One Week in Paris Read online

  He laughs and pulls me in closer. “You don’t like the leg warmers?”

  “You look like an idiot.”

  “But they keep me warm. It’s cold outside. You wanna borrow them?”

  “You need to go, Oscar,” I tell him. “I’ll get in trouble.”

  He squeezes my ass hard, and turns on his heel. He waves bye as he struts off. I can’t help but grin as I watch him go. “Meet you at my place,” I call out.

  He shoots me a wicked smile. “I’ll be there before you, naked in your bed.”

  I smile. I’m not crazy about his yoga class outfit, but I do love his birthday suit.

  Following a brief shower, I quickly blow dry my hair and slip on some cozy sweats. I dash to my car, and utter expletives when it’s covered in snow again. I pull out the brush and curse the Gods of winter. I’m horny and wanting to get some, and it feels like I have to jump through hoops. I just want to get there, in my bed, on top of Oscar.

  Heat wraps me in a warm hug when I finally get into the lobby of my apartment building. I tap in the code to get in, and dash up the two flights of stairs. I struggle with my boots, not moving fast enough.

  When I finally make it to my room, Oscar is lying on my bed, wearing nothing but a wicked smile and a glorious erection. “Get over here,” he says.

  I drop my bag, peel off my gloves, scarf and my heavy winter jacket. I slither onto the bed, still wearing my winter toque, and straddle him as I press my lips on his. Oscar is good in bed; gentle at times, rough when he needs to be. And he’s always fun. He tugs my hat off, and nibbles at my bottom lip as he pulls at my hair. “God, I love your hair.”

  I slide the palms of my hands down his smooth torso. He’s so warm and soft. I travel down lower and tease him.

  His smile is lost against my mouth. “I missed you,” he mumbles.

  “It’s only been six days,” I point out. I know this because I’ve been counting.

  We had another one of our tiffs again. I told him I wanted him out of my life, and he replied, “Gladly. Nice knowing ya.” We always fight — it’s what we do. But we always end up back together. I never make the first move. I always make him come to me, and I never wait longer than a week. Sometimes, I wonder if he’ll ever get sick of this game we play. One day, I’ll be waiting for him to come back, and a week will pass, and then another. And he won’t come back. Maybe one day he’ll find someone else.

  I try not to think about it as I get lost in the sweet taste of his mouth. He slides a large hand up my torso and pulls my knitted sweater over my head. My hair is wild. I throw my head back. “Take off my bra… I want your mouth on my tits.”

  He quickly obliges, and as soon as his hot mouth wraps around my breast, a warmth fills me and I feel myself getting wet for him.

  His hard-on presses against my sex, with promises of an amazing orgasm. I reach for the band of my sweat pants, and slide them over my ass — Oscar is not moving fast enough for my liking.

  He laughs. “Eager little bunny.”

  I press a hand on his torso, and push him down on the mattress. “I want you inside me.”

  He reaches for the condom on the bedside table. “Willing, able, and at your service, my lady.”

  Just as I’m struggling to get out of my sweats, my phone rings. The familiar ringtone assaults my ears, and makes my whole body tighten.

  Ugh…

  Nice timing.

  “Leave it,” Oscar pleads. I quickly glance at him — he’s still hard, and not impressed. But my phone beckons. Oscar knows I’m the type of person who always picks up. I just don’t like brushing people off. When I call someone, I appreciate it when they answer promptly. I just like to give others the same consideration. I lunge off the bed, and reach for my purse. I quickly fish out my phone.

  “Hello,” I say, breathless.

  “Why, darling… you sound absolutely winded. What are you up to? Are you in the middle of one of your classes?”

  Great. It’s my mother. Florence Wilson has the most impeccable timing. This is the same woman who walked in on my first boyfriend and I, to show me the new pink shoes she’d just bought. Ryan, was just lying there under the sheets, naked and sporting a huge hard-on, and the woman had no clue.

  “I was… yes, it’s fine. Just working out.” I’m definitely not telling my mother that I’m actually in the middle of sex. She’d probably ask me to say hi to Oscar. Oscar shoots me a death stare, and his erection wilts right in front of my eyes.

  I sigh.

  “So darling, I have some wonderful news to share with you,” she says and pauses for effect.

  “What?” I ask her, curious. “What is it?” I really don’t know why my mother always insists on playing games — she’s so dramatic.

  “Well, you’re probably not going to believe it when I tell you…”

  “What?!” I ask again.

  “I’m so excited, I can barely breathe,” she goes on.

  I press my hand on the microphone. “I want to kill my mother,” I whisper to Oscar.

  He smiles. “Again?”

  “We’ll need to go shopping,” she says, excited. “We’re going to have to buy a few new dresses.”

  “For the love of God, woman,” I scoff. “Tell me.”

  “Mark asked me to marry him,” she finally announces. “I said yes!”

  My heart skips a beat. I’m shocked. Well, sort of. My mother and Mark have been seeing each other for just about six months. Seems quick. Oscar and I, on the other hand, have been friends-with-benefits for over three years and I have no plans to marry him anytime soon. Or ever. Or marry anyone, for that matter.

  “Wow, that’s great,” I say, but the lack of genuine excitement in my voice betrays my words. “I’m a bit surprised.”

  “I know we haven’t been together that long,” she says. “But when it’s right, it’s right, you know? Mark is such a wonderful man; handsome, successful, and treats me like a princess. He’s quite the catch.”

  “Yes, quite the catch,” I echo. I’ve only met Mark a handful of times, a few of which were very brief. My impression: handsome, yes, well-dressed, yes, successful, obviously. Too polite. Uptight. And slightly controlling. I try not judge people on appearances so I’m determined to give him a chance. Although, my intuition tells me he’s not as great as my mother thinks he is.

  Oscar twiddles his thumbs, and eyes me with wide curious eyes — he wants to know what’s going on. “My mom is getting married,” I tell him.

  His eyes grow wider.

  “And there’s more,” Mom says, her words full of fire. “We’re getting married in Paris!”

  “Paris!!” I blurt out. Paris.

  Oscar sits up straighter.

  “Why Paris?” I ask.

  “Well, you know how I love Paris, and Mark just wants to make me happy.”

  “Wow,” I say again, and this time, I’m genuinely excited. I should definitely give this Mark guy another chance. If the man is willing to cater to all my mother’s wishes, maybe he is a catch.

  “Mark says he will pay for your flights… you and Sarah. And a guest each.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “Wow,” is all I can say. Mom must have told him how I’m broke. Sarah is an attorney — she has money, but me, not so much.

  “You can bring Oscar,” she says, eager, “or one of your girlfriends… maybe.”

  I mull it over. Do I want to take Oscar? A trip to Paris is big. This thing we have going is casual. It doesn’t involve spending the night together, traveling, or romantic cities. He might get the wrong idea. I’ve always been careful to make it clear: this is just for fun — no commitment.

  Oscar would never admit it, but he’s the commitment type. His childhood was a happy one: parents who love each other, a sweet sister, and a pretty little house in the suburbs, which his parents still live in. He loves dogs, babies, backyard swings, and burgers on the grill. Oscar is as simple as they come, happy as a clam. I envy that about him. I, on the other hand,
am a mess.

  I grew up in a chaotic household. We lived in small decrepit apartments mostly. My dad owned a bar, a dirty dive where he met my mom — she was a waitress. He drank a lot, and partied too much. Most nights, they’d fight. My mother would complain about his drinking and philandering ways, and having to take care of the children on her own, and he’d bitch about her spending his money. I’d lie in my bed, and stare at the ceiling. “Never getting married. Never having kids,” I’d whisper like a mantra. My sister, who bunked in the twin bed next to mine, would always snicker. I’m sure she felt the exact same way.

  I could take one of my friends. We could make it a girls’ trip. Eat escargot and chocolate, drink pretty cocktails, and flirt with Frenchmen. But who should I take? Gabbie, Corrie, or Maeve?

  “Yeah, sure… wow,” I say to my mother. I’m still speechless.

  Gabbie probably can’t go. She’s about four months pregnant and has two kids to take care of. Maeve is busy with her new shop. And Corrie… it would probably need to be Corrie.

  “Well, sorry, darling, but I have to go,” Mom says. “You know how it is… bride-to-be. Lots to do.”

  “Of course, yeah,” I say, absentmindedly. “Congratulations.”

  “Bye, sweetie,” she says, and she’s gone.

  “Your mom is getting married in Paris?” Oscar asks, chomping at the bit. He wants to know what’s going on.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  He wraps an arm around my waist and slowly pulls me in to him. “I’ve never been to Paris,” he tells me. “Could be fun. We could get a little charming room with a big fluffy bed.”

  I smile. “It is the most romantic city in the world, some say.”

  He presses his hot mouth against the curve of my neck. “The things I could do to you in Paris.”

  I laugh. “What kind of things?” I ask, intrigued. “How would they be different?”

  “Well, the French are very, very dirty, and when in Rome…”

  I wrap my hand around his hard-on — thank goodness it’s back. “Don’t you mean, ‘when in Paris’?” I tease.

  With one swift move, he slides the band of my sweatpants over my hips. “Now where were we, before your very rude mother interrupted us,” he says. “Oh yes, I was about to eat your pussy, and fuck your little brains out.”

  I bite my lip — I love it when he talks dirty.

  He flips me on my back. As he pulls off my sweats and panties, a wicked smile practically breaks his face in two. He has such a huge grin, it draws you in and holds you captive. I’m eager for him, and anticipate his hot mouth on my sex.

  “I can’t wait,” he says. “Paris is going to be killer.”

  Oh, shit. He thinks he’s going. I can’t lie to him. I need to be upfront with him. This is sure to ruin the mood. Damn, I haven’t gotten off in over a week, and he was just about to go down on me. I roll my eyes to my bedroom ceiling.

  Yep, this is one of those days.

  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.

  3

  IF IT WEREN’T FOR my mother, I’d be in post-sex bliss right now, lying in Oscar’s arms, satisfied and relaxed.

  Mitzy meows — she doesn’t like closed doors. I slither out of bed and swing the door open. She saunters in, and jumps up on the bed. I pet her soft orange fur and stare into her sweet green eyes. “It happened again,” I tell her. “Oscar and I had another fight. We didn’t even get to finish off the make-up sex from our last fight, and we’re already into another one. Can you believe that?”

  She purrs loudly.

  “I wish I were neutered like you. No more boy troubles.”

  She turns over on her back, a request for a belly rub. I oblige.

  “It’s always the same thing,” I tell her. “He wants more commitment from me. Why can’t he just enjoy our situation? It’s pretty much every man’s dream — sex with no strings. He doesn’t even have to buy me dinner. He can sleep with other people…”

  I wonder if he is. For some reason, I know he isn’t. I’d be shocked if I were to find out that he was.

  I spot purple fabric hidden under the sheet. I pull it out to discover it’s Oscar’s missing sock — this one is covered with clown faces. I smile.

  An idea hits me. I grab my phone and tap on my Amazon app. I browse through men’s socks. I’ve bought him many pairs these past years to add to his growing collection, usually for his birthday or Christmas. I’ve never bought apology socks before.

  I find ice cream cone covered ones. He loves ice cream. Perfect. I add it to the items already in my cart and process the order.

  I pout. I’m definitely in the dog house this time. And I’m not sure a pair of socks can fix things.

  Paris

  A walk about Paris will provide lessons in history, beauty, and in the point of life.

  – Thomas Jefferson.

  Paris, Paris, Paris. Beautiful Paris.

  Why are people so fascinated with this city? Why does it stand out amongst thousands of others? Is it its beautiful centerpiece, the majestic Eiffel tower? The Eiffel tower is the most visited attraction in the world. When it was first constructed over one hundred years ago, it was the tallest structure in the wo
rld, and funny enough, locals thought it was ugly and were opposed to it. Now, it is mostly seen as beautiful. As a child I’ve always dreamed of being at its top and marveling in the view. I wonder how many little girls have had the same fantasy. I have been to Paris once, but have yet to make it up the Eiffel tower.

  What makes Paris so romantic? When I think of Paris, I think pink, roses, hearts, and the iconic Eiffel tower, a landmark and a worldwide symbol of love. How many proposals have taken place in Paris? Millions, I’m sure. This is a city where couples kiss openly and are not afraid to show their love. America could take a few pointers from Paris in that department.

  The history and the architecture. It’s certainly a sight to behold. Years ago, architecture was full of sweat and passion, millions of labor hours. Artisans and laborers poured their hearts out into those magnificent buildings, every detail of them exquisite. Nowadays, we mail it in. A glossy square building will never have the beauty and charm of an old historical masterpiece.

  The energy is something else in Paris. It’s wild, busy, and full of life. It’s certainly never calm, always moving along to the beat of people’s steps, some hurried, some slow. There’s so much to see, it’s overwhelming: museums, the most stunning art in the world, the most magnificent gardens and landmarks, and so many cozy little spots.

  The food is rich, decadent, and definitely something to remember. The desserts are colorful and fun, begging to be indulged in; macarons in pastel colors and pretty fondant cakes calling our names. It’s almost a crime to bite into a pretty Parisian treat and destroy its beauty.

  Everything is pretty in Paris. Perhaps that is the reason that most women are so enthralled by it. Fashion, flea markets, street art — it’s a feast for the eyes, and I imagine one could spend years in Paris and never tire of it.

  And there’s also the sinister side of Paris; those intriguing dark corners; the most famous cemeteries in the world. Millions flock to Père Lachaise cemetery every year, where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Molière and many others are buried. And there are also the famous underground catacombs… walls of skulls, the remains of six million people.