Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(14)

Her black dress hugs her hips. It’s cut short, and she wears pink shoes with a little strap over the top of each foot.

She’s looking off to the side, chatting on the phone, her hair blowing in the spring breeze. I imagine she’s barking orders at an underling perhaps. Bet she loves giving orders. Bet she likes being given them in bed even more. Women like her who command a boardroom are often the ones who most like to give up control.

I don’t require submission though. I’m not that kind of a man. I find when it comes to matters of the flesh, I’m omnivorous. She can ride me hard, or I can bend her over the edge of her desk. Whatever her pleasure is, I’d like to deliver it.

When she reaches me, she ends her call, tucks the phone in her purse, and looks me over. “You have a way of growing more handsome every time I see you, Christian. But I suppose the real question now is will you be more interesting than the last time?”

The gauntlet has been thrown.





9





Elise





I declined his dinner invitation.

I turned down his suggestion for drinks.

I didn’t want to go to a club.

Not that I dislike those places. Quite the contrary. But they’re designed to speed the path to stupid choices.

Good food makes you moan in pleasure. Seductive clubs drive you to dance too closely. And cocktails loosen lips.

I don’t need my inhibitions lowered with a man this devilishly good-looking. It’s always the pretty ones who have deadly secrets. I don’t know what sort of cruel mistress the universe is to create devastatingly handsome men who’ll eviscerate a woman’s emotions, but I do know she’s the cruelest on this count.

That’s why I picked something for our date I’d do with a friend.

We’re going to attend a decorative arts show in an exhibition space by the Tuileries.

It’s not even remotely sexy.

It’s somewhere to laugh at the absurdity of things that you see. To wonder who could possibly want a thirty-foot-long, pink faux-fur-lined couch for the living room, or a mirror completely covered in seashells so that you can only see bits and pieces of your face. It’s the type of place that has industrial pipes hanging from picture frames and masquerading as art.

Once inside, Christian reaches for my hand. “Can I hold your hand?”

Perhaps because I’m caught off guard, I say yes.

He wraps his big palm around mine, and I notice instantly how long his fingers are. How firm his grip is. And how soft his skin is. He squeezes playfully, then wiggles his eyebrows, as if saying there’s more he can do with those fingers.

I bet.

Tiny little shimmers of electricity dance up my arms, and I squeeze back as we walk along the cavernous hallway.

“Anything in particular you want to see? Are you looking for a new chandelier with a crystal flamingo hanging from it?”

He points behind me, and I turn to see a large chandelier hanging in the middle of an exhibition area. A pink crystal flamingo dangles from the lighting fixture, exactly as described.

“You know what they say. A room isn’t fully decorated until you have a chandelier with a little flamingo hanging from it.”

“Speaking of chandeliers,” he asks, “do you like opera?”

Tension spreads over my shoulders. I can’t stand it, but I’d said yes anyway when Eduardo wanted to take me to La Traviata. I said yes because he loved it.

This is my chance to do things differently. To learn from my mistakes. Even though I’ve no interest in a relationship, and even though this is only fun, I won’t be less than patently honest with Christian. “I despise it.”

He hums his approval. “I knew you were perfect for me.”

I nudge him with my hip. “Do you truly hate it?”

“With a deep and instinctive passion.”

“Poor opera.”

“Poor me for the three times my father made me go.”

“You must have been a very bad boy for him.”

“Come to think of it, I was officially the worst. And I’m glad you didn’t suggest we go to the opera tonight. I could have mustered the strength to sit through it to be near you, but I’d rather not fake it.”

I stop and put a hand on his firm, broad shoulder. “Don’t fake it. Don’t fake anything. It’s better to be bluntly honest. Even if it seems rude, honesty is better.” My tone is tinged with a plea, but I don’t care if I sound like a beggar.

He brushes a curl of hair over my shoulder. “I don’t have to fake a thing with you.”

“Ditto,” I whisper, and for a second, maybe more, the air between us feels charged, sparking with ions and electrons. As if we could lean in, brush each other’s lips, test out a kiss. Set the exhibit hall to flames. I suspect he’d kiss like that—fire and power and heat.

But instead, we continue walking along the wide, carpeted hallway, surrounded by Parisian hipsters, including a man wearing jeans so tight they look like leggings and a woman with a red-checked blanket draped over her shoulders.

“Why does everyone wear blankets these days?” I ask.

“Why aren’t scarves good enough?”

“Blankets should be for beds.”

“But, to play devil’s advocate, you’d look really fucking good in bed with nothing but a blanket on.”