Part-Time Lover Read online

  “I want to do right by Grandfather. Honor his wishes.” Erik twirls a pen as he stares at the photo. “He built the firm, and I’m lucky enough to get to run it. I can’t believe you don’t want to.”

  I lift my hands in surrender. “No interest. It’s all yours. Been there, done that.”

  “You sure?”

  “I like playing around with it, like I get to do now and then. Dipping my toes wherever I want.” I wiggle my shoe to demonstrate.

  Erik gives me a dirty look. “I bet you’d like to dip something else somewhere tonight.”

  I smirk. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I really can’t believe you saw her again,” he says.

  “Crazy, right?”

  “Maybe it’s meant to be, like Jandy and me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Elise called me a hopeless romantic, but the title is more apt for you.”

  “And on that count, constable, I am guilty as charged.” He smiles dopily, and I know he’s thinking of his wife. He’s so besotted with her. He has a bit of a Prince Charming complex, and that’s not a bad thing.

  When he first met his wife, she was timid, he’d said. Like a baby deer. She’d had a crap upbringing, and her father was awful to her, but Erik took good care of her, finding her a job here that suited her, and she came out of her shell. Became a bolder, more confident woman. She depends on him, and he dotes on her.

  He raps his knuckles on the table. “I hope she can make it home earlier tonight. I feel like I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  I sit up straighter. This news surprises me. “Why wouldn’t she make it home at a reasonable hour?”

  “Oh, you know how it goes. Busy managing all these marketing projects.”

  I never thought Jandy was that busy in her job. What if she’s playing my brother for a fool? I phrase my question carefully. “Is that so? I didn’t realize we were engaged in so much marketing here.”

  “Right, but you don’t get your hands dirty in that department. She’d been quite busy organizing our new campaigns, and since we moved here, it’s been busier.”

  “Getting her hands dirty,” I echo with a wink, since that sounds fairly reasonable.

  “I like to get her hands dirty,” Erik says, chuckling at his own joke. “And I’d like to break Dad’s streak and stay married for a long, long time to one woman.”

  He and Jandy have only been husband and wife for three years, but judging from Erik’s affection for his bride, he should easily meet his goal.

  “No doubt you’ll get there. You know I’m already disqualified,” I say.

  “And that’s always been for the best. I know it was years ago, but Emma was never right for you.”

  I hardly think about my ex-wife, Emma, and those days when we drifted apart shortly after tying the knot post-university. “That’s true.”

  “What about now? What are you up to tonight?”

  “Me?” I tap my chest. “I have one date and you’re asking me if I’m ever going to get married again?”

  “No, you twat.” He lobs the pen at me and I catch it easily. “Just wondering what you’re doing with Elise tonight.”

  Maybe he can see through me. Perhaps it’s painted on my face that I’ve been thinking of Elise all day. She’s elusive. Making me wait. Perhaps that’s why I want to see her so badly.

  Then again, maybe I want to see her because everything between us sparked.

  “I’m going to be having the time of my life,” I answer as we return to paperwork.

  Soon, we finish for the day, and Erik closes his laptop. “Good thing you own so many damn shares of this company, or I’d feel guilty tapping your brain for all this.”

  “Good thing I have a sick love of business.”

  “It is an illness, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a right madness. Only matched by my bottomless love of the female form.”

  “Get out of here, you dog.” He mimes tossing a ball at me.

  I pant and trot off as if to catch it.

  * * *

  Elise saunters down the avenue, and I have the pleasure of watching her approach. There’s an ease to how confidently she walks, even in four-inch heels. She’s so fucking Parisian, and it’s an insane turn-on, that je ne sais quoi of French women.

  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.”

  I shake my head in amusement. This man is brimming with sexual innuendo, and it’s ridiculously appealing.

  I stop in my tracks at a huge black-and-white photo with the word #space on it. I step closer, peering at it. “Is that the moon?”

  “I think it is. And holy crap, they’re listing it for two thousand euros. That’s bollocks.”

  “It’s not as if this person actually went to the moon and took the picture himself.”

  “They probably went into the national archives, grabbed a photo of the moon landing, and blew it up in a copy shop.”

  “I’m in the wrong business, if you can take a photocopy and sell it for that amount. I should get out of advertising and into the hoodwinkery trade.”

  He laughs. “I’ll be right there with you. We’ll capture cell phone shots of the photos of the great events in world history, blow them up, add a hashtag, and sell them at the art and design center.”

  “We’ll be in the business of highway robbery.” I turn around to find a humongous chair made out of wicker. It looks like a thatched throne, and the back of it is literally ten feet tall, with a seat covered in a patchwork quilt of pillows. “Speaking of highway robbery.”

  “Ah, I’ve been hunting for a comfy new chair.” Christian parks himself in it and pats an emerald-green pillow next to him. “Come try it out.”

  That means I’ll be wedged against him.

  There’s no other answer but yes, please.

  I drop down next to him in the seat, and he slides an arm across my lower back, wrapping his hand possessively around my waist. “You fit nicely next to me,” he says softly, his eyes roaming over my face.

  A burst of desire shimmies down my body. “You’re constantly trying to get close to me.”

  He leans in, running his nose along my neck. I stifle a whimper as he sniffs, saying, “You’re right. I am. I find you fascinating and irresistible. Maybe you could stop resisting me.”

  A smile spreads rapidly, and I lean a little closer, want a little more. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” I tease, but I’m not giving in easily.

  “Good. You do that.”

  Before I risk draping a leg over his, wrapping an arm around him, or slamming my lips to his, I pat the hard chair. “What do you think this monstrosity costs?”

  He pops up, strides over to the beanpole of a man running the booth, and asks. When he returns to me, he offers a hand, pulling me up from the chair and tugging me nearly flush against him.

  In a low, sultry voice, he whispers, “This can be yours for a cool twenty-two-and-a-half-thousand euros.”

  He doesn’t blink. He says it as if he would seriously consider it. I crack up, so loud I need to cover my mouth with my hands. In between breaths, I ask, “Does it come with the pillows?”

  He shakes his head, a forlorn look in his ice-blue eyes. “Sadly, it does not.”

  Raising my chin haughtily, I answer. “Pssh. Then I don’t want it.”

  We leave the chair and wander around some more.

  “How was your week?” he asks, and the normalcy of the question gives me pause. He asks it with ease, as if we’re used to the simple back and forth of “how was your day” and “what’s for dinner.”

  “Busy. I was working on some new pitches for potential business at the ad agency I own.”

  He asks more questions about my agency, and I share a few details then inquire about his day.

  “Busy too. I had a translation job for a bigwig. That was a lot of fun. And then I helped my brother with a few projects. But mostly I spent a good portion of the week wondering if this beautiful Frenchwoman was going to let me kiss her tonight.”

  I smile. “I’m only half French.”

  “Which half?” he says, a little impishly.

  “Which half of you is British?”

  “My cock, of course.”

  “My tits are French, then,” I reply. Two can play at that game.

  His eyes drift to my chest. “I love French,” he says, lingering on them.

  “Oh please,” I say, and he refocuses, meeting my eyes. “My parents are French, but I was born in America and raised in Manhattan. I have dual citizenship.”

  “Do you feel more French or American?”

  The question is a good one, and I’ve pondered it many times over the years. We grew up in the heart of the Upper East Side, speaking only French at home, as my parents wanted me to be bilingual. But my cultural touchstones were all American. “I feel like I straddle both worlds. What about you? Do you feel more Danish or British?”

  “Would it be completely lame if I answered the same? I grew up in England for the most part, but I’m close to my mum and to my Danish relatives, so I’d have to say both.”

  I’m glad he answered from the heart and not from his British cock. I like the teasing, but I like more knowing who he is. “I feel at home being both too.”

  He takes my hand again, and another whoosh rushes through me. It lasts longer, spreads further.

  “But would you feel more at home if you had that?” His tone is intensely serious. He grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around, and for a moment, I barely register what I’m looking at because his hands on my shoulders turn that whoosh into a wave of something a bit dirty, a little forbidden.

  But there’s no time to focus on the longing since I’m taken aback when I see a bronzed, stylized sculpture of a gorilla head. It sits on a pedestal in an art gallery exhibit. Surprisingly, I like it. “Now that’s actually a really handsome gorilla.”

  “It is,” he admits.

  “I’m not looking for gorilla-head art, mind you, but I could see that in my house.”

  “You could?”

  “Yes, maybe if it was, say, three hundred euros. For the sheer conversational value of it. If I were hosting a party, I could say, ‘Yes, I have a lovely gorilla sculpture.’”

  “Let’s bargain. Let’s get her to sell you that gorilla head for three hundred euros.”

  He strides up to the woman running the booth, standing a few feet away. “Hello. Just curious how much that gorilla head is going to set me back?” He takes out his wallet as if he’s truly about to buy me a gorilla head on a pedestal.

  With her blond hair cinched high on her head, the woman offers a faint, simpering smile. “It’s seven hundred and fifty thousand euros.”

  I expect Christian’s jaw to drop,
since I can feel mine coming unhinged at the audacity of such a price. Christian maintains a stoic face, asking, “Does it come with the pedestal?”

  Blondie offers another faint smile. “We can throw in the pedestal for that price.”

  He claps his hands. “Right. How generous. Thank you so much. We’re going to go out, have a drink, and discuss the needs of our foyer.”

  We proceed to have a priceless time wandering around for the next hour, laughing about the cost of everything, and when we leave, empty-handed of course, I’m thinking how wonderful it was to do something irreverent and not at all designed to end with us in bed. Given the fun we had at the garden bar, I’m not surprised we had a good time. I am surprised I let myself enjoy it so much.

  But a part of me wants to know what he’d be like behind closed doors. A part of me wants a little taste. When we exit, I yank him close and whisper, “That kiss you’ve been wondering about?”

  “Yes?” His voice is husky, thick with desire.

  “Take it,” I tell him, my eyes fixed on his. “Take it now.”

  That’s all he needs to hear.

  He slides a hand around the back of my neck, holding me. In his crystal-blue irises, I see heat and desire, then a blur of lust as I shut my eyes. He presses his lips to mine, dusting them softly. It’s a beautiful first kiss. It’s exploratory and hungry at the same time. His tongue slips over my lips, his mouth opening mine.

  My mind goes hazy in a heartbeat, like I’m having a drink, like the champagne is going straight to my head. Trembles run down my body, and I’m warm everywhere. The delicious, tingly, liquid feeling tells me I will be replaying this kiss tonight, home alone in bed.

  I’ll be wondering what it would have been like if I’d let him do everything I wanted, if I’d let him reach his hands into my hair and tug hard. The possibilities blast before me, and I jerk him to me for a few seconds, feeling the press of his erection against my hip.

  He lets out a sexy, hungry moan that nearly breaks me. A moan that hints at how good we’d be together in bed. And how dangerous that would be.

  I pull apart. “Good night, Christian. Same time next week?”