Page 6 of One Week in Paris
He spreads my legs open, and bends his mouth to my sex.
“Stop,” I whimper.
His head shoots up. “What?”
I slither my way out, pull away from under him, and sit up. “Actually, it’s about Paris.”
“What about Paris?”
“Uh…” I really don’t know how to approach this, how to tell him that I don’t want him to come with me, that I’d rather go with a friend. I hate this. “I… I actually thought, that it might be fun to go with Corrie. You know how fun she is. It would be a fun girls’ trip.”
His face slowly falls as realization dawns on him — I’m not taking him to Paris. I hate the pain I see in his big puppy dog eyes. He’s killing me.
“Uh… I see.” He’s clearly speechless, which is strange because Oscar is usually never without words.
“It’s not about you,” I insist. “I just feel like a girls’ trip. It’s Paris after all. We could go shopping and stuff—”
“You hate shopping,” he points out, his brows a hard line.
“Well, it’s Paris,” I argue. “The shopping there is great.”
He pulls the sheet over himself — his erection has left the building, and I don’t think it’s coming back. “I don’t care if you take her instead of me,” he says, “but don’t you dare use her as an excuse. Don’t you dare bullshit me, Kayla. How stupid do you think I am? I know I might not be a doctor or a lawyer,” he goes on, his eyes full of emotion. “Yeah, let’s just use and fuck over Oscar. He’s just a dumb barista. He won’t mind.”
My heart sinks.
“It’s not like that,” I try to explain. “It’s just that I don’t think we should get into that… traveling together and spending the night—”
“Would that be so bad?”
“I just… you and me, it’s just for fun. You know that, right?”
He pulls from me, to the edge of the bed, and searches for his boxers. I study the smooth curve and V shape of his back. “Yeah,” he says. “I know you’re just using me. I’m just your little play-toy.”
“We’re using each other,” I point out. “I’m your toy too.”
He whips around. “You might be using me but I’m not using you. You’re more than a toy to me.”
He swiftly slips on his boxers and pants. He scowls as he collects his t-shirt and sweater. He’s found one sock but is missing the other.
I stifle a smile. “Look at you,” I tease. “You can’t even properly storm out of a room.”
He’s still searching, not amused in the least. “I can’t find my fucking sock.” After a beat, he gives up. “Fuck it.”
“Have a nice time in Paris,” he says, and slams my bedroom door for good measure.
I let out a long breath and stare down at my naked body, tense and unsatisfied.
Damn you, Mom.
