He reached for me and derailed my line of thought. He seemed tentative, as if I would say no to him somehow. I left Jack’s side and stood in front of him, posing as he slowly stroked my cheek.
His fingers ran through my hair. They traced down my temple, jaw, neck, to the line of my strap, and then down to my breast and into my cleavage—the simple, lonely touch made goosebumps break out on my body. I was ready to go again, I was revving like a glossy muscle car.
“You’re simply gorgeous,” he said. “You are bewitching.”
Good lord, he was French.
“You’re beautiful too,” I told him, perhaps a little fervently, but I meant it. I wanted him, my body wanted him—and there was no doubt that he would have me. What I liked best about selling myself was the certainty. I knew something was happening. The Frenchman’s mouth opened, not quite a smile, which revealed strong teeth. He smelled like cigarettes as he pulled me close.
Every different man will have different details, I realized. Each John will have little things that make them different.
I surprised my Frenchman by standing on my toes and kissing him. He slipped his trench coat to the floor, and then I had his warm torso, in jeans and a button-up, under my hands. I pulled him close, rubbing my breasts across his chest. His mouth was strong and knowing. It opened against mine and it somehow felt like he made a direct connection to the sex between my legs. I pressed against his lips, deeply hungry, wanting more sensation from him. He gave a flattering groan.
I feel the same, Frenchman! He was so different from the College Boy from two minutes ago, who was different still from Jack. A girl could get used to this variety! My lips were still sensitive from the earlier make-out sessions, so they picked up with the Frenchman where the others left off. This third man of my “professional career” was just another stage in a day-long sex act that was building to an explosion.
“Your dress?”
I pulled it over my head before he finished asking.
He lifted me off the ground and I curled my legs around his hips. His mouth slid down my chest. His tongue left a wet trail that set my skin on fire. When he landed on a nipple I heaved against him. I wanted to escape the intense feeling—but dive into it too.
I settled on gathering him closer, as if I could control the sensation by smothering him against me. I clasped him with my legs, scissoring so tightly he grunted. He couldn’t pull away without wrestling me—but he didn’t want to pull away.
I glanced in the mirror and saw Jack standing by the door. He was timing us with a wristwatch and staring at me with adoration.
Holy shit, I thought. Jack really likes me!
I had thought we were having a classroom crush. Put me next to a guy in class, I can fall in love in an hour and then forget him until the next day. That’s just the way I’ve always been. I’m especially fun on dates.
Jack was different. I was obsessing over him even in the off hours. Now here he was, sharing my dream fantasy with me, glowing with pride. It was mutual. As Marylou I trusted him. As Lorelei, I craved him.
I reminded myself that I had responsibilities.
I turned back to my Frenchman and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He stopped me: “Someone might come in and see me.”
I smiled at that. Double standard much? I unclenched his torso and landed lightly on the ground.
I hope I didn’t seem too eager, but I manhandled him into the handicapped stall, gave Jack wink, and slammed the door behind us.
Now in private, he let me open his shirt to reveal the hard, tan body of a laborer. He had a tattoo of some kind of French army emblem right over his heart. I laid my face against it and brushed my lips over his detailed chest. I gripped his sides. He was hot and soft to the touch, but muscled like Adonis.
One hand cupped my ass to lift me up, and the other landed on my sex, fingers working. My sex was like my nipple—ready to go. It was monumentally wet from what had already been the sexiest day of my life. I held his gaze as he explored me down there.
He opened the folds of my lower lips, and they felt soft as flower petals against his rough fingers. His callused palms seemed to score my inner thighs, as if I weren’t flesh but instead some inestimably delicate artwork that shouldn’t be handled. I wanted to be handled.
“Tell me something in French,” I breathed.
“Qu'est-ce que je ferais sans toi, ma petite?”
Wow. For a moment I could only smile dumbly at him.
A girl had to be careful listening to French.
“Let me suck you,” I said, sliding to my knees.
I had his belt open in seconds, and his long, dark cock free in the air a moment later. I didn’t even take it in my hand—too slow. I caught it in my mouth and swallowed it whole, pressing my face into his groin. I didn’t stop until his pubic hairs tickled my lips, and my face pressed against his strong, flat stomach.