was completely wrong for me to a vacation with the one guy who had been right all along. I couldn’t believe I had to fly thousands of miles to see it.
Josh folded his euros and put his wallet in his back pocket. “Okay, mademoiselle, the day is yours. What would you like to do?”
“I want to find perfect romantic spots like yesterday. I want to walk everywhere and see all the things people come to Paris to see. With you.”
“That’s potentially a long list.”
“Yes, but I’ve never been here, and I haven’t read a guidebook, so I won’t know if I’m missing something. If you don’t mind being my tour guide, I’ll do whatever you think we oughta accomplish today.”
It was his turn to look down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, like he was hoping to see our first destination on that road. “I’m thinking some sort of museum. Or just something we can only do here. What do you think about the catacombs?”
“Is that what it sounds like?” I asked.
“Yup. It’s an underground tour of skulls and skeletons left over from when they moved all the contents of their cemeteries underground. So they used this underground quarry to dump the bones.”
“I think I’m more up for paintings or something.”
“You sure? It’s pretty cool.”
“How far underground are we talking?” I asked.
“I don’t know, maybe a hundred feet or so?”
I’d never been particularly claustrophobic, but the idea of being underground with skeletons didn’t feel like the French adventure I had in mind. “Um, I mean, maybe…”
Josh didn’t push the issue. He knew when I was only going along with him to be nice. “Or we could see the Picasso Museum. And walk around the Marais.”
I’d heard of the Marais. I didn’t know much else besides the vague recollection that there was a Jewish quarter in the area. And probably amazing restaurants. There were amazing restaurants everywhere. “Yes. Picasso. Let’s do it.”
It went without saying that we’d walk. We’d put plenty of miles on our shoes together in San Francisco, so I didn’t even consider asking Josh if he’d rather hop on the Metro. He was a walker. Besides, selfishly, I wanted to take in more of the city by seeing how the various arrondissements were connected and laid out. I couldn’t do that by following a subway line.
The sky was a deep summer blue without a cloud in view. All signs of rain from the night before were gone, blown out with the clouds that could sweep back in before the sun went down. “It’s not even worth looking at the weather report,” Josh had told me earlier. “It’s bound to change, so you might as well just prepare to be surprised. We have nowhere to be, so what’s it matter?”
It did matter to me, but I decided not to launch into a whole new discussion of my unease about anything unexpected. For the moment, the sun was out. The weather looked predictably warm, and I’d dressed for it in lightweight cotton pants and a T-shirt with a mermaid on the front. And true to form, Josh was wearing rust-colored cargo shorts with a white linen button-down shirt. Ambling toward the water, I recognized landmarks from the night before—the Place Saint-Michel, where the a cappella group had been performing, and the street that led to the restaurant where I’d eaten a snail. After a while, we crossed over a bridge behind Notre-Dame and walked down the middle of the Île Saint-Louis, stopping for ice cream at Berthillon just because.
“You know, we could wait until afternoon for ice cream,” I said.
“Who’s saying we’re not doing that too? Let’s share one. They’re tiny. But we’re here, so I think we have to get one. It’s kind of a rule.”
