Page 40 of One Week in Paris
“I insist,” he says.
I shrug. “Okay… suit yourself.”
About ten steps later, we find ourselves in front of the steps leading to the front door of my building.
“I had a really good time,” he says.
I smile. “Me too… surprisingly.” I really did.
He laughs, a soft chuckle. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” he points out. “But there’s still a long way to go. I’ve only just gotten started. I’ve got so much shit to make up for.”
“You do.”
“How about I take you out again?” he suggests. “Art museum, book store? Do you still love books?”
I smile. “Yes, I’m still a nerdy bookworm, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, nerdy bookworms are sexy-as-hell,” he teases. “I can just picture you, all cozied up in your bed, a paperback resting on your thighs,” he says, his words soft and smooth. “Lucky fucking paperback.”
Oh, damn.
He inches closer without a word.
I’m aroused, and feeling very flirty. “You’re picturing me in a little nightie, aren’t you?”
He smiles. “How did you know? It’s pink and sheer, cut low, rides up high.”
“What am I reading?”
He closes his eyes. “Uh… Fifty Shades of Grey,” he says. “You’re wet.”
Holy shit.
His words take me for a loop. I don’t know what to say. And like I do every time I get nervous, I make a lame joke. “Oh, Fifty Shades was so six years ago. I’ve moved on…”
He smiles.
How did this conversation turn so naughty?
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in. Even with my heels, I’m a few inches shorter than him. He’s tall but not quite as tall as Oscar.
Why in the heavens am I thinking about Oscar?
