Paris is For Lovers (and Vampire Hunters) . . . Continued

I’d spotted him leaning against the bar. He was dark, handsome, unmistakably French, and wearing a pissed off expression. He came complete with hooded eyes and hawklike features that managed to be sharp and sensual all at the same time. He’d smiled, and I had moved to him as if he was magnetized.

The woman sitting on the stool closest to him glared at me when I pushed past her and held out my hand to him. He took it immediately, threw some bills on the bar, and pushed open the door for me. A blast of night air gusted through Harry’s smoke.

He seemed as eager as I, his long finger finding the crease in my ass, sliding into it, pressing the silken fabric of my skirt against the shocked, bare pucker of my asshole, urging me along. I was glad I had left my panties at the hotel.

His boots and my heels were loud, disharmonious, the noise bouncing off sepia colored buildings. Even the alley behind 5 Rue Daunou was elegant—cobblestones, wrought iron stairs, potted trees, creeping vines and flowers.

He pushed me into a stairwell. It was dark, but through an archway I saw a courtyard, a silent fountain standing sentry, but we didn’t go there. He smiled the smile he’d flashed in the bar, the one that had made me follow him out the door, the one that was dangerously sexy, snarly, and confident. He tugged me under the iron stairs into a darker space, thrusting his hands between my thighs and pushing my dress up. He explored my ass and cunt, not missing a thing. This man knew his way around a woman’s body.

I sucked in a breath, my hands curling into the wall, my body bowing to lift higher for his exploring hands, my knees spreading. I groaned as he sunk long, crafty fingers into me.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

I was so wet, so slippery; he knew I liked everything he was doing.

I reached for his cock, and he growled when it sprang into my hand. I jacked him off in the darkness, my trembling fingers scraping against his spread fly and the rough thatch of his pubic hair.

“Someone’s coming!” I whispered, squeezing my legs together, trapping and stopping his hand, my eyes wide as he rested his forehead on mine, his fingers curled inside me still.

We watched as a drunken couple fumble their way through the doorway and up the stairs above us. She flashed us long legs and a hairy cunt as they pass.

I closed my eyes so they don’t see the luminous, hungry shine of them in the darkness, and I sank my teeth into the fine cloth of his suited, very broad shoulder, to quiet a whimper caused by the scent of him—cigars and Paris—the feel of him; hot mouth on my earlobe, swivels of palm over clit until I burn.

My hand itched to wrap again around his hard length, uncut and thick, but he beats me to it, hiking my leg up and spreading me wide, prick in hand.

To Be Continued...Maybe...



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