The tall woman had no need to turn around and confirm her suspicions. She knew the brown-haired man had stepped onto the Metro train somewhere behind her. Why give him the satisfaction of eye contact?
He’d shadowed her throughout her visit to Sabbia Rosa in the Saint Germain district. As she’d fingered the sumptuous bras and camisoles, awed by the range and intensity of available colors, he’d lurked behind counters and fixtures. She had been aware of him virtually every moment but carefully avoided meeting his gaze.
“Est-ce que je peux vous aider, monsieur?” Madame Rosa had asked the man.
He waved her away politely and shook his head. Mme. Rosa graciously left him alone. Was she aware that he was stalking one of her customers? If so, her calm professionalism cloaked the knowledge well.
And now he rode behind the woman, seemingly intent on following her to her next destination. His presence would not disturb her shopping plans. She hadn’t come all the way to Paris to have her quest for perfect lingerie interrupted. In fact, as she stared vacantly out the window, she concentrated on the luxurious silk satin bra already being warmed by the heat of her small breasts. “Fashion breasts,” Madame Rosa had commented. Uncharacteristically, she had opted for the color cardinal — it was unquestionably the richest shade of red she had ever owned, in any garment. Just knowing the beautiful creation clung so sensuously to her body right now elicited the subtlest of satisfied squirms. With Herculean self-containment, she did her best to forget the man was somewhere behind her as she thought about the stockings she hoped to find at Cadolle.
Still smiling inwardly, she exited at the Concorde station and headed east along the rue de Rivoli. She felt his dark, muscular presence behind her but still refused to turn around and look at him. Let him wonder, she thought, about where I might be taking him next.
She turned left at rue Cambon, walking with delicious purpose toward the shop where the first bra had been invented. Two blocks later, she paused at the breathtaking window where flawlessly constructed corsets and sparkling bottles of parfum sat seductively under soft lights. She saw him in the window’s reflection — he stood across the street, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat, pretending he was a Parisian, waiting for something — or someone. She slipped into the boutique.
A sophisticated saleswoman of un certain age approached as she lingered over the glass cases housing a simple but elegant presentation of garter belts. She pointed to the exquisitely understated belt in black. The salesperson nodded knowingly, removed it from the case, adeptly selected a package of matching stockings, and led her to a private dressing room.
“I have chosen the perfect stockings for the belt,” the salesperson assured her in a thick French accent. “Try them. I think you will like them,” she said as she excused herself to afford her customer the necessary privacy.
The dressing room was surprisingly ample — certainly larger than many she’d known in the United States. Incandescent lighting cast romantic shadows everywhere and the rich mahogany accents gave the room a classic boudoir ambience. Excitedly, she stepped out of her skirt and tossed her panties on the immaculate carpet. The act felt decidedly indecent and she stifled a quiet giggle.
At the sound of a soft knock at the door, she quickly answered, “Oui?”
The handle dipped downward just before the door opened. The man stepped inside.
“I told them I was your husband,” he whispered.
She froze as thoughts ricocheted around her head. She didn’t call out for help. She didn’t fight him off. She didn’t even remember that she was naked from the waist down.
“How dare you…” She finally hissed.
He turned to the Louis XIV chair where the salesperson had draped the garter belt. Wordlessly, he handed it to her. His unflappable audacity astonished her yet she took the garment and stepped into it as he watched.
“Oh, yes. That’s lovely,” he said, moving closer to her. His brown eyes gleamed with an intent she not only understood but welcomed. Just when she thought he was about to embrace her, his hand burrowed between her thighs. She flinched and gasped, shocked by both his boldness and her wetness.
He stroked her slowly, as if to absorb the moisture he found there. Because he was slightly shorter than she, his face nuzzled the curve of her neck without any manuevering. Her nose hovered close to his hair. She liked the way he smelled.
When he turned his face up to meet hers, their mouths needed no introduction. His lips, warm and furtive, touched hers softly at first but then took on the same exploratory hunger as his hands did at her pussy.
She was suddenly so pliable. Malleable, even. As he pressed her against the dressing room wall, the idea of resisting never entered her mind. She knew only sensation now — heat, pressure, an urgent flow of blood, his hardness.
Another knock sounded at the door. She broke free from his kiss, jarred as if awakened from a vivid dream.
“Attente, s’il vous plait!” She blurted out.
He sensed her panic and looked deep into her eyes. “Don’t worry. She won’t come in now.”
His fingers did not move from between her moist folds.
“You must leave,” she whispered. “They’ll throw us both out if they catch us.”
His gaze penetrated hers for a second longer before he stepped away from her, finally removing his drenched hand from its temporary home. With his dry hand, he took hold of the door handle.
“This would be easier if it was just about the sex,” he said, just before his surreptitious exit. Trembling, she grasped the arm of the chair and used it for support as she lowered herself into it. Had he escaped unnoticed? Did the sales staff know he’d been in the dressing room with her? Did they believe he was her husband? Or did this sort of thing go on all the time in Paris?
She sat in the upholstered chair until the electric current in her veins dissipated. When she regained control of herself, she slowly slid the stockings up the length of her long legs and attached the garters, pausing to appreciate the luscious weave of the stockings. After a deep and soothing breath, she strode to the counter and paid for her purchases, which she explained she was wearing.
Her panties remained on the dressing room floor.
Gratitude surged through her as she walked swiftly to her hotel. She felt he still shadowed her but didn’t allow herself to look back. Would he have the nerve to continue his pursuit? Her constitution couldn’t withstand another close call like the one at Cadolle. Her feet could not take her quickly enough to the Hotel Westminster.
They rode up to the sixth floor in silence. She couldn’t imagine where he’d come from but as she’d pressed the button to her floor, he was suddenly beside her. A dour looking businessman joined them, effectively preventing any communication. The businessman got off on the fifth floor.
At the sixth floor, she left the elevator as if he wasn’t present, as if she was oblivious to the thrumming portent of his muscled body. She strode to room 622 with a diffidence she did not feel and said nothing when he followed her inside.
“Show me, please, what you bought today.”
She stared at him, unaware that her stare would be interpreted as an invitation. He removed her clothes with great care, sliding her blouse smoothly over her shoulders to reveal the sheen of cardinal silk she’d purchased that morning. After he unhooked her skirt, it swooshed to the floor, presenting her black garter and stockings. To her surprise, he seated himself in the nearby divan and sat back to view her in her lingerie’d glory.
“How beautiful you are. I love looking at you.”
She loved being looked at but said nothing.
“Please come closer,” he urged.
She took two steps toward him.
“Would you lie down on the bed for me and spread your legs? I need to see what I’ve been enjoying this afternoon.”
Obediently, she lay on her back, knees apart. She focused on the ceiling, growing wetter with the knowledge that she was on display for him. She heard him unzip his trousers and felt him approach.
He knelt before the bed and tickled her pussy with his breath. Slowly, deliberately, he explored every juicy crevice between her legs. He examined her with ardent curiosity. As a connoisseur — a lover of women. His roving fingers primed her for his experienced tongue and before the sun set that day, she received his wonderfully large cock in what had become her aching pussy.
“You take it so nicely,” he whispered hoarsely as he took her from behind later that night.
In the morning, she was up and already packing as he emerged from the shower, dripping with only a towel around his mid-section.
“Did you pack my bathrobe already?” He asked.
“No, sweetie,” she smiled at him, still glowing from the day and night before. “It’s still on the back of the bathroom door.”
“What time is our flight again?”
“Noon,” she reminded him, gently placing her soiled lingerie in the pouch of her suitcase.