Page 52 of One Week in Paris
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MY STOMACH DOES a nose dive when I round the corner. It’s not Mark and Nicole. It’s Oscar and Sophie. He’s sitting on the edge of the desk, and she’s all over him like a cheap tablecloth, the skirt of her dress hiked up. Her back is to me, but his face is in my line of sight. And I don’t like what I see. His eyes are closed, and a smile traces his lips.
You would think that I would want to get out of there as fast as I can. But I can’t move. I want to watch them. Who knew I was a voyeur? They say that you should learn something new about yourself every day. Well today’s new tidbit: I like watching.
The sight of them makes me extremely jealous, but also turns me on. Her mouth is pressed against his neck, and his hand is on her ass.
“You like that?” she says, her voice as smooth as silk.
He moans softly.
I can’t quite see what she’s doing exactly. I bite my lip, watching.
I am such a creep.
“You like when I pet your cock, Oscar?” she asks.
Holy shit. She’s giving him a hand job, and I’m standing here, watching. I want her to keep at it. I want to see him come. Strangely enough, I’m very aroused.
He groans a little more loudly, and when he opens his eyes, I want to run, but I stand frozen. I spot the shock in his eyes, but he remains still. He doesn’t move, enjoying the sight of me there, watching them. I keep watching, and Sophie keeps stroking.
“You are so fucking hard,” she says. “So big.”
A smile traces his lips, and mine also.
This is so messed up.
“Sophie,” a voice calls out from the hall, and they quickly scamper. She jumps off him, and he struggles to do up his fly. I turn to leave and smack right into Antoine.
“Sorry,” he offers, and calls out Sophie’s name again. Next, he’s saying something in French I don’t understand. I understand French only if it’s spoken very slowly and clearly.
I’m walking down the narrow hall back to the living area when Oscar grabs a hold of my arm. He pulls me to him. “Did you enjoy that?” he whispers against the lobe of my ear. “I didn’t know you liked watching.”
I smile, enjoying the feel of him against me, the heat of his hot breath on my skin, his familiar scent. “I didn’t know either.”
He wraps an arm around my waist and presses me closer against him, so close, I can feel his hard-on. “I’m surprised you weren’t jealous.”
“I was. I am,” I confess. “I don’t want you to be with her.”
He hikes his hand up the skirt of my dress. “You want your cake and you want to eat it too.”
“Yeah. I’m greedy that way.”
“I know.”
“Did you touch her pussy?” I ask, driven by curiosity or… jealousy, possibly both.
He smiles. “No.”
His hand travels between my thighs and reaches my sweet spot. “You’re turned on.”
My voice is small when I reply feebly, “Yes…”
“I love arousing you.”
“Were you going to fuck her?” I ask. I want to know.
“I’m not sure,” he admits. “It felt so good… but—”
