My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(59)

Axel furrows his brow. “We already listed a fingerbang.”

My lips curve up. “This time…” I pause, slide closer, then tiptoe my fingers down his shirt. “…she fingers herself while they wait for the salade ni?oise, hold the tuna. She’s quiet, concentrating fiercely, and he watches her every move with avid eyes.” I say, painting a delicious scenario.

Axel’s irises flicker with sudden heat, a burner turned to high.

“She lets him lick it off when she’s finished,” I continue.

He swallows, breathes out hard. He looks like he can barely speak. It’s a good look. Then he rasps out, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“I think you’re taking me out,” I say.

“You definitely won.”

“It was the hold the tuna bit, right?”

He laughs, then drops a quick, possessive kiss to my lips. “It was definitely for the hold the tuna bit.”



At lunch, I’m feeling as risqué as expected. But also safe, as a red tablecloth hangs low enough to cover my lap, both the corner and the cloth giving us some privacy.

Only some.

But I don’t need much.

In two minutes, I’m close, so close I’m pursing my lips, swallowing my moans. Axel’s fingers roam up and down the back of my neck, and his soft, feathery touch is nearly as erotic as my fingers tripping the light fantastic.

“Don’t say a word, baby,” he commands, low and powerful.

I rein in a whimper as pleasure whips through me, fast and fierce.

“You dirty fucking woman,” he praises me.

I tense as that familiar, electric pull pulses through me. I’m almost there.

“Bet you look maddeningly sexy when you come in public,” he whispers, and that does it.

I’m there, cresting, crashing, coming.

And I can barely hold back.

Right when I think I’m going to embarrass myself in public with a loud cry of pleasure, his lips slam onto mine, and he swallows my sounds.

When he ends it, he utters one word: “Mine.”

I shudder.

I don’t know if he’s claiming ownership of me or my climax, but right now, he can have both.

He reaches for my hand and licks my fingers, staring hotly at me with each deliberate suck. Then he lets go. “I won too.”

What a game indeed.

The server swings by. “Your salad ni?oise. Hold the tuna.”



A little later, we walk along the Seine, this time admiring the river cruises from the banks.

“Admit it,” I say. “Brooks is going to make out with some gorgeous beauty on a boat, and then he’ll save her.”

I tell him what I pictured a few hours ago in my room. His eyes blaze with amusement. “I have one question for you. Did you come up with that scenario so I’d kiss you on a boat?”

Busted and I love it. “Maybe I did,” I say, feeling daring. Maybe the fingerbang gave me courage to say the things that have been welling up in my chest. “I wanted to see you on the boat.”

I say it without guile. Without teasing. Only truth.

His smile grows bigger. He seems happier in ways I’ve never seen before. I’m happy too.

He glances around, gesturing to the water, then the land where we are. “But we’re not on a boat now, Hazel,” he says.

I exaggerate a sigh. “Such a shame.”

He steps closer, getting in my space. “Ask for it,” he says in a low but demanding tone. A hero’s voice.

“Kiss me,” I say, eager for more of him.

He inches closer, cups my cheek, then brushes his lips against mine. It’s better than the kiss I imagined in my room. Maybe because there’s no hitman hellbent on killing me. But mostly because I like kissing Axel so much.

I like talking to him.

I like spending time with him.

I want to sleep with him, and I want to fall asleep with him.

When he stops kissing me, I ask, “Want to sleep in my room tonight?”

His smile is both genuine and soft when he says yes.





30





ADULTING REWARD


Hazel

Rachel waits for me on the corner of a quiet street, a red silk scarf tied around her neck, gold-framed sunglasses covering her eyes. Her chestnut waves curl over her shoulders. She’s the picture of sophistication, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen her.

Picking up my pace, I walk toward her on the narrow sidewalks in ?le Saint-Louis. The green shutters on the windows and iron lattice-work balconies give this Parisian neighborhood a quieter, back-in-time feel. It’s an island in the middle of the Seine, and it’s as if the city slows down in this place.

She whips off the shades, flashing me a bright smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You’re one to talk about fancy,” I say, pointing to the scarf. “You look très chic. I love it.”

She flicks her hair off her neck, bobbing a confident shoulder. “Divorce. It’s been good to me.”

That’s reassuring to hear, even though I know it hasn’t been easy. I wrap an arm around her, squeezing her, glad she’s doing better. “You mean it?”

I talk to her every week, text her often. But I haven’t seen her since I was in California visiting my friend Ellie and helping my sister host a party for the businesses on Rachel’s block in Venice Beach. Since then, she’s moved to San Francisco and expanded her jewelry shop there.