Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(19)

“So, your brother is six years older, which makes you thirty-four,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my chin.

She cocks her head and gives me a sharp look. “Why are you saying that?”

I hold up a hand. “What? You don’t seem like the type of woman who gives a flying fuck if I mention her age.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I was just curious if you were trying to impress me with your arithmetic skills or mentioning it for a reason. That’s why I asked.”

I lean in close. “The reason is rather simple. I like older women.”

A look of skepticism crosses her eyes. “Is this a kink of yours?”

I shake my head. “No. I like when a woman knows what she wants. When she’s experienced some of the world. And when she isn’t afraid to call me on my shit.”

“Because you do get called on that a lot.”

I laugh. “I do.”

“You deserve it.”

“I do deserve it. And this is why I like someone to challenge me.”

“You would like me to continue being a challenge for you?”

“Yes and no.”

“I’ll stick with challenging. Also, unlike you, your age isn’t a kink for me. I don’t have a thing for younger men.”

“But you do have a thing for me, don’t you?” I wink.

We stop at the metro station, and our hands slip apart. She stops and stares at me, her eyes eating me up. I fucking love the way she looks at me. She parts her pretty lips and answers, “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“We will.”

She steps closer. She doesn’t give me a kiss though. Instead, she lowers her nose to my chest where my T-shirt is a little bit sweaty. She raises her face, and her eyes have that hazy, sexy look. “You have nice sweat.”

I loop an arm around her waist. “We could get sweaty together.”

“Are you always so relentless?”

Dropping my other hand to her hip, I yank her against me, her body flush with mine. “Would you like me to stop being so relentless, Elise?”

She looks to the sky as if considering it. But she wriggles the slightest bit closer, lining up against me. She shakes her head. “No. Don’t stop at all.” She takes a beat then slides a hand between us, resting it on my chest. She runs her fingers from my pecs down over my abs and stops at the waistband of my running shorts.

Her touch is electric. I grab her hand, press it harder against my flat belly. “Don’t you stop either.”

She meets my gaze, letting her fingertips dance a little lower, then lower still. “Like this?”

A groan rumbles up my chest. “Like that,” I rasp out.

Then, vixen that she is, she slinks a hand under my T-shirt and lays her palm flat against my stomach. Her fingers trace my skin. It feels too fucking good in public.

“See you soon, Christian.” Lightly, she grazes her nails down my abs, turning me on everywhere. “Can’t wait.”

“You’re killing me,” I murmur as my brain charges full-speed ahead, picturing getting her under me.

“I know, and you like this kind of slow, exquisite torture.” She dusts her lips against my neck then nips my earlobe.

I grab her harder, yank her closer. “You like it too.”

When she pulls back, she wiggles her eyebrows. “Of course I do. I love it.”

She waves then heads underground and off to the other side of the city. On this side, I’ll be thinking in great and lurid detail about her wandering hands, and how long I have to wait until they torture me once more.





11





Elise





The next night I receive a text, asking me if I want to go to a tea salon on Friday night.

I laugh out loud, writing back as I take a break from tending to the garden in my small front yard.

Elise: You’re actually inviting me to tea?





Christian: Yes, since you’re avoiding date-like things.





Elise: And a tea salon is unromantic?





Christian: I think it’s about as unromantic as we can get. Otherwise, I could take you to the grocery store. But as much as I like you, I don’t really want to go to the grocery store.





Elise: Why do you like me so much? Is it because you haven’t had me?





Christian: Do you expect me to like you less after I have you?





Elise: Of course not.





Christian: I like you for many reasons, but you’ve made it clear you have no interest in romance, and I want to give you what you want.





As I sit cross-legged in the soft emerald grass at my home on a curvy street in Montmartre, I trace my finger over the message, letting those last few words linger. What do I want from a man? What do I want from this man?

I’ve told him I don’t want romance. I’ve made it clear I don’t believe in fate. I can’t let myself go to those places. They are cities where I’m no longer welcome, towns where I can’t find my way. If I went there, I might get lost and never be found again.

But what do I want from him?